“Pooh! the girl is happy enough!”
Mr. Glynde jerked his newspaper up and read an advertisement of steamships2 about to depart to the West Coast of Africa. His wife—engaged in cutting out a scarlet3 flannel4 garment of diminutive5 proportions (an operation which she made a point of performing on the study table)—gave two gentle snips6 and ceased her occupation.
She looked at the back of her husband's head, where the hair was getting a little thin, and said nothing. No one argued with the Reverend Thomas Glynde.
“The girl is happy enough,” he repeated, seeking contradiction. There are times when an autocrat7 would very much like to be argued with.
“Too gay,” Mrs. Glynde whispered to the scissors, with a flash of the only wisdom which Heaven gives away, and it is not given to all mothers.
The winter had closed over Stagholme, the isolating9, distance-making winter of English country life, wherein each house is thrown upon its own resource, and the peaceful are at rest because their neighbours cannot get at them.
Dora was out. She was out a good deal now; exceedingly busy in good works of a different type from those affected10 by Sister Cecilia. The winter air seemed to invigorate her, and she tramped miles with a can of soup or an infant's flannel wrapper. And always when she came in she was gay, as her father described it. She gave amusing descriptions of her visits among the cottagers, retailed11 little quaint12 conceits13 such as drop from rustic14 lips declared unto them by their fathers from the old time before them, and in it all she displayed a keen insight into human nature. At times she was brilliant; which her father noticed with grave approval, ignorant or heedless of the fact that brilliancy means friction15. Happy people are not brilliant.
She suddenly developed a taste for politics, and read the newspaper with a keen interest. Several half-forgotten duties were revived, and their performance became a matter of principle.
Mr. Glynde did not notice these subtle changes. Old men are generally selfish, more so, if possible, than young ones, and Mr. Glynde was eminently16 so. He only saw other people in relationship to himself. He looked at them through himself.
Mrs. Glynde had taken the opportunity of a “cutting out” to mention that she thought a change would do Dora good. During the three months that had elapsed since the announcement of Jem's death, Stagholme had necessarily been a somewhat dull abode17. The winter had not come on well, but in fits and starts, with trying winds and much rain. She said these things while she cut into her roll of red flannel—the scissors seemed to give her courage.
The Rector of Stagholme had awful visions of a furnished house at Brighton or a crammed18 hotel on the Riviera.
“Where do you want to go to?” he inquired, with a gruffness which meant less than it conveyed.
“To town, dear.”
Now Mr. Glynde loved London.
In the meantime Dora was standing19 at the gate of the gamekeeper's little cottage-garden which adjoined the orchard20 at Stagholme. There were certain women with whom Sister Cecilia did not “get on,” and these were by tacit understanding relegated21 to Dora. This same inability to “get on” was one of the crosses which Sister Cecilia carried in a magnified condition through life. The gamekeeper's wife was one of the failures—a hardy22 mother of several hardy little embryo23 gamekeepers, who held that she knew her own business of motherhood best, and intimated as much to Sister Cecilia.
Dora went there very frequently, and the pathos24 of her way with little children is one of the things which cannot be touched upon here. It is possible that she went there because the cottage was near the Holme, and the way took her past the great house. She had never laid aside her old girlish habit of passing through the rooms, unannounced, to exchange a few words with Mrs. Agar. It was not that she held that lady in great veneration25 or respect; but in the country people learn to take their neighbours as they are, remembering that they are neighbours.
She went through the orchard and in at the side-door, which stood always open to the turn of the handle. She had fallen into a singular habit of always using this entrance, and of glancing as she passed at the stick-rack, where a rough mountain-ash was wont26 to stand—a stick which Jem had cut, while she stood by, years before. There was, perhaps, something characteristically suggestive of Jem in this stick—something strong and simple. She was not the person to indulge in sentimental27 thoughts; she could not afford to do that, Indeed, she often looked into the stick-rack without thinking, but she never passed it without looking.
In the library she found Mrs. Agar, talking to her maid, who withdrew with a pinched salutation. Mrs. Agar was one of those unfortunate women who level all ranks in their sore need of a listener. The expression of her face was decidedly lachrymose28.
“Poor Arthur!” she exclaimed. “Dora, dear, something so dreadful has happened!”
“Yes,” returned Dora, with the indifference29 of one who has tasted of the worst.
“Poor Arthur has received Jem's papers and diaries and things, and I can see from his letter that it has quite upset him. He is so sympathetic, you know.”
Dora had turned quite away. She usually carried a stick in her country rambles30, and it seemed suddenly to have suggested itself to her to lay this on a table near the door. The stick fell off again, and some moments elapsed while she picked it up from the floor. When she turned, her veil had slipped from the brim of her hat down over her face.
“But it could not have been a surprise to him,” she said quietly. “He must have known that there would probably be something of the sort sent home.”
“Yes, yes. But you know, dear, how keenly he feels everything. These highly-strung, artistic31 temperaments—but I need not tell you; you know Arthur almost as well as I do.”
Dora answered nothing. It was not the first time that Mrs. Agar had charged some remark with that weight of significance which, in her vulgar-minded subtlety32, she considered delicate and exceptionally clever. And each time that Dora heard it she was conscious of a vague discomfort33, as at the approach of some danger, of some interference in her life which would be too strong for her to resist. It was one of those mean feminine thrusts to parry which is to acknowledge, to ignore is to admit fear.
“Has he sent them on to you?” she asked after a little pause, resisting only by a great effort the temptation to look towards the writing-table.
“Yes,” was the reply. “It appears that they have been in his possession for some time. He kept them back for some reason—I cannot think why.”
Providence34 is sometimes unexpectedly kind. Had Mrs. Agar been a different woman, had she, perhaps, been a better woman, less aggravating35, more discreet36, more honourable37, she would not have done at this moment precisely38 that which Dora was silently praying that she would do.
“Here,” continued the mistress of Stagholme, going to the writing-table, “is his diary; perhaps you would care to look through it? Poor Jem! I am afraid it will not be very interesting.”
Dora took the little dark-coloured book almost indifferently.
“Thanks,” she said. “It was always an effort to him to write the very shortest letter, was it not? Papa would like to see it, I know, if I may show it to him.”
Being rather taller than Mrs. Agar, she could see over that lady's shoulder as she stood turning over with some curiosity a score or so of bundles evidently containing letters.
“These,” said Mrs. Agar, “seem to be letters; probably our letters to him. Shall we burn them?”
Dora reflected for a moment. She knew that many of the bundles must contain letters from herself to Jem—letters which could have been read from the housetops without conveying anything to the populace. But some of them—almost between the lines—had been intended to convey, and had conveyed, something to Jem. She reflected—without anger, as women do on such matters—that if curiosity moved her, Mrs. Agar would not scruple39 to open all these letters and read them. The packets had evidently not been opened, and a momentary40 feeling of grateful recognition of Arthur's gentlemanly honour passed through her mind. There was about the faded papers that dim, mysterious odour which ever clings to packages that have been packed in India.
“Yes,” she said, “let us burn them.”
Mrs. Agar seemed to hesitate for a moment, but it was only for effect. She dreaded41 the packages, for one of them might contain the will which haunted her.
And so these two women, so very different, from such very different motives42, carried the letters to the fire, and there they burnt them. In the curling flames Dora saw her own handwriting. She could not understand the suppressed excitement of Mrs. Agar's manner; she only knew that the mistress of Stagholme seemed to be afraid of looking at the burning papers.
When all was consumed both women heaved a sigh of relief.
“There,” said Mrs. Agar, “I am glad we have been able to save poor Arthur that. These things are so very painful.”
Dora looked rather as if she could not understand why the painful things of life should be harder for Arthur to bear than for other people. But she said nothing.
“He will be glad,” continued Mrs. Agar, “to hear that it was you who helped me. I know he would rather that it had been you than any one.”
All this with the horrid43 meaning, the sly significance, of her kind; for there are women for whom there is absolutely nothing sacred in the whole gamut44 of human feelings. There are women who will talk of things upon which the lips of even the most depraved men are silent.
And with it there was nothing that Dora could take exception to—nothing that she could answer without running the risk of bringing upon herself questions to which she had no reply.
“Well,” she said cheerfully, “it is done now, so we can dismiss it from our minds. Of course you know that mother is getting out of hand altogether. I cannot hold her in. Her plans are simply kittenish. She wants to take a flat in town for two months, to take Boulton and one maid, to hire a cook, and to go generally to the bad.”
Mrs. Agar's eyes glistened46. She liked to hear of other people seeking excitement because she felt more justified47 in doing so herself.
“Well, I think she is very sensible. I am sure you all want a change. I feel I do. It is so depressing here all alone with one's thoughts. Sister Cecilia was just saying the other day that I ought to go away to Brighton or somewhere—that I owed it to Arthur.”
“I don't see why you should not pay it to yourself, whoever you owe it to,” said Dora. “This is an age of going away for changes. Life is like old Martin's trousers—so patched up with changes that the original pattern has disappeared.”
“Yes, dear,” replied Mrs. Agar, with a vague laugh. In conversation with Dora she invariably felt clumsy and unable to protect herself, like a stout48 fencer conscious of many vulnerable outlying points. She did not understand this girl, and never knew which was carte and which tierce. “So you are going away?”
“I expect so. Mother usually carries through her little schemes, and in his inward soul papa is rather a fast old gentleman. He loves the pavement, and—I don't object to the shops myself.”
“Then you will like it?”
“Oh yes!” replied Dora, rising to go. “Like Mr. Martin, I am not sure that the old pattern is worth preserving.”
“I wish I could go with you,” said Mrs. Agar, holding up her cheek in an absent way for the farewell kiss; “I have not been to town for ages.”
“There is Arthur,” replied the lady. “I am afraid he will not care to leave home just now, after so great a blow.”
“All the more reason why he should go to town for a little and forget—himself.”
Mrs. Agar smiled sadly and waited for further persuasion51. She had fully45 made up her mind to go to Brighton, but was anxious first that the whole parish should press her to do so against her will.
“It will be very nice,” continued Dora, “to have you to help me to keep my flighty progenitors52 in order. Now I must go.”
With a nod and a light laugh she closed the library door behind her, having apparently53 forgotten the sadder events of the visit. But in her basket she had the diary.
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1
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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steamships
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| n.汽船，大轮船( steamship的名词复数 ) | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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snips
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| n.（剪金属板的）铁剪，铁铗；剪下之物( snip的名词复数 )；一点点；零星v.剪( snip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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isolating
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| adj.孤立的，绝缘的v.使隔离( isolate的现在分词 )；将…剔出（以便看清和单独处理）；使（某物质、细胞等）分离；使离析 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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retailed
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| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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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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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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41
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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42
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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43
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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gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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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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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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51
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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52
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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53
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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