It is not, however, to be supposed that Ben was petted or made much of by the ladies whose retirement22 he had thus hastened to share. At first they even appeared to keep him at arm’s length with a reserve which chilled him much after their frank reception of dear Mary Westbury’s cousin. They retired23 within the enclosure of their grief when he became their fellow-lodger, passing him with slight salutations, with crape veils over their faces and all the adjuncts of woe24, and receiving his visits, when he screwed up his courage to the point of going up-stairs, with the dignity of sorrow not yet able ‘to see people,’—a mode of treatment which gave Ben a pang25, not only of disappointment, but of shame, at his own vain hopes, and the false interpretations26 he had put on their first little overtures27 of cordiality. ‘That I should have dreamed they would care to see me,—and their grief still so fresh,’ he muttered to himself with self-disgust. But the ladies up-stairs, in their retirement, were by no means without thoughts of their new acquaintance. They discussed him fully28, though he was so little aware of it, and considered him and his ways in more detail, and with much more understanding, than characterised his brooding over theirs. It was not{v.1-91} Mrs. Tracy’s fault that he was so coldly received. It was Millicent who had barred the way against him,—Millicent herself, whose paleness and sorrowful looks had given the last touch of tender pity and interest to his admiration29. They were mutually mistaken in each other, as it happened; for the mother and daughter knew no more of Ben than that he was the heir of Renton, and were so foolish in their dreams as to believe that he had, indeed, given up all the delights of his former life to live in dingy lodgings31 in order to be near Millicent. He had been struck with ‘love at first sight,’ they thought, and despised him a little, and were amused at the fact, though fully determined32 to take advantage of it. And so strange is human nature, that the mother and daughter would have been as much disgusted and disappointed had they known the complication of motives33 which sent the young man into their snare34, as Ben would have been had he been able to conceive the aspect in which they regarded him. He was a man of the world; and they were of the still sharper class of adventurers living on their wits; and yet they mutually believed in the single-mindedness, each of the other, with the simplicity35 of the peasant of romance. He thought the beautiful creature who had smiled so softly on him, and her kind mother, were interested really about himself; and they believed that he had thrown away all the daily brightness of existence for Millicent’s sweet sake;{v.1-92}—so much faith had remained at the bottom of natures so sophisticated. It was a curious conjunction of cunning and innocence36.
‘I am not going to make any pounce37 upon him,’ said Millicent to her mother. ‘I won’t. You need not look so surprised. You may say what you like, but I know it is fatal to go too fast. Men don’t like that sort of thing. They see through it, though you don’t think they do. They are not quite such fools. You must go softly this time, or I shall not go into it at all.’
‘Millicent!’ said her mother severely38, ‘when you talk in this wild way, how can you expect me to know what you mean?’
‘Oh, bother!’ said Millicent. The profile turned half away as she spoke39 was so perfect, and the lips that uttered the words so soft and rose-like, that any listener less accustomed would have distrusted her ears. Mrs. Tracy only made a little gesture of disapproval40. Even to herself the mother kept up her pretensions41; but Millicent was a girl of her century, and made believe only when the eye of the world was upon her. ‘I mean to take this into my own hands,’ she said. ‘You are not so clever as you were, mamma. You are getting rather old. Let me alone to treat a man like Ben Renton. I must not throw myself at his head; he must suppose, at least, that he has had hard work to secure me.’
‘And I trust it will be so, Millicent,’ said Mrs.{v.1-93} Tracy. ‘Heaven forbid that a child of mine should throw herself at any gentleman’s head! It would break my heart, you know.’
‘Oh, yes; I know,’ said the daughter, with a laugh; ‘though I never can understand what pleasure you have in pretending and keeping up your character to me. We ought to understand each other,—if any two people do understand each other in the world,’ the young woman added, not with much perception of the melancholy42 mystery she was thus skimming over, but yet vaguely43 conscious that even the mother beside her had secrets, and would take her own way if occasion served. Each of them shocked the other by turns, though both stood low enough in point of moral appreciation44. ‘You would sell me, as soon as look at me, if you could,’ Millicent went on. ‘Don’t deny it, for I know it; but Ben Renton is not in your line. It is I who must manage him.’
‘You will have your own way, I suppose, Millicent,’ said her mother; ‘though what you mean by these coarse expressions I don’t understand. What I feel is that the poor young fellow is very solitary45. And I am a mother,’ Mrs. Tracy said, with a little grandeur46. ‘I feel it might be of use to him to ask him up here. It keeps a young man respectable when ladies notice him. It keeps him out of bad hands.’
Millicent looked at her mother, with a gleam of laughter in her eyes. ‘It is beautiful to see you,{v.1-94} mamma,’ she said; ‘it is as good as a sermon. But I am not so anxious about his morals. You had much better leave it in my hands.’
This was how it came about that Ben was so much thrown back on himself, and dismissed from the paradise of a drawing-room where his lady was, to the close, little, dingy, black-hair-clothed purgatory47 on the lower floor, to wait his promotion48. A word, a look, half-an-hour’s talk now and then, raised him into the seventh heaven; but he was always cast back again; while, at the same time, her presence so near, the constant possibility of a meeting, the excitement of the situation, and the utter havoc49 of his own life, kept him suspended, he could not tell how, and banished50 all wholesome51 thoughts out of his head. The mutual30 pursuit and defence, the plans to see and to avoid being seen, the art of bestowing52 and with-holding, the perpetual expectation and possibility, engrossed53 the two completely after a time. It engrossed the witch as much as it did the victim. When men and women have passed the age,—if the age is ever passed,—of such contests, it is difficult to realise the way in which the lives of those engaged in them become absorbed in one interest. Each meeting between the two, were it only of a minute’s duration, occupied their minds as if it had been an event. To watch him out and in, to calculate what she should say to him next time, how soon she might venture the next tightening54 of her line, filled Milli{v.1-95}cent’s thoughts as she sat over her work by the window up-stairs; while the sound of her foot, the faintest movement over-head, the coming or going on the stairs, the rustle of the dress passing his door, occupied Ben like the most exciting drama. It was madness, yet it was nature. The mother, who was looking on with an eve merely to the result, grew impatient, and felt disposed to throw up the matter and turn her attention to other things. Mrs. Tracy was poor, and now that her son had altogether failed her, even in possibility, it was essential that her daughter should take his place. But Millicent gave no encouragement to the vague plans that fluttered through her mother’s mind. She, too, was engrossed, as people are engrossed only by such a strange duel55 and struggle of two lives. And the six months passed with her, as with Ben, like one long, exciting, feverish56 day.
‘You don’t get a step farther on,’ said Mrs. Tracy; ‘you are just where you were, shilly-shallying,—no better than your brother. My poor Fitzgerald! if he had been spared, he might have been a help to me. Providence57 is very strange! He lived long enough to be a burden and take every penny we had; and then, when he might have made me some return—— And it is just the same thing, over again, with you.’
‘Don’t speak of Fitzgerald, mamma,’ said Millicent. ‘I was fond of him, although you may not think it. You worried him till he could not bear it{v.1-96} any longer; but you cannot get rid of me like that. I will never shoot myself. I mean to live in spite of everything,—and I mean to take my own time.’
‘You are an unnatural58 girl!’ cried Mrs. Tracy, with excitement. ‘Did not I do everything for that boy? Tutors and books, and I don’t know what; and then to break down. A young man has no business to fail when his people have done so much for him. And now there is you,—I have spared no expense about you, either. You have had the best masters I could give you, and the prettiest dresses; and now you stand doing nothing. I should like to know what this young Renton means.’
‘It would be very easy to ask him,—and drive him away for ever,’ said Millicent, with a heightened colour. ‘Mamma, I tell you, you are not so clever as you were.’
‘I believe you are in love with him,’ said the mother, with an accent of scorn;—‘nothing else could account for it. That is all that is wanting to make up the story. But I tell you this will not do,’ she added, with an instant change of tone. ‘We shall have to run away if some determination is not come to. I have no money to carry on with, and there is a month’s rent owing to this horrid59 woman; and the tradespeople and all—— Millicent, there must be something done. If you are going to marry young Renton, it will be all very well; but if it is to come {v.1-97}to nothing, as so many other things have done——’
‘What would you have me do?’ said Millicent, in a low tone of restrained passion. Perhaps she was angry with herself for playing so poor a r?le; but, at all events, she was disgusted with the mother who had trained her to do it, and thus kept her to the humiliating work. Mrs. Tracy was getting, as her daughter said, rather old. Her ear was not fine enough for the inflections of tone and shades of meaning which once she could have caught in a moment.
‘If you will listen to me,’ she answered, in perfect good faith, ‘I will soon tell you what to do. Tell him that we are going abroad. You know how often I have spoken of going abroad. If we could only get a hundred pounds, we might go to Baden, or Homburg, or somewhere. We don’t want so many dresses, being in mourning; and, with your complexion60, you look very nice in mourning. I should like to start to-morrow, for my part. You might tell him it was for my health,—that I was ordered to take the baths. And I am sure it would be quite true. After all the wear and tear I have gone through I must want baths when you come to think of it. That ought to bring matters to a decision; and the fact is, that unless something happens, we shall have to make a change. It will be impossible to stay here.’
‘If it is an explanation you want,’ said Millicent, ‘it will not be difficult to bring that about,—now;’ and the blood rushed to her face, and her heart began to beat. Not because she loved Ben. It was a dif{v.1-98}ferent feeling that moved her. The object for which she had been trained, the aim of her life, had come so near to her,—in a day, in an hour, in a few minutes more, if it came to that, she might be a changed creature, with all that was wretched banished from her, and all that was good made possible. She might be, instead of a poor girl, immersed in all the shameful61 shifts of dishonest poverty, a rich man’s bride, fearing no demand, above all tricks, with honourable62 plenty in her hands and about her. What a change it would be! The chance of leaping at one step from misery63 to wealth, from destitution64 to luxury, has always a more or less demoralising effect when held steadily65 before human eyes, and this chance had always been put foremost in those of Millicent Tracy. Nobody had ever dreamed of work for her, or honest earning. She was to win wildly the prize of wealth out of the very depths of abject66 poverty. Hers was not the extraordinary nobility of character which could resist the influences of such training. She was demoralised by it. Ben Renton was to her a prize in the lottery67 which she might win and be rich and splendid and exalted68 for ever,—or which she might lose in mortification69 and deepest downfall. It was this which flushed her cheek and made her heart beat. Not because he was a man who loved her. And yet something not mercenary, something like nature, had been in the vague intercourse70 between the two,—the man’s advances, the woman’s retreat from them and{v.1-99} interest in them. Alas71! Millicent had been wooed, and had done her best to attract and fascinate before. It was a trade to her. She lighted up into a gambler’s flush of excitement now when the crisis was so near.
‘Then let it come,’ said Mrs. Tracy; ‘it is time after six months of nonsense. I never knew a young man before who would be kept off and on so long, living in such a hole, out of those lovely rooms. And, by-the-bye, I wonder why he wants to sell those sweet cabinets. Getting rid of his chambers72 one can understand. Perhaps it is for some racing73 debt or something; but he must not be allowed to do it. If the family should make themselves disagreeable, Millicent, I hope I can trust to your good sense. Of course they must come round in the end.’
‘You may trust me, mamma,’ said Millicent, with a smile; and her mother came round to her and kissed her, as she might have kissed her had she been on her way to draw the fateful ticket at a lottery.
‘Now, mind you have your wits about you,’ Mrs. Tracy said.
It was the afternoon of a spring day, rather cold but bright, and a remnant of dusty fire, half choked with ashes, was in the grate. Millicent trembled as she sat in her favourite place by the window, chiefly with cold,—for she was very susceptible74 to discomfort,—and a little with excitement. When her mother left her, she let her work fall on her lap, and felt, as many a woman of truer heart has felt, the very air{v.1-100} rustling75 and whispering in her ears with excess of stillness, as if a hundred unseen spectators were pressing round to look on. He would come, and she would listen to him and lead him on, and the step would be taken;—the immense, unspeakable change would be made. A curious medley76 of thoughts was in the young woman’s mind,—not all of them bad or unnatural thoughts. She would be grateful to the man who changed her life for her so completely. She would be kind to the poor,—those poor, struggling, shifting, miserable77 creatures upon whom already she felt herself entitled to look with pity. She would be very fine and grand, and deck her beauty with every adornment78, and win admiration on every side; and yet she would be good at the same time. She would be good,—that she determined upon. And poor Fitz, if he had but been less impatient! if he had but lived to see this day! Thus she sat awaiting her lover. Poor, polluted, and yet unawakened virgin79 soul, knowing nothing about love!
The mother for her part put on her bonnet,—not without a keen momentary80 observation that the crape was beginning to be rusty81,—and drew her shawl slowly round her shoulders. She had been a handsome woman in her day, and with her rusty crape still looked more imposing82 than many a silken fine lady. With a thrill of excitement, too, she took her way down-stairs, with more sordid83 thoughts than those of her child. She was thinking, also, which{v.1-101} would be best for herself,—to live with them and share their grandeur, or to secure a certainty for herself from the bridegroom’s liberality. There are women ignoble84 enough to act as Mrs. Tracy was doing, and still with so much divinity in them as to be willing to disappear, or die, or obliterate85 themselves when the daughter for whom they laboured has won her prize. But Millicent’s mother had not even this virtue86. She was drawing her ticket by her child’s hand;—which would be most comfortable, she was thinking; and it was in the very midst of this thought that she contrived87 to brush past Ben, who was lingering at the door of his room, hoping to see something of his neighbours.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Renton,’ she said. ‘I did not see you were there. Not out this lovely afternoon? It is the old people who are active now; you young ones are all alike, dreaming and building castles, I suppose. Millicent stays up-stairs all by herself, instead of coming out with me. But indeed she is dull, poor child. An old woman, even when it is her mother, is poor company for a young girl.’
‘I am sure she does not think so,’ said Ben, to whom Millicent was half divine.
‘No, I am sure she does not think so,’ said Mrs. Tracy; ‘she is such a good child. But you may run up and talk to her for half-an-hour, and cheer her up while I am gone. There are not many gentlemen I would say as much to,’ she added playfully. Her{v.1-102} playful speeches were not very successful generally, but Ben was no critic at that moment. His eyes blazed up with sudden fire. He took her hand, and would have kissed it, so much was he touched by this mark of confidence, but Mrs. Tracy knew there were holes in her glove, and drew it back.
‘May I?’ he said. ‘How good you are to me!’ and had rushed up-stairs before she had time to draw breath. She turned round, looking after him, with a certain grim satisfaction on her handsome worn face.
‘That is all safe,’ she said to herself with a little sigh of relief; and went out philosophically88 to let the crisis enact89 itself, and buy a little lobster90 for Millicent’s supper, by way of reward to her fortunate child.
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1
robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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3
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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5
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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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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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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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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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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13
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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16
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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35
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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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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40
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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41
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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42
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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43
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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44
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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45
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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46
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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47
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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48
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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49
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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50
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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52
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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53
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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54
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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55
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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56
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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57
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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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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enact
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| vt.制定(法律)；上演，扮演 | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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