Chapter 3 By the Turtles of Tasman（3）

2018-04-15 作者： 外研社编译组

Chapter 3 By the Turtles of Tasman（3）

Www.Pinwenba.Com 吧The house that Frederick Travers had built when his prosperity came, was large and costly, sober and comfortable, and with no more pretence than was naturally attendant on the finest country home in the county.Its atmosphere was just the sort that he and his daughter would create.But in the days that followed his brother’s home coming, all this was changed.Gone was the subdued and ordered repose.Frederick was neither comfortable nor happy.There was an unwonted flurry of life and violation of sanctions and traditions.Meals were irregular and protracted, and there were midnight chafing dish suppers and bursts of laughter at the most inappropriate hours.

Frederick was abstemious.A glass of wine at dinner was his wildest excess.Three cigars a day he permitted himself, and these he smoked either on the broad veranda or in the smoking room.What else was a smoking room for?Cigarettes he detested.Yet his brother was ever rolling thin, brown paper cigarettes and smoking them wherever he might happen to be.A litter of tobacco crumbs was always to be found in the big easy chair he frequented and among the cushions of the window seats.Then there were the cocktails.Brought up under the stern tutelage of Isaac and Eliza Travers, Frederick looked upon liquor in the house as an abomination.

Ancient cities had been smitten by God’s wrath for just such practices.Before lunch and dinner, Tom, aided and abetted by Polly, mixed an endless variety of drinks, she being particularly adept with strange swivel stick concoctions learned at the ends of the earth.To Frederick, at such times, it seemed that his butler’s pantry and dining room had been turned into bar rooms.When he suggested this, under a facetious show, Tom proclaimed that when he made his pile he would build a liquor cabinet in every living room of his house.

And there were more young men at the house than formerly, and they helped in disposing of the cocktails.Frederick would have liked to account in that manner for their presence, but he knew better.His brother and his brother’s daughter did what he and Mary had failed to do.They were the magnets.Youth and joy and laughter drew to them.The house was lively with young life.Ever, day and night, the motor cars honked up and down the gravelled drives.

There were picnics and expeditions in the summer weather, moonlight sails on the bay, starts before dawn or home–comings at midnight, and often, of nights, the many bedrooms were filled as they had never been before.Tom must cover all his boyhood ramblings, catch trout again on Bull Creek, shoot quail over Walcott’s Prairie, get a deer on Round Mountain.That deer was a cause of pain and shame to Frederick.What if it was closed season?Tom had triumphantly brought home the buck and gleefully called it sidehill salmon when it was served and eaten at Frederick’s own table.

They had clambakes at the head of the bay and musselbakes down by the roaring surf; and Tom told shamelessly of the Halcyon, and of the run of contraband, and asked Frederick before them all how he had managed to smuggle the horse back to the fishermen without discovery.

All the young men were in the conspiracy with Polly to pamper Tom to his heart’s desire.And Frederick heard the true inwardness of the killing of the deer; of its purchase from the overstocked Golden Gate Park; of its crated carriage by train, horse team and mule back to the fastnesses of Round Mountain; of Tom falling asleep beside the deer run the first time it was driven by; of the pursuit by the young men, the jaded saddle horses, the scrambles and the falls, and the roping of it at Burnt Ranch Clearing; and, finally, of the triumphant culmination, when it was driven past a second time and Tom had dropped it at fifty yards.To Frederick there was a vague hurt in it all.When had such consideration been shown him?

There were days when Tom could not go out, postponements of outdoor frolics, when, still the centre, he sat and drowsed in the big chair, waking, at times, in that unexpected queer, bright way of his, to roll a cigarette and call for his ukulele a sort of miniature guitar of Portuguese invention.Then, with strumming and tumtuming, the live cigarette laid aside to the imminent peril of polished wood, his full baritone would roll out in South Sea hulas and sprightly French and Spanish songs.

One, in particular, had pleased Frederick at first.The favourite song of a Tahitian king, Tom explained the last of the Pomares, who had himself composed it and was wont to lie on his mats by the hour singing it.It consisted of the repetition of a few syllables.“E meu ru ru a vau,” it ran, and that was all of it, sung in a stately, endless, ever varying chant, accompanied by solemn chords from the ukelele.Polly took great joy in teaching it to her uncle, but when, himself questing for some of this genial flood of life that bathed about his brother, Frederick essayed the song, he noted suppressed glee on the part of his listeners, which increased, through giggles and snickers, to a great outburst of laughter.

To his disgust and dismay, he learned that the simple phrase he had repeated and repeated was nothing else than “I am so drunk.”He had been made a fool of.Over and over, solemnly and gloriously, he, Frederick Travers, had announced how drunk he was.After that, he slipped quietly out of the room whenever it was sung.Nor could Polly’s later explanation that the last word was “happy,” and not “drunk,” reconcile him; for she had been compelled to admit that the old king was a toper, and that he was always in his cups when he struck up the chant.

Frederick was constantly oppressed by the feeling of being out of it all.He was a social being, and he liked fun, even if it were of a more wholesome and dignified brand than that to which his brother was addicted.He could not understand why in the past the young people had voted his house a bore and come no more, save on state and formal occasions, until now, when they flocked to it and to his brother, but not to him.Nor could he like the way the young women petted his brother, and called him Tom, while it was intolerable to see them twist and pull his buccaneer moustache in mock punishment when his sometimes too jolly banter sank home to them.

Such conduct was a profanation to the memory of Isaac and Eliza Travers.There was too much an air of revelry in the house.The long table was never shortened, while there was extra help in the kitchen.Breakfast extended from four until eleven, and the midnight suppers, entailing raids on the pantry and complaints from the servants, were a vexation to Frederick.The house had become a restaurant, a hotel, he sneered bitterly to himself; and there were times when he was sorely tempted to put his foot down and reassert the old ways.

But somehow the ancient sorcery of his masterful brother was too strong upon him; and at times he gazed upon him with a sense almost of awe, groping to fathom the alchemy of charm, baffled by the strange lights and fires in his brother’s eyes, and by the wisdom of far places and of wild nights and days written in his face.What was it?What lordly vision had the other glimpsed? he, the irresponsible and careless one?Frederick remembered a line of an old song “Along the shining ways he came.”Why did his brother remind him of that line?Had he, who in boyhood had known no law, who in manhood had exalted himself above law, in truth found the shining ways?

There was an unfairness about it that perplexed Frederick, until he found solace in dwelling upon the failure Tom had made of life.Then it was, in quiet intervals, that he got some comfort and stiffened his own pride by showing Tom over the estate.

“You have done well, Fred,” Tom would say.“You have done very well.”

He said it often, and often he drowsed in the big smooth running machine.

“Everything orderly and sanitary and spick and span not a blade of grass out of place,” was Polly’s comment.“How do you ever manage it?I should not like to be a blade of grass on your land,” she concluded, with a little shivery shudder.

“You have worked hard,” Tom said.

“Yes, I have worked hard,” Frederick affirmed.“It was worth it.”

He was going to say more, but the strange flash in the girl’s eyes brought him to an uncomfortable pause.He felt that she measured him, challenged him.For the first time his honourable career of building a county commonwealth had been questioned and by a chit of a girl, the daughter of a wastrel, herself but a flighty, fly away, foreign creature.

Conflict between them was inevitable.He had disliked her from the first moment of meeting.She did not have to speak.Her mere presence made him uncomfortable.He felt her unspoken disapproval, though there were times when she did not stop at that.Nor did she mince language.She spoke forthright, like a man, and as no man had ever dared to speak to him.

“I wonder if you ever miss what you’ve missed,” she told him.“Did you ever, once in your life, turn yourself loose and rip things up by the roots?Did you ever once get drunk?Or smoke yourself black in the face?Or dance a hoe down on the ten commandments?Or stand up on your hind legs and wink like a good fellow at God?”

“Isn’t she a rare one!” Tom gurgled.“Her mother over again.”

Outwardly smiling and calm, there was a chill of horror at Frederick’s heart.