History is not like some individual person, which uses men to achieve its ends. History is nothing but the actions of men in pursuit of their ends.
—marx, Die Heilige Familie (1845)
Charles, as we have learned, did not return to Kensington in quite so philanthropic a mood as he finally left the prosti-tute’s. He had felt sick again during the hour’s journey; and had had time to work up a good deal of self-disgust into the bargain. But he woke in a better frame of mind. As men will, he gave his hangover its due, and stared awfully1 at his haggard face and peered into his parched2 and acrid3 mouth; and then decided4 he was on the whole rather well able to face the world. He certainly faced Sam when he came in with the hot water, and made some sort of apology for his bad temper of the previous night.
“I didn’t notice nuffink, Mr. Charles.”
“I had a somewhat tiresome5 evening, Sam. And now be a good fellow and fetch me up a large pot of tea. I have the devil’s own thirst.”
Sam left, hiding his private opinion that his master had the devil’s own something else as well. Charles washed and shaved, and thought about Charles. He was clearly not cut out to be a rake; but nor had he had much training in remorseful6 pessimism7. Had not Mr. Freeman himself said that two years might pass before any decision as to his future need to be taken? Much could happen in two years. Charles did not actually say to himself, “My uncle may die”; but the idea hovered8 on the fringes of his mind. And then the carnal aspect of the previous night’s experience reminded him that legitimate9 pleasures in that direction would soon be his to enjoy. For now he must abstain10. And that child—how many of life’s shortcomings children must make up for!
Sam returned with the tea—and with two letters. Life became a road again. He saw at once that the top envelope had been double postmarked; posted in Exeter and forward-ed to Kensington from the White Lion in Lyme Regis. The other came direct from Lyme. He hesitated, then to allay11 suspicion picked up a paperknife and went to the window. He opened the letter from Grogan first; but before we read it, we must read the note Charles had sent on his return to Lyme that morning of his dawn walk to Carslake’s Barn. It had said the following:
My dear Doctor Grogan,
I write in great haste to thank you for your invaluable12 advice and assistance last night, and to assure you once again that I shall be most happy to pay for any care or attentions your colleague and yourself may deem necessary. You will, I trust, and in full under-standing that I have seen the folly13 of my misguided interest, let me know what transpires14 concerning the meeting that will have taken place when you read this.
Alas15, I could not bring myself to broach16 the subject in Broad Street this morning. My somewhat sudden departure, and various other circumstances with which I will not now bother you, made the moment most conspicuously17 inopportune. The matter shall be dealt with as soon as I return. I must ask you meanwhile to keep it to yourself.
I leave immediately. My London address is below. With pro-found gratitude19,
C.S.
It had not been an honest letter. But it had had to be written. Now Charles nervously20 unfolded the reply to it.
My dear Smithson,
I have delayed writing to you in the hope of obtaining some eclaircissement of our little Dorset mystery. I regret to say that the only female I encountered on the morning of my expedition was Mother Nature—a lady whose conversation I began, after some three hours’ waiting, to find a trifle tedious. In short, the person did not appear. On my return to Lyme I sent out a sharp lad to do duty for me. But he too sat sub tegmine fagi in pleasant solitude21. I pen these words lightly, yet I confess that when the lad returned that nightfall I began to fear the worst.
However, it came to my ears the next morning that instructions had been left at the White Lion for the girl’s box to be forwarded to Exeter. The author of the instructions I cannot discover. No doubt she sent the message herself. I think we may take it she has decamped.
My one remaining fear, my dear Smithson, is that she may fol-low you to London and attempt to thrust her woes22 upon you there. I beg you not to dismiss this contingency23 with a smile. If I had time I could cite you other cases where just such a course has been followed. I enclose an address. He is an excellent man, with whom I have long been in correspondence, and I advise you most strongly to put the business in his hands should further embarrassment24 come d la lettre knocking on your door.
Rest assured that no word has passed or shall pass my lips. I shall not repeat my advice regarding the charming creature— whom I had the pleasure of meeting in the street just now, by the bye—but I recommend a confession25 at the earliest opportunity. I don’t fancy the Absolvitur will require too harsh or long a penance26.
Yr very sincere
Michael Grogan
Charles had drawn27 a breath of guilty relief long before he finished that letter. He was not discovered. He stared a long moment out of his bedroom window, then opened the second letter.
He expected pages, but there was only one.
He expected a flood of words, but there were only three.
An address.
He crumpled29 the sheet of paper in his hand, then returned to the fire that had been lit by the upstairs maid, to the accompaniment of his snores, at eight o’clock that morning, and threw it into the flames. In five seconds it was ashes. He took the cup of tea that Sam stood waiting to hand to him. Charles drained it at one gulp30, and passed the cup and saucer for more.
“I have done my business, Sam. We return to Lyme tomorrow. The ten o’clock train. You will see to the tickets. And take those two messages on my desk to the telegraph office. And then you may have the afternoon off to choose some ribbons for the fair Mary—that is, if you haven’t disposed of your heart elsewhere since our return.”
Sam had been waiting for that cue. He flicked31 a glance at his master’s back as he refilled the gilt32 breakfast cup; and made his announcement as he extended the cup on a small silver tray to Charles’s reaching fingers.
“Mr. Charles, I’m a-goin’ to hask for ‘er ‘and.”
“Are you indeed!”
“Or I would, Mr. Charles, if it weren’t I didn’t ‘ave such hexcellent prospecks under your hemploy.”
Charles supped his tea.
“Out with it, Sam. Stop talking riddles33.”
“If I was merrid I’d ‘ave to live out, sir.”
Charles’s sharp look of instinctive34 objection showed how little he had thought about the matter. He turned and sat by his fire.
“Now, Sam, heaven forbid that I should be an impediment to your marriage—but surely you’re not going to forsake35 me so soon before mine?”
“You mistake my hintention, Mr. Charles. I was a-thinkin’ of harterwards.”
“We shall be in a much larger establishment. I’m sure my wife would be happy to have Mary there with her ... so what is the trouble?”
Sam took a deep breath.
“I’ve been thinkin’ of goin’ into business, Mr. Charles. When you’re settled, that is, Mr. Charles. I “ope you know I should never leave you in the hower of need.”
“Business! What business?”
“I’ve set my ‘eart on ‘aving a little shop, Mr. Charles.”
Charles placed the cup back on the speedily proffered36 salver.
“But don’t you ... I mean, you know, some of the ready?”
“I ‘ave made heekomonies, Mr. Charles. And so’s my Mary.”
“Yes, yes, but there is rent to pay and heavens above, man, goods to buy ... What sort of business?”
“Draper’s and ‘aberdasher’s, Mr. Charles.”
Charles stared at Sam rather as if the Cockney had de-cided to turn Buddhist37. But he recalled one or two little past incidents; that penchant38 for the genteelism; and the one aspect of his present profession where Sam had never given cause for complaint was in his care of clothes. Charles had indeed more than once (about ten thousand times, to be exact) made fun of him for his personal vanity in that direction.
“And you’ve put by enough to—“
“Halas no, Mr. Charles. We’d ‘ave to save very ‘ard.”
There was a pregnant silence. Sam was busy with milk and sugar. Charles rubbed the side of his nose in a rather Sam-like manner. He twigged39. He took the third cup of tea.
“How much?”
“I know a shop as I’d like, Mr. Charles. ‘E wants an ‘undred an’ fifty pound for the goodwill40 and an ‘undred for the stock. An’ there’s thirty pound rent to be found.” He sized Charles up, then went on, “It ain’t I’m not very ‘appy with you, Mr. Charles. On’y a shop’s what I halways fan-cied.”
“And how much have you put by?”
Sam hesitated.
“Thirty pound, sir.”
Charles did not smile, but went and stood at his bedroom window.
“How long has it taken you to save that?”
“Three years, sir.”
Ten pounds a year may not seem much; but it was a third of three years’ wages, as Charles rapidly calculated; and made proportionally a much better showing in the thrift41 line than Charles himself could have offered. He glanced back at Sam, who stood meekly42 waiting—but waiting for what?—by the side table with the tea things. In the silence that followed Charles entered upon his first fatal mistake, which was to give Sam his sincere opinion of the project. Perhaps it was in a very small way a bluff43, a pretending not even faintly to suspect the whiff of for-services-rendered in Sam’s approach; but it was far more an assumption of the ancient responsibili-ty—and not quite synonymous with sublime44 arrogance—of the infallible master for the fallible underling.
“I warn you, Sam, once you take ideas above your station you will have nothing but unhappiness. You’ll be miserable45 without a shop. And doubly miserable with it.” Sam’s head sunk a fraction lower. “And besides, Sam, I’m used to you ... fond of you. I’m damned if I want to lose you.”
“I know, Mr. Charles. Your feelings is ‘ighly reproskitated. With respeck, sir.”
“Well then. We’re happy with each other. Let us continue that way.”
Sam bowed his head and turned to pick up the tea things. His disappointment was flagrant; he was Hope Abandoned, Life Cut Short, Virtue46 Unrewarded, and a dozen other mop-ing statues.
“Now, Sam spare me the whipped dog. If you marry this girl then of course you must have a married man’s wages. And something to set you up. I shall do handsomely by you, rest assured of that.”
“That’s very kind hindeed of you, Mr. Charles.” But the voice was sepulchral47, those statues in no way demolished48. Charles saw himself a moment from Sam’s eyes. He had been seen in their years together to spend a great deal of money; Sam must know he had a great deal more money coming to him on his marriage; and he might not unnaturally—that is, with innocent motive—have come to believe that two or three hundred pounds was not much to ask for.
“Sam, you must not think me ungenerous. The fact is ... well, the reason I went to Winsyatt is that ... well, Sir Robert is going to get married.”
“No, sir! Sir Robert! Never!”
Sam’s surprise makes one suspect that his real ambition should have been in the theater. He did everything but drop the tray that he was carrying; but this was of course ante Stanislavski. Charles faced the window and went on.
“Which means, Sam, that at a time when I have already considerable expense to meet I haven’t much to spare.”
“I ‘ad no idea, Mr. Charles. Why ... I can’t ‘ardly believe— at ‘is hage!”
Charles hastily stopped the impending49 commiseration50. “We must wish Sir Robert every happiness. But there it is. It will soon all be public knowledge. However, Sam—you will say nothing of this.”
“Oh Mr. Charles—you knows I knows ‘ow to keep a secret.”
Charles did give a sharp look round at Sam then, but his servant’s eyes were modestly down again. Charles wished desperately51 that he could see them. But they remained avert-ed from his keen gaze; and drove him into his second fatal mistake—for Sam’s despair had come far less from being rebuffed than from suspecting his master had no guilty secret upon which he could be levered.
“Sam, I ... that is, when I’m married, circumstances will be easier ... I don’t wish to dash your hopes completely—let me think on it.”
In Sam’s heart a little flame of exultation52 leaped into life. He had done it; a lever existed.
“Mr. Charles, sir, I wish I ‘adn’t spoke53. I ‘ad no idea.”
“No, no. I am glad you brought this up. I will perhaps ask Mr. Freeman’s advice if I find an opportunity. No doubt he knows what is to be said for such a venture.”
“Pure gold, Mr. Charles, pure gold—that’s ‘ow I’d treat any words of hadvice from that gentleman’s mouth.”
With this hyperbole Sam left. Charles stared at the closed door. He began to wonder if there wasn’t something of a Uriah Heep beginning to erupt on the surface of Sam’s personality; a certain duplicity. He had always aped the gentleman in his clothes and manners; and now there was vaguely54 something else about the spurious gentleman he was aping. It was such an age of change! So many orders begin-ning to melt and dissolve.
He remained staring for several moments—but then bah! What would granting Sam his wish matter with Ernestina’s money in the bank? He turned to his escritoire and unlocked a drawer. From it he drew a pocketbook and scribbled55 something: no doubt a reminder56 to speak to Mr. Freeman.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Sam was reading the contents of the two telegrams. One was to the White Lion, informing the landlord of their return. The other read:
MISS FREEMAN AT MRS. TRANTER’S, BROAD STREET, LYME REGIS. MY IMMEDIATE18 RETURN HAS BEEN COMMANDED AND WILL BE MOST HAPPILY OBEYED BY YOUR MOST AFFECTIONATE CHARLES SMITHSON.
In those days only the uncouth57 Yankees descended58 to telegraphese.
This was not the first private correspondence that had been under Sam’s eyes that morning. The envelope of the second letter he had brought to Charles had been gummed but not sealed. A little steam does wonders; and Sam had had a whole morning in which to find himself alone for a minute in that kitchen.
Perhaps you have begun to agree with Charles about Sam. He is not revealing himself the most honest of men, that must be said. But the thought of marriage does strange things. It makes the intending partners suspect an inequality in things; it makes them wish they had more to give to each other; it kills the insouciance59 of youth; its responsibilities isolate60, and the more altruistic61 aspects of the social contract are dimmed. It is easier, in short, to be dishonest for two than for one. Sam did not think of his procedure as dishonest; he called it “playing your cards right.” In simple terms it meant now that the marriage with Ernestina must go through; only from her dowry could he hope for his two hundred and fifty pounds; if more spooning between the master and the wicked woman of Lyme were to take place, it must take place under the cardplayer’s sharp nose—and might not be altogether a bad thing, since the more guilt28 Charles had the surer touch he became; but if it went too far ... Sam sucked his lower lip and frowned. It was no wonder he was beginning to feel rather above his station; matchmakers always have.
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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transpires
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的第三人称单数 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Buddhist
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| adj./n.佛教的，佛教徒 | |
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penchant
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| n.爱好，嗜好；（强烈的）倾向 | |
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twigged
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| 有细枝的，有嫩枝的 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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53
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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