The great Q.C., a big, overbearing man, with a pair of huge burly hands that somehow seemed to form his chief feature, was a little bit blustering8 in his talk, as usual; the more so because he had just learned incidentally that something had gone wrong between his daughter Gwendoline and Granville Kelmscott. For though that little episode of private wooing had run its course nominally9 without the knowledge or consent of either family, Mr. Gilbert Gildersleeve, at least, had none the less been aware for many weeks past of the frequent meetings between Gwendoline and Granville in the dell just beyond the disputed boundary line. And as Mr. Gildersleeve disliked Colonel Kelmscott of Tilgate Park, for a pig-headed esquire, almost as cordially as Colonel Kelmscott disliked Mr. Gildersleeve in return for a rascally10 lawyer, it had given the great Q.C. no little secret satisfaction in his own soul to learn that his daughter Gwendoline was likely to marry the Colonel’s son and heir, directly against the wishes and consent of his father.
Only that very morning, however, poor Mrs. Gildersleeve, that tired, crushed wife, had imparted to her lord and master, in fear and trembling, the unpleasant intelligence that, so far as she could make out, there was something wrong between Granville and Gwendoline. And this something wrong she ventured to suggest was no mere11 lover’s tiff12 of the ordinary kiss-and-make-it-up description, but a really serious difficulty in the way of their marriage. So Mr. Gildersleeve, thus suddenly deprived of his expected triumph, took it out another way by more than even his wonted boisterousness13 of manner in talking about the fortunes of the Kelmscott family.
“I fancy, myself, you know, Mrs. Clifford,” he was saying, very loud, as Elma entered, “there’s a screw loose just now in the Kelmscott affairs—something rotten somewhere in the state of Denmark. That young fellow, Granville, who’s by no means such a bad lot as his father all round—too good for the family, in fact; too good for the family—Granville’s been accustomed of late to come over into my grounds, beyond the boundary wall, and being anxious above all things to cultivate friendly relations with all my neighbours in the county, I’ve allowed him to come—I’ve allowed him, and I may even say to a certain extent I’ve encouraged him. There at times he’s met by accident my daughter Gwendoline. Oh, dear no”—with uplifted hand, and deprecating lips—“I assure you, nothing of THAT sort, my dear Mrs. Clifford. Gwendoline’s far too young, and I couldn’t dream of allowing her to marry into Colonel Kelmscott’s family. But, however, be that as it may, he’s been in the habit of coming there, till very recently, when all of a sudden, only a week or ten days back, to my immense surprise he ceased at once, and ever since has dropped into the defensive14, exactly as he used to do. And I interpret it to mean—”
Elma heard no more of that pompous15 speech. Her knees shook under her. For she was aware only of Mrs. Clifford’s eyes, fixed16 mildly and calmly upon her face, not in anger, as she feared, or reproach, but rather in infinite pity. For a second their glances met in mute intercourse17 of soul, then each dropped their eyelashes as suddenly as before. Through the rest of that lunch Elma sat as in a maze18, hearing and seeing nothing. What she ate, or drank, or talked about, she knew not. Mr. Gildersleeve’s pungent19 and embellished20 anecdotes21 of the Kelmscott family and their unneighbourly pride went in at one ear and out at the other. All she was conscious of was her mother’s sympathetic yet unerring eye; she felt sure that at one glance that wonderful thought-reader had divined everything, and seen through and through their interview that morning.
After lunch, the two men strolled upon the lawn to enjoy their cigars, and Elma and her mother were left alone in the drawing-room.
For some minutes neither could make up her mind to break the ice and speak. They sat shame-faced beside one another on the sofa, like a pair of shy and frightened maidens22. At last Mrs. Clifford braced23 herself up to interrupt the awkward silence. “You’ve been in Chetwood Forest, Elma,” she murmured low, looking down and averting24 her eyes carefully from her trembling daughter.
“Yes, mother,” Elma answered, all aglow25 with conscious blushes. “In Chetwood Forest.”
“And you met him, dear?” The mother spoke26 tenderly and sympathetically.
Elma’s heart stood still. “Yes, mother, I met him.”
“And he had the snake there?”
Elma started in surprise. Why dwell upon that seemingly unimportant detail? “Oh yes,” she answered, still redder and hotter than ever. “He had it there. He was painting it.”
Mrs. Clifford paused a minute. Then she went on, with pain. “And he asked you, Elma?”
Elma bowed her head. “Yes, he asked me—and I refused him,” she answered, with a terrible wrench27.
“Oh, darling; I know it,” Mrs. Clifford cried, seizing both cold hands in hers. “And I know why, too. But, Elma, believe me, you needn’t have done it. My daughter, my daughter, you might just as well have taken him.”
“No, never,” Elma cried, rising from her seat and moving towards the door in an agony of shame. “I couldn’t. I daren’t. It would be wrong. It would be cruel. But, mother, don’t speak to me of it. Don’t mention it again. Even before you it makes me more wretched and ashamed than I can say to allude28 to it.”
She rushed from the room, with cheeks burning like fire. Come what might, she never could talk to any living soul again about that awful episode.
But Mrs. Clifford sat on, on the sofa where Elma left her, and cried to herself silently, silently, silently. What a mother should do in these hateful circumstances she could hardly even guess. She only knew she could never speak it out, and even if she did, Elma would never have the courage or the heart to listen to her.
That same evening, when Elma went up to bed, a strange longing29 came across her to sit up late, and think over to herself again all the painful details of the morning’s interview. She seated herself by her bedside in her evening dress, and began to think it all out again, exactly as it happened. As she did so, the picture of Sardanapalus, on his bed of fern, came up clear in her mind, just as he lay coiled round in Cyril Waring’s landscape. Beautiful Sardanapalus, so sleek30 and smooth and glossy31, if only she had him here now—she paused and hesitated. In a moment, the wild impulse rushed upon her once more. It clutched her by the throat; it held her fast as in a vice32. She must get up and dance; she must obey the mandate33; she must whirl till she fell in that mystical ecstasy34.
She rose, and seemed for a moment as though she must yield to the temptation. The boa—the boa was in the lower drawer. Reluctantly, remorsefully35, she opened the drawer and took it out in her hands. Fluff and feathers, fluff and feathers—nothing more than that! But oh, how soft, how smooth, how yielding, how serpentine36! With a violent effort she steadied herself, and looked round for her scissors. They lay on the dressing-table. She took them up with a fixed and determined37 air. “If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off,” she thought to herself. Then she began ruthlessly hacking38 the boa into short little lengths of a few inches each, which she gathered up in her hands as soon as she had finished, and replaced with care in the drawer where she had originally found them.
After that her mind felt somewhat more at ease and a trifle less turbulent. She loved Cyril Waring—oh yes, she loved him with all her heart; it was hard to give him up; hard not to yield to that pressing impulse in such a moment of doubt and despondency. The boa had said to her, as it were, “Come, dance, go mad, and forget your trouble!” But she had resisted the temptation. And now—
Why, now, she would undress, and creep into bed, like any other good English girl under similar circumstances, and cry herself asleep with thoughts of Cyril.
And so she did in truth. She let her emotion take its natural outlet39. She lay awake for an hour or two, till her eyes were red and sore and swollen40. Then at last she dropped off, for very weariness, and slept soundly an unbroken sleep till morning.
At eight o’clock, Mrs. Clifford knocked her tentative little knock at the door. “Come in, mother,” Elma cried, starting up in her surprise; and her mother, much wondering, turned the handle and entered.
When she reached the bed, she gave a little cry of amazement41. “Why, Elma,” she exclaimed, staring her hard and long in the face; “my darling, what’s this? Your eyes are red! How strange! You’ve been crying!”
“Yes, mother,” Elma answered, turning her face to the wall, but a thousand times less ashamed than she had been the day before when her mother spoke to her. “I couldn’t help it, dearest.” She took that soft white hand in hers and pressed it hard in silence. “It’s no wonder, you know,” she said at last, after a long deep pause. “He’s going away from Chetwood to-day—and it was so very, very hard to say good-bye to him for ever.”
“Oh yes, I know, darling,” Mrs. Clifford answered, eyeing her harder than ever now with a half-incredulous look. “I know all that. But—you’ve had a good night in spite of everything, Elma.”
Elma guessed what she meant. They two could converse42 together quite plainly without words. “Well, yes, a better night,” she answered, hesitating, and shutting her eyes under the bed-clothes for very shame. “A little disturbed—don’t you know—just at first; but I had a good cry very soon, and then that mended everything.”
Her mother still looked at her, half doubting and half delighted. “A good cry’s the right thing,” she said slowly, in a very low voice. “The exact right thing, perfectly43 proper and normal. A good cry never did any girl on this earth one atom of harm. It’s the best safety-valve. You’re lucky, Elma, my child, in being able to get one.”
“Yes, dear,” Elma answered, with her head still buried. “Very lucky indeed. So I think, too, mother.”
Mrs. Clifford’s eye fell aimlessly upon certain tiny bits of feathery fluff that flecked the floor here and there like floating fragments of thistledown. In a second, her keen instinct divined what they meant. Without one word she rose silently and noiselessly, and opened the lower drawer, where the boa usually reposed44 among the furs and feathers. One glimpse of those mangled45 morsels46 showed her the truth at a glance. She shut the drawer again noiselessly and silently as she had opened it. But Elma, lying still with her eyes closed tight, yet knew perfectly well how her mother had been occupied.
Mrs. Clifford came back, and, stooping over her daughter’s bed, kissed her forehead tenderly. “Elma, darling,” she said, while a hot tear or two fell silently upon the girl’s burning cheek, “you’re very, very brave. I’m so pleased with you, so proud of you! I couldn’t have done it myself. You’re stronger-minded than I am. My child, he kissed you for good-bye yesterday. You needn’t say yes, you needn’t say no. I read it in your face. No need for you to tell me of it. Well, darling, it wasn’t good-bye after all, I’m certain of that. Believe me, my child, he’ll come back some day, and you’ll know you can marry him.”
“Never!” Elma cried, hiding her face still more passionately47 and wildly than before beneath great folds of the bed-clothes. “Don’t speak to me of him any more, mother! Never! Never! Never!”
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1
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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2
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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3
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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6
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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7
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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8
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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11
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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tiff
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| n.小争吵，生气 | |
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boisterousness
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| n.喧闹；欢跃；（风暴）狂烈 | |
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14
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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15
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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16
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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17
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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19
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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20
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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21
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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22
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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23
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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24
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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25
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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26
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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27
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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28
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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29
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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31
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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32
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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33
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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38
hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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39
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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40
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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41
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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42
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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43
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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44
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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46
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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47
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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