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The Golden Age-Part5_Kenneth Grahame(1859-1932)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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she sat down in front of them, as full of worry and anxiety as a

Chancellor on a Budget night.



Her victims, who stared resignedly in front of them, were

recognisable as Jerry and Rosa. Jerry hailed from far Japan: his



hair was straight and black; his one garment cotton, of a simple

blue; and his reputation was distinctly bad. Jerome was his



proper name, from his supposedlikeness to the holy man who hung

in a print on the staircase; though a shaven crown was the



only thing in common 'twixt Western saint and Eastern sinner.

Rosa was typical British, from her flaxen poll to the stout



calves she displayed so liberally, and in character she was of

the blameless order of those who have not yet been found out.



I suspected Jerry from the first; there was a latent devilry in

his slant eyes as he sat there moodily, and knowing what he was



capable of I scented trouble in store for Charlotte. Rosa I was

not so sure about; she sat demurely and upright, and looked far



away into the tree-tops in a visionary, world-forgetting sort of

way; yet the prim purse of her mouth was somewhat overdone, and



her eyes glittered unnaturally.

"Now, I'm going to begin where I left off," said Charlotte,



regardless of stops, and thumping the turf with her fist

excitedly: "and you must pay attention, 'cos this is a treat, to



have a story told you before you're put to bed. Well, so the

White Rabbit scuttled off down the passage and Alice hoped he'd



come back 'cos he had a waistcoat on and her flamingo flew up a

tree--but we haven't got to that part yet--you must wait a



minute, and--where had I got to?"

Jerry only remained passive until Charlotte had got well under



way, and then began to heel over quietly in Rosa's direction.

His head fell on her plump shoulder, causing her to start



nervously.

Charlotte seized and shook him with vigour, "O Jerry," she cried



piteously, "if you're not going to be good, how ever shall I tell

you my story?"



Jerry's face was injured innocence itself. "Blame if you like,

Madam," he seemed to say, "the eternal laws of gravitation, but



not a helplesspuppet, who is also an orphan and a stranger in

the land."



"Now we'll go on," began Charlotte once more. "So she got into

the garden at last--I've left out a lot, but you won't care, I'll



tell you some other time--and they were all playing croquet, and

that's where the flamingo comes in, and the Queen shouted out,



`Off with her head!'"

At this point Jerry collapsed forward, suddenly and completely,



his bald pate between his knees. Charlotte was not very angry

this time. The sudden development of tragedy in the story had



evidently been too much for the poor fellow. She straightened

him out, wiped his nose, and, after trying him in various



positions, to which he refused to adapt himself, she propped him

against the shoulder of the (apparently) unconscious Rosa. Then



my eyes were opened, and the full measure of Jerry's infamy

became apparent. This, then, was what he had been playing up



for. The fellow had designs. I resolved to keep him under close

observation.



"If you'd been in the garden," went on Charlotte, reproachfully,

"and flopped down like that when the Queen said `Off with his



head!' she'd have offed with your head; but Alice wasn't that

sort of girl at all. She just said, `I'm not afraid of you,



you're nothing but a pack of cards'--oh, dear! I've got to the

end already, and I hadn't begun hardly! I never can make my



stories last out! Never mind, I'll tell you another one."

Jerry didn't seem to care, now he had gained his end, whether the



stories lasted out or not. He was nestling against Rosa's plump

form with a look of satisfaction that was simply idiotic; and one



arm had disappeared from view--was it round her waist? Rosa's

natural blush seemed deeper than usual, her head inclined shyly--



it must have been round her waist.

"If it wasn't so near your bedtime," continued Charlotte,



reflectively, "I'd tell you a nice story with a bogy in it. But

you'd be frightened, and you'd dream of bogies all night. So



I'll tell you one about a White Bear, only you mustn't scream

when the bear says `Wow,' like I used to, 'cos he's a good bear






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