I had entirely1 forgotten that we had asked Lawrence Redding to dinner that night. When Griselda burst in and scoldedme, pointing out that it lacked two minutes to dinner time, I was quite taken aback.
“I hope everything will be all right,” Griselda called up the stairs after me. “I’ve thought over what you said atlunch, and I’ve really thought of some quite good things to eat.”
I may say, in passing, that our evening meal amply bore out Griselda’s assertion that things went much worse whenshe tried than when she didn’t. The menu was ambitious in conception, and Mary seemed to have taken a perversepleasure in seeing how best she could alternate undercooking and overcooking. Some oysters2 which Griselda hadordered, and which would seem to be beyond the reach of incompetence3, we were, unfortunately, not able to sample aswe had nothing in the house to open them with—an omission4 which was discovered only when the moment for eatingthem arrived.
I had rather doubted whether Lawrence Redding would put in an appearance. He might very easily have sent anexcuse.
However, he arrived punctually enough, and the four of us went in to dinner.
Lawrence Redding has an undeniably attractive personality. He is, I suppose, about thirty years of age. He has darkhair, but his eyes are of a brilliant, almost startling blue. He is the kind of young man who does everything well. He isgood at games, an excellent shot, a good amateur actor, and can tell a first-rate story. He is capable of making anyparty go. He has, I think, Irish blood in his veins5. He is not, at all, one’s idea of the typical artist. Yet I believe he is aclever painter in the modern style. I know very little of painting myself.
It was only natural that on this particular evening he should appear a shade distrait6. On the whole, he carried offthings very well. I don’t think Griselda or Dennis noticed anything wrong. Probably I should not have noticedanything myself if I had not known beforehand.
Griselda and Dennis were particularly gay—full of jokes about Dr. Stone and Miss Cram7—the Local Scandal! Itsuddenly came home to me with something of a pang8 that Dennis is nearer Griselda’s age than I am. He calls meUncle Len, but her Griselda. It gave me, somehow, a lonely feeling.
I must, I think, have been upset by Mrs. Protheroe. I’m not usually given to such unprofitable reflections.
Griselda and Dennis went rather far now and then, but I hadn’t the heart to check them. I have always thought it apity that the mere9 presence of a clergyman should have a dampening effect.
Lawrence took a gay part in the conversation. Nevertheless I was aware of his eyes continually straying to where Isat, and I was not surprised when after dinner he manoeuvred to get me into the study.
As soon as we were alone his manner changed.
“You’ve surprised our secret, sir,” he said. “What are you going to do about it?”
I could speak far more plainly to Redding than I could to Mrs. Protheroe, and I did so. He took it very well.
“Of course,” he said, when I had finished, “you’re bound to say all this. You’re a parson. I don’t mean that in anyway offensively. As a matter of fact I think you’re probably right. But this isn’t the usual sort of thing between Anneand me.”
I told him that people had been saying that particular phrase since the dawn of time, and a queer little smile creasedhis lips.
“You mean everyone thinks their case is unique? Perhaps so. But one thing you must believe.”
He assured me that so far—“there was nothing wrong in it.” Anne, he said, was one of the truest and most loyalwomen that ever lived. What was going to happen he didn’t know.
“If this were only a book,” he said gloomily, “the old man would die—and a good riddance to everybody.”
I reproved him.
“Oh! I didn’t mean I was going to stick him in the back with a knife, though I’d offer my best thanks to anyone elsewho did so. There’s not a soul in the world who’s got a good word to say for him. I rather wonder the first Mrs.
Protheroe didn’t do him in. I met her once, years ago, and she looked quite capable of it. One of those calm dangerouswomen. He goes blustering10 along, stirring up trouble everywhere, mean as the devil, and with a particularly nastytemper. You don’t know what Anne has had to stand from him. If I had a penny in the world I’d take her away withoutany more ado.”
Then I spoke11 to him very earnestly. I begged him to leave St. Mary Mead12. By remaining there, he could only bringgreater unhappiness on Anne Protheroe than was already her lot. People would talk, the matter would get to ColonelProtheroe’s ears—and things would be made infinitely13 worse for her.
Lawrence protested.
“Nobody knows a thing about it except you, padre.”
“My dear young man, you underestimate the detective instinct of village life. In St. Mary Mead everyone knowsyour most intimate affairs. There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty oftime on her hands.”
He said easily that that was all right. Everyone thought it was Lettice.
“Has it occurred to you,” I asked, “that possibly Lettice might think so herself?”
He seemed quite surprised by the idea. Lettice, he said, didn’t care a hang about him. He was sure of that.
“She’s a queer sort of girl,” he said. “Always seems in a kind of dream, and yet underneath14 I believe she’s reallyrather practical. I believe all that vague stuff is a pose. Lettice knows jolly well what she’s doing. And there’s a funnyvindictive streak15 in her. The queer thing is that she hates Anne. Simply loathes16 her. And yet Anne’s been a perfectangel to her always.”
I did not, of course, take his word for this last. To infatuated young men, their inamorata always behaves like anangel. Still, to the best of my observation, Anne had always behaved to her step-daughter with kindness and fairness. Ihad been surprised myself that afternoon at the bitterness of Lettice’s tone.
We had to leave the conversation there, because Griselda and Dennis burst in upon us and said I was not to makeLawrence behave like an old fogy.
“Oh dear!” said Griselda, throwing herself into an armchair. “How I would like a thrill of some kind. A murder—or even a burglary.”
“I don’t suppose there’s anyone much worth burgling,” said Lawrence, trying to enter into her mood. “Unless westole Miss Hartnell’s false teeth.”
“They do click horribly,” said Griselda. “But you’re wrong about there being no one worthwhile. There’s somemarvellous old silver at Old Hall. Trencher salts and a Charles II Tazza—all kinds of things like that. Worth thousandsof pounds, I believe.”
“The old man would probably shoot you with an army revolver,” said Dennis. “Just the sort of thing he’d enjoydoing.”
“Oh, we’d get in first and hold him up!” said Griselda. “Who’s got a revolver?”
“I’ve got a Mauser pistol,” said Lawrence.
“Have you? How exciting. Why do you have it?”
“Souvenir of the war,” said Lawrence briefly17.
“Old Protheroe was showing the silver to Stone today,” volunteered Dennis. “Old Stone was pretending to be noend interested in it.”
“I thought they’d quarrelled about the barrow,” said Griselda.
“Oh, they’ve made that up!” said Dennis. “I can’t think what people want to grub about in barrows for, anyway.”
“The man Stone puzzles me,” said Lawrence. “I think he must be very absentminded. You’d swear sometimes heknew nothing about his own subject.”
“That’s love,” said Dennis. “Sweet Gladys Cram, you are no sham18. Your teeth are white and fill me with delight.
Come, fly with me, my bride to be. And at the Blue Boar, on the bedroom floor—”
“That’s enough, Dennis,” I said.
“Well,” said Lawrence Redding, “I must be off. Thank you very much, Mrs. Clement19, for a very pleasant evening.”
Griselda and Dennis saw him off. Dennis returned to the study alone. Something had happened to ruffle20 the boy. Hewandered about the room aimlessly, frowning and kicking the furniture.
Our furniture is so shabby already that it can hardly be damaged further, but I felt impelled21 to utter a mild protest.
“Sorry,” said Dennis.
He was silent for a moment and then burst out:
“What an absolutely rotten thing gossip is!”
I was a little surprised. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I don’t know whether I ought to tell you.”
I was more and more surprised.
“It’s such an absolutely rotten thing,” Dennis said again. “Going round and saying things. Not even saying them.
Hinting them. No, I’m damned—sorry—if I’ll tell you! It’s too absolutely rotten.”
I looked at him curiously22, but I did not press him further. I wondered very much, though. It is very unlike Dennis totake anything to heart.
Griselda came in at that moment.
“Miss Wetherby’s just rung up,” she said. “Mrs. Lestrange went out at a quarter past eight and hasn’t come in yet.
Nobody knows where she’s gone.”
“Why should they know?”
“But it isn’t to Dr. Haydock’s. Miss Wetherby does know that, because she telephoned to Miss Hartnell who livesnext door to him and who would have been sure to see her.”
“It is a mystery to me,” I said, “how anyone ever gets any nourishment23 in this place. They must eat their mealsstanding up by the window so as to be sure of not missing anything.”
“And that’s not all,” said Griselda, bubbling with pleasure. “They’ve found out about the Blue Boar. Dr. Stone andMiss Cram have got rooms next door to each other, BUT”—she waved an impressive forefinger—“no communicatingdoor!”
“That,” I said, “must be very disappointing to everybody.”
At which Griselda laughed.
Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to quarrel about the church decorations. I was calledin to adjudicate between two middle-aged24 ladies, each of whom was literally25 trembling with rage. If it had not been sopainful, it would have been quite an interesting physical phenomenon.
Then I had to reprove two of our choir26 boys for persistent27 sweet sucking during the hours of divine service, and Ihad an uneasy feeling that I was not doing the job as wholeheartedly as I should have done.
Then our organist, who is distinctly “touchy,” had taken offence and had to be smoothed down.
And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss Hartnell, who came to me bursting withrage about it.
I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good humour, having sentenced threepoachers, in his capacity as magistrate28.
“Firmness,” he shouted in his stentorian29 voice. He is slightly deaf and raises his voice accordingly as deaf peopleoften do. “That’s what’s needed nowadays—firmness! Make an example. That rogue30 Archer31 came out yesterday and isvowing vengeance32 against me, I hear. Impudent33 scoundrel. Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. I’ll showhim what his vengeance is worth next time I catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! We’re too lax nowadays! I believein showing a man up for what he is. You’re always being asked to consider a man’s wife and children. Damnednonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his acts just because he whines34 about his wifeand children? It’s all the same to me—no matter what a man is—doctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunken wastrel—if you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punish him. You agree with me, I’m sure.”
“You forget,” I said. “My calling obliges me to respect one quality above all others—the quality of mercy.”
“Well, I’m a just man. No one can deny that.”
I did not speak, and he said sharply:
“Why don’t you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man.”
I hesitated, then I decided35 to speak.
“I was thinking,” I said, “that when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that ofjustice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted36 out to me….”
“Pah! What we need is a little militant37 Christianity. I’ve always done my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. I’ll bealong this evening, as I said. We’ll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to see a man inthe village.”
“That will suit me quite well.”
He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. Ihad meant to upbraid38 him mildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled39 or shelved, but seeinghis white strained face, I felt that the man was ill.
I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently40. Finally he confessed that he was not feeling too fit, andappeared ready to accept my advice of going home to bed.
I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone to London by the cheap Thursday train.
I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching41 the outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary toldme that Mr. Redding was waiting for me in the study.
I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and haggard.
He turned abruptly42 at my entrance.
“Look here, sir. I’ve been thinking over what you said yesterday. I’ve had a sleepless43 night thinking about it.
You’re right. I’ve got to cut and run.”
“My dear boy,” I said.
“You were right in what you said about Anne. I’ll only bring trouble on her by staying here. She’s—she’s too goodfor anything else. I see I’ve got to go. I’ve made things hard enough for her as it is, heaven help me.”
“I think you have made the only decision possible,” I said. “I know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will befor the best in the end.”
I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didn’t know what he wastalking about.
“You’ll look after Anne? She needs a friend.”
“You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power.”
“Thank you, sir.” He wrung44 my hand. “You’re a good sort, Padre. I shall see her to say good-bye this evening, andI shall probably pack up and go tomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have the shed topaint in. I’m sorry not to have finished Mrs. Clement’s portrait.”
“Don’t worry about that, my dear boy. Good-bye, and God bless you.”
When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence andAnne Protheroe.
I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half past five the telephone rang. I was informed thatMr. Abbott of Lower Farm was dying and would I please come at once.
I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two miles away and I could not possibly get back bysix fifteen. I have never succeeded in learning to ride a bicycle.
I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in the car, so I departed, leaving word with Marythat I had been called away, but would try to be back by six thirty or soon after.
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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2
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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8
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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9
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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11
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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12
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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13
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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15
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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16
loathes
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的第三人称单数 )；极不喜欢 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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stentorian
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| adj.大声的，响亮的 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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whines
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| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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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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meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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40
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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44
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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