【英文短篇小说】The Penance

Octavian Ruttle was one of those lively cheerful individuals on whom amiability 1 had set its unmistakable stamp, and, like most of his kind, his soul's peace depended in large measure on the unstinted approval of his fellows. In hunting to death a small tabby cat he had done a thing of which he scarcely approved himself, and he was glad when the gardener had hidden the body in its hastily dug grave under a lone 3 oak-tree in the meadow, the same tree that the hunted quarry 4 had climbed as a last effort towards safety. It had been a distasteful and seemingly ruthless deed, but circumstances had demanded the doing of it. Octavian kept chickens; at least he kept some of them; others vanished from his keeping, leaving only a few bloodstained feathers to mark the manner of their going. The tabby cat from the large grey house that stood with its back to the meadow had been detected in many furtive 5 visits to the hen-coups, and after due negotiation 6 with those in authority at the grey house a sentence of death had been agreed on. "The children will mind, but they need not know," had been the last word on the matter.
The children in question were a standing 7 puzzle to Octavian; in the course of a few months he considered that he should have known their names, ages, the dates of their birthdays, and have been introduced to their favourite toys. They remained however, as non-committal as the long blank wall that shut them off from the meadow, a wall over which their three heads sometimes appeared at odd moments. They had parents in India--that much Octavian had learned in the neighbourhood; the children, beyond grouping themselves garment-wise into sexes, a girl and two boys, carried their lifestory no further on his behoof. And now it seemed he was engaged in something which touched them closely, but must be hidden from their knowledge.
The poor helpless chickens had gone one by one to their doom 9, so it was meet that their destroyer should come to a violent end; yet Octavian felt some qualms 10 when his share of the violence was ended. The little cat, headed off from its wonted tracks of safety, had raced unfriended from shelter to shelter, and its end had been rather piteous. Octavian walked through the long grass of the meadow with a step less jaunty 11 than usual. And as he passed beneath the shadow of the high blank wall he glanced up and became aware that his hunting had had undesired witnesses. Three white set faces were looking down at him, and if ever an artist wanted a threefold study of cold human hate, impotent yet unyielding, raging yet masked in stillness, he would have found it in the triple gaze that met Octavian's eye.
"I'm sorry, but it had to be done," said Octavian, with genuine apology in his voice.
"Beast!"
The answer came from three throats with startling intensity 12.
Octavian felt that the blank wall would not be more impervious 13 to his explanations than the bunch of human hostility 14 that peered over its coping; he wisely decided 15 to withhold 16 his peace overtures 17 till a more hopeful occasion.
Two days later he ransacked 18 the best sweet shop in the neighbouring market town for a box of chocolates that by its size and contents should fitly atone 19 for the dismal 20 deed done under the oak tree in the meadow. The two first specimens 21 that were shown him he hastily rejected; one had a group of chickens pictured on its lid, the other bore the portrait of a tabby kitten. A third sample was more simply bedecked with a spray of painted poppies, and Octavian hailed the flowers of forgetfulness as a happy omen 8. He felt distinctly more at ease with his surroundings when the imposing 22 package had been sent across to the grey house, and a message returned to say that it had been duly given to the children. The next morning he sauntered with purposeful steps past the long blank wall on his way to the chicken-run and piggery that stood at the bottom of the meadow. The three children were perched at their accustomed look-out, and their range of sight did not seem to concern itself with Octavian's presence. As he became depressingly aware of the aloofness 24 of their gaze he also noted 25 a strange variegation 26 in the herbage at his feet; the greensward for a considerable space around was strewn and speckled with a chocolate-coloured hail, enlivened here and there with gay tinsel-like wrappings or the glistening 27 mauve of crystallised violets. It was as though the fairy paradise of a greedyminded child had taken shape and substance in the vegetation of the meadow. Octavian's bloodmoney had been flung back at him in scorn.
To increase his discomfiture 28 the march of events tended to shift the blame of ravaged 29 chicken-coops from the supposed culprit who had already paid full forfeit 30; the young chicks were still carried off, and it seemed highly probable that the cat had only haunted the chicken-run to prey 31 on the rats which harboured there. Through the flowing channels of servant talk the children learned of this belated revision of verdict, and Octavian one day picked up a sheet of copy-book paper on which was painstakingly 32 written: "Beast. Rats eated your chickens." More ardently 33 than ever did he wish for an opportunity for sloughing 34 off the disgrace that enwrapped him, and earning some happier nickname from his three unsparing judges.
And one day a chance inspiration came to him. Olivia, his two-year- old daughter, was accustomed to spend the hour from high noon till one o'clock with her father while the nursemaid gobbled and digested her dinner and novelette. About the same time the blank wall was usually enlivened by the presence of its three small wardens 35. Octavian, with seeming carelessness of purpose, brought Olivia well within hail of the watchers and noted with hidden delight the growing interest that dawned in that hitherto sternly hostile quarter. His little Olivia, with her sleepy placid 36 ways, was going to succeed where he, with his anxious well-meant overtures, had so signally failed. He brought her a large yellow dahlia, which she grasped tightly in one hand and regarded with a stare of benevolent 37 boredom 38, such as one might bestow 39 on amateur classical dancing performed in aid of a deserving charity. Then he turned shyly to the group perched on the wall and asked with affected 40 carelessness, "Do you like flowers?" Three solemn nods rewarded his venture.
"Which sorts do you like best?" he asked, this time with a distinct betrayal of eagerness in his voice.
"Those with all the colours, over there." Three chubby 41 arms pointed 42 to a distant tangle 43 of sweetpea. Child-like, they had asked for what lay farthest from hand, but Octavian trotted 44 off gleefully to obey their welcome behest. He pulled and plucked with unsparing hand, and brought every variety of tint 2 that he could see into his bunch that was rapidly becoming a bundle. Then he turned to retrace 45 his steps, and found the blank wall blanker and more deserted 46 than ever, while the foreground was void of all trace of Olivia. Far down the meadow three children were pushing a go-cart at the utmost speed they could muster 47 in the direction of the piggeries; it was Olivia's go-cart and Olivia sat in it, somewhat bumped and shaken by the pace at which she was being driven, but apparently 48 retaining her wonted composure of mind. Octavian stared for a moment at the rapidly moving group, and then started in hot pursuit, shedding as he ran sprays of blossom from the mass of sweet-pea that he still clutched in his hands. Fast as he ran the children had reached the piggery before he could overtake them, and he arrived just in time to see Olivia, wondering but unprotesting, hauled and pushed up to the roof of the nearest sty. They were old buildings in some need of repair, and the rickety roof would certainly not have borne Octavian's weight if he had attempted to follow his daughter and her captors on their new vantage ground.
"What are you going to do with her?" he panted. There was no mistaking the grim trend of mischief 49 in those flushed by sternly composed young faces.
"Hang her in chains over a slow fire," said one of the boys. Evidently they had been reading English history.
"Frow her down the pigs will d'vour her, every bit 'cept the palms of her hands," said the other boy. It was also evident that they had studied Biblical history.
The last proposal was the one which most alarmed Octavian, since it might be carried into effect at a moment's notice; there had been cases, he remembered, of pigs eating babies.
"You surely wouldn't treat my poor little Olivia in that way?" he pleaded.
"You killed our little cat," came in stern reminder 50 from three throats.
"I'm sorry I did," said Octavian, and if there is a standard measurement in truths Octavian's statement was assuredly a large nine.
"We shall be very sorry when we've killed Olivia," said the girl, "but we can't be sorry till we've done it."
The inexorable child-logic rose like an unyielding rampart before Octavian's scared pleadings. Before he could think of any fresh line of appeal his energies were called out in another direction. Olivia had slid off the roof and fallen with a soft, unctuous 51 splash into a morass 52 of muck and decaying straw. Octavian scrambled 53 hastily over the pigsty 54 wall to her rescue, and at once found himself in a quagmire 55 that engulfed 56 his feet. Olivia, after the first shock of surprise at her sudden drop through the air, had been mildly pleased at finding herself in close and unstinted contact with the sticky element that oozed 57 around her, but as she began to sink gently into the bed of slime a feeling dawned on her that she was not after all very happy, and she began to cry in the tentative fashion of the normally good child. Octavian, battling with the quagmire, which seemed to have learned the rare art of giving way at all points without yielding an inch, saw his daughter slowly disappearing in the engulfing 58 slush, her smeared 59 face further distorted with the contortions 60 of whimpering wonder, while from their perch 23 on the pigsty roof the three children looked down with the cold unpitying detachment of the Parcae Sisters.
"I can't reach her in time," gasped 61 Octavian, "she'll be choked in the muck. Won't you help her?"
"No one helped our cat," came the inevitable 62 reminder.
"I'll do anything to show you how sorry I am about that," cried Octavian, with a further desperate flounder, which carried him scarcely two inches forward.
"Will you stand in a white sheet by the grave?"
"Yes," screamed Octavian.
"Holding a candle?"
"An' saying 'I'm a miserable 63 Beast'?"
Octavian agreed to both suggestions.
"For a long, long time?"
"For half an hour," said Octavian. There was an anxious ring in his voice as he named the time-limit; was there not the precedent 64 of a German king who did open-air penance 65 for several days and nights at Christmas-time clad only in his shirt? Fortunately the children did not appear to have read German history, and half an hour seemed long and goodly in their eyes.
"All right," came with threefold solemnity from the roof, and a moment later a short ladder had been laboriously 66 pushed across to Octavian, who lost no time in propping 67 it against the low pigsty wall. Scrambling 68 gingerly along its rungs he was able to lean across the morass that separated him from his slowly foundering 69 offspring and extract her like an unwilling 70 cork 71 from it's slushy embrace. A few minutes later he was listening to the shrill 72 and repeated assurances of the nursemaid that her previous experience of filthy 73 spectacles had been on a notably 74 smaller scale.
That same evening when twilight 75 was deepening into darkness Octavian took up his position as penitent 76 under the lone oak-tree, having first carefully undressed the part. Clad in a zephyr 77 shirt, which on this occasion thoroughly 78 merited its name, he held in one hand a lighted candle and in the other a watch, into which the soul of a dead plumber 79 seemed to have passed. A box of matches lay at his feet and was resorted to on the fairly frequent occasions when the candle succumbed 80 to the night breezes. The house loomed 81 inscrutable in the middle distance, but as Octavian conscientiously 82 repeated the formula of his penance he felt certain that three pairs of solemn eyes were watching his moth-shared vigil.
And the next morning his eyes were gladdened by a sheet of copy-book paper lying beside the blank wall, on which was written the message "Un-Beast."