按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
added。
〃On the contrary！〃 I broke out； 〃she shall know everything that I
can tell。〃
〃You do not understand；〃 he returned； with an air of great dignity。
〃It will be nothing to her； she expects it of me。 Good…by！〃 he
added； with a nod。
I offered him my hand。
〃Excuse me；〃 said he。 〃It's small； I know； but I can't push things
quite so far as that。 I don't wish any sentimental business； to
sit by your hearth a white…haired wanderer； and all that。 Quite
the contrary： I hope to God I shall never again clap eyes on either
one of you。〃
〃Well； God bless you； Northmour！〃 I said heartily。
〃Oh； yes；〃 he returned。
He walked down the beach； and the man who was ashore gave him an
arm on board； and then shoved off and leaped into the bows himself。
Northmour took the tiller； the boat rose to the waves； and the oars
between the tholepins sounded crisp and measured in the morning
air。
They were not yet half way to the 〃Red Earl；〃 and I was still
watching their progress； when the sun rose out of the sea。
One word more； and my story is done。 Years after； Northmour was
killed fighting under the colors of Garibaldi for the liberation of
the Tyrol。
Wilkie Collins
The Dream Woman
A Mystery in Four Narratives
THE FIRST NARRATIVE
INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT OF THE FACTS BY PERCY FAIRBANK
I
〃Hullo； there！ Hostler！ Hullo…o…o！〃
〃My dear！ why don't you look for the bell？〃
〃I HAVE lookedthere is no bell。〃
〃And nobody in the yard。 How very extraordinary！ Call again；
dear。〃
〃Hostler！ Hullo； there！ Hostler…r…r！〃
My second call echoes through empty space； and rouses nobody
produces； in short； no visible result。 I am at the end of my
resourcesI don't know what to say or what to do next。 Here I
stand in the solitary inn yard of a strange town； with two horses
to hold； and a lady to take care of。 By way of adding to my
responsibilities； it so happens that one of the horses is dead
lame； and that the lady is my wife。
Who am I？you will ask。
There is plenty of time to answer the question。 Nothing happens；
and nobody appears to receive us。 Let me introduce myself and my
wife。
I am Percy FairbankEnglish gentlemanage （let us say） fortyno
professionmoderate politicsmiddle heightfair complexioneasy
characterplenty of money。
My wife is a French lady。 She was Mademoiselle Clotilde Delorge
when I was first presented to her at her father's house in France。
I fell in love with herI really don't know why。 It might have
been because I was perfectly idle； and had nothing else to do at
the time。 Or it might have been because all my friends said she
was the very last woman whom I ought to think of marrying。 On the
surface； I must own； there is nothing in common between Mrs。
Fairbank and me。 She is tall； she is dark； she is nervous；
excitable； romantic； in all her opinions she proceeds to extremes。
What could such a woman see in me？ what could I see in her？ I know
no more than you do。 In some mysterious manner we exactly suit
each other。 We have been man and wife for ten years； and our only
regret is； that we have no children。 I don't know what YOU may
think； I call thatupon the wholea happy marriage。
So much for ourselves。 The next question iswhat has brought us
into the inn yard？ and why am I obliged to turn groom； and hold the
horses？
We live for the most part in Franceat the country house in which
my wife and I first met。 Occasionally； by way of variety； we pay
visits to my friends in England。 We are paying one of those visits
now。 Our host is an old college friend of mine； possessed of a
fine estate in Somersetshire； and we have arrived at his house
called Farleigh Halltoward the close of the hunting season。
On the day of which I am now writingdestined to be a memorable
day in our calendarthe hounds meet at Farleigh Hall。 Mrs。
Fairbank and I are mounted on two of the best horses in my friend's
stables。 We are quite unworthy of that distinction； for we know
nothing and care nothing about hunting。 On the other hand； we
delight in riding； and we enjoy the breezy Spring morning and the
fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us on every side。
While the hunt prospers； we follow the hunt。 But when a check
occurswhen time passes and patience is sorely tried； when the
bewildered dogs run hither and thither； and strong language falls
from the lips of exasperated sportsmenwe fail to take any further
interest in the proceedings。 We turn our horses' heads in the
direction of a grassy lane； delightfully shaded by trees。 We trot
merrily along the lane； and find ourselves on an open common。 We
gallop across the common； and follow the windings of a second lane。
We cross a brook； we pass through a village； we emerge into
pastoral solitude among the hills。 The horses toss their heads；
and neigh to each other； and enjoy it as much as we do。 The hunt
is forgotten。 We are as happy as a couple of children； we are
actually singing a French songwhen in one moment our merriment
comes to an end。 My wife's horse sets one of his forefeet on a
loose stone； and stumbles。 His rider's ready hand saves him from
falling。 But； at the first attempt he makes to go on； the sad
truth shows itselfa tendon is strained； the horse is lame。
What is to be done？ We are strangers in a lonely part of the
country。 Look where we may； we see no signs of a human habitation。
There is nothing for it but to take the bridle road up the hill；
and try what we can discover on the other side。 I transfer the
saddles； and mount my wife on my own horse。 He is not used to
carry a lady； he misses the familiar pressure of a man's legs on
either side of him； he fidgets； and starts； and kicks up the dust。
I follow on foot； at a respectful distance from his heels； leading
the lame horse。 Is there a more miserable object on the face of
creation than a lame horse？ I have seen lame men and lame dogs who
were cheerful creatures； but I never yet saw a lame horse who
didn't look heartbroken over his own misfortune。
For half an hour my wife capers and curvets sideways along the
bridle road。 I trudge on behind her； and the heartbroken horse
halts behind me。 Hard by the top of the hill； our melancholy
procession passes a Somersetshire peasant at work in a field。 I
summon the man to approach us； and the man looks at me stolidly；
from the middle of the field； without stirring a step。 I ask at
the top of my voice how far it is to Farleigh Hall。 The
Somersetshire peasant answers at the top of HIS voice：
〃Vourteen mile。 Gi' oi a drap o' zyder。〃
I translate （for my wife's benefit） from the Somersetshire language
into the English language。 We are fourteen miles from Farleigh
Hall； and our friend in the field desires to be rewarded； for
giving us that information； with a drop of cider。 There is the
pe