星期一和星期二-第1章

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1。　A　Haunted　House

　生小说＿网　
1。　a　haunted　house

whatever　hour　you　woke　there　was　a　door　shunting。　from　room　to　room　they　went；　hand　in　hand；　lifting　here；　opening　there；　making　sure—a　ghostly　couple。

“here　we　left　it；”　she　said。　and　he　added；　“oh；　but　here　too！”　“it’s　upstairs；”　she　murmured。　“and　in　the　garden；”　he　whispered　“quietly；”　they　said；　“or　we　shall　wake　them。”

but　it　wasn’t　that　you　woke　us。　oh；　no。　“they’re　looking　for　it；　they’re　drawing　the　curtain；”　one　might　say；　and　so　read　on　a　page　or　two。　“now　they’ve　found　it；”　one　would　be　certain；　stopping　the　pencil　on　the　margin。　and　then；　tired　of　reading；　one　might　rise　and　see　for　oneself；　the　house　all　empty；　the　doors　standing　open；　only　the　wood　pigeons　bubbling　with　content　and　the　hum　of　the　threshing　machine　sounding　from　the　farm。　“what　did　i　e　in　here　for？　what　did　i　want　to　find？”　my　hands　were　empty。　“perhaps　it’s　upstairs　then？”　the　apples　were　in　the　loft。　and　so　down　again；　the　garden　still　as　ever；　only　the　book　had　slipped　into　the　grass。

but　they　had　found　it　in　the　drawing　room。　not　that　one　could　ever　see　them。　the　window　panes　reflected　apples；　reflected　roses；　all　the　leaves　were　green　in　the　glass。　if　they　moved　in　the　drawing　room；　the　apple　only　turned　its　yellow　side。　yet；　the　moment　after；　if　the　door　was　opened；　spread　about　the　floor；　hung　upon　the　walls；　pendant　from　the　ceiling—what？　my　hands　were　empty。　the　shadow　of　a　thrush　crossed　the　carpet；　from　the　deepest　wells　of　silence　the　wood　pigeon　drew　its　bubble　of　sound。　“safe；　safe；　safe；”　the　pulse　of　the　house　beat　softly。　“the　treasure　buried；　the　room。　。　。”　the　pulse　stopped　short。　oh；　was　that　the　buried　treasure？

a　moment　later　the　light　had　faded。　out　in　the　garden　then？　but　the　trees　spun　darkness　for　a　wandering　beam　of　sun。　so　fine；　so　rare；　coolly　sunk　beneath　the　surface　the　beam　i　sought　always　burnt　behind　the　glass。　death　was　the　glass；　death　was　between　us；　ing　to　the　woman　first；　hundreds　of　years　ago；　leaving　the　house；　sealing　all　the　windows；　the　rooms　were　darkened。　he　left　it；　left　her；　went　north；　went　east；　saw　the　stars　turned　in　the　southern　sky；　sought　the　house；　found　it　dropped　beneath　the　downs。　“safe；　safe；　safe；”　the　pulse　of　the　house　beat　gladly。　“the　treasure　yours。”

the　wind　roars　up　the　avenue。　trees　stoop　and　bend　this　way　and　that。　moonbeams　splash　and　spill　wildly　in　the　rain。　but　the　beam　of　the　lamp　falls　straight　from　the　window。　the　candle　burns　stiff　and　still。　wandering　through　the　house；　opening　the　windows；　whispering　not　to　wake　us；　the　ghostly　couple　seek　their　joy。

“here　we　slept；”　she　says。　and　he　adds；　“kisses　without　number。”　“waking　in　the　morning—”　“silver　between　the　trees—”　“upstairs—”　“in　the　garden—”　“when　summer　came—”　“in　winter　snowtime—”　the　doors　go　shutting　far　in　the　distance；　gently　knocking　like　the　pulse　of　a　heart。

nearer　they　e；　cease　at　the　doorway。　the　wind　falls；　the　rain　slides　silver　down　the　glass。　our　eyes　darken；　we　hear　no　steps　beside　us；　we　see　no　lady　spread　her　ghostly　cloak。　his　hands　shield　the　lantern。　“look；”　he　breathes。　“sound　asleep。　love　upon　their　lips。”

stooping；　holding　their　silver　lamp　above　us；　long　they　look　and　deeply。　long　they　pause。　the　wind　drives　straightly；　the　flame　stoops　slightly。　wild　beams　of　moonlight　cross　both　floor　and　wall；　and；　meeting；　stain　the　faces　bent；　the　faces　pondering；　the　faces　that　search　the　sleepers　and　seek　their　hidden　joy。

“safe；　safe；　safe；”　the　heart　of　the　house　beats　proudly。　“long　years—”　he　sighs。　“again　you　found　me。”　“here；”　she　murmurs；　“sleeping；　in　the　garden　reading；　laughing；　rolling　apples　in　the　loft。　here　we　left　our　treasure—”　stooping；　their　light　lifts　the　lids　upon　my　eyes。　“safe！　safe！　safe！”　the　pulse　of　the　house　beats　wildly。　waking；　i　cry　“oh；　is　this　your　buried　treasure？　the　light　in　the　heart。”

　。。



2。　A　Society

＿
2。　a　society

this　is　how　it　all　came　about。　six　or　seven　of　us　were　sitting　one　day　after　tea。　some　were　gazing　across　the　street　into　the　windows　of　a　milliner’s　shop　where　the　light　still　shone　brightly　upon　scarlet　feathers　and　golden　slippers。　others　were　idly　occupied　in　building　little　towers　of　sugar　upon　the　edge　of　the　tea　tray。　after　a　time；　so　far　as　i　can　remember；　we　drew　round　the　fire　and　began　as　usual　to　praise　men—how　strong；　how　noble；　how　brilliant；　how　courageous；　how　beautiful　they　were—how　we　envied　those　who　by　hook　or　by　crook　managed　to　get　attached　to　one　for　life—when　poll；　who　had　said　nothing；　burst　into　tears。　poll；　i　must　tell　you；　has　always　been　queer。　for　one　thing　her　father　was　a　strange　man。　he　left　her　a　fortune　in　his　will；　but　on　condition　that　she　read　all　the　books　in　the　london　library。　we　forted　her　as　best　we　could；　but　we　knew　in　our　hearts　how　vain　it　was。　for　though　we　like　her；　poll　is　no　beauty；　leaves　her　shoe　laces　untied；　and　must　have　been　thinking；　while　we　praised　men；　that　not　one　of　them　would　ever　wish　to　marry　her。　at　last　she　dried　her　tears。　for　some　time　we　could　make　nothing　of　what　she　said。　strange　enough　it　was　in　all　conscience。　she　told　us　that；　as　we　knew；　she　spent　most　of　her　time　in　the　london　library；　reading。　she　had　begun；　she　said；　with　english　literature　on　the　top　floor；　and　was　steadily　working　her　way　down　to　the　times　on　the　bottom。　and　now　half；　or　perhaps　only　a　quarter；　way　through　a　terrible　thing　had　happened。　she　could　read　no　more。　books　were　not　what　we　thought　them。　“books；”　she　cried；　rising　to　her　feet　and　speaking　with　an　intensity　of　desolation　which　i　shall　never　forget；　“are　for　the　most　part　unutterably　bad！”

of　course　we　cried　out　that　shakespeare　wrote　books；　and　milton　and　shelley。

“oh；　yes；”　she　interrupted　us。　“you’ve　been　well　taught；　i　can　see。　but　you　are　not　members　of　the　london　library。”　here　her　sobs　broke　forth　anew。　at　length；　recovering　a　little；　she　opened　one　of　the　pile　of　books　which　she　always　carried　about　with　her—“from　a　window”　or　“in　a　garden；”　or　some　such　name　as　that　it　was　called；　and　it　was　written　by　a　man　called　benton　or　henson；　or　something　of　that　kind。　she　read　the　first　few　pages。　we　listened　in　silence。　“but　that’s　not　a　book；”　someone　said。　so　she　chose　another。　this　time　it　was　a　history；　but　i　have　forgotten　the　writer’s　name。　our　trepidation　increased　as　she　went　on。　not　a　word　of　it　seemed　to　be　true；　and　the　style　in　which　it　was　written　was　execrable。

“poetry！　poetry！”　we　cried；　impatiently。

“read　us　poetry！”　i　cannot　describe　the　desolation　which　fell　upon　us　as　she　opened　a　little　volume　and　mouthed　out　the　verbose；　sentimental　foolery　which　it　contained。

“it　must　have　been　written　by　a　woman；”　one　of　us　urged。　but　no。　she　told　us　that　it　was　written　by　a　young　man；　one　of　the　most　famous　poets　of　the　day。　i　leave　you　to　imagine　what　the　shock　of　the　discovery　was。　though　we　all　cried　and　begged　her　to　read　no　more；　she　persisted　and　read　us　extracts　from　the　lives　of　the　lord　chancellors。　when　she　had　finished；　jane；　the　eldest　and　wisest　of　us；　rose　to　her　feet　and　said　that　she　for　one　was　not　convinced。

“why；”　she　asked；　“if　men　write　such　rubbish　as　this；　should　our　mothers　have　wasted　their　youth　in　bringing　them　into　the　world？”

we　were　all　silent；　and；　in　the　silence；　poor　poll　could　be　heard　sobbing　out；　“why；　why　did　my　father　teach　me　to　read？”

clorinda　was　the　first　to　e　to　her　senses。　“it’s　all　our　fault；”　she　said。　“every　one　of　us　knows　how　to　read。　but　no　one；　save　poll；　has　ever　taken　the　trouble　to　do　it。　i；　for　one；　have　taken　it　for　granted　that　it　was　a　woman’s　duty　to　spend　her　youth　in　bearing　children。　i　venerated　my　mother　for　bearing　ten；　still　more　my　grandmother　for　bearing　fifteen；　it　was；　i　confess；　my　own　ambition　to　bear　twenty。　we　have　gone　on　all　these　ages　supposing　that　men　were　equally　industrious；　and　that　their　works　were　of　equal　merit。　while　we　have　borne　the　children；　they；　we　supposed；　have　borne　the　books　and　the　pictures。　we　have　populated　the　world。　they　have　civilized　it。　but　now　that　we　can　read；　what　prevents　us　from　judging　the　results？　before　we　bring　another　child　into　the　world　we　must　swear　that　we　will　find　out　what　the　world　is　like。”

so　we　made　ourselves　into　a　society　for　asking　questions。　one　of　us　was　to　visit　a　man–of–war；　another　was　to　hide　herself　in　a　scholar’s　study；　another　was　to　attend　a　meeting　of　business　men；　while　all　were　to　read　books；　look　at　pictures；　go　to　concerts；　keep　our　eyes　open　in　the　streets；　and　ask　questions　perpetually。　we　were　very　young。　you　can　judge　of　our　simplicity　when　i　tell　you　that　before　parting　that　night　we　agreed　that　the　objects　of　life　were　to　produce　good　people　and　good　books。　our　questions　were　to　be　directed　to　finding　out　how　far　these　objects　were　now　attained　by　men。　we　vowed　solemnly　that　we　would　not　bear　a　single　child　until　we　were　satisfied。

off　we　went　then；　some　to　the　british　museum；　others　to　the　king’s　navy；　some　to　oxford；　others　to　cambridge；　we　visited　the　royal　academy　and　the　tate；　heard　modern　music　in　concert　rooms；　went　to　the　law　courts；　a