“Earth to earth, and dust to dust.”
Good gold also to the greedy, and the dead man’s store consecrated4 to strangers and to hirelings. Thus Zeus Gildersedge, who had never given a penny away gladly in his life, went to his last resting-place, and, Lazarus-like, lay in Charity’s bosom5, while his child was barred out from before the gates of “the worthy6.”
There was a goodly gathering7 about the grave, for the funeral had excited the curiosity of the villagers. Mrs. Mince was there in black gloves and black bonnet8; also James Marjoy, pulling his ragged9 mustache; also his wife, eying creation irritably10 through her brimming glasses. Mrs. Primmer11, hard mouthed and self-satisfied, stood beside the gravestone of a girl who had died in child-bed, dabbing12 her eyes at intervals13 with a large, white handkerchief. To judge by the dignity of the display, Zeus Gildersedge might have been one of the most respected of patriarchs, a man whose sympathies had fathomed14 the woes15 of many a poor fellow’s pocket.
At the end thereof, the crowd dwindled16 through the lych-gate, under the green chestnut-trees, and by the school-house where the children were at work. Mrs. Primmer, whose tongue had been busy ascribing Zeus Gildersedge’s death to his daughter’s “shocking interference,” accompanied Mrs. Mince up Saltire High Street to the vicarage. Mrs. Primmer carried a little black hand-bag, wherein lay the handkerchief she had used at the funeral, her post-office savings17 book, and several trinkets she had appropriated from Joan’s bedroom at Burnt House. Mrs. Primmer, in acknowledgment of her many virtues18, was to be received once more at the vicarage as cook.
Dr. Marjoy and his wife drove home together, uninspired above their mean level of materialism20 by the miser’s funeral. The suggestiveness of the scene had been lost upon them—the subtlety21 of those significant words, “dust to dust.” They discussed the profits of the case over the tea-table, discussed it with that complacency that had accustomed them to existing upon the misfortunes of others.
“I should send in my account at once to the executors,” said the lady, eying the carpet and debating inwardly how much it would cost her to replace it with a new one.
“Mince and Lang are acting22 in the matter.”
Mrs. Marjoy frowned and fidgeted in her chair.
“How much have you charged?” she asked.
“Thirty pounds or so.”
“Make it fifty, dear; dead men can afford to pay. I am sure you were backward and forward enough.”
“I think it is only fair,” said the doctor, “that one should recuperate23 one’s self from the wealthy for the amount of time one has to waste gratuitously24 on the poor. It is an extraordinary thing, but whenever I get a bad diphtheria case it is always in a cottage, and one gets nothing out of it.”
“I thought the Robinsons’ baby was really going to have whooping-cough at last,” added Mrs. Marjoy, “but it turned out only a cold. That would have been a good case, James; people are always ridiculously anxious about an only child.”
The doctor sipped25 his tea.
“I think I might charge old Gildersedge’s estate sixty guineas,” he observed. “I spared the daughter any inquiries26 about that last attack of syncope.”
“His death lies at her door,” said Mrs. Marjoy, pursing up her mouth. “Infamous wench—attacking an old man on his death-bed. Nothing more has been seen of her; I suppose she has gone back to that young blackguard of a Strong.”
“At all events, Zeus Gildersedge did not leave her a farthing.”
“Vice must be suppressed,” quoth Mrs. Marjoy, with irritable27 unction.
Judith Strong had heard in Saltire of Zeus Gildersedge’s death, but she had kept the news from Joan, knowing that Gabriel’s wife had had sufficient sorrow since the autumn. The same day that the old man was buried in Saltire churchyard, Judith had ordered out her dog-cart and persuaded her father to drive with her towards the sea.
Judith seemed to be the one being in the world for whom John Strong had any sentimental respect. The merchant was a hard man, even as many men are hard who have buffeted28 their way to the van in their strenuous29 and materialistic30 struggle of the day. The aggressive and self-reliant elements of his nature had been exaggerated to a degree that rendered him often offensive to folk of finer fibre. John Strong’s vindictiveness31 towards his son had originated largely from outraged32 vanity and imbittered pride. It was not so much the offence, but the destructive and thorough sincerity33 of the deed that had made John Strong so implacable a Minos. Doubtless he would have ignored a guarded indiscretion. Gabriel’s whole-hearted enthusiasm in consummating34 his own social overthrow35 had maddened his father, to whom prudence36 was one of the prime virtues.
Yet John Strong had a heart in him under all the grim and orthodox materialism that had contracted about his character. Judith could remember the time when her father, less cumbered by the cult37 of gold, had romped38 with her like a great boy. Nor was it imbittered ambition alone that had whitened his hair and bowed his broad shoulders a little those winter months. Deep under the granite39 surface John Strong had loved his son, and loved him still with a doggedness that he himself perhaps would never have allowed.
Judith, warm-hearted woman, had suspected this same truth, and had drawn40 her dreams therefrom. Had not her father, silent and stubborn, watchful41 as some grizzled dog, confessed that he had received rumors42 that had set him pondering anew? There was old Symes, the solicitor43 at Rilchester, a fast friend, who had seen Ophelia at St. Aylmers while he was taking his own holiday there. Had not Symes sworn in confidence that he had seen this same Maltravers with Ophelia, this Maltravers whose name was now linked with hers? Then there were certain of The Friary servants, hired creatures whom John Strong had distrusted, and had taken pains to strengthen his distrust. Some such suggestive hints as these had fallen casually44 to him since the autumn; nor was he the man to throw a hint away.
John Strong climbed heavily into the dog-cart that day, and sat himself down beside Judith, telling the groom45 they did not need him for the afternoon. Judith touched the brown mare46 with the whip, and they swung away down the drive and under the great oaks of the home park. John Strong’s eyes wandered almost wistfully over the rich meadow-land, the woods, the fish-ponds glimmering48 below the garden. Had he not held this for his son, that son whom he had hoped to see more of an aristocrat49 than was his father?
As they went through Saltire they heard the church-bell tolling50, slowly and heavily, from the tall spire19.
“Who’s dead?” John Strong asked, as he saw people moving towards the gate.
“Zeus Gildersedge,” Judith answered, glancing at him slantwise as she drove.
She saw her father’s figure stiffen51 unconsciously, his forehead grow full of lines under the brim of his shooting-hat. His lids were half closed over his keen, gray eyes as they drove on down the street in the full glare of the sun.
“Zeus Gildersedge is dead, is he?”
“Yes, father.”
“His daughter’s doing, I suppose?”
“No, not that. He has been killing52 himself for years with wine and opium53.”
“So. But how do you know that?”
Judith colored.
“Every one knows of it,” she said.
John Strong sat silent, staring southward where he could see Cambron Head and a streak54 of sea-blue in the distance. His mouth was not so implacable as of old, and there was something in his eyes that half suggested to Judith the thoughts that were in his heart.
“Girl,” he said suddenly.
Judith tightened55 her hold upon the reins56.
“Did you ever see this wench? Don’t be afraid of telling the truth.”
“I have seen her, father.”
“Mere57 baggage, I suppose.”
“Gabriel thought her a noble woman. I think as Gabriel did.”
John Strong cast a rapid glance at his daughter’s face. There was some movement about his mouth—the hard lines were softer, the gray eyes less repellent.
“You mean to tell me that the woman is presentable?”
“Far more presentable than I am. Do you think Gabriel would have risked all for a slattern?”
John Strong winced58.
“Then whose fault was it?” he asked.
“Whose, indeed?”
“You tell me that Gabriel is an honest man, that the girl is all that she should be, while the law has declared for the Gusset woman. How can these things harmonize?”
“My dear father, do you trust Ophelia Gusset?”
John Strong considered his reply a moment, like a witness confronting an expert advocate.
“The law trusted her,” he said.
“What is the law?”
“Common-sense, girl.”
“It was Ophelia’s word against Gabriel’s. You believed Ophelia.”
“The evidence was on her side. And why the devil should the woman kick up such a dust if she had suffered nothing?”
“Because that marriage was a mockery; because she did not love Gabriel; because she wanted to get back her liberty.”
John Strong leaned back and stared sullenly59 under his bushy brows towards the sea. Judith knew that he was thinking deeply, and that his thoughts were tinged60 with bitterness, the bitterness of a proud and self-righteous man half moved to confess himself deceived. Had not his own reason uttered these same words that he heard from Judith’s lips, and had he not hurled61 them again and again out of his heart with scorn?
“Judith,” he said, “I would give my right hand to know whether my son was a fool or a knave62.”
“And the proof lies—”
“Partly with the woman for whom he ruined himself. Gabriel was always a dreamer and an enthusiast63. I tried to break him of his Quixotism. That’s where we clashed.”
“And Joan Gildersedge?”
“The girl may have been an adventuress, or a mere twin fool to Gabriel. If I could have that girl’s heart like an open ledger64 before me, I wager65 I could discover who falsified the accounts.”
“You think so, father?”
“I have seen something of the world.”
“And Ophelia?”
He answered with an oath.
Before them ran a straight road. On the left towered a beech-wood, where huge trunks pillared the gloom under the dense66 cloud of green. On the right ran meadows ablaze67 with gold. Set back from the road stood a red-tiled cottage under the shade of two poplars and an elm. The white garden-gate blinked between two yew-trees at the end of a path that ran over the meadow.
Judith drew up suddenly by the roadside and sprang down into the grass. She took a strap68 from under the seat and tethered the mare to a stake in the hedge. Her father watched her with no great interest. Judith had many poor folk on her charity, and such visits as this were by no means rare.
“Come with me,” she said, holding out her hand to him.
“Who lives yonder? Old Milton? You don’t want me on these occasions.”
“Yes, I do want you, father. Old Widow Milton was very grateful for the seeds you sent her.”
“Seeds I sent her?”
“Yes, you remember, for her garden. Come. Jenny will be safe tied to the hedge.”
John Strong, rising with something betwixt a grunt69 and a sigh, clambered out of the trap and followed Judith over the stile. He did not trouble himself to understand her humor, and, moreover, he was busied with reflections of his own that drove Dame70 Milton and her small affairs into oblivion. He was thinking of Gabriel, and of what Judith had said to him as they drove from Saltire. Like a man who had lost his way in a fog, he peered round him into space, ignorant that the very path he sought curled close to his feet.
They came to the gate and entered the little front garden, bright with its flowers. Judith turned off along the brick path that ran round the cottage to where several fruit-trees overhung a patch of grass. Beds of cottage flowers bloomed in barbaric abundance about the lawn. Under a plum-tree was set a table covered with a clean, white cloth, and in an old arm-chair sat a girl reading.
John Strong had followed his daughter round the cottage, with his hands in his coat-pockets and his hat tilted71 over his eyes. He glanced half listlessly at the flowers, as though the opulence72 of his own garden had spoiled him for the humbler broideries of nature. He had no definite consciousness with regard to externals for the moment, and had followed Judith more from lack of thought than from any desire to speak with Widow Milton. Thus when he came to a sudden halt on the grass behind the cottage, and saw a pale, slim woman standing73 under a fruit-tree with an open book held in both her hands, he started, stiffened74 at the hips75, and seemed not a little nonplussed76 by the unexpectedness of the vision.
His surprise was increased the more by Judith’s behavior. He saw his daughter go to the woman standing under the tree, kiss her, and thrust her back gently into the chair. A look, a word or two passed between them. Instinctively77 John Strong had taken off his hat. He stood irresolutely78 in the middle of the lawn, holding his hat between his hands, staring first at Joan and then at Judith.
But Gabriel’s sister had no intention of suffering the scene to degenerate79 into melodrama80. She put a chair forward, took her father’s hat, smiled at him as though the situation was the most natural thing in the whole world.
“Sit down, father dear.”
And John Strong sat down.
Judith had flown to the cottage door.
“We are ready for tea, please, Mrs. Milton; there are three of us.”
She was back again in her white dress like a beam of light, her eyes tremulous, her face eager with the inspiration of the moment. Was not the delicate balance poised81 upon her diplomacy82? She gave Joan one long, loving look, and then turned to watch her father.
As for John Strong, he sat there a man very ill at ease within himself, neither knowing whether to be angry nor upon what reason he could base his anger. Who was this white-faced woman with the splendid hair, whose half-frightened and mesmeric eyes stared at him from under the shadow of the tree? How had she come there, and what was she to Judith? John Strong’s eyes twinkled nervously83 over the half-reclining figure. He was expecting an introduction, but no such trite84 formality released him from his ignorance.
Judith’s voice reached his ear. It was a perilous85 hour for Gabriel and for Joan, and Judith’s courage rose to the occasion. Father and sister both looked to her for promptings, and Judith sustained the burden of it all.
“My father is a great gardener,” she said, flashing a look into Joan’s eyes.
“Ah, yes; I, too, know something of flowers, for I love them all.”
John Strong, autocrat86 though he was, accepted the opening gladly, even as a callow boy welcomes a partner’s sympathy at a dance. He awoke and expanded, grew warm and even eager. The two women encouraged him with that luminous87 interest that a philosopher loves in his disciples88. Mysteries were unfolded, the subtleties89 in horticulture were discussed. John Strong, enthusiast that he was, grew the more surprised at the knowledge this mere woman possessed90. Nor was her knowledge mere book-lore concerning birds and flowers, but the vivid wisdom of one who had waded91 through dew-drenched fields at many a dawn and watched wild life from many a woodland hermitage.
John Strong was very partial to a pretty woman, provided she had l’air spirituel and a certain stateliness that suggested “birth.” This stranger under the fruit-tree was wonderfully intelligent, nor was there anything of the “blue” about her to arouse distrust. What eyes she had, and what a mouth! Who the dickens was she? What a goose Judith was to forget the decent formalities of society. Gabriel’s wife? Could it be possible?
Tea came. Mrs. Milton, in a clean apron92 and cap, beamed upon them like a ruddy cottage rose, honest and uncultivated.
Joan drew to the table, and John Strong watched her white, delicate hands hovering93 over the cups. He had grown silent of a sudden—thoughtful, restless. Joan’s eyes wavered up to his, large, limpid94, and entreating95.
“May I give you sugar?”
“Three lumps, please.”
“Cream?”
“Cream, thank you.”
“Won’t you sit in the shade. It is such a glare out there in the sun.”
John Strong edged his chair under the tree, while Judith watched him, smiling out of her dark eyes. It was all very simple, yet very strange. She wondered what thoughts were working in her father’s brain.
Half an hour passed, smoothly96 enough, and then came the leave-taking. Joan, very pale and a little defiant97 for all her wistfulness, stood up and looked into John Strong’s face. The gray eyes and the blue ones met and challenged each other steadily98. Judith was watching Joan as a mother watches a child taking the first step on the stair of fame. It was Joan’s instinct that triumphed in that moment. She went straight up to John Strong, put up her mouth to him to be kissed.
And John Strong kissed her.
“Thank you,” was all she said.
As for Gabriel’s father, he spoke99 never a word as he drove home with Judith towards Saltire. His daughter watched him, biding100 her time, wondering whether he were angry or not, and what would follow if his pride should prove too strong.
It was not till he had entered his own lodge101 gates that John Strong spoke to Judith of the woman he had met at the cottage.
“Is she—?” he said.
“Yes—Gabriel’s wife.”
John Strong was silent again for fully47 a minute. Then he asked Joan a single question.
“Was this a plant?”
His daughter looked him full in the face.
“No, father,” she said; “I did not know we should drive there till after we heard the death-bell tolling.”
“This is the truth?”
“Have I ever lied to you in my life?”
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收听单词发音
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1
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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3
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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4
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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5
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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7
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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8
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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primmer
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| adj.循规蹈矩的( prim的比较级 )；整洁的；（人）一本正经 | |
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12
dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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13
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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15
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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recuperate
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| v.恢复 | |
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gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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consummating
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| v.使结束( consummate的现在分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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38
romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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39
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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40
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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42
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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43
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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44
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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45
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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46
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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48
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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49
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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50
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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51
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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52
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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53
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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54
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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55
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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56
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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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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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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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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biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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