"I don't think it is a bad letter," said Sir Harry.
"Words mean so little, Sir Harry," said Mr. Boltby, "and come so cheap."
Sir Harry turned the letter over in his hand and frowned; he did not quite like to be told even by his confidential11 lawyer that he was mistaken. Unconsciously he was telling himself that after all George Hotspur had been born a gentleman, and that therefore, underlying12 all the young man's vileness14 and villany there must be a substratum of noble soil of which the lawyer perhaps knew nothing. Mr. Boltby saw that his client was doubting, and having given much trouble to the matter, and not being afraid of Sir Harry, he determined15 to speak his mind freely.
"Sir Harry," he said, "in this matter I must tell you what I really think."
"Certainly."
"I am sorry to have to speak ill of one bearing your name; and were not the matter urgent as it is, I should probably repress something of my opinion. As it is, I do not dare to do so. You could not in all London find a man less fit to be the husband of Miss Hotspur than her cousin."
"He is a gentleman—by birth," said Sir Harry.
"He is an unprincipled blackguard by education, and the more blackguard because of his birth; there is nothing too bad for him to do, and very little so bad but what he has done it. He is a gambler, a swindler, and, as I believe, a forger16 and a card-sharper. He has lived upon the wages of the woman he has professed17 to love. He has shown himself to be utterly18 spiritless, abominable19, and vile13. If my clerk in the next room were to slap his face, I do not believe that he would resent it." Sir Harry frowned, and moved his feet rapidly on the floor. "In my thorough respect and regard for you, Sir Harry," continued Mr. Boltby, "I have undertaken a work which I would not have done for above two or three other men in the world beside yourself. I am bound to tell you the result, which is this,—that I would sooner give my own girl to the sweeper at the crossing than to George Hotspur."
Sir Harry's brow was very black. Perhaps he had not quite known his lawyer. Perhaps it was that he had less power of endurance than he had himself thought in regard to the mention of his own family affairs. "Of course," he said, "I am greatly indebted to you, Mr. Boltby, for the trouble you have taken."
"I only hope it may be of service to you."
"It has been of service. What may be the result in regard to this unfortunate young man I cannot yet say. He has refused our offer,—I must say as I think—honourably."
"It means nothing."
"How nothing, Mr. Boltby?"
"No man accepts such a bargain at first. He is playing his hand against yours, Sir Harry, and he knows that he has got a very good card in his own. It was not to be supposed that he would give in at once. In besieging20 a town the surest way is to starve the garrison21. Wait a while and he will give in. When a town has within its walls such vultures as will now settle upon him, it cannot stand out very long. I shall hear more of him before many days are over."
"You think, then, that I may return to Humblethwaite."
"Certainly, Sir Harry; but I hope, Sir Harry, that you will return with the settled conviction on your mind that this young man must not on any consideration be allowed to enter your family."
The lawyer meant well, but he overdid22 his work. Sir Harry got up and shook hands with him and thanked him, but left the room with some sense of offence. He had come to Mr. Boltby for information, and he had received it. But he was not quite sure that he had intended that Mr. Boltby should advise him touching23 his management of his own daughter. Mr. Boltby, he thought, had gone a little beyond his tether. Sir Harry acknowledged to himself that he had learned a great deal about his cousin, and it was for him to judge after that whether he would receive his cousin at Humblethwaite. Mr. Boltby should not have spoken about the crossing-sweeper. And then Sir Harry was not quite sure that he liked that idea of setting vultures upon a man; and Sir Harry remembered something of his old lore24 as a hunting man. It is astonishing what blood will do in bringing a horse through mud at the end of a long day. Mr. Boltby probably did not understand how much, at the very last, might be expected from breeding. When Sir Harry left Mr. Boltby's chambers25 he was almost better-minded towards Cousin George than he had been when he entered them; and in this frame of mind, both for and against the young man, he returned to Humblethwaite. It must not be supposed, however, that as the result of the whole he was prepared to yield. He knew, beyond all doubt, that his cousin was thoroughly26 a bad subject,—a worthless and, as he believed, an irredeemable scamp; but yet he thought of what might happen if he were to yield!
Things were very sombre when he reached Humblethwaite. Of course his wife could not refrain from questions. "It is very bad," he said,—"as bad as can be."
"He has gambled?"
"Gambled! If that were all! You had better not ask about it; he is a disgrace to the family."
"Then there can be no hope for Emily?"
"No hope! Why should there not be hope? All her life need not depend on her fancy for a man of whom after all she has not seen so very much. She must get over it. Other girls have had to do the same."
"She is not like other girls, Harry."
"How not like them?"
"I think she is more persistent27; she has set her heart upon loving this young man, and she will love him."
"Then she must."
"She will break her heart," said Lady Elizabeth.
"She will break mine, I know," said Sir Harry.
When he met his daughter he had embraced her, and she had kissed him and asked after his welfare; but he felt at once that she was different from what she used to be,—different, not only as regarded herself, but different also in her manner. There came upon him a sad, ponderous28 conviction that the sunlight had gone out from their joint29 lives, that all pleasant things were over for both of them, and that, as for him, it would be well for him that he should die. He could not be happy if there were discord30 between him and his child,—and there must be discord. The man had been invited with a price to take himself off, and had not been sufficiently31 ignoble to accept the offer. How could he avoid the discord, and bring back the warmth of the sun into his house? Then he remembered those terribly forcible epithets32 which Mr. Boltby had spoken. "He is an unprincipled blackguard; and the worse blackguard because of his birth." The words had made Sir Harry angry, but he believed them to be true. If there were to be any yielding, he would not yield as yet; but that living in his house without sunshine was very grievous to him. "She will kill me," he said to himself, "if she goes on like this."
And yet it was hard to say of what it was that he complained. Days went by and his daughter said nothing and did nothing of which he could complain. It was simply this,—that the sunshine was no longer bright within his halls. Days went by, and George Hotspur's name had never been spoken by Emily in the hearing of her father or mother. Such duties as there were for her to do were done. The active duties of a girl in her position are very few. It was her custom of a morning to spread butter on a bit of toast for her father to eat. This she still did, and brought it to him as was her wont33; but she did not bring it with her old manner. It was a thing still done,—simply because not to do it would be an omission34 to be remarked. "Never mind it," said her father the fourth or fifth morning after his return, "I'd sooner do it for myself." She did not say a word, but on the next morning the little ceremony, which had once been so full of pleasant affection, was discontinued. She had certain hours of reading, and these were prolonged rather than abandoned. But both her father and mother perceived that her books were changed; her Italian was given up, and she took to works of religion,—sermons, treatises35, and long commentaries.
"It will kill me," said Sir Harry to his wife.
"I am afraid it will kill her," said Lady Elizabeth. "Do you see how her colour has gone, and she eats so little!"
"She walks every day."
"Yes; and comes in so tired. And she goes to church every Wednesday and Friday at Hesket. I'm sure she is not fit for it such weather as this."
"She has the carriage?"
"No, she walks."
Then Sir Harry gave orders that his daughter should always have the carriage on Wednesdays and Fridays. But Emily, when her mother told her this, insisted that she would sooner walk.
But what did the carriage or no carriage on Wednesday signify? The trouble was deeper than that. It was so deep that both father and mother felt that something must be done, or the trouble would become too heavy for their backs. Ten days passed and nothing was heard either from Mr. Boltby or from Cousin George. Sir Harry hardly knew what it was then he expected to hear; but it seemed that he did expect something. He was nervous at the hour of post, and was aware himself that he was existing on from day to day with the idea of soon doing some special thing,—he knew not what,—but something that might put an end to the frightful36 condition of estrangement37 between him and his child in which he was now living. It told even upon his duty among his tenants38. It told upon his farm. It told upon almost every workman in the parish. He had no heart for doing anything. It did not seem certain to him that he could continue to live in his own house. He could not bring himself to order that this wood should be cut, or that those projected cottages should be built. Everything was at a standstill; and it was clear to him that Emily knew that all this had come from her rash love for her cousin George. She never now came and stood at his elbow in his own room, or leaned upon his shoulder; she never now asked him questions, or brought him out from his papers to decide questions in the garden,—or rather to allow himself to be ruled by her decisions. There were greetings between them morning and evening, and questions were asked and answered formally; but there was no conversation. "What have I done that I should be punished in this way?" said Sir Harry to himself.
If he was prompt to think himself hardly used, so also was his daughter. In considering the matter in her own mind she had found it to be her duty to obey her father in her outward conduct, founding her convictions in this matter upon precedent39 and upon the general convictions of the world. In the matter of bestowing40 herself upon a suitor, a girl is held to be subject to her parents. So much she knew, or believed that she knew; and therefore she would obey. She had read and heard of girls who would correspond with their lovers clandestinely41, would run away with their lovers, would marry their lovers as it were behind their fathers' backs. No act of this kind would she do. She had something within her which would make it dreadful to her ever to have to admit that she had been personally wrong,—some mixture of pride and principle, which was strong enough to keep her stedfast in her promised obedience42. She would do nothing that could be thrown in her teeth; nothing that could be called unfeminine, indelicate, or undutiful. But she had high ideas of what was due to herself, and conceived that she would be wronged by her father, should her father take advantage of her sense of duty to crush her heart. She had her own rights and her own privileges, with which grievous and cruel interference would be made, should her father, because he was her father, rob her of the only thing which was sweet to her taste or desirable in her esteem44. Because she was his heiress he had no right to make her his slave. But even should he do so, she had in her own hands a certain security. The bondage45 of a slave no doubt he might allot46 to her, but not the task-work. Because she would cling to her duty and keep the promise which she had made to him, it would be in his power to prevent the marriage upon which she had set her heart; but it was not within his power, or within his privilege as a father, to force upon her any other marriage. She would never help him with her hand in that adjustment of his property of which he thought so much unless he would help her in her love. And in the meantime sunshine should be banished47 from the house, such sunshine as had shone round her head. She did not so esteem herself as to suppose that, because she was sad, therefore her father and mother would be wretched; but she did feel herself bound to contribute to the house in general all the wretchedness which might come from her own want of sunlight. She suffered under a terrible feeling of ill-usage. Why was she, because she was a girl and an heiress, to be debarred from her own happiness? If she were willing to risk herself, why should others interfere43? And if the life and conduct of her cousin were in truth so bad as they were represented,—which she did not in the least believe,—why had he been allowed to come within her reach? It was not only that he was young, clever, handsome, and in every way attractive, but that, in addition to all this, he was a Hotspur, and would some day be the head of the Hotspurs. Her father had known well enough that her family pride was equal to his own. Was it not natural that, when a man so endowed had come in her way, she should learn to love him? And when she had loved him, was it not right that she should cling to her love?
Her father would fain treat her like a beast of burden kept in the stables for a purpose; or like a dog whose obedience and affections might be transferred from one master to another for a price. She would obey her father; but her father should be made to understand that hers was not the nature of a beast of burden or of a dog. She was a Hotspur as thoroughly as was he. And then they brought men there to her, selected suitors, whom she despised. What did they think of her when imagining that she would take a husband not of her own choosing? What must be their idea of love, and of marriage duty, and of that close intercourse48 of man and wife? To her feeling a woman should not marry at all unless she could so love a man as to acknowledge to herself that she was imperatively49 required to sacrifice all that belonged to her for his welfare and good. Such was her love for George Hotspur,—let him be what he might. They told her that he was bad and that he would drag her into the mud. She was willing to be dragged into the mud; or, at any rate, to make her own struggle during the dragging, as to whether he should drag her in, or she should drag him out.
And then they brought men to her—walking-sticks,—Lord Alfred and young Mr. Thoresby, and insulted her by supposing of her that she would marry a man simply because he was brought there as a fitting husband. She would be dutiful and obedient as a daughter, according to her idea of duty and of principle; but she would let them know that she had an identity of her own, and that she was not to be moulded like a piece of clay.
No doubt she was hard upon her father. No doubt she was in very truth disobedient and disrespectful. It was not that she should have married any Lord Alfred that was brought to her, but that she should have struggled to accommodate her spirit to her father's spirit. But she was a Hotspur; and though she could be generous, she could not yield. And then the hold of a child upon the father is so much stronger than that of the father on the child! Our eyes are set in our face, and are always turned forward. The glances that we cast back are but occasional.
And so the sunshine was banished from the house of Humblethwaite, and the days were as black as the night.
点击收听单词发音
1 harry | |
vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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2 dictate | |
v.口授;(使)听写;指令,指示,命令 | |
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3 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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4 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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5 reclaimed | |
adj.再生的;翻造的;收复的;回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 );要求收回;从废料中回收(有用的材料);挽救 | |
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6 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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7 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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8 ignoble | |
adj.不光彩的,卑鄙的;可耻的 | |
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9 liar | |
n.说谎的人 | |
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10 reprobate | |
n.无赖汉;堕落的人 | |
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11 confidential | |
adj.秘(机)密的,表示信任的,担任机密工作的 | |
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12 underlying | |
adj.在下面的,含蓄的,潜在的 | |
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13 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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14 vileness | |
n.讨厌,卑劣 | |
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15 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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16 forger | |
v.伪造;n.(钱、文件等的)伪造者 | |
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17 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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18 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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19 abominable | |
adj.可厌的,令人憎恶的 | |
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20 besieging | |
包围,围困,围攻( besiege的现在分词 ) | |
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21 garrison | |
n.卫戍部队;驻地,卫戍区;vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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22 overdid | |
v.做得过分( overdo的过去式 );太夸张;把…煮得太久;(工作等)过度 | |
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23 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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24 lore | |
n.传说;学问,经验,知识 | |
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25 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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26 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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27 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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28 ponderous | |
adj.沉重的,笨重的,(文章)冗长的 | |
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29 joint | |
adj.联合的,共同的;n.关节,接合处;v.连接,贴合 | |
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30 discord | |
n.不和,意见不合,争论,(音乐)不和谐 | |
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31 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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32 epithets | |
n.(表示性质、特征等的)词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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33 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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34 omission | |
n.省略,删节;遗漏或省略的事物,冗长 | |
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35 treatises | |
n.专题著作,专题论文,专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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36 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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37 estrangement | |
n.疏远,失和,不和 | |
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38 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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39 precedent | |
n.先例,前例;惯例;adj.在前的,在先的 | |
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40 bestowing | |
砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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41 clandestinely | |
adv.秘密地,暗中地 | |
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42 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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43 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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44 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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45 bondage | |
n.奴役,束缚 | |
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46 allot | |
v.分配;拨给;n.部分;小块菜地 | |
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47 banished | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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49 imperatively | |
adv.命令式地 | |
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