The man standing2 by the garden-chair looked down at the face that belied3 somewhat in its aggressive stare the mild method of the girl’s reproof4.
“You are charming, and I—I am gauche5.”
“But why?”
“These functions always make me melancholy6. I begin moralizing the moment I am one of a crowd, an egotistical habit of mine. Please ignore my cynicism.”
“Cynicism, indeed!”
“Well, you see, dear, this sort of affair is such a revulsion. When one has been elemental for an hour or two, these social inanities7 rather try one’s patience. I detest8 turning myself into a species of orthodox dummy9, wound up to spout10 commonplaces to equally commonplace people. Laugh me out of it with those eyes of yours.”
The girl’s mood was not all for peace on the instant. Where a woman does not understand, she waxes querulous, especially if the enigma11 touches her heart.
“You might be sympathetic enough to realize that you no longer have only your own morbid12 humors to consider.”
“Pardon me, I am selfish.”
“So early?”
“You shall reform me.”
Ophelia flashed a queer look at him from her strangely magnetic eyes. A sudden quick spasm13 of passion seemed to pass through both frames. The electric sentiment met—and sparked desire. Gabriel colored under his straw hat.
“You have wonderful eyes.”
“Have I? Well—”
“I suppose we cannot help it.”
“What does it matter?”
The man sighed.
“It will not be long,” he said.
“And yet—”
She laughed—a deep quaver of passion.
“I am much of an Eve,” she said. “If you have any pity, do get me an ice.”
Mrs. Mince14 had prepared a garden-party at the Saltire vicarage, a cosmopolitan15 affair that effectually repaid the neighborhood for courtesies accorded during the year. It was one of those thoroughly16 inane17 and tiresome18 functions where every individual seemed intent on covering his or her identity with a facile and vapid19 mask. People smiled upon one another with a suspicious reserve and insulted one another’s immortality20 with that effete21 social patois22 that distinguishes such gatherings23. Women “my deared” plentifully24 and dissected25 one another’s toilets. Men looked bored and bunched together in corners to talk with a vicious and morose26 earnestness. It was a mock festival in the name of pleasure, where the local culture displayed its rites27 for the edification of the young.
“You should go out and get to know people,” ran John Strong’s favorite dogma to his son. “Mix in society; it will give you ease, my boy, and gentlemanly fluency28 in conversation.” Unfortunately ideas did not bloom under the Saltire bonnets29, and the higher culture was not to be culled30 from the tents of propriety31.
Mrs. Marjoy and Miss Zinia Snodley were partnering each other under the shade of Mr. Mince’s walnut-tree. The doctor’s wife was dressed in damask red, with a dowdy33 black hat perched ungracefully on her crisp, black hair. Her gloves were grease-stained and her unbrushed jacket bore a generous covering of dust and discarded hair. Mrs. Marjoy always declared that really handsome women could wear anything, and that style was a personal magnetism34, and not the result of milliner’s craft. Mrs. Marjoy lived up to the ideal with admirable sincerity35. It cannot be said that in the matter of personal proof she converted others. Mrs. Marjoy’s art was crude and elemental; her friends designated it with the title of slovenliness36. They even whispered that Mrs. Marjoy might so far sink her convictions as to manicure her nails.
Four ladies were amusing themselves at croquet on a neighboring lawn, and the voices of tennis-players came from the vicarage meadow. The tea-table had attracted quite a crowd of votaries37, and Mr. Mince, with his parsonic leer, was running about with dishes of cake and fruit. “He is such a charming man!” to quote Miss Snodley. The day found Mrs. Marjoy in one of her fervid38 moods. The doctor had been playing croquet with pretty Mrs. Grandison, a dainty, warm-hearted creature, the wife of an artist who had taken a cottage near Saltire for the summer. And Mrs. Marjoy hated all pretty women, not through any realization39 of inferiority, but with the zest40 of a being who believed herself entitled to the Juno’s share of popular devotion. Mrs. Marjoy was a woman who never looked in any other mirror save that of confident egotism. At that very moment she was in the midst of a candid41 critique, while her husband was smiling over his teacup into Mrs. Grandison’s gentle, blue eyes.
“Don’t you think that woman shockingly overdressed, Zinia?” she said. “That is the worst of being an inferior person; a woman like that has to rely wholly on her costumier. London people are so abominably42 self-confident. That chit there might really have come from behind a bar.”
“These affairs are always so mixed!” said Miss Snodley, with a simper.
“Poor, dear Mrs. Mince, she always will ask everybody. I believe in lady-like selections. Look at her talking to Miss Ginge; she detests43 that girl, but that shows what a thorough woman of the world she is. We Christian44 ladies, my dear Zinia, have to suffer our social inferiors with cultured resignation. I never hurt anybody’s feelings. It is really an effort at times to be charitable and to do justice to one’s neighbors. But that is the essence of Christianity, my dear. Hallo, there’s young Strong and his mistress.”
Ophelia, with Gabriel at her side, moved across the lawn in the direction of the rose-walk. The girl was superbly dressed and indubitably lovely. She moved with her usual complacent45 hauteur46, the semi-languid and physical egotism that betrayed her fibre. Gabriel appeared melancholy. They were both of them silent.
“Young Strong looks bored.”
“Poor fellow!”
“No good can come of such a scandalous intrigue,” said the doctor’s wife. “It’s nothing more, my dear Zinia. They are going to live at The Friary. Nice dance that woman’ll lead him. Serve the prig right. She’s all vanity and lace.”
“Perhaps they will be happy,” said Miss Snodley, with a sigh.
“I believe marriage improves many women, and then—children. They must make such a difference to a woman.”
Mrs. Marjoy twitched47 her shoulders.
“Don’t be sentimental48, Zinia. I always try to eliminate my own prejudices, but that Gusset girl is a regular harpy. Did you ever see a really good woman dress like that? Ah, here’s James; my dear, you look bored.”
The doctor tilted49 his Panama hat and smiled somewhat apologetically at his wife.
“That awful dowdy has been exhausting you with her chatter50.”
“Mrs. Grandison?”
“Of course.”
“Mrs. Grandison is really a charming little woman,” observed the doctor. “We have been talking about children; she has two such quaint51 little elves, and she adores them. They have not been spoiled.”
Mrs. Marjoy sniffed52; her spectacles glittered.
“You are always admiring other people’s children, James.”
“Yes, my dear.”
“Are you aware of the fact that I have had no tea?”
The doctor displayed immediate53 concern.
“I will get you some at once.”
“Don’t trouble; it’s of no consequence.”
“But Miss Snodley—”
“Of course you will be delighted to wait on Miss Snodley. Bring us one of those small tables. I’m not going to have crumbs54 all over my dress.”
Later in the afternoon, Gabriel, who had left Ophelia chatting with Sir Mark Melluish, an amusing old ragamuffin who reminded one of a walking edition of Punch, unearthed55 Dr. Marjoy from a pool of millinery and engaged him with a casual friendliness56 in a thoroughly orthodox gossip. The doctor knew most folk in the neighborhood; for bad debts had made him vigilant57. He was, in fact, the very species of person Gabriel needed.
“By-the-way,” he remarked, after discussing the possibilities of a local tennis tournament, “a friend of mine asked me whether I knew anything of an eccentric old fellow living somewhere near here; a bit of a miser58, I believe. You are ubiquitous in these parts. I might inquire of you.”
The doctor appeared encouraged; he was in a limp and idealess mood; domesticities had depressed59 him. It was a relief to talk to a keen, kindly60 young fellow whose eyes were full of sunlight. They drew two chairs under the shade of a lime. Gabriel produced cigars. The two men exchanged a species of mischievous61 twinkle that was vastly human.
“Off duty, eh?”
“For half an hour.”
“Rum things, women. Take my tip—make ’em knuckle62 under early; now or never. Are these Murias?”
“Yes.”
“Nicotina is never in a temper. Terrible thing being a doctor. These functions make me sweat. We medicoes have to trot63 round and do the affable shop-walker to the community. Good for the practice, you know. By Jove, we have to salve every soul with blarney. It’s blarney, blarney, blarney from morning till night. My tongue’s dry. Going to be married soon?”
“In a month or two.”
“Fine woman your fiancée, fit to make every subaltern in the Rilchester barracks envy you like the devil. Let me see, you wanted information. What’s the person’s name?”
Gabriel appeared to flog his memory.
“I almost forget it. Gilder—Gildersleeve—Gildersedge. Ah, yes, Gildersedge! Rather a miser, my friend said.”
The doctor withdrew his cigar from his lips.
“By George! yes. I know the old beggar—a regular Silas; lives in a house smothered64 up in trees on the third hill beyond Rilchester—a regular hermitage, like a house out of a novel. You can’t see it for trees till you get well inside the gate. I attended there on one solitary65 occasion. It was the servant. Res natura. I only got paid after a lawyer’s letter. Never been there since.”
Gabriel appeared interested despite his affectation. He had turned the doctor into good grazing land, and anecdotes66 bristled67. Dr. Marjoy had not lived fifteen years with his wife without assimilating some of her linguistical propensities68.
“I remember talking with Clissold, of the bank,” he said, “and he told me that old Gildersedge’s figures totted up phenomenally. He’s worth two Scrooges. And, by Jeremy! he has a daughter; I was forgetting that daughter.”
Gabriel tilted his chair and surveyed the clouds.
“A pretty beauty, I suppose,” he said, with cynical69 facility. Dr. Marjoy, on the contrary, leaned forward and appeared curiously70 in earnest.
“I call it a damned sin,” he observed, oblivious71 for the moment of his surroundings.
Gabriel stared.
“I remember that girl well. She is a splendid creature, and I wondered how such an old slut had been able to create such an anomaly. Poor little beggar, she had the airs of a convent child and a queen rolled into one. And to think of that young thing being penned up with a money-crusted sot and a beast of a servant!”
Gabriel’s chair tilted forward abruptly72. He sat rigid73 and nearly bit through his cigar.
“This sounds Russian.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Poor little woman! I suppose she’s only a child. Her surroundings must mar32 her in the making.”
The doctor cogitated74.
“I don’t know about that,” he said; “women are queer creatures. Rear one in a regular moral hothouse, and she’ll turn out a scarlet75 devil. Bring up another in a dirty back garden, and she’ll grow up a regular snow-white seraph76. I only saw that girl once, but I’ll swear there’s real grit77 in her.”
“God grant it!”
And from that moment the two men seemed to become strangely solemn.
Gabriel left Saltire that afternoon in the Gabingly carriage. He was to stay the night at the castle and to attend a flower-show next day under the auspices78 of the Gussets. It had already been mooted79 by the two parents that Gabriel should stand for the constituency at the next election. Old Sir Hercules Dimsdale was a decadent80 politician and none too eager to continue in the ruck of publicity81. The Gusset influence was powerful, and John Strong ambitious. He was too old, he declared, to contest the seat himself; his pride should be perfected in his son.
The dust flew from the wake of the thoroughbreds that whirled the Gusset escutcheon through the streets of Saltire. Ophelia lounged in one corner of the landau, a mass of intricate millinery, her sunshade shadowing her somewhat peevish82 face. Her sister sat upright in the corresponding corner, with her hat awry83 and her hands ungloved. Gabriel faced them both on the front seat.
Ophelia was out of temper with the world at large. The parched84 and dusty weather suited neither her complexion85 nor her humor. Moreover, the Mince function had been deplorably dull, and Gabriel less the beau chevalier than usual.
“Thank Heaven, that’s over!” she observed; “a tea-and-shrimp affair. Blanche, I believe you enjoyed yourself.”
The younger sister responded cheerily.
“Had some rattling86 tennis and a smack87 at Mrs. Marjoy. Really, old Mince keeps his grass in better order than his parish.”
“Sir Mark Melluish was the only bearable person I could discover. Gabriel, you must have lunched on suet-pudding. I never saw such a bored creature.”
The man smiled philosophically88.
“These functions always addle89 my brain. I am beginning to recover.”
“For Heaven’s sake, hurry up, then.”
“My poor boy,” said Blanche, with a sly twinkle, “see what you have taken upon yourself. Awful responsibility being engaged. You must keep up appearances till you’re married, and then you can be as rude as you like. Only another month or so. Cheer up.”
Gabriel passed half an hour alone with Ophelia in the conservatory90 that evening. Her humor had changed, and the man’s brain was full of the fumes91 of her beauty ere she had ended. Gabriel’s window at Gabingly looked southward over the woods towards the sea. A full moon swam in a crystal sky that night, bathing the earth in mysterious splendor92. A transcendent calm seemed to have compassed the sun-wearied trees. The world breathed anew under the benisons of the stars, and there was no sound to shake the silver web of sleep.
Gabriel crouched93 in the window-seat and stared out into the night. The glimmering94 spirelets of the forest thrust up multitudinous on the hill-side. The dark swell95 of the moors96 ran dim and distant beyond the far spirals of the Mallan. A great melancholy had fallen upon the man’s soul. His face shone white in the light of the moon. The cool breeze breathing from the sea seemed savored97 with a spiritual purity that wounded hope.
Restless visions glimmered98 in his brain. He saw himself and his own being circled in fire that fed upon his manhood. A girl’s face haunted him; her voice played through the moonlight. He beheld99 a figure radiant with a divine womanliness moving within the coil of sin and squalor, the sordid100 earthliness of an unlovely life. Forgotten chivalry101 had stirred his manhood like some ghostly trumpet-cry out of the past. He breathed out aspirations102 to the stars, dreams fair and impossibly pathetic. Joan Gildersedge! Joan Gildersedge! To dare, to suffer, to liberate103, to love! Life born of sacrifice! Divine passion instinct with the inevitable104 yearnings of the soul!
The castle clock chimed midnight. In the echoing silence that ensued, sundry105 quick-snapping chords struck from a mandolin startled his abandonment. He stood up half wearily, passed a hand over his forehead, stared into space. Again the summons sounded from a neighboring casement106. The man moved to and fro in the shadowy room like a soul that paces the darkened chamber107 of the flesh. Pierced by a sudden flashing pessimism108, he moved to the door, opened it noiselessly, stepped out, turned and withdrew the key. Moonlight flooded from a large lancet window into the long gallery. And was this life! To sow unto corruption109, to surrender the spirit to the dominion110 of the senses! Gabriel shuddered111, but obeyed.
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1
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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inanities
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| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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14
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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15
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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dissected
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| adj.切开的，分割的，（叶子）多裂的v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的过去式和过去分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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28
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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slovenliness
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votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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41
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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45
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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49
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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51
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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52
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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53
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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54
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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55
unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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56
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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57
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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58
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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59
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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60
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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61
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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63
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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64
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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65
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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66
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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74
cogitated
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| v.认真思考，深思熟虑( cogitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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77
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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78
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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79
mooted
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| adj.未决定的，有争议的，有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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82
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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84
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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86
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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87
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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addle
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| v.使腐坏，使昏乱 | |
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90
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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savored
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的过去式和过去分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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98
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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100
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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101
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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102
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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104
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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105
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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106
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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107
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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108
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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109
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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110
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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111
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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