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Penelope's English Experiences-Part12_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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nevertheless, I can understand how a man of weak principle and

violent temper, or a man possessed of a desire to get to a



particular spot not favoured by Jane, or by a wish to reach any spot

by a certain hour,--I can understand how such a man, carried away by



helpless wrath, might possibly ruffle Jane's sad-coloured hair with

the toe of his boot.



Jane is small, yet mighty. She is multum in parvo; she is the rock

of Gibraltar in animate form; she is cosmic obstinacy on four legs.



When following out the devices and desires of her own heart, or

resisting the devices and desires of yours, she can put a pressure



of five hundred tons on the bit. She is further fortified by the

possession of legs which have iron rods concealed in them, these



iron rods terminating in stout grip-hooks, with which she takes hold

on mother earth with an expression that seems to say,-



'This rock shall fly

From its firm base as soon as I.'



When I start out in the afternoon, Mrs. Bobby frequently asks me

where I am going. I always answer that I have not made up my mind,



though what I really mean to say is that Jane has not made up her

mind. She never makes up her mind until after I have made up mine,



lest by some unhappy accident she might choose the very excursion

that I desire myself.



Chapter XXI. I remember, I remember.

For example, I wish to visit St. Bridget's Well, concerning which



there are some quaint old verses in a village history:-

'Out of thy famous hille,



There daylie springyeth,

A water passynge stille,



That alwayes bringyeth

Grete comfort to all them



That are diseased men,

And makes them well again



To prayse the Lord.

'Hast thou a wound to heale,



The wyche doth greve thee;

Come thenn unto this welle;



It will relieve thee;

Nolie me tangeries,



And other maladies,

Have there theyr remedies,



Prays'd be the Lord.'

St. Bridget's Well is a beautiful spot, and my desire to see it is a



perfectly laudable one. In strict justice, it is really no concern

of Jane whether my wishes are laudable or not; but it only makes the



case more flagrant when she interferes with the reasonable plans of

a reasonable being. Never since the day we first met have I



harboured a thought that I wished to conceal from Jane (would that

she could say as much!); nevertheless she treats me as if I were a



monster of caprice. As I said before, I wish to visit St. Bridget's

Well, but Jane absolutely refuses to take me there. After we pass



Belvern churchyard we approach two roads: the one to the right

leads to the Holy Well; the one to the left leads to Shady Dell



Farm, where Jane lived when she was a girl. At the critical moment

I pull the right rein with all my force. In vain: Jane is always



overcome by sentiment when she sees that left-hand road. She bears

to the left like a whirlwind, and nothing can stop her mad career



until she is again amid the scenes so dear to her recollection, the

beloved pastures where the mother still lives at whose feet she



brayed in early youth!

Now this is all very pretty and touching. Her action has, in truth,



its springs in a most commendable sentiment that I should be the

last to underrate. Shady Dell Farm is interesting, too, for once,



if one can swallow one's wrath and dudgeon at being taken there

against one's will; and one feels that Jane's parents and Jane's



early surroundings must be worth a single visit, if they could




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