‘Well! here we are at home once more, old fel{186}low,’ said Laurie, throwing himself into an easy chair near the window, when the mother had been safely conveyed up-stairs.
‘Yes, a home that always looks the same,’ said Ben. ‘I am not so sure as I used to be of the good of that. It makes one feel doubly the change in one’s self.’
‘These are his Yankee notions,’ said Laurie. ‘I suppose he has given up primogeniture, and Church and State, and everything. But Mary is an orthodox person who will set us all right.’
‘As if women might not think about primogeniture and all the rest as well as you others!’ said Mary. ‘We are the only people who take any time to think now-a-days. Ben has done nothing but make railways,—and money,—and he likes it;—he is a real Renton,’ she cried, pleased to let him know her mind on that subject.
‘And very right, too,’ said Laurie. ‘If there were not Rentons to be had somewhere how should the world get on?’
‘But I don’t care for the world,’ said Mary; ‘and I would much rather you were not fond of money, like everybody else, you boys.’
‘I am very fond of money, but I never can get any,’ said Laurie. ‘I say to myself, if I should happen to come into reputation next century, what a collection of Rentons there will be for somebody to make a fortune of,—Ben’s heirs, most probably;{187} or that little Mary of Frank’s, who is a darling. Now that I think of it, as she is a painter’s descendant, it is she who shall be my heir.’
‘I think much the best thing would be for you to have Renton, Laurie, and heirs of your own.’
‘Thanks,’ said Laurie; ‘my brothers are very kind. Frank took the trouble to write me a long letter ever so many years ago, adjuring12 me by all I held dear to marry a certain Nelly Rich.’
‘It was very impertinent of him,’ cried Mary, ‘and very conceited13. Nelly Rich would no more have looked at you——’
‘Showed her sense,’ said Laurie, quietly. ‘I am only telling you what actions have been set on foot for my benefit. But I never saw Nelly Rich except once, so I am not conceited; and as for Renton, no such iniquity14 could ever be, as that it should go past you, Ben.’
‘You speak strongly,’ said the elder brother.
‘That is one result of time, you know. One can see now, without irreverence15, how wrong my poor father was. Of course we would have been wretches16 had we been capable of anything but obedience17 at the time,’ said Laurie; ‘but, looking back, one can see more clearly. He was wrong,—I don’t bear him any malice18, poor dear old father! but he did us as much harm almost as was possible. And if Renton is left out of the natural succession, I shall say it is iniquity, and oppose it with all my power.{188}’
‘It would be iniquity,’ Ben said, gravely. And then there was a pause. The three sat, going back into their individual memories, unaware19 what devious20 paths the others were treading. But for that Laurie might never have fallen into the temptation which had stolen what energy he had out of him, and strengthened all his dreamy, unpractical ways. But for that Ben might have given the Renton force and strength of work to his country, and served her,—as is the citizen’s first duty,—instead of making American railroads, which another man might have been found to do. As for Mary, the paths in which she went wandering were not her own. It did not occur to her to think of the seven years, which for her had been simple loss. Had she been living at home, no doubt, long before this she would have married some one, and been like Alice, the mother of children. But such were not Mary’s reflections. She was thinking if this had not happened Ben would have married Millicent seven years ago, and that, on the whole, everything was for the best.
They had but one other day to themselves; but during that day the house felt, with a bewildered sense of confusion and uncertainty21, that old times had come back. Mr. Ben and Mr. Laurie had gone back to their old rooms; and their steps and voices, the peremptory22 orders of the eldest23, the ‘chaff’ of Mr. Laurie, ‘who was a gentleman as{189} you never could understand whether he was in earnest or in joke,’—turned the heads of the old servants. They, like their mistress, were upset by the new régime; the dulness of the house had been a trouble to them when her reign24 of utter seclusion25 commenced; but if it was dull, there was little to do, and the house had habituated itself to the monotonous26 round. And now they felt it a hardship when the noise and the work recommenced, and dinner ran the risk of having to wait ten minutes, and breakfast was on the table from half-past eight to half-past ten. ‘All along o’ that lazy Laurie, as they calls him, and a very good name, too,’ said the affronted27 cook. Mary had much ado to keep them in working order. ‘There may be further changes after a while,’ she said to the old butler, who had carried them all in his arms, and knew about everything, and who would as soon have cut his throat as leave Renton;—‘you must have patience for a little, and see how things turn out.’ Thus it will be seen that if the return of her cousins brought any happiness to Mary it brought a great increase of anxiety as well. And there was always the sense of Millicent’s vicinity to weigh upon her mind. She had been looking forward for years to the family reunion as the end of tribulation28 and beginning of a better life; but up to this time her anticipations29 had not been fulfilled. Anxieties had{190} increased upon her,—one growing out of another. Instead of comfort, and certainty, and the support which she had always been taught to believe were involved in the possession of ‘men in the house,’ Mary found that these tenants30 had rather an agitating31 than a calming effect upon herself and the community in general. That she should have more trouble about the dinners was natural; but that even their mother should require to be let softly down into the enjoyment32 of their society, and that circumstances in general required double consideration on account of their presence, was a new idea to Mary. And then it turned out that Mrs. Renton had spoken very truly when she said a man must have something to do. Both ‘the boys’ were in a state of restlessness and excitement, not disposed to settle to anything. There was capital shooting to be had, and the partridges were everything a sportsman could desire; but somehow even Ben felt that partridges were not congenial to the occasion. And as for Laurie, he was too indolent to make any such exertion33. ‘Wait till Frank comes,’ he said. ‘Frank has energy for two. If we were on a Scotch34 moor35, indeed, where you want to move about to keep yourself warm; but it’s too hot, my dear fellow, for stumping36 about through the stubble. I’ll take Mary out after a bit for a row.’ And Ben’s activities, too, culminated37 in the same idea. Laurie lay in the{191} bottom of the boat, sometimes puffing38 gently at his cigar, doing simply nothing, while Ben pulled against stream, and Mary steered39 him dexterously40 through the weeds; and then the three floated slowly down again, saying little to each other, lingering along the mid41 current with scarcely any movement of the languid oars42. They were not very sociable43 in this strange amusement; but still its starts of momentary44 violent exercise, its dreamy charm of movement, the warm autumnal sun overhead, the delicious gliding45 water that gurgled on the sides of the boat, and all the familiarity and all the novelty of the scene, chimed in with their feelings. Ben was pondering the future, which was still so dark,—his unfinished work at the other end of the world,—what he would do with Renton if it came to him,—what he would do if it did not come to him,—all the range of possibilities which overhung his way as the trees overhung the river. Laurie, for his part, wandered in a field of much wider fancy, and did not take Renton at all into account, nor the chances which a few days might bring to him. What did it matter? he could live, and he had no more to think of,—no future which interested him particularly,—no hope that would be affected46 by the tenor47 of his father’s will. Sometimes his eye would be caught by a combination of foliage48, or a sudden light on the water, or the turn of Mary’s arm as{192} she plied49 her cords. ‘How did Mary keep her steering50 up while we were all away?’ he would say between the puffs51 of his cigar, and made up his mind that she should sit to him next day in that particular pose. Mary, for her own part, during these expeditions, was too much occupied in watching her cousins to have any thoughts of her own. What was Ben thinking of? Was it The Willows52 his mind was fixed53 on as he opened his full chest and sent the boat up against the stream with the force of an arrow out of a bow? Was it the image of Millicent that made his eyes glow as he folded his arms, and let the skiff idle on the current? And what were Laurie’s thoughts occupied about as he lay, lazy, in the bottom? Mary gazed at them, and wondered, not knowing what to think, and said to herself how much more difficult it was now to prognosticate what would become of them than it would have been seven years ago, at their first entering upon life. And thus the long day glided54 to its end.
On the Saturday Frank and his belongings55 arrived, and all was altered. Frank, so far as personal appearance went, was the least changed of all. His moustache had grown from the silky shadow it used to be into a very decided56 martial57 ornament58, and he was brown with the Indian sun. Laurie had the presumption59 to insinuate60 that he had grown, which touched the soldier to the{193} quick; but though he was the father of a family, the seven years had affected him less than either of his brothers. To be sure, he was but seven-and-twenty, and had lived a comparatively happy life. But it must be allowed that the Sunday was hard to get through. The three brothers, who were all very different men to begin with, had each got into his groove61, and each undervalued,—let us not say had a contempt for,—the occupation of the other. What with India, and what with youth, and what with the training of his profession, Frank had all the unreasoning conservatism which was natural to a well-born, unintellectual soldier. And then he had a wife to back him, which strengthens a man’s self-opinion. ‘Depend upon it,’ he would say, ‘these Radicals62 will land us all in perdition if they get their way.’ ‘Why should I depend upon it, when my own opinion goes directly contrary?’ Ben, who had been in America, and all over the world, drawing in revolutionary ideas, would answer him. As for Laurie he would ask them both, ‘What does it matter? one man is as good as another, if not better,’ and smile in his pococurante way. The children were a godsend to them all, and so was Alice with her youthful wisdom. For Mary by this time, with three men to keep in order, as it were, and Mrs. Renton to hold safely in hand all the time, and all unsuitable visitors to keep at a distance, and the dinner to{194} order, was about as much overwhelmed with cares, and as little capable of the graces of society, as a woman could be. She had to spend with her aunt the hour of that inevitable63 Sunday afternoon walk, and saw her flock pair off and disappear among the trees with the sensations of an anxious mother, who feels her nursery for the moment in comparative safety. Ben with Alice and little Mary went one way, and Laurie and Frank took another. When she had seen them off Mary turned with a satisfied mind to read to her godmother the Sunday periodical which took the place of the newspaper on this day. It was very mild reading, though it satisfied Mrs. Renton. It was her principle not to drive on Sunday, and the morning was occupied by the Morning Service, which Davison and she read together before she got up, and that duty being over the Sunday periodical came in naturally to take the place of the drive. It was very rarely that she felt able to go to church; and of all days this day, which followed so closely the arrival of her sons, was the one on which she could least be supposed capable of such an exertion. So Mary read a story, and a sermon, and a missionary64 narrative65, and was very tired of it, while the slow afternoon lingered on and the others had their walk.
Ben and Alice, though they were in the position{195} of brother and sister, and called each other by their Christian66 names, had met for the first time on the day before, and naturally were not very much acquainted with each other’s way of thinking. The woods were their great subject of discourse67. ‘Frank has talked of them wherever we were,’ said Alice. ‘I am so glad to bring the children here. If we should have to go to India again it will be nice for them to remember. But I need not speak like that,’ she added, after a moment’s pause, with a sudden rush of tears to her blue eyes; ‘for if we have to go to India we must leave little Mary behind,—she is too old to go back. And I suppose if I were prudent68, baby too—but I could not bear that.’
‘Why should you go back to India?’
‘Ah, we must, unless there is some money coming to us,’ said Alice: ‘you know I had no fortune. I did not think that mattered then; but when one has children one learns. Do you think there will be some money for Frank in the will?’
‘I am certain of it,’ said Ben.
‘Enough to make us able to stay at home,’ said Alice, clasping her hands. ‘It is not that I care for money, nor Frank either.’
‘But it is quite natural you should care. And I promise you,’ said Ben, ‘if there is anything I can set right, that you shall not go back to India.{196} Whichever of us is preferred, you may be sure of that. I can answer for Laurie as for myself.’
‘Oh, I know Laurie,’ cried Alice; ‘but I did not know you,—and then perhaps Frank would not be willing;—but anyhow, since you say you are sure, I will keep up my heart.’
And in the meantime Frank and Laurie by the river-side were having their confidences too. ‘If it should come to me,’ Frank was saying, ‘I hope I shall do what is right by Ben in any case—but it will be a struggle for that little beggar’s sake.’
‘I would let the little beggar take his chance,’ said Laurie; ‘there is time enough. I don’t think you need begin to consider him yet.’
‘I should do my duty, of course,’ said Frank, ‘by Ben, who has been badly used; but I don’t deny it will cost me something, Laurie. A man does not get ties about him for nothing. If I had the chance of a home for Alice and the little ones,—even if it were not a home like this, by Jove! it would be an awful temptation,—a temptation one would scarcely know how to resist.’
‘Then it is to be hoped it will never come,’ said Laurie. ‘I don’t see how we could stand in doubt for an instant. I don’t speak of natural justice. But Ben was brought up to be the heir. There was never a doubt of his being the heir till my poor{197} father’s will had to be read. Therefore he must be the heir now. I don’t care whether it falls to you or me. It’s as clear as daylight, and I can’t believe you would find the least difficulty in doing what was right.’
‘I should do it,’ said Frank, but he made no further protestation. In his heart he could not but say to himself that it was easy for Laurie, a man with nobody dependent on him, with no question before him such as that of returning or not returning to India, and with,—so far as any one knew,—no prospects69 of future happiness which depended on this decision. And Ben, too, was unmarried, and likely to be unmarried. ‘Unless he marries Mary,’ Frank said to himself. Of course if Renton fell to him he would marry, and they had all pledged themselves that Renton must fall to him, and Ben accordingly would sit down in his father’s seat, and bring in some stranger to rule over the place, and Alice and the children would have to go away. Back to India! If that were the only alternative Frank felt as if it would be impossible to do his duty by Ben. The excitement of the moment, and the fundamental simplicity70 of his mind, thus brought him to the strange notion that all secondary justice must have been set aside, and that it would be a question of everything or nothing to the victor. Thus the{198} Rentons awaited, with thoughts often too deep for words, with a restrained excitement wonderful to behold71, with hopes and sinkings of heart, the revelation of their father’s will; and that was to take place next day.
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1
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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12
adjuring
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的现在分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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13
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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14
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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16
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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18
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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31
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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36
stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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39
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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42
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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43
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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44
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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45
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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46
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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47
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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48
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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49
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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50
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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51
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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52
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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53
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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54
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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55
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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56
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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57
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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58
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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59
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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60
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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61
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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62
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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63
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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67
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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