Fortunately (from Mark’s point of view) his patron died during his third year in London, and left him all the money he wanted. From that moment his life loses its legendary3 character, and becomes more a matter of history. He settled accounts with the money-lenders, abandoned his crop of wild oats to the harvesting of others, and became in his turn a patron. He patronized the Arts. It was not only usurers who discovered that Mark Ablett no longer wrote for money; editors were now offered free contributions as well as free lunches; publishers were given agreements for an occasional slender volume, in which the author paid all expenses and waived4 all royalties5; promising6 young painters and poets dined with him; and he even took a theatrical7 company on tour, playing host and “lead” with equal lavishness8.
He was not what most people call a snob9. A snob has been defined carelessly as a man who loves a lord; and, more carefully, as a mean lover of mean things—which would be a little unkind to the peerage if the first definition were true. Mark had his vanities undoubtedly10, but he would sooner have met an actor-manager than an earl; he would have spoken of his friendship with Dante—had that been possible—more glibly11 than of his friendship with the Duke. Call him a snob if you like, but not the worst kind of snob; a hanger-on, but to the skirts of Art, not Society; a climber, but in the neighbourhood of Parnassus, not Hay Hill.
His patronage did not stop at the Arts. It also included Matthew Cayley, a small cousin of thirteen, whose circumstances were as limited as had been Mark’s own before his patron had rescued him. He sent the Cayley cousin to school and Cambridge. His motives13, no doubt, were unworldly enough at first; a mere14 repaying to his account in the Recording15 Angel’s book of the generosity16 which had been lavished17 on himself; a laying-up of treasure in heaven. But it is probable that, as the boy grew up, Mark’s designs for his future were based on his own interests as much as those of his cousin, and that a suitably educated Matthew Cayley of twenty-three was felt by him to be a useful property for a man in his position; a man, that is to say, whose vanities left him so little time for his affairs.
Cayley, then, at twenty-three, looked after his cousin’s affairs. By this time Mark had bought the Red House and the considerable amount of land which went with it. Cayley superintended the necessary staff. His duties, indeed, were many. He was not quite secretary, not quite land-agent, not quite business-adviser, not quite companion, but something of all four. Mark leant upon him and called him “Cay,” objecting quite rightly in the circumstances to the name of Matthew. Cay, he felt was, above all, dependable; a big, heavy-jawed, solid fellow, who didn’t bother you with unnecessary talk—a boon18 to a man who liked to do most of the talking himself.
Cayley was now twenty-eight, but had all the appearance of forty, which was his patron’s age. Spasmodically they entertained a good deal at the Red House, and Mark’s preference—call it kindliness19 or vanity, as you please—was for guests who were not in a position to repay his hospitality. Let us have a look at them as they came down to that breakfast, of which Stevens, the parlour-maid, has already given us a glimpse.
The first to appear was Major Rumbold, a tall, grey-haired, grey-moustached, silent man, wearing a Norfolk coat and grey flannel20 trousers, who lived on his retired21 pay and wrote natural history articles for the papers. He inspected the dishes on the side-table, decided22 carefully on kedgeree, and got to work on it. He had passed on to a sausage by the time of the next arrival. This was Bill Beverly, a cheerful young man in white flannel trousers and a blazer.
“Hallo, Major,” he said as he came in, “how’s the gout?”
“It isn’t gout,” said the Major gruffly.
“Well, whatever it is.”
“I make a point of being polite at breakfast,” said Bill, helping24 himself largely to porridge. “Most people are so rude. That’s why I asked you. But don’t tell me if it’s a secret. Coffee?” he added, as he poured himself out a cup.
“No, thanks. I never drink till I’ve finished eating.”
“Quite right, Major; it’s only manners.” He sat down opposite to the other. “Well, we’ve got a good day for our game. It’s going to be dashed hot, but that’s where Betty and I score. On the fifth green, your old wound, the one you got in that frontier skirmish in ’43, will begin to trouble you; on the eighth, your liver, undermined by years of curry25, will drop to pieces; on the twelfth—”
“Well, I’m only warning you. Hallo; good morning, Miss Norris. I was just telling the Major what was going to happen to you and him this morning. Do you want any assistance, or do you prefer choosing your own breakfast?”
“Please don’t get up,” said Miss Norris. “I’ll help myself. Good morning, Major.” She smiled pleasantly at him. The Major nodded.
“Good morning. Going to be hot.”
“As I was telling him,” began Bill, “that’s where—Hallo, here’s Betty. Morning, Cayley.”
Betty Calladine and Cayley had come in together. Betty was the eighteen-year-old daughter of Mrs. John Calladine, widow of the painter, who was acting26 hostess on this occasion for Mark. Ruth Norris took herself seriously as an actress and, on her holidays, seriously as a golfer. She was quite competent as either. Neither the Stage Society nor Sandwich had any terrors for her.
“By the way, the car will be round at 10.30,” said Cayley, looking up from his letters. “You’re lunching there, and driving back directly afterwards. Isn’t that right?”
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t have—two rounds,” said Bill hopefully.
“Much too hot in the afternoon,” said the Major. “Get back comfortably for tea.”
Mark came in. He was generally the last. He greeted them and sat down to toast and tea. Breakfast was not his meal. The others chattered27 gently while he read his letters.
“Good God!” said Mark suddenly.
There was an instinctive28 turning of heads towards him. “I beg your pardon, Miss Norris. Sorry, Betty.”
Miss Norris smiled her forgiveness. She often wanted to say it herself, particularly at rehearsals29.
“I say, Cay!” He was frowning to himself—annoyed, puzzled. He held up a letter and shook it. “Who do you think this is from?”
“Robert,” said Mark.
“Robert?” It was difficult to surprise Cayley. “Well?”
“It’s all very well to say ‘well?’ like that,” said Mark peevishly31. “He’s coming here this afternoon.”
“I thought he was in Australia, or somewhere.”
“Of course. So did I.” He looked across at Rumbold. “Got any brothers, Major?”
“No.”
“Well, take my advice, and don’t have any.”
“Not likely to now,” said the Major.
Bill laughed. Miss Norris said politely: “But you haven’t any brothers, Mr. Ablett?”
“One,” said Mark grimly. “If you’re back in time you’ll see him this afternoon. He’ll probably ask you to lend him five pounds. Don’t.”
Everybody felt a little uncomfortable.
“I’ve got a brother,” said Bill helpfully, “but I always borrow from him.”
“Like Robert,” said Mark.
“When was he in England last?” asked Cayley.
“About fifteen years ago, wasn’t it? You’d have been a boy, of course.”
“Yes, I remember seeing him once about then, but I didn’t know if he had been back since.”
“No. Not to my knowledge.” Mark, still obviously upset, returned to his letter.
“Personally,” said Bill, “I think relations are a great mistake.”
“All the same,” said Betty a little daringly, “it must be rather fun having a skeleton in the cupboard.”
Mark looked up, frowning.
“If you think it’s fun, I’ll hand him over to you, Betty. If he’s anything like he used to be, and like his few letters have been—well, Cay knows.”
Cayley grunted.
“All I knew was that one didn’t ask questions about him.”
It may have been meant as a hint to any too curious guest not to ask more questions, or a reminder32 to his host not to talk too freely in front of strangers, although he gave it the sound of a mere statement of fact. But the subject dropped, to be succeeded by the more fascinating one of the coming foursome. Mrs. Calladine was driving over with the players in order to lunch with an old friend who lived near the links, and Mark and Cayley were remaining at home—on affairs. Apparently33 “affairs” were now to include a prodigal34 brother. But that need not make the foursome less enjoyable.
At about the time when the Major (for whatever reasons) was fluffing his tee-shot at the sixteenth, and Mark and his cousin were at their business at the Red House, an attractive gentleman of the name of Antony Gillingham was handing up his ticket at Woodham station and asking the way to the village. Having received directions, he left his bag with the station-master and walked off leisurely35. He is an important person to this story, so that it is as well we should know something about him before letting him loose in it. Let us stop him at the top of the hill on some excuse, and have a good look at him.
The first thing we realize is that he is doing more of the looking than we are. Above a clean-cut, clean-shaven face, of the type usually associated with the Navy, he carries a pair of grey eyes which seem to be absorbing every detail of our person. To strangers this look is almost alarming at first, until they discover that his mind is very often elsewhere; that he has, so to speak, left his eyes on guard, while he himself follows a train of thought in another direction. Many people do this, of course; when, for instance, they are talking to one person and trying to listen to another; but their eyes betray them. Antony’s never did.
He had seen a good deal of the world with those eyes, though never as a sailor. When at the age of twenty-one he came into his mother’s money, £400 a year, old Gillingham looked up from the “Stockbreeders’ Gazette” to ask what he was going to do.
“See the world,” said Antony.
“Well, send me a line from America, or wherever you get to.”
“Right,” said Antony.
Old Gillingham returned to his paper. Antony was a younger son, and, on the whole, not so interesting to his father as the cadets of certain other families; Champion Birket’s, for instance. But, then, Champion Birket was the best Hereford bull he had ever bred.
Antony, however, had no intention of going further away than London. His idea of seeing the world was to see, not countries, but people; and to see them from as many angles as possible. There are all sorts in London if you know how to look at them. So Antony looked at them—from various strange corners; from the view-point of the valet, the newspaper-reporter, the waiter, the shop-assistant. With the independence of £400 a year behind him, he enjoyed it immensely. He never stayed long in one job, and generally closed his connection with it by telling his employer (contrary to all etiquette36 as understood between master and servant) exactly what he thought of him. He had no difficulty in finding a new profession. Instead of experience and testimonials he offered his personality and a sporting bet. He would take no wages the first month, and—if he satisfied his employer—double wages the second. He always got his double wages.
He was now thirty. He had come to Woodham for a holiday, because he liked the look of the station. His ticket entitled him to travel further, but he had always intended to please himself in the matter. Woodham attracted him, and he had a suit-case in the carriage with him and money in his pocket. Why not get out?
The landlady37 of ‘The George’ was only too glad to put him up, and promised that her husband would drive over that afternoon for his luggage.
“And you would like some lunch, I expect, sir.”
“Yes, but don’t give yourself any trouble about it. Cold anything-you’ve-got.”
“What about beef, sir?” she asked, as if she had a hundred varieties of meat to select from, and was offering him her best.
While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord came in to ask about the luggage. Antony ordered another pint, and soon had him talking.
“It must be rather fun to keep a country inn,” he said, thinking that it was about time he started another profession.
“I don’t know about fun, sir. It gives us a living, and a bit over.”
“You ought to take a holiday,” said Antony, looking at him thoughtfully.
“Funny thing your saying that,” said the landlord, with a smile. “Another gentleman, over from the Red House, was saying that only yesterday. Offered to take my place an all.” He laughed rumblingly.
“The Red House? Not the Red House, Stanton?”
“That’s right, sir. Stanton’s the next station to Woodham. The Red House is about a mile from here—Mr. Ablett’s.”
Antony took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed from “The Red House, Stanton,” and signed “Bill.”
“Good old Bill,” he murmured to himself. “He’s getting on.”
Antony had met Bill Beverley two years before in a tobacconist’s shop. Gillingham was on one side of the counter and Mr. Beverley on the other. Something about Bill, his youth and freshness, perhaps, attracted Antony; and when cigarettes had been ordered, and an address given to which they were to be sent, he remembered that he had come across an aunt of Beverley’s once at a country-house. Beverley and he met again a little later at a restaurant. Both of them were in evening-dress, but they did different things with their napkins, and Antony was the more polite of the two. However, he still liked Bill. So on one of his holidays, when he was unemployed40, he arranged an introduction through a mutual41 friend. Beverley was a little inclined to be shocked when he was reminded of their previous meetings, but his uncomfortable feeling soon wore off, and he and Antony quickly became intimate. But Bill generally addressed him as “Dear Madman” when he happened to write.
Antony decided to stroll over to the Red House after lunch and call upon his friend. Having inspected his bedroom which was not quite the lavender-smelling country-inn bedroom of fiction, but sufficiently42 clean and comfortable, he set out over the fields.
As he came down the drive and approached the old red-brick front of the house, there was a lazy murmur39 of bees in the flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of the elms, and from distant lawns the whir of a mowing-machine, that most restful of all country sounds....
And in the hall a man was banging at a locked door, and shouting, “Open the door, I say; open the door!”
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收听单词发音
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1
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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3
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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4
waived
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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5
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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7
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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8
lavishness
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| n.浪费，过度 | |
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snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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12
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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13
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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14
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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15
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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17
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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19
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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20
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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21
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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23
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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24
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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25
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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26
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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27
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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28
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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30
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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32
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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33
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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38
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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40
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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41
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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42
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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43
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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