Chapter 8 eight

The weather suddenly changed, the rain poured down, and it was cold.Our trip had to be cancelled.I'm not sorry; ever since the day I saw Mrs. Driffield and George.After Kemp's tryst, I don't know how I can look her in the eye.I didn't feel much shock in my heart, but I was very surprised.I don't understand how she would be willing to be kissed by an elderly person, and my mind is full of those novels I have read, so some wild ideas flashed through my mind.I think Lord George has somehow got Mrs. Driffield under his control; he has some terrible secret about her, and is forcing her into his obnoxious embraces.I fantasized and made all kinds of terrible speculations.Maybe bigamy, murder, forgery.There are not many villains in books that do not threaten an unfortunate woman with exposing her for one of these crimes.Maybe Mrs. Driffield signed the back of a bill; I never understood what that meant, but I know it would be a disaster.I imagined her misery (she would often stay up all night, sitting by the window in her pajamas, her beautiful long hair hanging down to her knees, waiting hopelessly for dawn), and I imagined myself (not a sixpence-a-week A fifteen-year-old boy with pocket money, but a tall, muscular man with a waxed beard in an impeccable evening dress) rescued her from the snare of the blackmailing villain with courage and wisdom .But in retrospect, she did not seem to be reluctant to accept Lord George's caresses, and I still hear her laughter at that time.There was a note in that laughter I had never heard before, and it made me feel strangely short of breath.

During the rest of my vacation I saw the Driffields only once.I happened to run into them in town.They stopped and talked to me for a while.I suddenly felt embarrassed again.I looked at Mrs. Driffield, and could not help blushing with embarrassment, for there was nothing in her face to reveal any secret guilt.She looked at me with her soft blue eyes, with the mischievous expression of a child.She often opens her mouth slightly, as if she is about to smile at you, her lips are full and rosy.There was an air of innocence, honesty, and sincerity in her face.Even though I couldn't put it all into words at the time, I felt it very strongly.If I had expressed it in words then, I would probably have said: She couldn't have looked more honest.It was impossible for her to have any affair with Lord George, there must be some reason for it.I couldn't believe what I saw with my own eyes.

Then came the day when I should go back to school.The coachman had already taken my box away, and I walked to the station alone.I didn't want my aunt to see me, thinking it was more manly to go to the station alone, but I was in a bad mood walking down the street.It was a little branch line to Turcanbury, and the station was at the other end of town, near the beach.I bought a ticket and sat down in a corner of the third-class carriage.Suddenly I heard someone say: He is there.Then Mr. and Mrs. Driffield came running excitedly. We thought we'd have to come see you off.She said, do you feel uncomfortable?

No, of course not. Hi, it won't be long.We'll have plenty of time when you come back for Christmas.Can you skate? Won't. I can.I will teach you then. Her cheerful look put me in a good mood too.At the same time, I was so moved that my throat choked when I thought of their couple rushing to the station to say goodbye to me.I tried my best to control myself and not let the excitement in my heart show on my face. I'm probably going to spend a lot of time playing football this semester.I said, I should be able to participate in the second division team of the school team. She looked at me with friendly sparkling eyes and a smile on her full, ruddy lips.There was something I've always loved about her smile; her voice seemed to tremble a little with laughter or tears.For a moment, I was terribly afraid that she would kiss me.I was so scared I didn't know what to do.She talked incessantly, with the slight sneer that an adult would have on a child in school.Driffield has been standing by without saying a word, looking at me with a smile on his face, and stroking his beard.Then the station attendant blew a piercing whistle and waved a red flag.Mrs. Driffield took my hand and shook it.Driffield stepped forward.

Bye now.He said, this is what we mean. He stuffed a small paper packet into my hand, and the train started.I opened the packet and found two and a half crowns in it. ]’s silver coins, wrapped in a thin paper.My face flushed red all of a sudden.I'm naturally glad to have an extra five shillings in pocket money, but thinking of Ted.I was indignant and humiliated that Driffield dared to offer me money.I can't accept anything from him anyway.True, I rode and rowed with him, but he wasn't some kind of gentleman (I heard that from Major Greencourt).He gave me five shillings, which was a complete insult to me.At first, I thought of sending him the money back without writing a word, expressing my indignation at his faux pas by silence.Then I drew up a dignified, dry letter in my head, saying that I was grateful for his generosity, but that he must have known that it was impossible for a gentleman to accept a gratuity from a man he barely knew. of.After thinking about it for two or three days, I felt more and more reluctant to part with these two coins.I believe Driffield meant kindly, and of course he was rude and unsophisticated, but I had such a hard time hurting his feelings by sending money back, that I ended up spending the two dollars.But I did not write to Driffield to thank Driffield for my wounded pride.

However, when I returned to Blackshire for my holidays at Christmas, it was the Driffields who I was most eager to see.In this lifeless little place, only they seem to have some kind of connection with the outside world, and at this time the outside world has begun to make me have various fantasies with eager curiosity.But I couldn't get over my embarrassment, and I went to visit them at their houses, and I hoped I could meet them in town.At this time, the weather was very bad, and the wind howled on the street, piercing the bones.The few women who were away on business, with their wide skirts blown like fishing boats in a storm, walked crookedly in the street.The wind blows cold rain.In summer, the sky warmly surrounds this pleasant country from all sides, but now the sky has become a dark curtain and falls menacingly on the earth.It was very unlikely that I should chance to run into the Driffields in the street in this weather, so I finally got up my courage and slipped out of the house one day after tea.The road from my home to the station was pitch black, and there were only a few dim street lights at the station, so that I could walk on the sidewalk without much effort.The Driffields lived in a small two-story house on a side road.It was a dull yellow brick house with a round belly window.I knocked on the door, and a little maid came and opened it in a few minutes.I asked her if Mrs. Driffield was at home.She gave me a hesitant look, then asked me to wait in the aisle, and said she would go in and take a look.I could already hear voices in the next room, but they stopped when the maid opened and closed the door behind her.I have a vague sense of mystery; when I visit my uncle's friends' house, even if there is no fire in the house, they will invite you into the living room even if the gas lamp is temporarily lit.But the door opened and Driffield came out.The hallway was dimly lit.At first he couldn't see who the visitor was, but he soon recognized me.

Oh, it turned out to be you.We just don't know when we'll see you again.Then he called out, Rosie, it's young Ashenden. Someone yelled inside.Before long, Mrs. Driffield had run into the passage and shook hands with me. Come in, come in.Take off your coat.The weather is really bad, isn't it?You must be freezing cold. She helped me take off my coat and scarf, snatched the hat from my hand, and pulled me into the room.The room was small and full of furniture, and it was stuffy and hot with a fire in the fireplace; they had gas lamps, which were not in the Vicarage, and they were three lamps with globes of frosted glass, and the room was filled with their radiance. of harsh light.The air there was gray and filled with tobacco smoke.I was at first dazed and panicked by the effusive welcome I received, and I didn't see who the two men stood up when I entered the room.Then I recognized one as Mr. Galloway, the curate, and the other as George.Lord Kemp.I felt a little restrained when the pastor shook my hand.

Hello!I have just come to return some books that Mr. Driffield has lent me.Mrs. Driffield was very polite, and asked me to stay for a cup of tea. I felt rather than saw Driffield give him a wry look, and then said something about unjust money, which I thought was a quote from some book, though I didn't understand what it meant.Mr. Galloway laughed. I don't know.He said, How about talking about tax collectors and sinners? [Note] "New Testament.Matthew 11:19: When the Son of Man came, he ate and drank, and they said he was a glutton and a drinker, a friend of tax collectors and sinners, but the son of wisdom always took wisdom as his yes.

I thought Galloway's words were inappropriate, but Lord George was haunting me now.He doesn't look restrained at all. Hey guys, are you back from vacation?Ah yo, you have grown into a big man. I shook his hand coldly, wishing I hadn't come. Let me pour you a cup of strong tea.said Mrs. Driffield. I have already had tea. Let's eat some more.said Lord George, speaking as if he owned the place (which was his style).A big lad like you would be fine with another loaf of butter and jam.Mrs. Driffield will cut a piece for you herself with her white hands. The tea set was still on the table, and they sat around the table.A chair was brought to me, and Mrs. Driffield gave me a cake.

We were asking Ted to sing a song for everybody, and Lord George said, Come on, Ted. Sing 'Only in Love with a Private Soldier,' Ted, said Mrs Driffield, I like that song. Not good, let's sing "We Started Mopping the Floor with Him". If you don't mind, I can sing both.Driffield said. He picked up the banjo that was on top of the upright piano, got it in tune, and sang.He has a very thick baritone voice.I'm used to hearing people sing.Whenever there was a tea-party at the parsonage, or when I went to a tea-party at the major's or the doctor's, the guests always had scores of music with them.They put the scores in the hall so that it would not appear that they intended to be asked to play or sing.But after tea, the hostess always asked if they had brought the music, and they embarrassedly admitted that they had.If it's at the Vicarage, I'm always the one to get the music.Sometimes the young lady pleaded that she hadn't practiced for a long time, and hadn't brought the sheet music, at which point her mother would interject and say she had brought it for her daughter.But none of them sang funny songs, but "I'll Sing You an Arabian Song," or "Good Night, Dear," or "The Goddess of My Heart."Once, at the annual concert in the town's great hall, Smithson, the draper, sang a burlesque song that was not at all amusing to the gentlemen in the front, although the people in the back applauded enthusiastically. , maybe the song is not very interesting.Anyway, before the next concert he was asked to look at what he was going to sing (don't forget the ladies there, Mr. Smithson), and he sang "Nelson's Death" instead.The second song that Driffield sang that day had a chorus; at this chorus the curate and Lord George joined in with gusto.I've heard the song many times since, but now I only remember four lines from it: We started mopping the floor with him, we dragged him up and down the stairs, and we dragged him around the room, to the table Pulled down to the chair again.

When the song was over, I turned to Mrs. Driffield with the most civility. don't you singI asked. I sang it, but it was always a pain to listen to, so Ted didn't encourage me to sing it. Driffield put down his banjo and lit his pipe. Hi Ted, how is your book going?asked Lord George warmly and kindly. Oh, not bad.I am continuing to write. Dude Ted and his masterpiece, Lord George said with a smile, why don't you settle down and do something decent?I can arrange a job for you in my office. Oh, it's fine with me. You let him go, George, said Mrs. Driffield, he just likes to write, and if I tell you, as long as it puts him in a good mood, he'll do it. Well, I really can't say how much I know about books.George.Kemp said. Let's not talk about books then.Driffield interjected, smiling. I don't think anyone should be ashamed of "Good Haven," said Mr. Galloway, and I don't care what the critics say. Well, Ted, I've known you since I was a kid, but I just can't get through that book of yours. Well, come, let's not talk about books, said Mrs. Driffield, and sing us another song, Ted. I gotta go, said the curate, turning to me, let's go together.Driffield, what book can I borrow? Driffield pointed to a stack of new books stacked on a table in the corner of the room. Take your pick. OMG, so many!I greedily looked at the pile of books. Oh, it's all a mess.They are all sent to me to write a review. What do you do with these books? Ship them to Turcanbury and sell them for as much as they can.The money from the sale was good enough to pay the butcher's bill. The curate and I came out of the Driffield house with three or four books under his arm.He asked me: Did you come to Driffield's and tell your uncle? No, I was just out for a walk, and it occurred to me that I might as well come and see them. That's not entirely true of course, but I don't want to tell Mr. Galloway that although I'm actually grown up, my uncle doesn't realize it, and he'll still try to keep me from visiting people he doesn't like. If I were you, I wouldn't mention anything unless absolutely necessary.The Driffields are very nice, but your uncle doesn't like them very much. I know, I said, it doesn't make sense. Of course they were rather vulgar, but he wrote good stuff, and if you take into account his origins, it's pretty remarkable that he could write. I'm glad to find out, Mr. Galloway obviously didn't want my uncle to know that he was on friendly terms with the Driffields.I can be sure that he will never betray me. Driffield is now recognized as one of the greatest novelists of the late Victorian era, and one cannot help laughing at the condescension with which my uncle's curate spoke of him; Town, people usually talk about him in this way.One day we went to have tea at Mrs Greencourt's.A cousin of hers, whose husband was a tutor at Oxford, was living with her at the time, and we heard that the lady was very cultured.Her name was Mrs. Ncombe, and she was a small, wrinkled, always enthusiastic expression; she surprised us with her gray hair cut short, and her black serge skirts of such length that Just slightly beyond the top of her double-headed boots.She was the first new woman that we in Blacktown saw.We were startled and immediately wary of her.She seemed very knowledgeable, which made us all feel intimidated. (Afterwards we all laughed at her, and my uncle said to my aunt: Oh, dear, thank God you are not smart, at least I can avoid this kind of crime. My aunt joked and put my uncle's pair by the fire to warm Picking up the slippers and slipping them on over his boots, he said: You see, I'm a new woman too. Then we all said: Mrs. Greencourt is really funny, and no one knows what she's going to do next time. But of course , she is not a woman of status after all. We can't forget her origin, her father was a porcelain maker, and her grandfather was a factory worker.) Still we all found it very interesting to hear Mrs. Ncombe talk about the people she knew.My uncle went to Oxford, but everyone he asked seemed to have passed away.Mrs. Encombe knew Humphrey.Mrs. Ward [Note: British female novelist. ], for her "Robert.The book Elsmere is highly appreciated.My uncle thought it was a maliciously libelous book.He wondered that Mr. Gladstone, who in any case claimed to be a Christian, should have praised the book.They even argued about it.My uncle said he felt the book would divide people and make them think all kinds of things that only added to the confusion.Mrs. Encombe replied that if my uncle knew HumphreyMrs. Ward would not think so.She is a very noble woman, is Matthew.Arnold's niece.Whatever you may think of the book (and Mrs. Encombe herself readily admits that some passages would have been better left out), it is certain that she wrote it for very noble motives.Mrs. Encombe knew Miss Broughton too. ], she was born in a very good family.Strange that she should have written a book like that. I see no harm in her books, says Mrs. Hayforth, the doctor's wife, and I love her books, especially She's Red as a Rose. Will you let your daughter read these books?asked Mrs. Ncombe. Maybe not at the moment, said Mrs. Hayforth, but when they are married I have no objection. Well, there's something you might be interested in knowing, said Mrs. Ncombe. I was in Florence last Easter. ], someone introduced me to Vedas [Note: French novelist. 】. That's a different matter, replied Mrs. Hayforth, and I don't believe any decent woman would read a book by Vedder. I saw one out of curiosity, and Mrs. Encombe said it looked like it had been written by a French man rather than a well-bred English woman. Oh, but she's not really British as far as I know.I've always heard that her real name was De.Miss Laramie. At this moment, Mr. Galloway mentioned Edward.Driffield. You know we have a writer living here.He said. We are not proud of him.The major said he was the son of old Miss Wolfe's housekeeper, and married a barmaid. Can he write a book?asked Mrs. Ncombe. You could tell he wasn't a gentleman at a glance, said the curate, but if you think about all the odds he had to overcome, it was remarkable that he was able to write something like this. He is Willy's friend.my uncle said. Everyone was looking at me, and I felt very uncomfortable. They rode together this summer; when Willie went back to school, I checked out one of his books from the library to see what he had written.I returned the book after reading the first volume.I wrote a rather stern letter to the librarian, and I'm glad to hear he's stopped lending Driffield's book, and if it had been my own, I'd have thrown it in the kitchen at once to the stove. I have read a book written by him.The doctor said, I think it is very interesting, because the background of the story is in this area, and I am familiar with some characters.But I can't say that I like this book, I don't think it is necessary to write it so vulgar. I mentioned this to him, said Mr. Galloway, but he said the men on the colliers going to Newcastle, the fishermen and the farm hands, did not behave like ladies and gentlemen, nor did they speak like them. But why did he write about this kind of person?my uncle said. I say the same thing, said Mrs. Hayforth, we all know there are coarse, treacherous, wicked people in the world, but I don't know what good it is to write about them. I'm not speaking for him, said Mr Galloway, I'm just telling you what he explained to me.Later, of course, he also brought out Dickens. Dickens is different, my uncle said, and I can't see how anyone could object to The Pickwick Papers. 】. I think it's a matter of personal preference.My aunt said I've always found Dickens to be vulgar.I don't want to read stories about characters who drop the h sound.I must say, I'm glad the weather has been so bad for a while that Willie can't go out riding with Mr. Driffield anymore.I don't think he's the kind of guy Willie should associate with. Mr. Galloway and I bowed our heads.