When Dora returned to Stagholme a fortnight later she was relieved to find that Arthur had not yet come down from Cambridge.
It is a strange thing that in the spring-time those who are happy—pro tempore, of course, we know all that—are happier, while those who carry something with them find the burden heavier. Stagholme in the spring came as a sort of shock to Dora. There were certain adjuncts to the growth of things which gave her actual pain. After dinner, the first night, she walked across the garden to the beechwood, but before long she came back again. There is a scent3 in beech2 forests in the spring which is like no other scent on earth, and Dora found that she could not stand it.
Her father and mother were sitting in the drawing-room with open windows, for it was a warm May that year. She came in through the falling curtains, and something warned her to keep her face averted4 from the furtive5 glance of her mother's eyes. She had learnt something of the world during her brief season in town, and one of the lessons had been that the world sees more than is often credited to it.
“The worst,” she said cheerfully, “of a season in town is that it makes one feel aged6 and experienced. Middle age came upon me suddenly, just now, in the garden.”
Mr. Glynde was looking at her almost critically over his newspaper.
“Twenty-five.”
In some indefinite way the question jarred horribly. Dora was conscious of a faint doubt in the infallibility of her father's judgment8. She knew that in a worldly sense he was more experienced, more thoughtful, cleverer than her mother, but in some ways she inclined towards the maternal9 opinion on questions connected with herself.
At this moment Mrs. Glynde was called from the room, and went reluctantly, feeling that the time was unpropitious.
Mr. Glynde's life had been eminently10 uneventful. Prosperous, happy in a half-hearted, almost negative, way, somewhat selfish, he had never known hardship, had never faced adversity. It is such men as this who love what they call a serious talk, summoning the subject thereof with exaggerated gravity to a study, making a point of the mise en scène, and finally saying nothing that could not have been spoken in course of ordinary conversation.
Dora detected the odour of a serious talk in the atmosphere, and she found that something had taken away the awe11 which such conversations had hitherto inspired. It may have been the season in town, but it was more probably that confidence which comes from the knowledge of the world. There were things in life of which she consciously knew more than her father, and one of these was sorrow. There is nothing that gives so much confidence as the knowledge that the worst possible has happened. It raises one above the petty worries of daily existence.
Dora knew that her acquaintance with sorrow was more intimate, more thorough, than that of her father, who sat looking as if the hangman were at the door. She awaited the serious talk with some apprehension12, but none of that almost paralysing awe which she had known in childhood.
“I am getting an old man,” he said, with supreme13 egotism, “and you cannot expect to have me with you much longer.”
“But I do expect it,” replied Dora cheerfully. “I am sorry to disappoint you, papa, but I do expect it most decidedly.”
This rather spoilt the lugubrious14 gravity of the situation.
“Well, thank Heaven! I am a hearty15 man yet,” admitted the Rector rather more hopefully; “but still you cannot expect to have your parents with you all your life, you know.”
“I should look much more happily into the future,” replied the Rector, with the deliberation of the domestic autocrat17, “if I knew that you had a good husband to take care of you.”
In a flash of thought Dora traced it all back to Arthur, through Mrs. Agar; and her would-be lover fell still further in her estimation. He seemed to be fated to show himself at every turn the very antitype to her ideal.
“Ah,” she laughed, “but suppose I got a bad one? You are always saying that marriage is a lottery18, and I don't believe the remark is original. Suppose I drew a blank; fancy being married to a blank! Or I might do worse. I might draw minus something—minus brains, for instance. They are in the lottery, for I have seen them, nicely done up in faultless linen—both blanks and worse.”
She turned away towards the window, and the moment her face was averted it changed suddenly. The face that looked out towards the beech-wood, where the shadows were creeping from the darkening east, was piteous, terror-stricken, driven.
It is an ever-living question why people—honest, well-meaning parents and others—should be set to ride rough-shod over all that is best and purest in the human mind.
The Rector went on, in his calmly self-satisfied voice, with a fatuous19 ignorance of what he was doing which must have made the very angels wince20.
“A great many girls,” he said, “have thrown away a chance of happiness merely to serve a passing fancy. Mind you don't do that.”
She gave a little laugh, quite natural and easy, but her face was grave, and more.
“I do not think there is any fear of that,” she replied lightly. “You must confess, papa, that I have always displayed a remarkable21 capacity for the management of my own affairs—with the assistance of Sister Cecilia, bien entendu.”
This was rather a forlorn hope, but Dora was driven into a corner. The Rector was in the habit of preaching a good methodical sermon, and usually finished up somewhere in the neighbourhood of the text from whence he started. He allowed himself to deviate22, but he never turned his back upon his text and went for a vague ramble23 through scriptural meadows, as some have been heard to do. He deviated24 on this occasion for a moment, but never lost sight of the main question.
“Sister Cecilia,” he said, “is a busybody, and, like all busybodies, a fool. It is always people who cannot manage their own affairs who are so anxious to help their neighbours. I have no doubt that you are as capable of looking after yourself as any girl; but, child, you must remember that experience goes a long way in the world, and in the nature of things I must know better than you.”
“Of course you do, papa dear. I know that.”
But she did not know it, and he knew that she did not. This knowledge is certain to come, sooner or later, to men and women who have lived for themselves and in themselves alone. They are mental hermits25, whose opinion of things connected with the lives of others cannot well be of value because they have only studied their own existences.
The Rector of Stagholme suddenly became aware of this. He suddenly found that his advice was no longer law. There are plenty of us ready to confess that we cannot play billiards26 or whist or polo, but no man likes it to be known that he cannot play the game of life. Mr. Glynde did not like this subtle feeling of incompetency27. He prided himself on being a man of the world, and frequently applied28 the vague term to himself. We are all men of a world, but it depends upon the size of that world as to what value our citizenship29 may be. Mr. Glynde's world had always been the Reverend Thomas Glynde. He knew nothing of Dora's world, and lost his way as soon as he set his foot therein. But rather than make inquiries30 he thought to support paternal31 dignity by going further.
“It is,” he said, with inevitable32 egotism, “unnecessary for me to tell you that I have only your interests at heart.”
“Quite, papa dear. But do not let us talk about these horrid33 things. I am quite happy at home, and I do not want to go away from it. There is nowhere in the world where I should sooner be than here, even taking into consideration the fact that you are sometimes the most dismal34 old gentleman on the face of the earth.”
“Well,” he answered, with a grim smile, “I am sure I have enough to make me dismal. I am thankful to say that there will be no difficulty about money. You will be well enough off to have all that you might desire. But wealth is not all that a woman wants. She cannot turn it to the same account as a man. She wants position, a household, a husband. Otherwise the world only makes use of her; she is a prey35 to charity humbugs36 and bad people who do good works badly. I am not speaking as a parson, but as a man of the world.”
“Then,” she said, “as a parson, tell me if it would not be wrong to marry a man for whom one did not care, just for the sake of these things—a household and a husband.”
“Of course it would,” answered Mr. Glynde. “And that is a wrong which is usually punished in this life. But there are cases where it is difficult to say whether there be love or not. Unless you actually despise or hate a man, you may come to care for him.”
“And in the meantime the position and the advantages mentioned are worth seizing?”
“So says the world,” admitted Mr. Glynde.
“And what says the parson?”
She went to him and laid her two arms upon his broad chest, standing37 behind him as he sat in his arm-chair and looking down affectionately upon his averted face.
“And what says the parson?” she repeated, with a loving tap of her fingers on his breast.
“Nothing,” was the reply. “A better parson than I says that what is natural is right.”
“I suppose so,” admitted the Hector, taking her two hands in his.
“And the dictates of my heart are all for staying at home and looking after my ancient parents and worrying them. Am I to be sent away? Not yet, old gentleman, not yet.”
The Reverend Thomas Glynde laughed, somewhat as if a weight had been lifted from his heart. In his way he was a conscientious39 man. It was his honest conviction that Dora would do well to marry Arthur, who was a gentleman and essentially40 harmless. In persuading her to do so covertly41, as he had thought well to do, he was honestly performing that which he thought to be his duty towards her. Presently Mrs. Glynde came back, and shortly afterwards Dora left the room. The Rector was not reading the book he held open on his knee, but gazed instead absently at the pattern of the hearthrug.
A change had come in this quiet household. Dora had gone away a child. She had come back a woman, with that consciousness of life which comes somewhere between twenty and thirty years of age—a consciousness which is partly made up of the knowledge that life is, after all, given to each one of us individually to make the best of as well as we may; and no one knows what that best is except ourselves. What is happiness for one is misery42 for another, and while human beings vary as the clouds of heaven, no life can be lived by set rule.
Over these things the Rector pondered. He felt the difference in Dora. She was still his daughter, but no longer a child. Her existence was still his chief care, but he could only stand by and help a little here and there; for the dependency of childhood was left behind, and her evident intention was to work out her own life in her own way. So do those who are dependent by nature upon the advice and sympathy of others learn to lean only upon their own strength.
In the room overhead, standing by the window with weary eyes, Dora was murmuring: “I wonder—I wonder if I shall be able to hold out against them all.”
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1
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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warding
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| 监护，守护（ward的现在分词形式） | |
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autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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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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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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deviated
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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incompetency
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| n.无能力，不适当 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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36
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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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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dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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39
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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40
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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41
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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42
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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