"My legs! Whoever heared a fellow told of his legs when there was one of them wooden. And as for the perlice, I shall want the perlice to fetch my wife along with me. I ain't a-going to stir out of this place without Mrs B. I'm a hold man, and wants a woman to look arter me. Come along, Mrs B." Then he made a motion as though to run after her, still brandishing7 the stick in his hand. But she retreated, and he came down, seated on the pathway by the roadside, as though he had only accomplished8 an intended man?uvre. "Get me a drop o' summat, Mrs B., and I don't mind if I stay here half an hour longer." Then he laughed loudly, nodding his head merrily at the bystanders,—as no lord under such circumstances certainly would have done.
All this happened just as John Gordon came up to the corner of the road, from whence, by a pathway, turned the main entrance into Mr Whittlestaff's garden. He could not but see the drunken red-nosed man, and the old woman, whom he recognised as Mr Whittlestaff's servant, and a crowd of persons around, idlers out of Alresford, who had followed Sergeant Baggett up to the scene of his present exploits. Croker's Hall was not above a mile from the town, just where the town was beginning to become country, and where the houses all had gardens belonging to them, and the larger houses a field or two. "Yes, sir, master is at home. If you'll please to ring the bell, one of the girls will come out." This was said by Mrs Baggett, advancing almost over the body of her prostrate9 husband. "Drunken brute10!" she said, by way of a salute11, as she passed him. He only laughed aloud, and looked around upon the bystanders with triumph.
At this moment Mr Whittlestaff came down through the gate into the road. "Oh, Mr Gordon! good morning, sir. You find us rather in a disturbed condition this morning. I am sorry I did not think of asking you to come to breakfast. But perhaps, under all the circumstances it was better not. That dreadful man has put us sadly about. He is the unfortunate husband of my hardly less unfortunate housekeeper."
"Yes, sir, he is my husband,—that's true," said Mrs Baggett.
"I'm wery much attached to my wife, if you knew all about it, sir; and I wants her to come home with me. Service ain't no inheritance; nor yet ain't wages, when they never amounts to more than twenty pounds a-year."
"It's thirty, you false ungrateful beast!" said Mrs Baggett. But in the meantime Mr Whittlestaff had led the way into the garden, and John Gordon had followed him. Before they reached the hall-door, Mary Lawrie had met them.
"Oh, Mr Whittlestaff!" she said, "is it not annoying? that dreadful man with the wooden leg is here, and collecting a crowd round the place. Good morning, Mr Gordon. It is the poor woman's ne'er-do-well husband. She is herself so decent and respectable, that she will be greatly harassed12. What can we do, Mr Whittlestaff? Can't we get a policeman?" In this way the conversation was led away to the affairs of Sergeant and Mrs Baggett, to the ineffable13 distress14 of John Gordon. When we remember the kind of speeches which Gordon intended to utter, the sort of eloquence15 which he desired to use, it must be admitted that the interruption was provoking. Even if Mary would leave them together, it would be difficult to fall back upon the subject which Gordon had at heart.
It is matter of consideration whether, when important subjects are to be brought upon the tapis, the ultimate result will or will not depend much on the manner in which they are introduced. It ought not to be the case that they shall be so prejudiced. "By-the-by, my dear fellow, now I think of it, can you lend me a couple of thousand pounds for twelve months?" Would that generally be as efficacious as though the would-be borrower had introduced his request with the general paraphernalia16 of distressing17 solemnities? The borrower, at any rate, feels that it would not, and postpones19 the moment till the fitting solemnities can be produced. But John Gordon could not postpone18 his moment. He could not go on residing indefinitely at the Claimant's Arms till he could find a proper opportunity for assuring Mr Whittlestaff that it could not be his duty to marry Mary Lawrie. He must rush at his subject, let the result be what it might. Indeed he had no hopes as to a favourable20 result. He had slept upon it, as people say when they intend to signify that they have lain awake, and had convinced himself that all eloquence would be vain. Was it natural that a man should give up his intended wife, simply because he was asked? Gordon's present feeling was an anxious desire to be once more on board the ship that should take him again to the diamond-fields, so that he might be at peace, knowing then, as he would know, that he had left Mary Lawrie behind for ever. At this moment he almost repented21 that he had not left Alresford without any farther attempt. But there he was on Mr Whittlestaff's ground, and the attempt must be made, if only with the object of justifying22 his coming.
"Miss Lawrie," he began, "if you would not mind leaving me and Mr Whittlestaff alone together for a few minutes, I will be obliged to you." This he said with quite sufficient solemnity, so that Mr Whittlestaff drew himself up, and looked hard and stiff, as though he were determined to forget Sergeant Baggett and all his peccadilloes24 for the moment.
"Oh, yes; certainly; but—" Mr Whittlestaff looked sternly at her, as though to bid her go at once. "You must believe nothing as coming from me unless it comes out of my own mouth." Then she put her hand upon his arm, as though half embracing him.
"You had better leave us, perhaps," said Mr Whittlestaff. And then she went.
Now the moment had come, and John Gordon felt the difficulty. It had not been lessened25 by the assurance given by Mary herself that nothing was to be taken as having come from her unless it was known and heard to have so come. And yet he was thoroughly26 convinced that he was altogether loved by her, and that had he appeared on the scene but a day sooner, she would have accepted him with all her heart. "Mr Whittlestaff," he said, "I want to tell you what passed yesterday between me and Miss Lawrie."
"Is it necessary?" he asked.
"I think it is."
"As far as I am concerned, I doubt the necessity. Miss Lawrie has said a word to me,—as much, I presume, as she feels to be necessary."
"I do not think that her feeling in the matter should be a guide for you or for me. What we have both of us to do is to think what may be best for her, and to effect that as far as may be within our power."
"Certainly," said Mr Whittlestaff. "But it may so probably be the case that you and I shall differ materially as to thinking what may be best for her. As far as I understand the matter, you wish that she should be your wife. I wish that she should be mine. I think that as my wife she would live a happier life than she could do as yours; and as she thinks also—" Here Mr Whittlestaff paused.
"But does she think so?"
"You heard what she said just now."
"I heard nothing as to her thoughts of living," said John Gordon "Nor in the interview which I had with her yesterday did I hear a word fall from her as to herself. We have got to form our ideas as to that from circumstances which shall certainly not be made to appear by her own speech. When you speak against me—"
"I have not said a word against you, sir."
"Perhaps you imply," said Gordon, not stopping to notice Mr Whittlestaff's last angry tone,—"perhaps you imply that my life may be that of a rover, and as such would not conduce to Miss Lawrie's happiness."
"I have implied nothing."
"To suit her wishes I would remain altogether in England. I was very lucky, and am not a man greedy of great wealth. She can remain here, and I will satisfy you that there shall be enough for our joint27 maintenance."
"What do I care for your maintenance, or what does she? Do you know, sir, that you are talking to me about a lady whom I intend to make my wife,—who is engaged to marry me? Goodness gracious me!"
"I own, sir, that it is singular."
"Very singular,—very singular indeed. I never heard of such a thing. It seems that you knew her at Norwich."
"I did know her well."
"And then you went away and deserted28 her."
"I went away, Mr Whittlestaff, because I was poor. I was told by her step-mother that I was not wanted about the house, because I had no means. That was true, and as I loved her dearly, I started at once, almost in despair, but still with something of hope,—with a shade of hope,—that I might put myself in the way of enabling her to become my wife. I did not desert her."
"Very well. Then you came back and found her engaged to be my wife. You had it from her own mouth. When a gentleman hears that, what has he to do but to go away?"
"There are circumstances here."
"What does she say herself? There are no circumstances to justify23 you. If you would come here as a friend, I offered to receive you. As you had been known to her, I did not turn my back upon you. But now your conduct is so peculiar29 that I cannot ask you to remain here any longer." They were walking up and down the long walk, and now Mr Whittlestaff stood still, as though to declare his intention that the interview should be considered as over.
"I know that you wish me to go away," said Gordon.
"Well, yes; unless you withdraw all idea of a claim to the young lady's hand."
"But I think you should first hear what I have to say. You will not surely have done your duty by her unless you hear me."
"You can speak if you wish to speak," said Mr Whittlestaff.
"It was not till yesterday that you made your proposition to Miss Lawrie."
"What has that to do with it?"
"Had I come on the previous day, and had I been able then to tell her all that I can tell her now, would it have made no difference?"
"Did she say so?" asked the fortunate lover, but in a very angry tone.
"No; she did not say so. It was with difficulty that I forced from her an avowal30 that her engagement was so recent. But she did confess that it was so. And she confessed, not in words, but in her manner, that she had found it impossible to refuse to you the request that you had asked."
"I never heard a man assert so impudently31 that he was the sole owner of a lady's favours. Upon my word, I think that you are the vainest man whom I ever met."
"Let it be so. I do not care to defend myself, but only her. Whether I am vain or not, is it not true that which I say? I put it to you, as man to man, whether you do not know that it is true? If you marry this girl, will you not marry one whose heart belongs to me? Will you not marry one of whom you knew two days since that her heart was mine? Will you not marry one who, if she was free this moment, would give herself to me without a pang32 of remorse33?"
"I never heard anything like the man's vanity!"
"But is it true? Whatever may be my vanity, or self-seeking, or unmanliness if you will, is not what I say God's truth? It is not about my weaknesses, or your weaknesses, that we should speak, but about her happiness."
"Just so; I don't think she would be happy with you."
"Then it is to save her from me that you are marrying her,—so that she may not sink into the abyss of my unworthiness."
"Partly that."
"But if I had come two days since, when she would have received me with open arms—"
"You have no right to make such a statement."
"I ask yourself whether it is not true? She would have received me with open arms, and would you then have dared, as her guardian34, to bid her refuse the offer made to her, when you had learned, as you would have done, that she loved me; that I had loved her with all my heart before I left England; that I had left it with the view of enabling myself to marry her; that I had been wonderfully successful; that I had come back with no other hope in the world than that of giving it all to her; that I had been able to show you my whole life, so that no girl need be afraid to become my wife—"
"What do I know about your life? You may have another wife living at this moment."
"No doubt; I may be guilty of any amount of villainy, but then, as her friend, you should make inquiry35. You would not break a girl's heart because the man to whom she is attached may possibly be a rogue36. In this case you have no ground for the suspicion."
"I never heard of a man who spoke37 of himself so grandiloquently38!"
"But there is ample reason why you should make inquiry. In truth, as I said before, it is her happiness and not mine nor your own that you should look to. If she has taken your offer because you had been good to her in her desolation,—because she had found herself unable to refuse aught to one who had treated her so well; if she had done all this, believing that I had disappeared from her knowledge, and doubting altogether my return; if it be so—and you know that it is so—then you should hesitate before you lead her to her doom39."
"You heard her say that I was not to believe any of these things unless I got them from her own mouth?"
"I did; and her word should go for nothing either with you or with me. She has promised, and is willing to sacrifice herself to her promise. She will sacrifice me too because of your goodness,—and because she is utterly40 unable to put a fair value upon herself. To me she is all the world. From the first hour in which I saw her to the present, the idea of gaining her has been everything. Put aside the words which she just spoke, what is your belief of the state of her wishes?"
"I can tell you my belief of the state of her welfare."
"There your own prejudice creeps in, and I might retaliate41 by charging you with vanity as you have done me,—only that I think such vanity very natural. But it is her you should consult on such a matter. She is not to be treated like a child. Of whom does she wish to become the wife? I boldly say that I have won her love, and that if it be so, you should not desire to take her to yourself. You have not answered me, nor can I expect you to answer me; but look into yourself and answer it there. Think how it will be with you, when the girl who lies upon your shoulder shall be thinking ever of some other man from whom you have robbed her. Good-bye, Mr Whittlestaff. I do not doubt but that you will turn it all over in your thoughts." Then he escaped by a wicket-gate into the road at the far end of the long walk, and was no more heard of at Croker's Hall on that day.
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1
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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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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brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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disport
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| v.嬉戏，玩 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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8
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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12
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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13
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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14
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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postpones
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的第三人称单数 ) | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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23
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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peccadilloes
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| n.轻罪，小过失( peccadillo的名词复数 ) | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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28
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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impudently
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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35
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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37
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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grandiloquently
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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retaliate
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| v.报复，反击 | |
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