IThere was nothing more for me to do at Gipsy’s Acre. I left Greta in chargeof the house while I sailed to New York to wind up things there and to takepart in what I felt with some dread1 were going to be the most ghastly gold-plated obsequies for Ellie.
“You’re going into the jungle,” Greta warned me. “Look after yourself.
Don’t let them skin you alive.”
She was right about that. It was the jungle. I felt it when I got there. Ididn’t know about jungles—not that kind of jungle. I was out of my depthand I knew it. I wasn’t the hunter, I was the hunted. There were people allround me in the undergrowth, gunning for me. Sometimes, I expect, I ima-gined things. Sometimes my suspicions were justified2. I remember goingto the lawyer supplied for me by Mr. Lippincott (a most urbane3 man whotreated me rather as a general practitioner4 might have done in the med-ical profession). I had been advised to get rid of certain mining propertiesto which the title deeds were not too clear.
He asked me who had told me so and I said it was Stanford Lloyd.
“Well, we must look into it,” he said. “A man like Mr. Lloyd ought toknow.”
He said to me afterwards:
“There’s nothing wrong with your title deeds, and there is certainly nopoint in your selling the land in a hurry, as he seems to have advised you.
Hang on to it.”
I had the feeling then that I’d been right, everybody was gunning for me.
They all knew I was a simpleton when it came to finance.
The funeral was splendid and, I thought, quite horrible. Gold-plated, as Ihad surmised5. At the cemetery6, masses of flowers, the cemetery itself likea public park and all the trimmings of wealthy mourning expressed in mo-numental marble. Ellie would have hated it, I was sure of that. But I sup-pose her family had a certain right to her.
Four days after my arrival in New York I had news from KingstonBishop.
The body of old Mrs. Lee had been found in the disused quarry7 on thefar side of the hill. She had been dead some days. There had been acci-dents there before, and it had been said that the place ought to be fencedin—but nothing had been done. A verdict of Accidental Death had beenbrought in and a further recommendation to the Council to fence the placeoff. In Mrs. Lee’s cottage a sum of three hundred pounds had been foundhidden under the floorboards, all in one-pound notes.
Major Phillpot had added in a postscript8, “I’m sure you will be sorry tohear that Claudia Hardcastle was thrown from her horse and killed outhunting yesterday.”
Claudia—killed? I couldn’t believe it! It gave me a very nasty jolt9. Twopeople—within a fortnight, killed in a riding accident. It seemed like an al-most impossible coincidence.
II
I don’t want to dwell on that time I spent in New York. I was a strangerin an alien atmosphere. I felt all the time that I had to be wary10 of what Isaid and what I did. The Ellie that I had known, the Ellie that had belongedpeculiarly to me was not there. I saw her now only as an American girl,heiress to a great fortune, surrounded by friends and connections and dis-tant relatives, one of a family that had lived there for five generations. Shehad come from there as a comet might have come, visiting my territory.
Now she had gone back to be buried with her own folk, to where herown home was. I was glad to have it that way. I shouldn’t have been easyfeeling her there in the prim12 little cemetery at the foot of the pine woodsjust outside the village. No, I shouldn’t have been easy.
“Go back where you belong, Ellie,” I said to myself.
Now and again that haunting little tune11 of the song she used to sing toher guitar came into my mind. I remembered her fingers twanging thestrings.
Every Morn and every Night
Some are born to Sweet Delight
and I thought “That was true of you. You were born to Sweet Delight.
You had Sweet Delight there at Gipsy’s Acre. Only it didn’t last very long.
Now it’s over. You’ve come back to where perhaps there wasn’t much de-light, where you weren’t happy. But you’re at home here anyway. You’reamong your own folk.”
I wondered suddenly where I should be when the time came for me todie. Gipsy’s Acre? It could be. My mother would come and see me laid inmy grave—if she wasn’t dead already. But I couldn’t think of my motherbeing dead. I could think more easily of death for myself. Yes, she’d comeand see me buried. Perhaps the sternness of her face would relax. I tookmy thoughts away from her. I didn’t want to think of her. I didn’t want togo near her or see her.
That last isn’t quite true. It wasn’t a question of seeing her. It was alwayswith my mother a question of her seeing me, of her eyes looking throughme, of an anxiety that swept out like a miasma13 embracing me. I thought:
“Mothers are the devil! Why have they got to brood over their children?
Why do they feel they know all about their children? They don’t. Theydon’t! She ought to be proud of me, happy for me, happy for the wonderfullife that I’ve achieved. She ought—” Then I wrenched14 thoughts away fromher again.
How long was I over in the States? I can’t even remember. It seemed anage of walking warily15, of being watched by people with false smiles andenmity in their eyes. I said to myself every day, “I’ve got to get throughthis. I’ve got to get through this—and then.” Those were the two words Iused. Used in my own mind, I mean. Used them every day several times.
And then—They were the two words of the future. I used them in the sameway that I had once used those other two words. I want….
Everyone went out of their way to be nice to me because I was rich! Un-der the terms of Ellie’s will I was an extremely rich man. I felt very odd. Ihad investments I didn’t understand, shares, stocks, property. And I didn’tknow in the least what to do with them all.
The day before I went back to England I had a long conversation withMr. Lippincott. I always thought of him like that in my mind—as Mr. Lip-pincott. He’d never become Uncle Andrew to me. I told him that I thoughtof withdrawing the charge of my investments from Stanford Lloyd.
“Indeed!” His grizzled eyebrows16 rose. He looked at me with his shrewdeyes and his poker17 face and I wondered what exactly his “indeed” meant.
“Do you think it’s all right to do that?” I asked anxiously.
“You have reasons, I presume?”
“No,” I said, “I haven’t got reasons. A feeling, that’s all. I suppose I cansay anything to you?”
“The communication will be privileged, naturally.”
“All right,” I said, “I just feel that he’s a crook18!”
“Ah.” Mr. Lippincott looked interested. “Yes, I should say your instinctwas possibly sound.”
So I knew then that I was right. Stanford Lloyd had been playing hanky-panky with Ellie’s bonds and investments and all the rest of it. I signed apower of attorney and gave it to Andrew Lippincott.
“You’re willing,” I said, “to accept it?”
“As far as financial matters are concerned,” said Mr. Lippincott, “youcan trust me absolutely. I will do my best for you in that respect. I don’tthink you will have any reason to complain of my stewardship19.”
I wondered exactly what he meant by that. He meant something. I thinkhe meant that he didn’t like me, had never liked me, but financially hewould do his best for me because I had been Ellie’s husband. I signed allnecessary papers. He asked me how I was going back to England. Flying? Isaid no, I wasn’t flying, I was going by sea. “I’ve got to have a little time tomyself,” I said. “I think a sea voyage will do me good.”
“And you are going to take up your residence—where?”
“Gipsy’s Acre,” I said.
“Ah. You propose to live there.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I thought perhaps you might have put it on the market for sale.”
“No,” I said, and the no came out rather stronger than I meant. I wasn’tgoing to part with Gipsy’s Acre. Gipsy’s Acre had been part of my dream,the dream that I’d cherished since I’d been a callow boy.
“Is anybody looking after it while you have been away in the States?”
I said that I’d left Greta Andersen in charge.
“Ah,” said Mr. Lippincott, “yes. Greta.”
He meant something in the way he said “Greta” but I didn’t take him upon it. If he disliked her, he disliked her. He always had. It left an awkwardpause, then I changed my mind. I felt that I’d got to say something.
“She was very good to Ellie,” I said. “She nursed her when she was ill,she came and lived with us and looked after Ellie. I—I can’t be gratefulenough to her. I’d like you to understand that. You don’t know what she’sbeen like. You don’t know how she helped and did everything after Elliewas killed. I don’t know what I’d have done without her.”
“Quite so, quite so,” said Mr. Lippincott. He sounded drier than youcould possibly imagine.
“So you see I owe her a lot.”
“A very competent girl,” said Mr. Lippincott.
I got up and said good-bye and I thanked him.
“You have nothing for which to thank me,” said Mr. Lippincott, dry asever.
He added, “I wrote you a short letter. I have sent it by air mail to Gipsy’sAcre. If you are going by sea you will probably find it waiting there on ar-rival.” Then he said, “Have a good voyage.”
I asked him, rather hesitantly, if he’d known Stanford Lloyd’s wife—agirl called Claudia Hardcastle.
“Ah, you mean his first wife. No I never met her. The marriage I believebroke up quite soon. After the divorce, he remarried. That too ended in di-vorce.”
So that was that.
When I got back to my hotel I found a cable. It asked me to come to ahospital in California. It said a friend of mine, Rudolf Santonix, had askedfor me, he had not long to live and he wished to see me before he died.
I changed my passage to a later boat and flew to San Francisco. Hewasn’t dead yet, but he was sinking very fast. They doubted, they said, ifhe would recover consciousness before he died, but he had asked for mevery urgently. I sat there in that hospital room watching him, watchingwhat looked like a shell of the man I knew. He’d always looked ill, he’d al-ways had a kind of queer transparency about him, a delicacy20, a frailness21.
He lay now looking a deadly, waxen figure. I sat there thinking: “I wishhe’d speak to me. I wish he’d say something. Just something before hedies.”
I felt so alone, so horribly alone. I’d escaped from enemies now, I’d gotto a friend. My only friend, really. He was the only person who knew any-thing about me, except Mum, but I didn’t want to think of Mum.
Once or twice I spoke22 to a nurse, asked her if there wasn’t anything theycould do, but she shook her head and said noncommittally:
“He might recover consciousness or might not.”
I sat there. And then at last he stirred and sighed. The nurse raised himup very gently. He looked at me but I didn’t know whether he recognizedme or not. He was just looking at me as though he looked past me and bey-ond me. Then suddenly a difference came into his eyes. I thought, “He doesknow me, he does see me.” He said something very faintly and I bent23 overthe bed so as to catch it. But they didn’t seem words that had any meaning.
Then his body had a sudden spasm24 and twitch25, and he threw his headback and shouted out:
“You damned fool…Why didn’t you go the other way?”
Then he just collapsed26 and died.
I don’t know what he meant—or even if he knew himself what he wassaying.
So that was the last I saw of Santonix. I wonder if he’d have heard me ifI had said anything to him? I’d like to have told him once more that thehouse he’d built me was the best thing I had in the world. The thing thatmattered most to me. Funny that a house could mean that. I suppose itwas a sort of symbolism about it. Something you want. Something youwant so much that you don’t quite know what it is. But he’d known what itwas and he’d given it to me. And I’d got it. And I was going home to it.
Going home. That’s all I could think about when I got on the boat. Thatand a deadly tiredness at first…And then a rising tide of happiness oozingup as it were from the depths…I was going home. I was going home….
Home is the sailor, home from the sea
And the hunter home from the hill…
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收听单词发音
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1
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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2
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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3
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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6
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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7
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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8
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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10
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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11
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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12
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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14
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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stewardship
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| n. n. 管理工作；管事人的职位及职责 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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frailness
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| n.脆弱，不坚定 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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24
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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