Think of England

October 1904

The train journey from London was exhausting for a man who couldn't sleep because of the strain and couldn't read because his thoughts were too clouded.He'd prefer to drive himself, but that's not an option now.

A newest Austin car was waiting outside the station, and the driver in uniform stood at attention beside the car, standing upright.As soon as he approached, the driver conveniently assisted him to take a seat at the back and offered him a blanket to keep out the cold, but he refused.

"Are you sure, sir? Mrs. Armstrong ordered—"

"I'm not useless."

"I don't mean to offend, Captain Curtis." The driver touched the brim of his hat and saluted.

"I'm not a soldier anymore."

"Please forgive me, sir."

It's a long way to go to Bigholm.Although the driver bypassed the industrial area of ​​Newcastle, he still saw thick black smoke in the darkened sky.Within a few miles they were out of the city center and out in the wilderness.The farmland on the surface turned into coppice, and rose into the rolling hills at the foot of Pennine, and at last they drove on a winding and empty road.

"Is it still far away?" he asked.

"It's almost there, sir." The driver reassured, "Do you see the light spot ahead?"

Curtis couldn't help blinking in the blinding cold wind, but he could indeed see the bright light on the side of the hillside, and soon after, he saw the lights and the surrounding shadows. "As far as a manor is concerned, this neighborhood is a bit desolate." He commented.

"Yes, sir. Sir Hubert always said that it is desolate now, and it will be different when you come back in 100 years." The driver smiled conscientiously.Curtis made a mental bet on how many times Sir Hubert would tell the same joke during his stay.

Their Austin drove slowly across a clearing—a reforestation that would, in a hundred years, form a lush forest around Bigholm—and finally stopped outside a brand new mansion with bright yellow lights streaming from the porch.A servant stood by the driveway waiting to open the door for them.Curtis felt a dull pain coming from his straightened kneecap. He suppressed a groan and stretched his legs and feet a few times before crossing the creaking gravel road and stepping up the stone steps. Another porter was there Waiting to take his coat.

"Mr. Curtis!" Mrs. Armstrong came to greet him in the brightly lit hall.Her blue dress was impossibly gorgeous, wrapping around her bare shoulders and setting off her blonde hair to perfection.Not to mention in this remote suburb, even in the bustling London, she is still dazzling. "It's great to have you. It's been a long journey to our place, hasn't it? It's a pleasure that you want to come." She held out her hands to him, her unique way of welcoming without formality , full of personal charm.He only stretched out his left hand to hold her, and then he saw concern and pity flashing across her face. "Thank you so much for coming to our little party Hubert!"

"Here it is, my dear." Sir Hubert came round into the hall behind her.He was a stocky, bald man, nearly 30 years older than his wife, with a good-natured face that belied his professional reputation. "Archie Curtis, nice meeting, nice meeting." They had a grandiose handshake, and Sir Hubert shook his hand loosely and boastfully, barely touching him. "It was an honor to meet you. How is your uncle?"

"He's in Africa, sir."

"Oh my god, going to Africa again? Henry just can't stay. You know, he was always breaking the school rules when we were in school. I should find time to catch up with him and see him too That Navy mate. I guess they still see each other?"

"As usual, sir." Sir Henry Curtis took care of the orphan of his younger brother when Archie was only two months old.Archie was brought up by Sir Henry and his neighbor and close friend, Colonel Goode, and they spent years voyaging far to uncharted places, spending their summer vacations with them in a secluded life.Growing up in such an environment, he once thought that simple and pure friendship was the natural law of all things, but now he understands that it is more like a lost Garden of Eden.

"Well, it might take a while for us to get you to convince them to visit the humble house. How are you doing, dear? I'm sorry to hear about your injuries." This was not a guest As usual, Sir Hubert's eyes were full of concern. "That was really bad. Such a tragic accident really shouldn't have happened to you."

Mrs. Armstrong took up the conversation with a chuckle, "My dear, Mr. Curtis has been exhausted all day, not to mention we have dinner in an hour. Wesley will show you the way." She ordered a The tall servant in the dark green uniform of Bigholm said, "Wesley, take the guests to the guest room in the east corridor."

Curtis followed the servant up the spacious stairs while leaning on the handrail to observe the house.Sir Hubert, a wealthy industrialist, built Bigholm 15 years ago to meet his exacting requirements.It must have been a fairly modern masterpiece for its time, as it was equipped with cutting-edge inventions: a plumbing system for every bathroom, a fireplace for hot water heating, and an electric lighting system powered by its own hydroelectric generators.Although these high-end equipment are not uncommon in London hotels in recent years, it is somewhat surprising to appear in a private mansion far from the city.

The corridor was shrouded in the yellow light of electric lamps. Although reliable and clean, the light source was much sharper than gas lamps.Sir Hubert's son is a well-known hunting fan, and judging by the paintings of fox hunting hanging in the aisles and the over-the-top stuffed birds in glass cases, this may be a family tradition.The owl, with its wings outstretched, is bending over a mouse; the vulture, standing on the edge of a branch, ready to strike;Curtis sees them all as signs of a house that excludes outsiders.

"The design here is quite unusual," he asked the servant.

"Yes, sir," Wesley answered him, "the house is furnished in such a way that the electrical coils and central heating are installed from the passage at the back of the bedrooms." He described the technical details with pride, "The electrical system is a remarkable invention. Are you familiar with how to use them?" he asked expectantly, opening the door at the end of the corridor.

"Please demonstrate for me." Curtis is a practical man, so he naturally understands the power system, but this set of teaching is obviously the focus of a whole day's servant life, so he still asked Wesley to show how to use the magical sound system. The bell summons the minions, and how to turn on the lights and ceiling fan switches too.But judging by the cold October wind outside the window and the location of the estate in northern England, he didn't think the fan would be of much use.

There was a large mirror framed with gold flowers in the room, just opposite the bed.Curtis looked at his dusty appearance, and met Wesley's eyes in the mirror.

"Welcome to Bigholm, sir, with all my audacity," said the servant, staring straight at his reflection in the mirror. "If you need anything during your stay, just ring the bell. I don't think you have a servant with you." ?”

"No." Curtis looked away.

"Then may I serve you now, sir?"

"No, thank you. Come back later and help me pack my luggage. I will ring the bell if necessary."

"I hope so, sir." Wesley accepted the few coins Curtis gave him, hesitated for a while, "Do you have any other orders...?"

Curtis didn't understand why this man lingered, the tip should be generous enough. "there is none left."

"Yes, Mr. Curtis."

After Wesley left the room, Curtis sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, intending to take a short rest before combing and preparing to face the other guests.

He didn't know if he was really capable of carrying out the plan.What was he planning to come here for?What did he think he could do?

There were days when he enjoyed these kinds of gatherings, too, and for them at the time it was a rare oasis of entertainment and relaxation in military life.Since retiring a year and a half ago, he's been to three gatherings because people say he shouldn't be a cocoon, he should go back to society and be a social guy.But the occasions are getting duller each time, the activities are duller than the last, and the crowd is eager to indulge themselves, as if life has no other purpose than the pursuit of pleasure.

But at least this time he had something in mind, even if it now seemed ridiculously hopeless.

He took off the black leather glove on his right hand and flexed his thumb and index finger.The joints where the other fingers should have been were tightly covered by scar hyperplastic tissue. While thinking about his future tasks, he massaged with softening ointment for a few minutes, then covered the incomplete wrinkled parts with gloves again, and began to dress for dinner.

It wasn't heavy work, but he probably should have left that man named Wesley to help.But it took him eighteen months to get used to how to fasten his bow tie and buttons with fewer fingers, and it would take him three times as long to groom himself as he would when he was able-bodied.

He adjusted his white twill waistcoat and collar buttons, added a bit of hairspray to his thick blond locks, and he was ready.

He looked at himself in the mirror.He was dressed like a gentleman, but he still had a military air to him in his manner and skin tanned by the sun of the African continent.He doesn't look like a spy, a thief, or a swindler, and it's a pity he's not up to them either.

***

He was the last to arrive in the drawing room, and Mrs. Armstrong clapped her hands to attract everyone's attention. "Dear everyone, our last guest, Mr. Archie Curtis. His uncle is the explorer Sir Henry Curtis." There was a commotion in the crowd, and Curtis accepted this with a smile and followed him An introduction for most of my life. His uncle's one-time fortune on an African expedition 25 years ago is still the talk of the town.

"Then I have to introduce you one by one now," Mrs. Armstrong continued, "This is Miss Carus and Miss Morton." Miss Carus is beautiful and vigorous, in her early twenties, brightly dressed, Violet eyes sparkle.Miss Morton, who was a few years older than she, seemed to have come with her. She was plainly dressed and looked alert, but she never missed a word of polite greetings.

"These are Mr. and Mrs. Keston Grayling from Hull," they greeted him, laughing.A pair of local rich men, Curtis thought to himself.Mr. Grayling did not have the features of an intelligent man, and he had a slight double chin, and he dressed expensively and ill-consideredly.Mrs. Grayling was wearing a gown that was too tight and revealing for Curtis's standards.He figured she might be the kind of person who liked a little secret affair at a country house.

"This is my brother John Lambton and his wife." In this couple, the husband is more like a character walking between the beds.Lambton's appearance was as outstanding as his sister's. Although he was not as good as Curtis, he was tall and straight.Mrs. Lambton next to him seemed to have a much weaker sense of existence. Her long hair was straight and dull, and her hands were weak, like the kind of person who suffered from headaches.

"And this is Hubert's son, James." Curtis knew that he was the heir of Hubert and his ex-wife.This man should be in his 20s or 30s, less than five years younger than the current Mrs. Armstrong.There was a cheerful expression on his broad face, as if baptized by many wild adventures without much inspiration.

"Curtis, nice to meet you." James Armstrong held out his hand to him.Curtis also stretched out his right hand, but the young man's powerful palm squeezed his old wound, causing him to wrinkle his face in pain.

"My dear, I have warned you." Mrs. Armstrong snapped.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mom." Armstrong gave her an apologetic smile, then turned to Curtis, "I don't remember at all, really."

"This is Peter Holt, a good friend of James." Mrs. Armstrong continued to introduce him.This time the object of her mouth was a strikingly large man, about the same build as Curtis, a full six feet two inches[1] tall, with strong shoulders and a nose that seemed to have been broken more than once. With a hint of boxer's air, the bright keen brown eyes connote intelligence and strength at the same time.The strength he held on Curtis's palm was precisely controlled and did not cause any pain.This is a man who knows how to use his muscles.

Impressive, Curtis thought to himself, then frowned and went back to memory. "Did you ever study at Oxford?"

Holt smiled, glad to be recognized. "At Keble College. A few years after you."

"Mr. Holt also won the honor of 'Boxing Blue [2]'." Mrs. Armstrong added on the side.

"Of course. I think I saw you at the... Fenton House?"

"Yes, on Broad Street. But I wasn't good enough then." Holt's tone was frank and cheerful. "I was there when you fought Gilliam. It was a great match."

Curtis smiled reminiscently, "The most difficult battle in my life."

"After I have introduced all the guests, you two can discuss boxing to your heart's content." Mrs. Armstrong interrupted, "Mr. Curtis, this is Mr. Dasilva."

Curtis looked at the gentleman in front of him, and immediately decided that this was the most unpleasant man he had ever seen.

He was about the same age as Curtis, only a few inches shorter, about six feet tall, but far less built than Curtis.A man as slender as a willow tree, his black hair is shiny and smooth, neatly groomed by hair oil, the line between the pupil and the iris can hardly be discerned from his dark eyes, and the white shirt calls him Olive colored skin.In fact, he was clearly a foreigner.

A foreign flower peacock who can only dress up.Although his shirt is impeccable, his tuxedo and trousers are perfectly tailored, he wears a large green glass ring and, Curtis is shocked to discover, that his cufflinks are a bright green flower[3].

Da Silva took a few steps forward, and before Curtis had time to pay attention to the swaying steps of the other party, the latter stretched out a weak hand, he could only try his best not to shake it away like touching an animal corpse.

"It's an honor," Dasilva whispered.Unexpectedly, Curtis said, with a British accent in his accent, "A gentleman of military origin and a boxer, how desirable. I will have a good time with you brave boys ’” He threw Curtis a wide smile, and then slithered away to join Mrs Armstrong in another small group of guests.

"Okay, where did this guy come from?" Curtis asked calmly.

"A vulgar southern European," James replied unabashedly, "I really don't know how Sophie can bear this kind of man."

"Oh, he's very interesting, and he's extremely smart." The beautiful Miss Carus smiled at Curtis, "Maybe you didn't remember everyone's names, I'm Fenella Carus. How did you meet the Armstrongs? Because of your uncle? He seems to be a wonderful man."

They chatted a little about Sir Henry, and about Miss Carruth's father, the industrialist who designed the telephone lines in Bigholm, until they were invited to dinner.Curtis sat between Miss Carruth and the lifeless Mrs. Lambton, and his Oxford friend Holt sat on the other side of Miss Carruth.The young lady spoke with quick wit, bold but never overstepping boundaries, and Holt responded with occasional flirtatious responses.He expressed his interest in Miss Carus, and she responded by flattering him, while quietly letting Curtis and James Armstrong, who was sitting across from her, join the conversation, inviting them to fight for their own favor.Maybe she likes to have many followers at the same time.

But Curtis couldn't bring himself to play the role of follower.He could imagine Uncle Morris sighing in disappointment at his lack of interest.Miss Carus, a beautiful, kind, rich young woman, was just right for him, and he had no reason not to settle down now.But he had no desire to outcompete the other two men, and even if he couldn't, he'd never been gifted with flirting or small talk, or how people improvised and quips.For the sake of courtesy, he tried to make some decent comments, but struggling to use the cutlery with his disabled right hand and observing the table occupied more of his attention.

These people seemed to be the usual combination for a country house.The Graylings and the Lambtons were the usual couple you could find anywhere; the other two single women were very easy going.James Armstrong and Peter Holt are a pair of typical young urbanites, James Doking and Holt Dodge.Da Silva stood out among the group, a sort of "Bloomsbury" sort of literati, effeminate, artistic, who had sprung up lately, and they were so new that Cole The old Victorian soul of Tees felt dazed and disturbed.But it was obvious why Mrs. Armstrong had invited him: he was so eloquent that the dinner party laughed several times at his clever, tongue-in-cheek comments.This doesn't make Curtis like him any more - he's avoided this decadent and indulgent viper during his three years at Oxford, their sharp words, their smiles seem to hide secrets - nevertheless, he has to admit that this guy Indeed interesting.Only Holt's laughter seemed a bit perfunctory, maybe he was worried that Da Silva would show more limelight than himself in front of Miss Carus, but Curtis didn't think that Holt needed to regard the other party as an opponent.

There were no guests of Sir Hubert's age: his wife had invited a whole house of her own age.Perhaps her husband felt younger because of their company.But it's hard to say, he didn't talk much, but he smiled friendly enough to the guests, and there was no gap in the communication between the dinners, and the host didn't order the wine until the ladies left the table.

"Let me tell you, Curtis," Grayling asked as he handed over the bottle, "I heard that you have been on the battlefield?"

"Yes."

"Are you hurt?" Lambton motioned to his hand.

Curtis nodded, "At Jacobsdale[5]."

"How did you get hurt, because of the war?" Grayling asked.He's trying to hide his alcoholism by asking smart questions.

"No, it wasn't wounded in the war." Curtis filled himself with a glass of Porto red wine. He grasped the mouth of the bottle with his right index finger and thumb, and held the bottom of the bottle with his left hand to share the weight.

"By the way, someone framed it, right?"

"That's just an unproven statement." Sir Hubert's tone seemed to want to end the topic immediately.

Curtis deliberately ignored his hint.He hated bringing it up, it made him angry even to think about it, but that was what he was here for, and if Sir Hubert was so unwilling to talk about it, he might never have another chance to bring it to the surface. "My troops were waiting for backup at Jacobsdale, and the supplies arrived like instant relief."

"The supply lines in wartime are ridiculously slow." Lambton plausibly said that he had obviously read the newspaper.

"We were in urgent need of boots at the time, but all the guns we sent were new ones made by Lafayette. Of course, the more weapons the better. But we didn't have a few days at that time. Since the ammunition was so abundant, we wanted to get acquainted as soon as possible. Use them, so we hand out the guns and try them out."

He stopped here and took a long sip of red wine to hide the sudden tightness in his throat.Because even though it's been a long time, bringing up old things still reminds him of that smell.The hot dry soil of Africa, the smell of gunpowder, and blood.

"And there's something wrong with those guns." Sir Hubert obviously wanted the story to end as quickly as possible.

"It's not just a problem, ser. They exploded in our hands, blowing them all over the place." Curtis raised his gloved right hand a little. "My revolver magazine went off and I lost three fingers. And the guy next to me—" Lieutenant Fisher, the red-haired, laughing Scot who shared a tent with him for two years , fell to his knees, his mouth opened in confusion, and blood gushed from his blown wrist.He was lying on the ground dying slowly, Curtis tried to approach him, stretched out his broken hand to touch him, but it was never possible.

He couldn't say those words. "It was a disaster. My unit lost more soldiers in two minutes of gun testing than it has been in the field in the past six months." Seven people died instantly, six died in the hospital, and two ended up killing themselves.Three people lost their sight and many more required amputations or were left crippled. "That whole batch of guns could kill."

"Death to myself," Dasilva murmured.

Lambton asked: "Any indication that it was Lafayette's fault, Hubert?"

"The investigation evidence is insufficient." When Curtis narrated the incident, Sir Hubert's face was serious, as if he felt that the story was hurtful, but that was all, and there was no further reaction. "There are omissions in the manufacturing process, that's for sure, the barrel is too fragile to cause the tragedy, but everyone thinks it was an accident. I don't think there is any other possibility. Lafayette is very penny-pinching, and I have done it with him. People in business know that he will do anything to save a dime, and this time he must have gone too far."

"You don't like his politics either, do you, Dad? I thought you said he didn't support the war." James Armstrong put on an inside look.

Sir Hubert frowned at his son, "There is no evidence to prove his guilt, let alone he is dead."

"Dead? How?" Grayling asked.

"He was found dead in the Thames a few weeks ago," said Sir Hubert heavily. "He must have slipped and fell."

James made a skeptical sound. "We all know what that means. If you ask me, it's suicide."

Sir Hubert frowned, "Enough is enough. John, didn't you participate in the last competition held at Goodwood?"

Lambton's response brought the topic to sports, and most of the guests at the table turned to discuss their favorite entertainment.Curtis and Holt have a lot of old acquaintances because of boxing. The familiar topic makes him relax, and the recent memories are also dispelled.Others discuss shooting and cricket.Da Silva didn't join their conversation, he just sat there with a nonchalant smile on his face, a kind of polite boredom, and the expression on his face as he sipped a good port wine seemed to say, he More like absinthe.

What an arrogant libertine, Curtis thought.

It's a standard social dinner for all sorts of people, but it's by no means fruitful.That night, as Curtis struggled to remove the button from his collar, he had to admit that he was still at a loss for what to do with the situation.

[1] About 1.88 meters.

[2] The original text is "boxingblue".Oxford's sports activities are conducted in the form of college competitions, and students with outstanding performance will be awarded the honor of "sporting blue".

[3] In 12, 1892 years before this story, characters in Oscar Wilde's play wore green carnations and had a small audience wear them as well.He claimed that the move was pointless, but he also believed that nature should imitate art, rather than art imitate nature.Therefore, this symbol has also become a representative of the decadent movement and "unnatural love".

[4] Bloomsbury, originally a street in the West End of London, became a gathering place for a group of new-minded literati in the late nineteenth century. These people advocated an open and free lifestyle and carried out bold innovations in various literature and art.

[5]Jacobsdal, a small town in South Africa, was a British garrison during the Second Boer War.