WITH strange swiftness tidings of a fellow’s misfortune are carried by the wind and wafted1 into every willing ear. People are the more quick to receive the news of another’s failure in preference to some small glory that may have blessed some one among them. Save to the generous few, the follies2 of humanity fall like libations poured before the eternal ego3. A man’s so-called friends are his most subtle enemies, for they stand ever ready to stab him, claiming hypocritical candor4 in justification5 of the deed. The world loves disaster even that it may point the obvious moral, smite6 its self-righteous bosom7 and exclaim, “God, I thank thee that I am no fool.”
Now in Saltire charity abounded8 and the milk of human kindness flowed like water. The good news had spread even as a fire spreads over a dry heath before a western wind. The ladies of Saltire were in their element. For when a fair sister errs9, her fellow-women lift up their voices and rejoice in that unctuous10 patois11 that passes for sure piety12.
“Ophelia Gusset attempted to commit suicide!”
Then there was much wagging of heads, much holding up of hands. In tavern13 and in drawing-room the same tale was told, embellished14 with many a detail, colored with many a suggestive tint15. Vain had been Blanche Gusset’s efforts to gloze and cover her sister’s deed. Hirelings are ever hirelings, and their tongues run fast. Groom16, maid, and stable-boy spread the truth. Moreover, John Strong had spoken fearlessly, daring the law. Maltravers had fled, and Gabriel had returned home.
Many an inquiring spirit had analyzed17 the truth, not for the pure truth’s sake, but for the incense18 that might be extracted therefrom to delight the nostrils19 of society. Maltravers had evaporated; his horses had been sold in Rilchester. Ophelia Gusset had gone to Scotland for “her health.” The gates of Gabingly Castle were closed over the emptiness within, while John Strong and Gabriel his son had been seen in Saltire, side by side. The inference was obvious, the truth self-evident.
One of the first persons to call at Saltire Hall was Mr. Mince20, glib-tongued and benignant. He shook hands with Gabriel with much fervor21, like one welcoming a wronged man out of prison. He, Mr. Mince, had never doubted the matter for a moment. Moreover, John Strong’s gold piece had been absent from the plate for many months.
“As a Christian22 minister,” he said, “may I congratulate you, sir; on the wonderful workings of God’s providence23.”
There was a subtle something in Gabriel’s eyes that even Mr. Mince’s complacency could not ignore.
“Ah, sir,” said the clergyman, “you think perhaps that we are hypocrites. As a humble24 and forgiving Christian, I do not resent the thought.”
“The world takes us, Mr. Mince,” Gabriel had answered him, “for what we seem and not for what we are.”
“But, Mr. Strong, is not the diagnosis25 often one of extreme complexity26?”
“Not so complex, sir, to those who prefer to discover the evil rather than the good.”
Meanwhile John Strong had other strategies in view. He had ransacked27 his escritoire, where in the many pigeon-holes letters lay carefully hoarded28. Methodical man that he was, he had sorted the documents through, reserved such as seemed needful, and enclosed them, with the anonymous29 letter Maltravers had surrendered to him, to a certain expert who dealt in the subtleties30 of caligraphy. John Strong had found that the hand-writing of the anonymous letter tallied31 with that of a certain epistle written to him by Mrs. Marjoy for her husband, concerning one of the Hall servants whom the doctor had attended. But the master of Saltire waited for an unbiassed opinion. He would make sure of his weapons before he attacked the redoubtable32 dragon of Saltire.
Thus, one afternoon, late in June, Mrs. Marjoy was darning stockings in her drawing-room when she received the news that John Strong of Saltire stood as a suppliant33 upon her threshold. Mrs. Marjoy sniffed34 at the necessity. She edged her work-basket under the sofa with her foot and deigned35 to receive the master of Saltire Hall. Doubtless these vulgar plutocrats desired to court the serene37 approval of her seraphic countenance38.
She received John Strong with the air of a woman whose extravagant39 sense of “respectability” made her a fit compeer of the gods. Moreover, Mrs. Marjoy confounded staring and red-faced hauteur40 with stately aloofness41 and a distinguished42 air of reserve. She always glared at strangers through her spectacles as though she would demand many and abundant proofs of their gentility before she could deign36 to relax her vigilance. Mrs. Marjoy delighted in what she was pleased to call “a select circle,” acquaintances who were aristocratic enough to be toadied43 to, or friends familiar enough to deserve patronage45.
Without rising from her chair, she extended a bony hand towards John Strong. It had always been her constant complaint that the Hall folk were “so detestably healthy.”
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Strong,” she observed; “I am afraid my husband is out.”
“So much the better, madam,” said the ex-tea-merchant. “I have driven round to have a short talk with you.”
Mrs. Marjoy stared. There was an expression upon John Strong’s face that she did not understand. Moreover, his confident and masterful air irritated her perpetual propensities46 towards tyranny. Mrs. Marjoy always regarded the spirit of independence in others as insufferable arrogance47.
“One of your servants is ill, I suppose. My husband is very busy. Will to-morrow do?”
“On the contrary, madam, it is entirely48 a personal matter.”
“A personal matter, Mr. Strong?”
“Strictly personal.”
“Please explain.”
“With pleasure, madam.”
John Strong, drawing out his pocket-book with studied deliberation, unfolded a much-soiled sheet of note-paper and spread it upon his knee. The doctor’s wife watched him with the sincerest curiosity. As yet there was no suggestive irony49 in the appearance of the crumpled50 document.
“I have here, madam,” he said, “a certain letter.”
Mrs. Marjoy was sitting very stiff and straight in her chair.
“A letter that was written to my late daughter-in-law—”
“Indeed!”
“Containing certain libellous statements concerning my son.”
Mrs. Marjoy’s usually florid face grew a shade ruddier; her manner grew instantly more aggressive, and she began to twitch51 her shoulders, an infallible storm-signal to those who knew her.
“Well, Mr. Strong, what has all this to do with me?”
“Simply this, madam, that you wrote this letter and that I desire to discuss the situation with you.”
Mrs. Marjoy’s first impulse was to slap this stolid52 and masterful old gentleman’s face. She restrained herself from such a physical retort, remembering a certain fracas53 she had once had with a cook.
“How dare you, sir, make such an insinuation?”
“I insinuate54 nothing, madam.”
“Sir!”
“I am merely stating a fact.”
“You mean to tell me to my face that I am a liar44?”
John Strong emphasized his words by beating his closed fist rhythmically56 upon his knee.
“No, madam, I am merely stating a fact. You wrote this letter. I should recommend you not to dispute the truth.”
Mrs. Marjoy half started from her chair. There was a look of such unsophisticated malignity57 in her brown eyes that John Strong gave thanks inwardly that he was not her husband.
“Am I to be insulted in my own house?” she asked.
John Strong ignored the side issue, being thoroughly58 convinced that he had the lady within his power.
“Libel, madam,” he continued, with great callousness—“libel is a serious matter. As you know, I am a wealthy man, a man of influence in the neighborhood.”
“Your vulgar money, sir!”
John Strong smiled, one of those peculiarly exasperating59 smiles that betray to the weaker disputants their own palpable inferiority.
“My vulgar money, madam,” he said, “could easily upset your husband’s trade. Why, by my soul, I have already bought this rented house of yours over your heads. I could drive you step by step out of Saltire, ay, and subsidize a dozen pill-peddlers in the neighborhood. My vulgar money, madam, is not a power to be scoffed60 at.”
Mrs. Marjoy seemed staggered.
“You consider yourself a gentleman?”
“I am an honest man, madam, and I am going to stand by my son.”
“Your son—poof!”
Mrs. Marjoy’s red face blazed. John Strong seemed as calm and undisturbed as though he were giving orders to a groom.
“Let me but catch one tag of scandal from your tongue, madam,” he said, “one single fabrication compromising my son’s honor, and, by my immortal61 soul, my vulgar money shall make Saltire too dear for you.”
“Preposterous!”
“The profession, madam, this noble profession, must stand well with society. A soft answer turneth away wrath62, and a good manner bringeth in guineas. I like your husband, madam, for he has a heart in him. But remember that a doctor is dependent upon whims63, and that your tongue may do much to work his ruin.”
Mrs. Marjoy was a woman whose whole courage resided in her temper. Her heroism64 was in this respect spasmodic, impressive, yet uncertain. She overpowered others by her gift of making life unlivable for those who withstood her will. Her husband had always preferred surrender for the sake of his own peace. But, like most women, when thoroughly frightened she was no longer the Medusa whose face petrified65 her enemies. In John Strong she had met her match.
Thus, after one shrewd glare at the tea-merchant’s obdurate66 face, she subsided67 somewhat suddenly in her chair and gave way to semi-hysterical tears. It was, indeed, an impressive sight to see Mrs. Marjoy weep. Yet there was no subtlety68, no dramatic purpose in her grief. Her tears were the tears of an angry and impotent woman.
“This is mere55 brutality,” she said.
“Of course, madam, that letter was not brutal69.”
“It was an honest letter.”
“You think so.”
“Mrs. Mince and Miss Snodley helped me to write it.”
“Indeed!” said John Strong, “then I trust that you will advise them to desist from such recreations in the future.”
“I shall appeal to my husband.”
“Do so, madam. Doubtless a libel action would improve his practice.”
John Strong, like a clever diplomat70, had taken the measure of his adversary’s resources. He had frightened her sufficiently71 to prove that he was in grim earnest. Being no mere bovine72 bully73, he adapted his methods to the exigencies74 of the situation, and proffered75 the lady a chance to regain76 her dignity.
“A year ago,” he began, “you probably believed that letter to be honest and sincere. But being a woman of sense, you will doubtless acknowledge that one’s opinions must change when new facts have been brought to light.”
Mrs. Marjoy mopped her glasses.
“I may have been mistaken,” she confessed.
“Of course, of course. We all make mistakes in life. You must pardon me if I have seemed over hard with you. Put yourself in my place, madam. Imagine how you would feel if a child of your own had suffered great wrong.”
Mrs. Marjoy’s tears still flowed. She swayed to and fro in her chair and dabbed77 her red face with her crumpled handkerchief. John Strong rose and prepared to depart.
“Come, madam,” he said, “I think we have talked sufficiently to bridge an understanding between us in this matter. Remember that facts are proving that my son is not the scoundrel you once believed him to be. Whether he was a fool or not, such a question is beyond the immediate78 issue. Now let me suggest to you that your course of action is plain.”
“Plain, Mr. Strong!”
“Respect the truth, madam, and I will respect your sex. May we be good friends in the future, for straight speaking does nobody any harm. But remember, madam, that I shall keep this letter, and that vulgar gold is a good lawyer. Also understand that this house you live in is my property, that half Saltire is in the palm of my hand. And remember, above all things, madam, that a woman’s tongue may ruin her husband.”
After the enunciating of such blunt truths, John Strong departed, leaving the lachrymose79 lady to her darning and her meditations80. But Mrs. Marjoy was not a peaceful penitent81. Though cowed and beaten, the original sin still stirred in her, for neither man nor angel can convert a shrew.
“Guor—how I hate that man,” she reflected. So to ease her temper, she proceeded to the kitchen and scolded her cook.
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收听单词发音
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1
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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3
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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6
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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8
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
errs
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的第三人称单数 ) | |
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10
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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13
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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14
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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15
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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17
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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18
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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19
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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20
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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21
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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22
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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24
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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25
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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26
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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27
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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28
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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30
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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31
tallied
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| v.计算，清点( tally的过去式和过去分词 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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32
redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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33
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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34
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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35
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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37
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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38
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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39
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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40
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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41
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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42
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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43
toadied
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| v.拍马，谄媚( toady的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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46
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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48
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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50
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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51
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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52
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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53
fracas
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| n.打架；吵闹 | |
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54
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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55
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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56
rhythmically
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| adv.有节奏地 | |
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57
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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58
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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59
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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60
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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64
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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65
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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66
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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67
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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68
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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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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71
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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bovine
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| adj.牛的；n.牛 | |
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73
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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77
dabbed
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| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
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78
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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79
lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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80
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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81
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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