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太子弑父，天降灾祸饿殍遍野。

乞儿命苦，数九寒冬家破人亡。

是谁说生死有命富贵在天？
是谁说善恶有报因果轮回？

尽是荒唐！
弱肉强食，何来道义！

物竞天择，何来公平！
倒不如杀他个天昏地暗！
倒不如杀他个天下太平！
 第一卷
沧海付东流
 第1章

乞儿问命

上云城今年的雪来得特别早，也特别大。

百姓们还没来得及从早前的旱灾里恢复过劲来，就又赶上了这
百年不遇的雪灾。
朝廷赈灾的粮饷，层层下放，但凡经手之人，自然都得捞点好
处，最后落在这百姓手中的便只剩下一星半点的米糠。

自从那位皇帝登基以来，大周朝的光景便一年不如一年，坊间
盛传这是那位皇帝弑父登基的业报。

只是徐寒想不明白，那皇帝老儿做了错事，这业报为何要百姓
承担。
只不过相比这些，他更关心的是如何熬过眼前寒夜以及如何对
付自己小腹中不断传来的铺天盖地的饥饿感。
 “咳咳咳！”

这时旁边传来的一阵剧烈的咳嗽声，将徐寒从自己的思绪中拉
扯回了现实。

他有些担忧的转头看了看身旁那位衣衫褴褛，形容枯槁的老
人。
老人姓徐，唤作徐谦睿。

名字当然是个好名字，据他自己说，他也是出生于大户人家，
年轻时读过些书，却没来得及考个功名，爹妈便死于意外。没了管
束，殷实的家底被他败得精光，落魄成了如今模样。

“老爹，没事吧。”徐寒伸出了手轻轻的拍打着徐谦睿的后
背，试图以此来缓解老人此刻剧烈的咳嗽。

“咳咳咳！”
但这样的做法到底是收效甚微，老乞丐又咳了好一会，方才缓
缓停下。

“无碍。”老乞丐在这时摇了摇头，浑浊的眼珠子里满是沉沉
的暮色。
他仰头看了看那昏暗的天色，叹了一口气。

“快些回家吧，又要下雪了。”

老乞丐说罢，便再次颤颤巍巍的迈出了自己的步子，一旁的徐
寒见状，赶忙伸出手将之扶住。

徐寒的老爹是一个老乞丐，徐寒自然便是一个小乞丐。

但徐寒却并非这老乞丐所出。

十二年前，也是一个风雪交加的夜里，老乞丐在城郊的破庙中
捡到了被遗弃在那里的徐寒，老而无后的老乞丐，终究不忍看着还
在襁褓中的徐寒冻死在这冰天雪地中，思索良久之后，还是收养了
他。

老乞丐终究没读过多少书，思来想去，只觉得那天夜里的天气
格外寒冷，因此，便给他取名唤作徐寒。
这一晃十二年过去，日子虽然过得艰辛，但老乞丐终究还是把
徐寒拉扯大了。
只是今年天灾人祸，寻常人家都已经揭不开锅，又哪有余粮施
舍给他们？

算起来，两人已有两日没有讨要到任何食物了，实在饿了便只
能着雪水吃些树根充饥，徐寒年轻，倒还能挨些时日。可老乞丐却
没那么幸运了，这几日他的身子越来越差，能不能撑过这个冬天谁
也说不准。

天色已晚，一日未有半点收获的二人走在了回家的路上，风雪
将至，若不赶在那之前回到家中，不被饿死，恐怕也得被这风雪生
生冻死。

“你看这女娃子，大眼珠子，身子也结实，你就多给点吧。”
这时，街边的一道谈话声，引起了正低头赶路的徐寒的注意。

他转头看去，却见一位妇人正指着身旁的女孩，朝着一位男子
说道。

那小女孩的年岁看上去与徐寒一般大小，此刻却犹如受了惊吓
的麋鹿一般低着脑袋，愣愣的站在原地，任由那妇人与那男人对着
她指手画脚，好似商品一般的评头论足。

徐寒没有读过书，但记性却很好。眼前这个女孩，他认得。

约莫是今年五月，夏日炎炎，上云城中饿殍片地。同样也是饥
肠辘辘的徐寒在路边乞讨，同样数日未有进食，几乎已经是到了濒
死的边缘。就是那个女孩给了徐寒她手中仅有的半个馍馍，方才让
徐寒苟活了几日，熬到了朝廷拨发的粮饷到来的那一天。
 “年景不好，我买回去不得多双碗筷？八两银子已经不少
了。”男人显然并不同意那妇人的观点，他摇了摇头说道。

“大人，你也知道这年景不好，不然我又怎会狠心卖了自己的
女儿？你就行行好，再加二两吧。”妇人当然也不愿意就此作罢，
继续说道。
“只有这八两银子，我也拿不出多的，你看…………”男人分
辨道，二人就这样在这街尾犹如买菜一般讨价还价起来。
“走了，别看了。”老乞丐拉了一下看得出神的徐寒，有些不
悦。
素来乖巧的徐寒却少见的挣脱了老乞丐的手，固执的看着不远
处的景象。他脸上的神情因为沾满了污垢而看不真切，但小小的拳
头却在那时被握得紧紧。

老乞丐养育徐寒这么多年，第一次见他如此隐隐有些不安。
“那是她的命，如今天灾人祸，能保下性命便是万幸，你一个
乞儿给不了人家半点吃食，还想怎样？”老乞丐显然并不想要招惹
是非，他已经太老了，老得说起话来，也是暮气沉沉。

徐寒一愣，他自然也在这时意识到了这一点。一个乞丐，拿什
么去救别人？平生第一次，他对自己的身份产生了某种不满。

“拿去，这女娃子，我要了。”就在这时，一道苍老的声线忽
的响了起来。
这变化出乎了所有人的预料。

徐寒与老乞丐循声望去，却见一位老者不知何时出现在了那妇
人与男子之间，手中提着一道重重的钱袋，递于到了妇人的跟前。

“这…………”妇人一愣，下意识的接过了钱袋，在手中微微
掂量——分量很足，起码二十两。
 “你！”生意被人搅黄的男子自然不满，他转头看向那老者就
要说些什么，但话方才出口，便发现老者的身后跟着两个极为健
壮，腰间还挎着长刀的壮汉。
显然，这老者并不是他能惹得起的。

他收回到了嘴边的话，狠狠的看了老者一眼，然后便悻悻离
去。

妇人收了钱财，亦是眉开眼笑，“可卿啊，以后可要好生孝顺
大人，别怪娘狠心啊！是这世道不给人活路啊！”说完这话，妇人
又朝着老者千恩万谢，这才转身离开。
“走吧，那老人看起来是个富贵人，跟着他，至少不会遭
罪。”老乞丐在那时说道。
徐寒这才回过了神来，他又深深的看了那低头的女孩与慈眉善
目的老者一眼，最后却还是沉默着跟上了老乞丐的步伐。
徐寒与那老乞丐的家，并不能算作家。

只是城郊的一座破庙，何时修建，说不真切，但已荒废有些年
岁。

遮不了风雨，也避不了寒意，只是比起风餐露宿却要好上几
分。上云城中的乞丐，曾经大多数都栖身于此，只是随着光景一年
不如一年，那些乞丐们有的离开上云城，有的却永远留在了这座青
州边境的小镇。如今的破庙，便只余下了徐寒二人。

回到这破庙，老乞丐便翻出他藏在茅草下的发了霉的棉被裹在
身子，又寻了一处还不算潮湿的所在，便躺了下来。抵御严寒与饥
饿最好的办法，自然便是睡上一觉。
徐寒也明白这个道理，他用茅草盖在身上，躺倒了老乞丐的身
侧，但却翻来覆去的睡不着觉。
脑海中总是不断浮现着方才那男人与妇人讨价还价，卖掉自己
子女的场景。女孩那张惶惶不安的脸，如同流光一般，在他脑海中
不停的闪现。
他终于压不住心底那说不出的苦闷，转过了身子，看向已经快
要睡着了的老乞丐。
“老爹。”他唤了一声。

“嗯？”半醒半睡中的老乞丐，回应道。
“方才…………”徐寒出声便要问些什么。

“灾年大旱，卖儿卖女的事寻常得很，女娃子的命薄一些，卖
了自家宽裕，那女娃子被人买走，不管以后做了什么营生，但至少
现在不至于饿死，而家里人有了卖女娃子的钱，节约些或许可以熬
过这寒冬，等到明年开春，年景好了，再生一个也就行了。总归好
过一家人聚在一起，等死来得强。”老乞丐一手将徐寒拉扯大，哪
能不了解他的心思，还不待徐寒发问，便出言说道。

“命薄？”徐寒的眉头皱起，他自然知道老乞丐说得并没有
错，但他说不出为什么，就是觉得不满，更是不解什么才是所谓的
命薄？
“命薄就是命不好，每个人都有自己的命，有些人生来就在富
贵人家，锦衣玉食，那是他们的命。做乞丐，食不果腹，是我的
命。你被我捡到，跟着我做了乞丐，这也是你的命。”老乞丐缓缓
说着，声音却越来越小。
徐寒还没有完全消化掉老乞丐这一番话，见他忽然没了声音，
便抬头看去，却见老乞丐已然是睡了过去。
老乞丐的年纪毕竟大了，两日颗粒未进，精神头自然不好。

徐寒见状，倒也不忍心再追问，只是自己苦着眉头，想着老乞
丐的那番话，难以入眠。
…………

老乞丐昨夜闭上了眼睛，便再也没有醒来。
 他终究还是没有熬过这个冬天。

他的死，来得很突然。
突然到徐寒对此没有半分的准备。
外面的风雪越下越大，没有半点停下的意思。

徐寒在老乞丐的尸体旁坐了整整一个时辰，然后，他才缓缓站
起了身子。

他沉默着用那床陪了老乞丐数年光景的棉被将老乞丐的身子裹
好，然后又在茅草堆中找到一根麻绳，将那棉被困实。然后，他深
吸了一口气，将绳子的一端放在自己的肩膀，弓起了身子，就这样
迎着漫天的风雪，拉着老乞丐的尸首，走出了破庙。

徐寒今年才十二岁，常年的行乞生活，让他的身材看上去比起
同龄人要瘦小许多。加之几日未有进食，拖行老乞丐的尸体，这对
于徐寒来说并不是一件容易的事，但他却咬了咬牙，任由冰冷的风
雪刮过他的脸庞，而自己则在这漫天的风雪之中固执又缓慢的前
行。

许久。
绳子在他的肩膀上勒出了血痕，指节也有些发白，一张脸更是
被风雪冻得通红。
他深一步浅一步的踩在雪地中，就这样拖着老乞丐的尸体走入
了上云城。
一个男孩拖着一个重重的由棉被包裹着的事物。

这样的场景，在今年的上云城并不少见，而他们的目的也并不
难猜。

人死，入土方能为安。

卖身葬父这样往年可谓稀奇的场景，在这灾害频繁的今年却让
街上并不不多的行人提不起半点的兴致。
 小户人家的生活自然凄苦，但大户人家却不少这半点粮食，他
们倒是很乐意收下这些卖身葬父的孩子，机灵的自己留下，做个伙
计或是丫鬟，不喜的转手卖到别处，也是一桩生意。城西的一处赌
坊更是挂起了招牌，专门收买这些个孩童，男女不限，但年纪却不
能太大，明码标价。

那赌坊背后的主人似乎来头不小，城里的衙门对此也是睁一只
眼闭一只眼，从不过问。只是坊间倒是有那么一些传闻，说这赌坊
收买这么多的孩童，是为了进行某些邪术，曾有人在酒肆中言之凿
凿的说过，他亲眼在半夜看见赌坊中抬出一具具小孩子尸体。
只是说这话的酒客，在那一天之后，便再也未有人见过。

徐寒走到那处赌坊的时候，守门的壮汉合着衣裳，倚着门槛，
正昏昏欲睡。

老乞丐的尸首拖动在雪地上的声响将壮汉从梦乡中拉了回来，
他低眉看了一眼衣衫褴褛的徐寒，摆了摆手，不耐烦的说道：“小
要饭的一边去，爷爷这里没钱给你。”
徐寒却并不在意，他如释负重的放下了手中的绳子。在雪地中
站直了身子，看向壮汉，用自己青嫩的嗓音说道：“我来卖身。”
“嗯？卖身？”壮汉一愣，他这时才看清男孩背后那具裹在棉
被中的事物。

这让他有些诧异，卖到赌坊的小孩自然不少，但大抵都是由父
辈领着，又或是从别处转手而来，自己跑到赌坊卖身的，他还是头
一次遇见。
他再次看向徐寒，认真的打量了一番眼前这个男孩。

他很瘦弱，瘦弱得就好似一阵风就能将之吹倒一般。他的脸上
满是泥垢，让人难以看清他的模样，但那肮脏的脸上却生得一双明
亮的眸子。
 那眸子，在此刻对视着壮汉的目光，里面包裹着某种难以言说
的事物。

壮汉一个激灵，他被那目光所触动，问道：“卖身葬父，去处
很多，你为何非选此处。”

他很清楚，自己背后这赌坊，究竟是个什么东西，更明白那些
卖身来的孩子，又究竟是一个什么下场。

“别人处卖身，便是一辈子，你这里，我听闻，只要做够五
年，便可放我自由。”

徐寒看着壮汉，平静的说道。
壮汉又是一愣，他暗暗觉得好笑，确实，他们这里有这样的规
定。但到现在为止，能做到这样的孩子他还从未听说过。

“做够五年？那可是玩命的勾当。”壮汉说道。

这话说出来，其实已经有了越权的嫌疑。但或许是眼前这男孩
让他感觉着实有些特别，因此竟忍不出说了些背后的实情。

“别人家出七八两银子，一做便是一辈子。你们出十五两银
子，却只用做五年，自然，要做的事情不会简单。”徐寒点了点
头，目光却依然平静。

壮汉闻言，脸色顿时一变。

从徐寒的话里，他不难听出，这男孩来之前便已经对此有了准
备。且不说从这只言片语中便可推测出这些，这男孩的心性极为了
得，但是已然明白了其中差别，他却还选择他们这赌坊卖身这一
点，便足够让他不解。
“为什么？”他怔怔的问道，声线不知为何竟然有些苦涩。

“老头说，他若是死了，便让我卖身给一个富贵人家，能活
命，若是干得机灵，讨得主家欢心，说不定还可谋得一份不错的差
事，一辈子衣食无忧。”
 “他说，这应当是我最好的命了。”

“可是…………”

男孩的眉头在那时忽的皱了起来，眸子中好似有一道决意闪
过，那一刻，他在风雪中挺直了自己的脊梁，像是那即将赴死的武
士，又像是等待涅盘的凤凰。

他说道。“我不认命。”
 第2章

羊肥当宰，人盛则亡

于是，上云城郊外的陵墓之中再添了一座新坟。

十二年的光景。
老乞丐不能说对徐寒有多好，但若不是当年的雪夜中他心中一
丝善念闪过，恐怕这世上便不会再有徐寒这个人。

徐寒在坟前跪了许久，直到监视他的壮汉都已有了不耐烦的兆
头才终于起身。

他看了看那坟上的墓碑，心绪有些翻涌。
“你且在这里睡下吧，你养我十二年，我以身还之。”

“你我也无相欠。”

“从此以后，我自己的命，便由我自己来活吧。”
 言罢，徐寒转过了身子，朝着那跟来的壮汉点了点头。

那时，暂罢的风雪又再次呼啸向他。
徐寒跟着壮汉头也不回的走入了风雪之中。

那时的他将自己的腰板挺得笔直，眸子中光亮如雪，就好似一
把出鞘的剑。

…………

上云城那座赌坊不简单。
那个名叫陆大牛的壮汉带着徐寒穿越层层暗门，终于是进到了
赌场之下的巨大暗室之中。

暗室里约莫有四五十个与徐寒一般大小的孩童，女孩占了大
半，或许当真如老乞丐所言，生逢乱世，女娃子命可能要更薄上一
些。

而徐寒住的地方是一间两丈见方的小屋子，这里面整整挤了十
二个男孩。
十二张面黄肌瘦的小脸呈现出了十二种不同样式的惊恐，而徐
寒很清楚，他们害怕的不是自己，而是自己身后的那位壮汉。

“进去！”陆大牛并没有因为徐寒之前那异于常人的表现而对
他有何特别的优待。

十个人能活下去一个已算不错，至于所谓的尊重？

那是活着的人，才能得到的礼遇。

措不及防的徐寒被陆大牛用力的一推，跌入了房内。

紧接着，身后的铁门便发出一阵巨响，被陆大牛合上。
即使之前已经对现在的处境做好了足够坏的打算，可真正当他
来到这里，面对着那些孩童脸上的恐惧时，他还是心底发寒。
 说到底，他今年也才十二岁。

在此之前看过最了不得的风景，充其量也就是红妆阁上浓妆艳
抹、袒胸露乳的美娇娘了。
只是匆匆一瞥，便让他脸红心跳。

这样的环境固然让他惶恐，而下意识的，他也渴望从那些孩童
口中知晓一些关于这暗室的讯息，虽不见得就能保命，但至少心头
安稳一些。

可那些孩童却是早已被吓破了胆，一个个龟缩在墙角，神情麻
木惊恐，完全不理会徐寒的言语。

这样的情形，无疑让徐寒愈发的不安。

…………

接下来的几日，徐寒过得很舒适。

出乎预料的舒适。
每日都会有人送来食物，不仅管饱，而且顿顿都有肉食，在这
灾荒之年，恐怕也只有大户人家才有这样的待遇。

除了吃饭，剩下的就是每日跟着陆大牛学习拳法和使用兵器。

徐寒觉得事情不会这么简单，虽然陆大牛一行人对他们的态度
极为恶劣，动则拳打脚踢，可这些应当远不至于孩子们如此畏惧。

对于之前的他，能吃上一口饱饭，便已是奢望，哪顾得上那么
多明日未来。

他很努力。

他拼命的练习拳脚。

他比别人更加珍惜眼前。
 他的身子弱，底子薄，在练功时难免有做的不到位的地方，为
此他没少被责罚，但他从不懈怠，甚至一得空闲便反复练习。

十余日下来，虽不得要领，但却已经有些一些模样。

说来也奇怪，他明显的感觉到身子在这些天里开始不断的恢
复，只是这究竟是那套拳脚的功效，或是其他，徐寒却说不真切。
…………

这一日，一天的拳脚功夫练习完，孩子们陆续回到各自的房间
里。

“叫你偷懒！叫你偷懒！”这时，一个男人的怒吼声在角落处
不断传来。

正走向自己房门的徐寒闻声转头望去，却见一位壮汉拿着皮鞭
正抽打着一个男孩。
那男孩徐寒认识，名叫刘笙。

他似乎已经在这暗室中待了很久，据徐寒所知，与他同室的男
孩中没人比他来得更早，但很奇怪的是，他所施展的拳脚却是所有
人中最差的，即使是刚来十余日的徐寒，也比他好上几分。
因为，几乎每日他都要被值守的人毒打。

但徐寒却从未见过这刘笙哭过鼻子。
从始至终都只见他咬着牙，闷不吭声的承受这一切。

他默默的吃饭，默默的施展拳脚，再默默的挨打，周而复始，
就连那些孩童对此都见怪不怪。

他觉得这个刘笙似乎很不一样。
吃过那对于徐寒来说算得上丰盛的晚饭之后，房内的十位其他
孩童早已挤在拥挤的床上，沉沉入睡。
 每一天对于他们来说都是煎熬，或许只有在梦中他们才能得到
些许的慰藉。
徐寒却没有这么早入睡的打算。
他一如之前的每一晚一般，在房间内并不大的空地上，反复施
展着陆大牛所教授的拳脚。
虽然不知道这样做究竟有什么用，但总好过什么都不做。

约莫半个时辰的光景过去。
徐寒已经是满头大汗，他正要去房间角落处的水桶中寻些水
喝。
吱呀。
这时，铁门被推开，一脸疲惫的刘笙拖着满是伤痕的身子，走
入了房中。
徐寒一愣。

深深的看了那背上被抽的血肉模糊，却始终咬牙不发出半点声
响的刘笙，下意识的想要询问些什么。

但对方却对徐寒视而不见。
他径直走到自己床边，身子倚着柱子，拿着药散开始清理自己
的伤口。
徐寒皱了皱眉，话到嘴边又咽了回去。

他想了想，从怀里掏出一样东西递到了刘笙的跟前。
“吃吧，我也没有多的。”徐寒这般说道。
那是一张薄饼，他有意为刘笙留下的。

徐寒倒并非什么菩萨心肠。
 只是觉得自己这十二年活得很艰辛，生下来，活下去，太难
了。
既然活着本就是一件极难的事，那么老天给了他生命，必然有
存在的意义。
而在没有找到那个答案之前，他都想努力的活下去。
刘笙显然没有料到徐寒这样的举动。

他微微一愣，抬起了头，看向徐寒。
他对徐寒并没有多少的印象，只是知道他是最近进来的男童，
比起其他人努力些，除此之外，便没有什么特别的了。
他沉默的看着徐寒，目光中的意味莫名。

徐寒被他看得有些不适，但他还是将手中的薄饼放在刘笙的跟
前。

良久。
“为什么？”刘笙终于出言问道。
“嗯？”这个问题显然有些出乎徐寒的预料，他微微一愣，方
才说道：“只是恰好多出一份而已。”
说这话时，他脸上的神情极为自然，似乎正如他所言一般，他
所做的一切在他看来就是如此理所当然。
哪知这话非但没有让刘笙理解到他的善意，他脸上反而在那时
露出一抹嘲弄似的的笑意。
“你家养过牲口吗？”他问道。

这个问题，当真有些太突兀，徐寒又是一愣。
“没有，我是一个乞丐…………”但下意识的他还是回应道。
 “那你知道什么样的牲口死得最快吗？”刘笙对此不以为意，
他继续追问道。
徐寒皱了皱眉头，他并不喜欢刘笙此刻所表现出来的恶意。他
摇了摇头，算是回答了刘笙的问题。
刘笙的脸色却忽的阴森了起来，映着暗室中幽森的烛光，显得
极为可怖。
“吃得越多，长得越快的牲口，总是死在前面。”
他低沉着声线这般说道，然后接过了徐寒的薄饼，在手中撕下
一小块，放在嘴里，干涩的咽下。

而后将剩余的大块薄饼，放回了徐寒的手中，转头合衣躺下，
自此在未有去看徐寒一眼。

唯留下徐寒，愣愣的看着手中薄饼，怔怔出神。
 第3章

为了更好的活着

那一夜。

刘笙说的话、脸上的神情始终犹如梦魇一般，在徐寒的脑海中
挥之不去。
他的话究竟是什么意思徐寒说不真切，但在接下来的日子中，
有意或是无意，徐寒总是忍不住暗暗观察着刘笙。

他隐隐约约觉察到，关于这暗室中的一切，刘笙必然知道些什
么。

而他也确实发现了些异样。
因为在训练时，总是不如人意，刘笙一如既往的每日受罚，又
因为受罚而错过晚饭。

即使如此，仅有的早饭与午饭，他都吃得极少。
 须知他们虽然整日被困在这暗室中，可训练却每日不曾停歇，
对这些十余岁孩童来说，每日的消耗极大，因此一到开饭的时辰，
每个人都几乎是抢着要吃饭。

为此暗地里更是免不了勾心斗角。

女孩那边的情况徐寒不清楚，但单单这十二个男孩，除去他与
刘笙剩余的十人，为了夺取更多的饭菜而俨然分成了三派。
寻常日子里相互不满，到了吃饭时更是时不时大打出手。

而那些负责看管他们的男人却从未阻止，反而是有些乐见其成
的味道。

这一日。

照例徐寒一人在屋内修炼着那一套拳脚，刘笙如往常一般受过
一顿皮肉之苦后拖着疲惫的身子入了房门。
徐寒待他坐定后上前递上一张早已为他留下的薄饼。

在那一夜之后的十余日光景，徐寒总是如此。
刘笙看了徐寒一眼，这些日子由于徐寒的善意，倒是让刘笙对
他的态度好了一些。

他如往常一般接过那薄饼，撕下一小块咽下。

然后他却并没有如以往将那剩余的博饼放回徐寒的手中，而是
将之随意的丢到了一旁。

徐寒一愣，这薄饼虽然不多，但就是为了这小小的一块薄饼，
那十位男孩每日可谓用尽心思。刘笙不吃就算了，为何还要丢弃。

徐寒有些不解，可还不待他询问。

本已经安静躺在床上的那些孩童见那薄饼飞出，一个个犹如恶
狗扑食一般朝着那薄饼落地之处冲了过去，一时间咒骂与怒吼不绝
于耳，充斥于整个房间。
 “快些吃吧，待宰的肥猪们。”刘笙不曾回头去看那些男童们
一眼，只是用一种只有他与徐寒能听见的声音，阴冷的说道。

说完这些，他也不去看此刻徐寒脸上的震惊之色，再次如往常
一般，合衣睡下。
…………

又是五日的光景过去。

徐寒在这一天，终于是明白了刘笙话里的意思。

一位男孩在吃着晚饭时忽的发出一阵哀嚎，脸色瞬息变得紫
青，额头上更是青筋暴起，然后身子倒地，手上那他想尽办法争夺
来的的食物散落一地。他的身子一阵抽搐，数息后，在诸人诧异的
注视下，没了气息。

这一切来得太过突然，徐寒根本未有预料。

待他回过神来，那男孩的尸体便被陆大牛派人带走，之后他就
像什么都没有发生过一样，继续指挥着诸人回到各自的房间休息。

那死去的男孩是三方势力中的一位首领，他的死去，无疑对他
的团体造成了极大的打击，几方人此刻在小房间中剑拔弩张，活着
的两位首领想要借此机会抢夺那一方的人手，而失了领头的一方人
却是手足无措。

徐寒自然无暇顾及那些人，他越发肯定自己的猜测，刘笙一定
知道些什么！

待到刘笙走入房内，徐寒便迎了上去。
他没有说话，但眼神中的急切却已经将他此刻心中的想法暴露
得一览无遗。

刘笙似乎早有预料，他朝着徐寒点了点头，示意他不要声张。

“究竟怎么回事？”这样的行为无疑为徐寒与刘笙创造出了有
利的环境，徐寒在那时赶忙凑到刘笙的边上问道。
 刘笙也深深看了徐寒一眼，似乎是在衡量，眼前这个男孩是否
值得信任，但数息之后，他便有了决断。

当下，他便凑到了徐寒耳畔，轻声说道：“我来这里已经有八
个月的光景，到了如今这房中的人已经换了三批。”

“都死了？”徐寒一愣，有些诧异的转头问道。
刘笙摇了摇头，继续说道：“并不全是，但大半都死了，和今
日那人一般死了。还有一小部分被他们带走，之后便再也没有回
来。”

“可他们是怎么死的？难道真的和那些饭菜有关？”徐寒闻
言，心头顿时生出一股凉气，毕竟这些日子那些饭菜他也未有少
吃。
刘笙再一次摇头。

“我不知道，但是吃得最多的人总是最先死，又或者最先被带
走。”

徐寒在这时终于明白了刘笙为什么情愿挨鞭子也不愿意多吃些
饭菜，练好拳脚。
他的脸色也在那时变得凝重了起来，可很快他又意识到了有些
不对，他再次问道：“可这么做是为了什么？”
这是一个讲不通的道理，若是陆大牛等人将他们买回来只是为
了害死他们，那他们有的是比这快得多也有效得多的办法，同样，
这么做除了花去他们的钱财，对于陆大牛等人来说没有任何好处。

“可那些死去的孩子，又当作何解释？”刘笙一愣，他不得不
承认徐寒说得有那么几分道理，但关于那饭菜的事情他始终无法心
安。
刘笙眉头一皱，不知在想些什么。
 “被带走的孩子中也有吃得很多的人，但他们的拳脚却比那些
死去的练得好得多…………”他这般说道，语气却渐渐低沉了下
来。
他意识到自己似乎错过了一个很关键的线索。

“但凡有人练得不好便会被责罚，显然那套拳法极为重要！”
“甚至有可能是他们买下我们最主要的目的！”徐寒低声分析
着。
他继续说道：“我不知道究竟是什么原因导致的那些人的死
去，但想要离开这里，就必须练好那一套他们所传授的拳脚。”
说到这里，他再次看向刘笙，声线忽然低沉了下来：“而想要
练好拳脚…………”
“至少，我们得吃饱饭菜。”

“可是…………离开了这里…………谁知道他们又会将我们怎
样…………”刘笙迟疑道。
“无论怎样，总好过一辈子待在这里。”徐寒打断了刘笙的
话。他的眼睛在那时映着屋外射入的烛光，闪着一道令人心颤的寒
芒，那是他的决意。
“我想更好的活着。”徐寒呢喃道。
“更好的活着…………”似乎是被徐寒所感染，刘笙重复着徐
寒的话，眸子中也渐渐亮起一阵光芒。
 第4章

青衣紫袍聚森罗

那一天之后。

达成共识的徐寒与刘笙开始积极的抢夺食物，为此他们甚至收
编了那失去了首领的三位男孩，腰身一变成了男孩中最大的一方势
力。
另外两方人自知无法抗衡，结成了一体，试图对抗徐寒与刘
笙。
但是吃饱喝足的刘笙却显示出了不同于常人的狠辣。

就在第二天的晚上，抢夺食物时，他生生的咬下了一个男孩的
耳朵。自此，终于无人再敢招惹徐寒与刘笙。
每日的饭菜自有人恭恭敬敬的送来，而二人则完全投身于那套
拳法的修行。
 渐渐的，他们发现随着拳脚的精进，他们的身子一日强过一
日。即使是在这之前未有接触到任何与修行有关的训练，徐寒与刘
笙也意识到这样的精进速度极为反常。

但同样这也让他们愈发坚定了自己之前的推测。

这样的日子一直持续到了三个月之后。
那一天陆大牛忽然将徐寒与刘笙唤来，引到了一位青衣男子的
身边，告诉他们那位男子唤作元修成，是上云城的舵主，让他们随
他去了二人就这样还未有搞清楚状况，便在那位青衣男子的带领下
走出了暗室。一切都来的太过突然，以至于但赌坊的大门被推开，
上云城街道上来来往往的人群，以及春日艳阳射入他们的眼帘时，
二人依然处在愣神之中。
“上车吧。”青衣男子却并没有给二人太多享受这样美景的时
间，他转头看着二人，声线淡漠的说道。
即使是陆大牛也得小心伺候着的青衣男子，自然不是徐寒与刘
笙所可以忤逆的。无论心底对于这样的场景多么不舍，但下一刻他
们还是老老实实的登上了早已在门口等候的马车。

元修成，也就是那位青衣男子，也在之后登上了马车。

马车一路向前，很快便驶出了上云城，朝着未知的目的地前
行。

最初的兴奋劲过去，徐寒与刘笙渐渐有些不安，但那位元修成
大人却自入车之后便坐在一旁闭目养神，没有半点说话的意思。

徐寒与刘笙对视一眼，神色都有些凝重。

在马车中颠簸了四五个时辰，天色渐渐变暗。
而徐寒与刘笙心中的不安也越来越甚。

“问吧，你们想知道些什么？”元修成虽然闭着眼睛，但对于
二人的情况却似乎是了如指掌。他冰冷的声线率先打破了这马车中
的沉默。

二人闻言心头一惊，再次对视一眼，显然对于元修成所表现出
来的能力，极为震惊。
又是一番犹豫，徐寒终是鼓足的了勇气，看向闭目的元修成问
道：“你究竟要我们做些什么？”

“十五两银子买了你们五年的命，这五年自然是要用你们的
命，去赚回这银子。”元修成依然闭着眼睛。

“那为什么暗室中会有人不断的死去？是不是那些饭
菜…………”徐寒追问道。

“饭菜中放入了妖丹，吃下之后，妖力会在你的体内散发，若
是辅助于我们所传授的拳脚，便可将之摄入你们的五脏六腑之中，
强健体魄，可若是有所懈怠…………”元修成不待徐寒的问题说
完，便已是猜到了他接下来想说的话，当下便回答道。

二人闻言又是一愣，这与他们之前的推测出乎预料的一致，对
视一眼之后都有些后怕，依照元修成所言即使他们如刘笙之前一般
尽可能减少食量，但依然免不了最后被那所谓的妖力所害的结局，
幸好他们选择了对的一条路。

“那接下来呢？”徐寒赶忙再次发问。

元修成的双眸在那时豁然睁开，他的嘴角忽的勾勒出一抹笑
意。

“接下来，便是最后一道考验。”元修成此言一落，那马车忽
的停了下来。

“元舵主，你来得可真是有些慢啊。”这时马车外传来一道声
音，声线之中带着些许嘲弄之意。

那嘲弄之意几乎不加掩饰，即使是徐寒也能听得真切。
但元修成对此却犹若未闻一般，脸上的神情依旧淡漠无比。
Another random document with
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rather have watched from the door, but she was being looked after,
so she had to submit.
The hut was quite cosy, panelled with unvarnished deal, having a
little rustic table and stool beside her chair, and a carpenter's bench,
then a big box, tools, new boards, nails; and many things hung from
pegs: axe, hatchet, traps, things in sacks, his coat. It had no window,
the light came in through the open door. It was a jumble, but also it
was a sort of little sanctuary.
She listened to the tapping of the man's hammer; it was not so
happy. He was oppressed. Here was a trespass on his privacy, and a
dangerous one! A woman! He had reached the point where all he
wanted on earth was to be alone. And yet he was powerless to
preserve his privacy; he was a hired man, and these people were his
masters.
Especially he did not want to come into contact with a woman again.
He feared it, for he had a big wound from old contacts. He felt if he
could not be alone, and if he could not be left alone, he would die.
His recoil away from the outer world was complete; his last refuge
was this wood; to hide himself there!
Connie grew warm by the fire, which she had made too big: then she
grew hot. She went and sat on the stool in the doorway, watching the
man at work. He seemed not to notice her, but he knew. Yet he
worked on, as if absorbedly, and his brown dog sat on her tail near
him, and surveyed the untrustworthy world.
Slender, quiet and quick, the man finished the coop he was making,
turned it over, tried the sliding door, then set it aside. Then he rose,
went for an old coop, and took it to the chopping-log where he was
working. Crouching, he tried the bars; some broke in his hands; he
began to draw the nails. Then he turned the coop over and
deliberated, and he gave absolutely no sign of awareness of the
woman's presence.
So Connie watched him fixedly. And the same solitary aloneness she
had seen in him naked, she now saw in him clothed: solitary, and
intent, like an animal that works alone, but also brooding, like a soul
that recoils away, away from all human contact. Silently, patiently, he
was recoiling away from her even now. It was the stillness, and the
timeless sort of patience, in a man impatient and passionate, that
touched Connie's womb. She saw it in his bent head, the quick, quiet
hands, the crouching of his slender, sensitive loins; something
patient and withdrawn. She felt his experience had been deeper and
wider than her own; much deeper and wider, and perhaps more
deadly. And this relieved her of herself; she felt almost irresponsible.
So she sat in the doorway of the hut in a dream, utterly unaware of
time and of particular circumstances. She was so drifted away that
he glanced up at her quickly, and saw the utterly still, waiting look on
her face. To him it was a look of waiting. And a little thin tongue of
fire suddenly flickered in his loins, at the root of his back, and he
groaned in spirit. He dreaded with a repulsion almost of death, any
further close human contact. He wished above all things she would
go away, and leave him to his own privacy. He dreaded her will, her
female will, and her modern female insistency. And above all he
dreaded her cool, upper-class impudence of having her own way.
For after all he was only a hired man. He hated her presence there.
Connie came to herself with sudden uneasiness. She rose. The
afternoon was turning to evening, yet she could not go away. She
went over to the man, who stood up at attention, his worn face stiff
and blank, his eyes watching her.
"It is so nice here, so restful," she said. "I have never been here
before."
"No?"
"I think I shall come and sit here sometimes."
"Yes!"
"Do you lock the hut when you're not here?"
"Yes, your Ladyship."
"Do you think I could have a key too, so that I could sit here
sometimes? Are there two keys?"
"Not as Ah know on, ther' isna."
He had lapsed into the vernacular. Connie hesitated; he was putting
up an opposition. Was it his hut, after all?
"Couldn't we get another key?" she asked in her soft voice, that
underneath had the ring of a woman determined to get her way.
"Another!" he said, glancing at her with a flash of anger, touched with
derision.
"Yes, a duplicate," she said, flushing.
"'Appen Sir Clifford 'ud know," he said, putting her off.
"Yes!" she said, "he might have another. Otherwise we could have
one made from the one you have. It would only take a day or so, I
suppose. You could spare your key for so long."
"Ah canna tell yer, m' lady! Ah know nob'dy as ma'es keys round
'ere."
Connie suddenly flushed with anger.
"Very well!" she said. "I'll see to it."
"All right, your Ladyship."
Their eyes met. His had a cold, ugly look of dislike and contempt,
and indifference to what would happen. Hers were hot with rebuff.
But her heart sank, she saw how utterly he disliked her, when she
went against him. And she saw him in a sort of desperation.
"Good afternoon!"
"Afternoon, my Lady!" He saluted and turned abruptly away. She had
wakened the sleeping dogs of old voracious anger in him, anger
against the self-willed female. And he was powerless, powerless. He
knew it!
And she was angry against the self-willed male. A servant too! She
walked sullenly home.
She found Mrs. Bolton under the great beech tree on the knoll,
looking for her.
"I just wondered if you'd be coming, my Lady," the woman said
brightly.
"Am I late?" asked Connie.
"Oh ... only Sir Clifford was waiting for his tea."
"Why didn't you make it then?"
"Oh, I don't think it's hardly my place. I don't think Sir Clifford would
like it at all, my Lady."
"I don't see why not," said Connie.
She went indoors to Clifford's study, where the old brass kettle was
simmering on the tray.
"Am I late, Clifford!" she said, putting down the few flowers and
taking up the tea-caddy, as she stood before the tray in her hat and
scarf. "I'm sorry! Why didn't you let Mrs. Bolton make the tea?"
"I didn't think of it," he said ironically. "I don't quite see her presiding
at the tea-table."
"Oh, there's nothing sacrosanct about a silver teapot," said Connie.
He glanced up at her curiously.
"What did you do all afternoon?" he said.
"Walked and sat in a sheltered place. Do you know there are still
berries on the big holly tree."
She took off her scarf, but not her hat, and sat down to make tea.
The toast would certainly be leathery. She put the tea-cosy over the
teapot, and rose to get a little glass for her violets. The poor flowers
hung over, limp on their stalks.
"They'll revive again!" she said, putting them before him in their glass
for him to smell.
"Sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes," he quoted.
"I don't see a bit of connection with the actual violets," she said. "The
Elizabethans are rather upholstered."
She poured him his tea.
"Do you think there is a second key to that little hut not far from
John's Well, where the pheasants are reared?" she said.
"There may be. Why?"
"I happened to find it today—and I'd never seen it before. I think it's a
darling place. I could sit there sometimes, couldn't I?"
"Was Mellors there?"
"Yes! That's how I found it: his hammering. He didn't seem to like my
intruding at all. In fact he was almost rude when I asked about a
second key."
"What did he say?"
"Oh nothing: just his manner; and he said he knew nothing about
keys."
"There may be one in father's study. Betts knows them all; they're all
there. I'll get him to look."
"Oh do!" she said.
"So Mellors was almost rude?"
"Oh, nothing, really! But I don't think he wanted me to have the
freedom of the castle, quite."
"I don't suppose he did."
"Still, I don't see why he should mind. It's not his home, after all! It's
not his private abode. I don't see why I shouldn't sit there if I want
to."
"Quite!" said Clifford. "He thinks too much of himself, that man."
"Do you think he does?"
"Oh decidedly! He thinks he's something exceptional. You know he
had a wife he didn't get on with, so he joined up in 1915 and was
sent out to India, I believe. Anyhow he was blacksmith to the cavalry
in Egypt for a time; always was connected with horses, a clever
fellow that way. Then some Indian colonel took a fancy to him, and
he was made a lieutenant. Yes, they gave him a commission. I
believe he went back to India with his colonel, and up to the north-
west frontier. He was ill; he has a pension. He didn't come out of the
army till last year, I believe, and then, naturally, it isn't easy for a man
like that to get back to his own level. He's bound to flounder. But he
does his duty all right, as far as I'm concerned. Only I'm not having
any of the Lieutenant Mellors touch."
"How could they make him an officer when he speaks broad
Derbyshire?"
"He doesn't ... except by fits and starts. He can speak perfectly well,
for him. I suppose he has an idea if he's come down to the ranks
again, he'd better speak as the ranks speak."
"Why didn't you tell me about him before?"
"Oh, I've no patience with these romances. They're the ruin of all
order. It's a thousand pities they ever happened."
Connie was inclined to agree. What was the good of discontented
people who fitted in nowhere?
In the spell of fine weather Clifford, too, decided to go to the wood.
The wind was cold, but not so tiresome, and the sunshine was like
life itself, warm and full.
"It's amazing," said Connie, "how different one feels when there's a
really fresh fine day. Usually one feels the very air is half dead.
People are killing the very air."
"Do you think people are doing it?" he asked.
"I do. The steam of so much boredom, and discontent and anger out
of all the people, just kills the vitality in the air. I'm sure of it."
"Perhaps some condition of the atmosphere lowers the vitality of the
people?" he said.
"No, it's man that poisons the universe," she asserted.
"Fouls his own nest," remarked Clifford.
The chair puffed on. In the hazel copse catkins were hanging pale
gold, and in sunny places the wood-anemones were wide open, as if
exclaiming with the joy of life, just as good as in past days, when
people could exclaim along with them. They had a faint scent of
apple-blossom. Connie gathered a few for Clifford.
He took them and looked at them curiously.
"Thou still unravished bride of quietness," he quoted. "It seems to fit
flowers so much better than Greek vases."
"Ravished is such a horrid word!" she said. "It's only people who
ravish things."
"Oh, I don't know ... snails and things," he said.
"Even snails only eat them, and bees don't ravish."
She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Violets were
Juno's eyelids, and windflowers were unravished brides. How she
hated words, always coming between her and life: they did the
ravishing, if anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking
all the life-sap out of living things.
The walk with Clifford was not quite a success. Between him and
Connie there was a tension that each pretended not to notice, but
there it was. Suddenly, with all the force of her female instinct, she
was shoving him off. She wanted to be clear of him, and especially
of his consciousness, his words, his obsession with himself, his
endless treadmill obsession with himself, and his own words.
The weather came rainy again. But after a day or two she went out in
the rain, and she went to the wood. And once there, she went
towards the hut. It was raining, but not so cold, and the wood felt so
silent and remote, inaccessible in the dusk of rain.
She came to the clearing. No one there! The hut was locked. But she
sat on the log doorstep, under the rustic porch, and snuggled into
her own warmth. So she sat, looking at the rain, listening to the
many noiseless noises of it, and to the strange soughings of wind in
upper branches, when there seemed to be no wind. Old oak trees
stood around, grey, powerful trunks, rain-blackened, round and vital,
throwing off reckless limbs. The ground was fairly free of
undergrowth, the anemones sprinkled, there was a bush or two,
elder, or guelder-rose, and a purplish tangle of bramble; the old
russet of bracken almost vanished under green anemone ruffs.
Perhaps this was one of the unravished places. Unravished! The
whole world was ravished.
Some things can't be ravished. You can't ravish a tin of sardines.
And so many women are like that; and men. But the earth...!
The rain was abating. It was hardly making darkness among the
oaks any more. Connie wanted to go; yet she sat on. But she was
getting cold; yet the overwhelming inertia of her inner resentment
kept her there as if paralysed.
Ravished! How ravished one could be without ever being touched.
Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become
obsessions.
A wet brown dog came running and did not bark, lifting a wet feather
of a tail. The man followed in a wet black oilskin jacket, like a
chauffeur, and face flushed a little. She felt him recoil in his quick
walk, when he saw her. She stood up in the handbreadth of dryness
under the rustic porch. He saluted without speaking, coming slowly
near. She began to withdraw.
"I'm just going," she said.
"Was yer waitin' to get in?" he asked, looking at the hut, not at her.
"No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter," she said, with quiet
dignity.
He looked at her. She looked cold.
"Sir Clifford 'adn't got no other key, then?" he asked.
"No, but it doesn't matter. I can sit perfectly dry under this porch.
Good afternoon!" She hated the excess of vernacular in his speech.
He watched her closely, as she was moving away. Then he hitched
up his jacket, and put his hand in his breeches pocket, taking out the
key of the hut.
"'Appen yer'd better 'ave this key, an' Ah mun fend for t' bods some
other road."
She looked at him.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean as 'appen Ah can find anuther pleece as'll du for rearin' th'
pheasants. If yer want ter be 'ere, yo'll non want me messin' abaht a'
th' time."
She looked at him, getting his meaning through the fog of the dialect.
"Why don't you speak ordinary English?" she said coldly.
"Me! Ah thowt it wor' ordinary."
She was silent for a few moments in anger.
"So if yer want t' key, yer'd better ta'e it. Or 'appen Ah'd better gi'e 't
yer termorrer, an' clear all t' stuff aht fust. Would that du for yer?"
She became more angry.
"I didn't want your key," she said. "I don't want you to clear anything
out at all. I don't in the least want to turn you out of your hut, thank
you! I only wanted to be able to sit here sometimes, like today. But I
can sit perfectly well under the porch, so please say no more about
it."
He looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes.
"Why," he began, in the broad slow dialect. "Your Ladyship's as
welcome as Christmas ter th' hut an' th' key an' iverythink as is. On'y
this time o' th' year ther's bods ter set, an' Ah've got ter be potterin'
abaht a good bit, seein' after 'em, an' a'. Winter time Ah ned 'ardly
come nigh th' pleece. But what wi' Spring, an' Sir Clifford wantin' ter
start th' pheasants.... An' your Ladyship'd non want me tinkerin'
around an' about when she was 'ere, all th' time."
She listened with a dim kind of amazement.
"Why should I mind your being here?" she asked.
He looked at her curiously.
"T' nuisance on me!" he said briefly, but significantly. She flushed.
"Very well!" she said finally. "I won't trouble you. But I don't think I
should have minded at all sitting and seeing you look after the birds.
I should have liked it. But since you think it interferes with you, I
won't disturb you, don't be afraid. You are Sir Clifford's keeper, not
mine."
The phrase sounded queer, she didn't know why. But she let it pass.
"Nay, your Ladyship. It's your Ladyship's own 'ut. It's as your
Ladyship likes an' pleases, every time. Yer can turn me off at a wik's
notice. It wor only...."
"Only what?" she asked, baffled.
He pushed back his hat in an odd comic way.
"On'y as 'appen yo'd like the place ter yersen, when yer did come,
an' not me messin' abaht."
"But why?" she said, angry. "Aren't you a civilised human being? Do
you think I ought to be afraid of you? Why should I take any notice of
you and your being here or not? Why is it important?"
He looked at her, all his face glimmering with wicked laughter.
"It's not, your Ladyship. Not in the very least," he said.
"Well, why then?" she asked.
"Shall I get your Ladyship another key then?"
"No thank you! I don't want it."
"Ah'll get it anyhow. We'd best 'ave two keys ter th' place."
"And I consider you are insolent," said Connie, with her colour up,
panting a little.
"Nay, nay!" he said quickly. "Dunna yer say that! Nay, nay! I niver
meant nuthink. Ah on'y thought as if yo' come 'ere, Ah s'd 'ave ter
clear out, an' it'd mean a lot o' work, settin' up somewheres else. But
if your Ladyship isn't going ter take no notice o' me, then ... it's Sir
Clifford's 'ut, an' everythink is as your Ladyship likes, everythink is as
your Ladyship likes an' pleases, barrin' yer take no notice o' me,
doin' th' bits of jobs as Ah've got ter do."
Connie went away completely bewildered. She was not sure whether
she had been insulted and mortally offended, or not. Perhaps the
man really only meant what he said; that he thought she would
expect him to keep away. As if she would dream of it! And as if he
could possibly be so important, he and his stupid presence.
She went home in a confusion, not knowing what she thought or felt.

CHAPTER IX
Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clifford.
What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate:
there was no passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost it
seemed to her, she had married him because she disliked him, in a
secret, physical sort of way. But of course, she had married him
really because in a mental way he attracted her and excited her. He
had seemed, in some way, her master, beyond her.
Now the mental excitement had worn itself out and collapsed, and
she was aware only of the physical aversion. It rose up in her from
her depths: and she realised how it had been eating her life away.
She felt weak and utterly forlorn. She wished some help would come
from outside. But in the whole world there was no help. Society was
terrible because it was insane. Civilised society is insane. Money
and so-called love are its two great manias; money a long way first.
The individual asserts himself in his disconnected insanity in these
two modes: money and love. Look at Michaelis! His life and activity
were just insanity. His love was a sort of insanity.
And Clifford the same. All that talk! All that writing! All that wild
struggling to push himself forward! It was just insanity. And it was
getting worse, really maniacal.
Connie felt washed-out with fear. But at least, Clifford was shifting
his grip from her on to Mrs. Bolton. He did not know it. Like many
insane people, his insanity might be measured by the things he was
not aware of; the great desert tracts in his consciousness.
Mrs. Bolton was admirable in many ways. But she had that queer
sort of bossiness, endless assertion of her own will, which is one of
the signs of insanity in modern woman. She thought she was utterly
subservient and living for others. Clifford fascinated her because he
always, or so often, frustrated her will, as if by a finer instinct. He had
a finer, subtler will of self-assertion than herself. This was his charm
for her.
Perhaps that had been his charm, too, for Connie.
"It's a lovely day, today!" Mrs. Bolton would say in her caressive,
persuasive voice. "I should think you'd enjoy a little run in your chair
today, the sun's just lovely."
"Yes? Will you give me that book—there, that yellow one. And I think
I'll have those hyacinths taken out."
"Why, they're so beautiful!" She pronounced it with the "y" sound: be-
yutiful! "And the scent is simply gorgeous."
"The scent is what I object to," he said. "It's a little funereal."
"Do you think so!" she exclaimed in surprise, just a little offended,
but impressed. And she carried the hyacinths out of the room,
impressed by his higher fastidiousness.
"Shall I shave you this morning, or would you rather do it yourself?"
Always the same soft, caressive, subservient, yet managing voice.
"I don't know. Do you mind waiting a while. I'll ring when I'm ready."
"Very good, Sir Clifford!" she replied, so soft and submissive,
withdrawing quietly. But every rebuff stored up new energy of will in
her.
When he rang, after a time, she would appear at once. And then he
would say:
"I think I'd rather you shaved me this morning."
Her heart gave a little thrill, and she replied with extra softness:
"Very good, Sir Clifford!"
She was very deft, with a soft, lingering touch, a little slow. At first he
had resented the infinitely soft touch of her fingers on his face. But
now he liked it, with a growing voluptuousness. He let her shave him
nearly every day: her face near his, her eyes so very concentrated,
watching that she did it right. And gradually her fingertips knew his
cheeks and lips, his jaw and chin and throat perfectly. He was well-
fed and well-liking, his face and throat were handsome enough, and
he was a gentleman.
She was handsome too, pale, her face rather long and absolutely
still, her eyes bright, but revealing nothing. Gradually, with infinite
softness, almost with love, she was getting him by the throat, and he
was yielding to her.
She now did almost everything for him, and he felt more at home
with her, less ashamed of accepting her menial offices, than with
Connie. She liked handling him. She loved having his body in her
charge, absolutely, to the last menial offices. She said to Connie one
day: "All men are babies, when you come to the bottom of them.
Why, I've handled some of the toughest customers as ever went
down Tevershall pit. But let anything ail them so that you have to do
for them, and they're babies, just big babies. Oh, there's not much
difference in men!"
At first Mrs. Bolton had thought there really was something different
in a gentleman, a real gentleman, like Sir Clifford. So Clifford had got
a good start of her. But gradually, as she came to the bottom of him,
to use her own term, she found he was like the rest, a baby grown to
a man's proportions: but a baby with a queer temper and a fine
manner and power in its control, and all sorts of odd knowledge that
she had never dreamed of, with which he could still bully her.
Connie was sometimes tempted to say to him:
"For God's sake, don't sink so horribly into the hands of that woman!"
But she found she didn't care for him enough to say it, in the long
run.
It was still their habit to spend the evening together, till ten o'clock.
Then they would talk, or read together, or go over his manuscript.
But the thrill had gone out of it. She was bored by his manuscripts.
But she still dutifully typed them out for him. But in time Mrs. Bolton
would do even that.
For Connie had suggested to Mrs. Bolton that she should learn to
use a typewriter. And Mrs. Bolton, always ready, had begun at once,
and practised assiduously. So now Clifford would sometimes dictate
a letter to her, and she would take it down rather slowly, but correctly.
And he was very patient spelling for her the difficult words, or the
occasional phrases in French. She was so thrilled, it was almost a
pleasure to instruct her.
Now Connie would sometimes plead a headache as an excuse for
going up to her room after dinner.
"Perhaps Mrs. Bolton will play piquet with you," she said to Clifford.
"Oh, I shall be perfectly all right. You go to your own room and rest,
darling."
But no sooner had she gone, than he rang for Mrs. Bolton, and
asked her to take a hand at piquet or bezique, or even chess. He
had taught her all these games. And Connie found it curiously
objectionable to see Mrs. Bolton, flushed and tremulous like a little
girl, touching her queen or her knight with uncertain fingers, then
drawing away again. And Clifford, faintly smiling with a half-teasing
superiority, saying to her:
"You must say j'adoube!"
She looked up at him with bright, startled eyes, then murmured
shyly, obediently:
"J'adoube!"
Yes, he was educating her. And he enjoyed it, it gave him a sense of
power. And she was thrilled. She was coming bit by bit into
possession of all that the gentry knew, all that made them upper
class: apart from the money. That thrilled her. And at the same time,
she was making him want to have her there with him. It was a subtle
deep flattery to him, her genuine thrill.
To Connie, Clifford seemed to be coming out in his true colours: a
little vulgar, a little common, and uninspired; rather fat. Ivy Bolton's
tricks and humble bossiness were also only too transparent. But
Connie did wonder at the genuine thrill which the woman got out of
Clifford. To say she was in love with him would be putting it wrongly.
She was thrilled by her contact with a man of the upper class, this
titled gentleman, this author who could write books and poems, and
whose photograph appeared in the illustrated newspapers. She was
thrilled to a weird passion. And his "educating" her roused in her a
passion of excitement and response much deeper than any love
affair could have done. In truth, the very fact that there could be no
love affair left her free to thrill to her very marrow with this other
passion, the peculiar passion of knowing, knowing as he knew.
There was no mistake that the woman was in some way in love with
him: whatever force we give to the word love. She looked so
handsome and so young, and her grey eyes were sometimes
marvellous. At the same time, there was a lurking soft satisfaction
about her, even of triumph, and private satisfaction. Ugh, that private
satisfaction! How Connie loathed it!
But no wonder Clifford was caught by the woman! She absolutely
adored him, in her persistent fashion, and put herself absolutely at
his service, for him to use as he liked. No wonder he was flattered!
Connie heard long conversations going on between the two. Or
rather, it was mostly Mrs. Bolton talking. She had unloosed to him
the stream of gossip about Tevershall village. It was more than
gossip. It was Mrs. Gaskell and George Eliot and Miss Mitford all
rolled in one with a great deal more, that these women left out. Once
started, Mrs. Bolton was better than any book, about the lives of the
people. She knew them all so intimately, and had such a peculiar,
flamey zest in all their affairs, it was wonderful, if just a trifle
humiliating to listen to her. At first she had not ventured to "talk
Tevershall," as she called it, to Clifford. But once started, it went.
Clifford was listening for "material," and he found it in plenty. Connie
realised that his so-called genius was just this: a perspicuous talent
for personal gossip, clever and apparently detached. Mrs. Bolton, of
course, was very warm when she "talked Tevershall." Carried away,
in fact. And it was marvellous, the things that happened and that she
knew about. She would have run to dozens of volumes.
Connie was fascinated, listening to her. But afterwards always a little
ashamed. She ought not to listen with this queer rabid curiosity. After
all, one may hear the most private affairs of other people, but only in
a spirit of respect for the struggling, battered thing which any human
soul is, and in a spirit of fine, discriminative sympathy. For even
satire is a form of sympathy. It is the way our sympathy flows and
recoils that really determines our lives. And here lies the vast
importance of the novel, properly handled. It can inform and lead into
new places the flow of our sympathetic consciousness, and it can
lead our sympathy away in recoil from things gone dead. Therefore,
the novel, properly handled, can reveal the most secret places of life:
for it is in the passional secret places of life, above all, that the tide of
sensitive awareness needs to ebb and flow, cleansing and
freshening.
But the novel, like gossip, can also excite spurious sympathies and
recoils, mechanical and deadening to the psyche. The novel can
glorify the most corrupt feelings, so long as they are conventionally
"pure." Then the novel, like gossip, becomes at last vicious, and, like
gossip, all the more vicious because it is always ostensibly on the
side of the angels. Mrs. Bolton's gossip was always on the side of
the angels. "And he was such a bad fellow, and she was such a nice
woman." Whereas, as Connie could see even from Mrs. Bolton's
gossip, the woman had been merely a mealy-mouthed sort, and the
man angrily honest. But angry honesty made a "bad man" of him,
and mealy-mouthedness made a "nice woman" of her, in the vicious,
conventional channeling of sympathy by Mrs. Bolton.
For this reason, the gossip was humiliating. And for the same
reason, most novels, especially popular ones, are humiliating too.
The public responds now only to an appeal to its vices.
Nevertheless, one got a new vision of Tevershall village from Mrs.
Bolton's talk. A terrible, seething welter of ugly life it seemed: not at
all the flat drabness it looked from outside. Clifford of course knew by
sight most of the people mentioned, Connie knew only one or two.
But it sounded really more like a Central African jungle than English
village.
"I suppose you heard as Miss Allsopp was married last week! Would
you ever! Miss Allsopp, old James's daughter, the boot-and-shoe
Allsopp. You know they built a house up at Pye Croft. The old man
died last year from a fall: eighty-three, he was, an' nimble as a lad.
An' then he slipped on Bestwood Hill, on a slide as the lads 'ad made
last winter, an' broke his thigh, and that finished him, poor old man, it
did seem a shame. Well he left all his money to Tattie: didn't leave
the boys a penny. And Tattie, I know, is five years—yes, she's fifty-
three last autumn. And you know they were such Chapel people, my
word! She taught Sunday School for thirty years, till her father died.
And then she started carrying on with a fellow from Kinbrook, I don't
know if you know him, an oldish fellow with a red nose, rather
dandified, Willcock, 'as works in Harison's woodyard. Well, he's sixty-
five if he's a day, yet you'd have thought they were a pair of young
turtle-doves, to see them, arm in arm, and kissing at the gate: yes,
an' she sitting on his knee right in the bay window on Pye Croft
Road, for anybody to see. And he's got sons over forty: only lost his
wife two years ago. If old James Allsopp hasn't risen from his grave,
it's because there is no rising: for he kept her that strict! Now they're
married and gone to live down at Kinbrook, and they say she goes
round in a dressing-gown from morning to night, a veritable sight. I'm
sure it's awful, the way the old ones go on! Why they're a lot worse
than the young, and a sight more disgusting. I lay it down to the
pictures, myself. But you can't keep them away. I was always saying:
go to a good instructive film, but do for goodness sake keep away
from these melodramas and love films. Anyhow keep the children
away! But there you are, the grownups are worse than the children:
and the old ones beat the band. Talk about morality! nobody cares a
thing. Folks does as they like, and much better off they are for it, I
must say. But they're having to draw their horns in nowadays, now
th' pits are working so bad, and they haven't got the money. And the
grumbling they do, it's awful, especially the women. The men are so
good and patient! What can they do, poor chaps! But the women, oh,
they do carry on! They go and show off, giving contributions for a
wedding present for Princess Mary, and then when they see all the
grand things that's been given, they simply rave: who's she, any
better than anybody else! Why doesn't Swan & Edgar give me one
fur coat, instead of giving her six. I wish I'd kept my ten shillings!
What's she going to give me, I should like to know? Here I can't get a
new Spring coat, my dad's working that bad, and she gets van-loads.
It's time as poor folks had some money to spend, rich ones 'as 'ad it
long enough. I want a new Spring coat, I do, an' wheer am I going to
get it!—I say to them, be thankful you're well fed and well clothed,
without all the new finery you want!—And they fly back at me: 'Why
isn't Princess Mary thankful to go about in her old rags, then, an'
have nothing! Folks like her get van-loads, an' I can't have a new
Spring coat. It's a damned shame. Princess! bloomin' rot about
Princess! It's munney as matters, an' cos she's got lots, they give her
more! Nobody's givin' me any, an' I've as much right as anybody
else. Don't talk to me about education. It's munney as matters. I want
a new Spring coat, I do, an' I shan't get it, cos there's no munney—.'
That's all they care about, clothes. They think nothing of giving
seven and eight guineas for a winter coat—collier's daughters, mind
you—and two guineas for a child's summer hat. And then they go to
the Primitive Chapel in their two-guinea hat, girls as would have
been proud of a three-and-sixpenny one in my day. I heard that at
the Primitive Methodist anniversary this year, when they have a built-
up platform for the Sunday School children, like a grandstand going
almost up to th' ceiling, I heard Miss Thompson, who has the first
class of girls in the Sunday School, say there'd be over a thousand
pounds in new Sunday clothes sitting on that platform! And times are
what they are! But you can't stop them. They're mad for clothes. And
boys the same. The lads spend every penny on themselves, clothes,
smoking, drinking in the Miner's Welfare, jaunting off to Sheffield two
or three times a week. Why it's another world. And they fear nothing,
and they respect nothing, the young don't. The older men are that
patient and good, really, they let the women take everything. And this
is what it leads to. The women are positive demons. But the lads
aren't like their dads. They're sacrificing nothing, they aren't: they're
all for self. If you tell them they ought to be putting a bit by, for a
home, they say: That'll keep, that will, I'm goin' t' enjoy mysen while I
can. Owt else'll keep!—Oh, they're rough an' selfish, if you like.
Everything falls on the older man, an' it's a bad look-out all round."
Clifford began to get a new idea of his own village. The place had
always frightened him, but he had thought it more or less stable.
Now—?
"Is there much socialism, bolshevism, among the people?" he asked.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Bolton. "You hear a few loud-mouthed ones. But
they're mostly women who've got into debt. The men take no notice.
I don't believe you'll ever turn our Tevershall men into reds. They're
too decent for that. But the young ones blether sometimes. Not that
they care for it really. They only want a bit of money in their pocket,
to spend at the Welfare, or go gadding to Sheffield. That's all they
care. When they've got no money, they'll listen to the reds spouting.
But nobody believes in it, really."
"So you think there's no danger?"
"Oh no! Not if trade was good, there wouldn't be. But if things were
bad for a long spell, the young ones might go funny. I tell you, they're
a selfish, spoilt lot. But I don't see how they'd ever do anything. They
aren't ever serious about anything, except showing off on motorbikes
and dancing at the Palais-de-danse in Sheffield. You can't make
them serious. The serious ones dress up in evening clothes and go
off to the Pally to show off before a lot of girls and dance these new
Charlestons and what not. I'm sure sometimes the bus'll be full of
young fellows in evening suits, collier lads, off to the Pally: let alone
those that have gone with their girls in motors or on motorbikes.
They don't give a serious thought to a thing—save Doncaster races,
and the Derby: for they all of them bet on every race. And football!
But even football's not what it was, not by a long chalk. It's too much
like hard work, they say. No, they'd rather be off on motorbikes to
Sheffield or Nottingham, Saturday afternoons."
"But what do they do when they get there?"
"Oh, hang round—and have tea in some fine tea-place like the
Mikado—and go to the Pally or the pictures or the Empire, with some
girl. The girls are as free as the lads. They do just what they like."
"And what do they do when they haven't the money for these
things?"
"They seem to get it, somehow. And they begin talking nasty then.
But I don't see how you're going to get bolshevism, when all the lads
want is just money to enjoy themselves, and the girls the same, with
fine clothes: and they don't care about another thing. They haven't
the brains to be socialists. They haven't enough seriousness to take
anything really serious, and they never will have."
Connie thought, how extremely like all the rest of the classes the
lower classes sounded. Just the same thing over again, Tevershall or
Mayfair or Kensington. There was only one class nowadays:
moneyboys. The moneyboy and the moneygirl, the only difference
was how much you'd got, and how much you wanted.
Under Mrs. Bolton's influence, Clifford began to take a new interest
in the mines. He began to feel he belonged. A new sort of self-
assertion came into him. After all, he was the real boss in Tevershall,
he was really the pits. It was a new sense of power, something he
had till now shrunk from with dread.
Tevershall pits were running thin. There were only two collieries:
Tevershall itself, and New London. Tevershall had once been a
famous mine, and had made famous money. But its best days were
over. New London was never very rich, and in ordinary times just got