At last, however, he saw the roofs of cottages, and realized that he was approaching a village. The square tower of a church, and a big house half-hidden by trees on higher ground beyond the cottages, made it probable that it was more than merely a hamlet.
Just before he reached it a sharp turn in the lane brought him upon a very minute copse set a pace or so back from the road, and in the copse was a small cottage or hut. There was a forlorn look about it, and the windows were broken.
Peter peered through the trees. There was no sign of life whatever. The place was apparently2 deserted3. A couple of yards farther on a small and [Pg 27]broken gate led into the copse. The gate was hanging on one hinge in a dejected and melancholy4 fashion.
Peter propped5 it up with a little pat of encouragement before he passed through it and up among the trees to the cottage door. It was unfastened, and Peter went in. He found himself in a small square room. To his amazement6 it was not empty, as he had imagined to find it. On the contrary, it was quite moderately furnished.
A low bed stood at one side of the room; it was covered with a faded blue quilt. A cupboard with a few tea-things on it stood against one wall. A table, old and worm-eaten, was in the centre of the room. There were two wooden chairs, and a wooden armchair with a dilapidated rush seat. There was a big open fireplace with an iron staple7 in the wall; from this staple was suspended an iron hook. Both were thickly covered with rust8. On the shelf above the fireplace was a clock; it was flanked by a couple of copper9 candlesticks covered with verdigris10. Ragged11 yellow curtains hung before the broken window.
And everywhere there was dust. It lay thickly on the table and the chairs; the tea-things on the cupboard were covered with it. It lay upon the floor in a soft grey carpet, thicker at the far side of the room, where the wind through the broken window had swept it in a little drift against the wall.
Peter looked around in bewilderment. During how many years had this dust accumulated? What memories, what secrets, lay buried beneath it?
He looked towards the fireplace. Charred12 embers were within it. By the hearth13 lay an old newspaper. Peter picked it up. It tore as he touched it. It bore the date May the nineteenth, eighteen hundred and sixty-six. Forty-five years ago! Had this cottage lain uninhabited for forty-five years?—thirteen years before he was even born! He glanced up at the clock. It had stopped at twelve o’clock—midnight or noon, who was to say?
Peter turned and again looked round the place. At the foot of the bed was another door. He opened it, and found himself in a minute room or scullery. It contained a copper, a row of shelves, a pump, and an iron bucket. The window here, too, was broken, the place as thickly shrouded14 in dust.
Peter returned to the dwelling-room.
“Apparently I have it all to myself,” he said; “and for to-night at least I intend to quarter here, for if I’m not much mistaken there’s a storm coming up from the west.”
Peter put his wallet and bundle down on the table and went out into the copse. He began collecting bits of dead wood from under the trees, and there was abundance strewn on the ground, also fir-cones, for the trees were Scotch15 firs. It was already drawing on to dusk, and clouds were being blown across the sky by a soft wet wind from the west.
As Peter had just collected his second armful of sticks, he heard steps coming along the road. He paused before entering the cottage to see who it might be. They were light steps, probably those of children.
In a moment they came in sight—two little girls, chattering16 eagerly, and walking quickly, for the sky looked threatening. As they neared the copse one of the children looked up. She clutched her companion’s arm.
“Look there!” she said. There was terror in her voice.
The other child looked, screamed, and they both set off running frantically17 down the road.
“Great Scot!” ejaculated Peter; “did they take me for a ghost, or do they think I’m a poacher, and have gone to inform the neighbourhood? Trust they won’t disturb me; I’ve no mind to turn out into the deluge18 that’s coming.”
A couple of large drops of rain splashed down on his hand as he spoke19, and he re-entered the cottage. He placed his second armful of sticks beside the fireplace. First he cleared away the charred embers in the hearth, then began arranging the newly collected sticks with the skill born of long practice in the art of fire-making. This done, he went into the inner room and took up the bucket. The pump was stiff with rust and disuse, but Peter’s vigorous arm soon triumphed over the stiffness, and, filling the bucket with water, he returned to the living-room. Here, with the aid of a couple of ragged cloths, he made a partial onslaught against the dust. The room became at least habitable to one not over-fastidious. Moth20, by some miracle, seemed to have left the place untouched, though the bedclothes were damp with mildew21.
The cleansing22 process at least partially23 achieved, Peter undid24 his wallet and bundles. From them he took a pot, a tin cup, a couple of eggs, a hunch25 of bread, and small piece of butter wrapped in a cloth.
He filled the pot with water, put the two eggs in it, and hung it on the hook in the fireplace. Then he struck a match and held it under the pile of sticks. The little orange flame twined itself gently round one twig26. It twisted upward to another and yet another. There was the sound of soft crackling gradually increasing to a perfect fairy fusillade. The flames multiplied, leapt from stick to stick, while among their orange and blue light poured a pearly-grey smoke.
“Achieved,” said Peter with a sigh, and he seated himself in the armchair watching the dancing flames, and every now and then flinging on an extra stick.
Outside the rain was beating on the roof and splashing through the broken window, while the wind, which had begun to rise, moaned gently through the fir-trees, creaking their branches.
“Thanks be to the patron saint of all wayfarers,” said Peter, “that I found this shelter. And if I knew his name I’d indite27 a poem to his memory.”
And then he fell to thinking of the young man who, earlier in the day, had intruded28 on his slumbers29 and read poems from his Chaucer. That he was a pleasant young man Peter had already conceded. That he had combined an extraordinary mixture of intuition with a certain lack of reticence30 almost amounting to want of tact31, Peter also conceded. That there was nothing about him of very deep psychological interest, Peter knew. But—well, he was a man of gentle birth, and he had treated Peter—the wayfaring32 Peter with frayed33 trousers and a patch on one knee—as an equal. It had left a very decided34 sensation of pleasure. Peter acknowledged to himself that he would have liked to accept the young man’s invitation; and yet if he had—well, he would probably have drivelled more than he had done, and he had drivelled quite enough. That was the worst of unaccustomed and genuine interest from one of your fellow-men. It was like wine to one not used to it—it mounted to your brain, you became garrulous35. To those who are used to wine, one glass, two glasses, nay36, even [Pg 33]three glasses, means nothing. To those who have not tasted the liquor for years, half a glass may prove unsteadying. It was not even as if it would be offered to him with sufficient frequency for him to become accustomed to it. No; most assuredly the wine of sympathy was not for him.
And then he stopped suddenly in his meditations37, for the water in the pot was boiling.
When Peter had finished his meal he pulled a brier-wood pipe from his pocket, filled it with tobacco, and lit it. He also lit a candle, which he set in one of the copper candlesticks and placed upon the table. Then once more he drew his book from the brown-paper covering.
For a time he sat very still, only moving a hand to turn the pages. The candle-light threw his shadow large and grotesque38 on the dingy39 wall behind him. Occasionally the shadow wavered as the candle flickered40 in the draught41 from the broken window. The fire had died down to a few glowing spots set in a bed of grey ashes. Outside the rain fell steadily42, and the wind still creaked the branches of the fir-trees.
At last Peter closed the book. He rolled his piece of sacking into a bundle to form a pillow, and stretched himself on the stone floor before the hearth. It was preferable, he considered, to the mildewy43 bed.
“I wonder,” he mused44, “who were the former owners of this place. No doubt they are long since dead. Well, if so, on their souls, and on all Christian45 souls, sweet Jesu, have mercy!” He made the sign of the Cross.
In ten minutes Peter was asleep. He slept well, but he dreamt, and once or twice through his dreams he heard the sound of sobbing46. It was a pitiful little sobbing, as of a woman in grief, and mingled47 with it seemed to be faint half-articulate words.
Once Peter half-awakened, and for a moment he fancied the sobbing was real, but reason, which was working fitfully, told him it was only the wind in the trees without. He shifted his position and fell asleep again.
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1
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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2
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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7
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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8
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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verdigris
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| n.铜锈；铜绿 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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15
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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16
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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19
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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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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23
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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indite
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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29
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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30
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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32
wayfaring
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| adj.旅行的n.徒步旅行 | |
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33
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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38
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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39
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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40
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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42
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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43
mildewy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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44
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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45
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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46
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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47
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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