Chapter 2 Summer in England - Gothic Romance

This is one of England's historic, picturesque, old and elegant cottages.When some Brits can't afford to go to the Alps, or Venice, or Sicily, or Greece, or the Riviera; Stay for a few weeks or a month. Who would live here in winter?Who wants to endure long, damp solitude in search of answers?Perhaps only those old women with peaceful hearts, ruddy complexions, and two pottery thermoses would live here. It seems that there is nothing to worry about in this world, even death is no exception.It's summer now, and the Crandalls will be there for a month anyway, and I'll be there for a few days as an invited guest.Edward Crandall himself invited me, and I went, partly to get close to "her," and partly because his invitation was an insult, and I like to be insulted by some.

He didn't necessarily want to catch me having sex with her, or he didn't care about it at all.His energies were on the tiles of the roof, the walls of the barnyard, and the haystacks.Either way, neither I nor she was so honored to receive such attention. But I haven't really had sex with her, and there's no way he'd catch us—nothing happened between us in the three years I've known them on and off, which to me is really A very quaint, naive, trite reserve.In some cases, when she had endured him in infinite silence, I felt my reserve border on callous.Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm really wrong, she is really beautiful.

This is a small country cottage on the edge of a village called Budenham. Apart from its natural seclusion, it also has the kind of useless walls in English gardens, as if afraid of being seen. .The part at the back close to the house is called "porch".In summer, the overly rich aroma of English flowers fills the air.On the sunny side, nectarines grew on trestles, and a table and a hand-woven chair stood on the lush old lawn.If the weather is fine, you can come here for tea, which was not my luck when I was there. There is a larger garden in front of the porch, and the enclosed space is scented with roses and mignonettes, dozed by the buzzing of striped bumblebees.A walkway, a hedge, a fence and a gate, all these things outside the house, I like it very much.But there is one thing in the cottage that annoys me, and that is the stairs: people's wrong ideas, with fatal cruelty, the stairs twist and turn, as if specially designed for the bride of June, making her fall, break her neck, and make a A sudden tragedy, let those who used to gloat, also taste the taste of tears.

I wouldn't mind that there is only one restroom and no shower.After ten years of frequent visits to England, sometimes for long periods of time, I know that even from some big houses one cannot expect much.You will be used to being woken up by a light knock on the door in the morning, and before you respond, the door is gently opened, and with the harsh sound, the curtains are also drawn.With the muffled sound of brass, an oddly shaped vessel filled with hot water rests on a wide, shallow base into which you can barely sit—if you put your wet feet on the floor .This practice is long outdated, but it is still used in some places.

What I just said is okay, but the stairs really make me speechless.First of all, at the top where you can't see your fingers, there is an inconspicuous corner, the angle design is very unreasonable, and there is an extra half-step step, where I always trip. In the upper half, before the corner of the main staircase, stood a corner post, as hard and sharp as a beam of steel, and as thick as a well-growth oak.It is said to be a section taken from the rudder stock of a Spanish galleon.In one of England's storms the rudder stock was thrown to the lee shore of England, and part of the rudder stock came to Budenham after centuries of wind and rain, where it became the corner post of the stairs.

There is one more thing that bothers me about the stairs—two steel engravings.The stairs were narrow enough, and they hung on the walls at ridiculous angles, right over the stairs.Two steel engravings are hung side by side in an unchanging structure, and each corner is as sharp as an axe, enough to split the skull.The two steel engravings, The Drinking Stag and The Trapped Stag, look identical except for the pose of the head.I never actually look at them, just cautiously walk around each time.The only place to really stop and admire them is in the hallway to the kitchen and washroom.If you need to run errands, or if you like the steel-engraved Landseer, you can feast your eyes on looking up and over the railing posts.Maybe a lot of fun, but not for me.Just this afternoon, as usual, breathing the faint sour smell of wallpaper paste, I stumbled and dodged down the stairs, and my cherry wood walking stick still inevitably got stuck in the railing post.Every time you go downstairs, you must be flexible and British.

It was eerily quiet in the house today, and I kind of missed old Bessie humming monotonously and hoarsely in the kitchen.Old Bessie has always lived here, and has gone through vicissitudes, just as she once boarded a Spanish galleon, and went through hardships and dangers before returning to shore. I glanced into the living room, no one, and walked through the glass french doors to the "porch".Millicent sat in a garden chair on the porch, simply sitting.It seems that I must describe her, perhaps a little too much, as I describe other things. She is, I think, quintessentially British, but more vulnerable.She is as fine and graceful as a piece of fine china.She was tall--quite tall, in fact, a little out of the way from certain angles, but I never thought of it that way.The most important thing is that she will reveal an infinite innate elegance in every gesture, so beautiful that you doubt that you have entered the myth.Her hair was very light, a pale blond, so good that there was no mess in it, like the hair of a princess in a remote and closed castle.In the boundless dark room, the old waiter held the princess's hair gently with his old and tired hands, and combed it continuously under the candlelight, while the princess sat in front of the shiny silver mirror, drowsy, and occasionally glanced at the polished metal , not looking at myself, but dreaming about mirrors.Millicent Crandall's hair is just that.I only touched it once a long time ago, very hastily.

Her arms were also beautiful, and they seemed to know it themselves, always poised in the most appropriate way without her knowing it.Whether it's slouching and graceful curves as it's waved by the fireplace, or slouching from the sleek sleeves, every glance inspires you with loveliness.During afternoon tea, her hands, which are fiddling with silver tableware, will inadvertently make elegant and beautiful movements.Everything seemed to be happening in London, especially in the long dark upstairs drawing-room, where the rain was pattering outside the windows, the lights were the color of rain, and the paintings on the walls, whatever their original color, were now the same. became gray.Even the works of Van Gogh will turn gray.Only her hair is not gray.

Today, however, I was fiddling with a cherry wood cane, and I looked at her and said, "I was thinking, if I invite you to go to the lake and take a boat to show you around, you won't say yes?" She smiled, a smile that represented rejection. "Where's Edward? Did he play golf?" She smiled again, this time with sarcasm in it. "He went to catch rabbits today with a gamekeeper he knew at the country inn, 'probably' a gamekeeper. Seems like a whole bunch of them rounded up a clearing in the bush, a rabbit hole, and put the ferret in it, The rabbit has to come out."

"I see," I said, "then they drink rabbit blood." "That's what I said. You go to the lake, don't delay and come back for tea." "It's funny," I said, "just waiting for tea every day. Here in this warm place, in a beautiful garden, listening to the bees buzzing around but not too close, smelling the The aroma of nectarines. Waiting for afternoon tea - it's like waiting for a revolution." She looked at me with English pale blue eyes, a little glazed over, not from tiredness but from looking at the same thing for too long. "Revolution? What the hell does that mean?"

"Not sure," I said bluntly. "It sounds more interesting. Well, goodbye." In the eyes of the British, Americans have always been a little stupid. In a little while I was at the lake, which is hardly a lake at all compared to American lakes, but the many small islands in the lake made for a nice view and made it seem longer.The waterfowls either swooped into the water and splashed, or sat on the reeds growing in the water, looking supercilious.A few ancient wastelands sloping gently down to the gray waters of the lake were devoid of waterfowl.Someone's old boat, cracked but not leaky, tied to a log by a short rope, clumsy with age and peeling paint.I usually row that boat across the islands.No one lives on the island, but crops are grown.From time to time, an old country man stopped his hoe, shaded the sun with his hands, and stared at me.I greeted him politely in broken British English, but he didn't respond.He is too old and hard of hearing to use his energy for other things. I was tired than ever that day, and the wreck was as heavy as a granary filled with water when the Mississippi River flooded, and the already short oars were shorter than ever.So I row back.At this time, streaks of yellow light passed through the beech bushes, which looked like another world from afar.The water was starting to cool. I kept pulling the boat up to be able to tie the rope to the log, then stood up and sucked my fingers that were sore from the knots. I heard not a sound of her voice, or the sound of her tall black horse, nor the clink of the metal ring at the end of the bit.The fallen leaves must have been extra soft last year, or she had a knack for taming horses. When I straightened up and turned around, there was less than nine feet between her and me. She was wearing a black riding dress, and the white stockings she wore when hunting were exposed from the upper of her shoes.She straddled the horse with her legs spread apart, making the horse look a bit sly.She smiled.It was a woman with black eyes, a young woman.I hadn't seen her before, she was just too pretty. "Do you like boating?" she asked with a British accent, her voice casual and natural.Her voice was like a thrush, and an American thrush at that. The black stallion looked at me with red eyes, quietly pawed a leaf or two, then stood like a rock, one ear bobbing slightly. "I don't like it," I said, "I'm so tired, I have blisters on my hands, and I have to walk three miles home for tea." "Then why do you paddle? I never do anything I don't like." She stroked the horse's neck, wearing long gloves as black as the stallion's fur. I shrugged. "In a way, I still love rowing. Exercise removes tension and reduces desire. I can't think of a better reason than that." "You should," she said, "be an American." "Am I American?" "Of course, I saw you rowing the boat. You moved so violently that I knew it. Of course, there was also your accent." My eyes must be staring greedily at her face, and she doesn't seem to mind. "You live in Budenham with the Crandalls, don't you, Mr. America? That's the way it is in the country. Gossip travels fast. I'm Mrs. Rackenham, and I live in Lookout." Somewhere on my face must have froze, like I'd said "oh, you're that woman" out loud. Dare I say, she noticed.She could see something, maybe all.But there was no displeasure in her deep eyes. "That nice Tudor place - I've seen it - from a distance." "Come closer and you'll be shocked," she said. "Come and have tea with me. May I ask your honorable name?" "Pallington, John Pallington." "John is a strong name," she said, "but a little dull. That's what I'll call it all the time we've been together. John, hold the strap on Romeo's stirrup--the iron block, Take it easy." The stallion was a little impatient when I touched the leash, but after she whispered affectionately, he began to walk slowly up the hill, towards home.Its ears are alert, and if a bird suddenly flies over the swamp lower in the woods, it will quiver. "Good response," I said. She raised her thick black eyebrows. "Romeo? That depends. We meet all sorts of people, don't we, Romeo? We act differently too." She lightly waved the short whip in her hand. "It doesn't affect you, does it?" "Not sure," I said, "maybe." She laughed, as I later learned she rarely laughed like that. My hand on the stirrup strap was just a few feet from her foot.I wanted to touch that foot, but I couldn't say why; and I felt that she wanted me to touch it, too, and I couldn't say why. "Oh, you reacted well, too," she said, "I can see that." I said, "I'm not sure either. It can be as quick as a swallow or as slow as an ox, but it's always out of season." The riding whip in her hand was flailing around, neither towards me nor towards the big stallion, and obviously he didn't want the whip to hit him. "I'm afraid you're flirting with me," she said. "may be." It was the big stallion's fault, he stopped abruptly and my hand slid to her ankle and stopped there. I saw she didn't move, and I don't know how she stopped the horse.He stands there like a bronze statue now. She looked down slowly at my hands on her ankles. "Was it on purpose?" she asked. "Of course." I said. "At least you have courage," she said, her voice sounding like it came from a distant forest.That distance made me feel a little swayed. She leaned down very slowly until her head was almost as low as mine.The big stallion remained motionless. "I can do three things," she said, "Guess what." "It's simple, either keep going, or whip me with a horse, or just smile." "I was wrong," she said in a lingering voice suddenly, "it's four things." "That's kissing me," I said.