Long as was the list of debts which Robert had sent up from London, it had by no means comprised the whole of them. At his father's death, therefore, he was obliged to mortgage the farm to nearly its full value, to satisfy the most pressing of his creditors24, and then, for the first time in his life, Robert Gregory asked himself how he was to live. It was by no means an easy question to answer; indeed, think the matter over as he would, he could imagine no mode by which, even had he been inclined to work, which he was not, he could have earned his living. It was while he was vainly, week after week, endeavouring to solve this problem, that the intention of Mr. Harmer to make Sophy Needham his heiress was made public. Robert Gregory hailed the news as a direct answer to his question—he would marry the heiress. He did not jump at the conclusion in haste; he inquired closely concerning the habits of the family at Harmer Place, of whom previously25 he had known nothing except by name; he found that their life had been hitherto one of seclusion26, owing to the ascetic27 life of the Miss Harmers, and the studious one of their brother; he heard of Sophy Needham's birth and origin, and he heard, too, that society refused to visit her, and at last he said to himself confidently and firmly, "I will marry her." Having arrived at this determination, Robert Gregory at once proceeded to act upon it, and soon had his whole scheme arranged to his satisfaction. He felt that the matter was one which required time, and he accordingly sold the farm for two or three hundred pounds beyond the amount for which it was mortgaged, and on this sum he calculated to be able to live until he was able to marry Sophy.
This done, putting on a shooting suit, he day after day concealed28 himself in the grounds at some distance from the house, at a spot from which he could see when Sophy strolled out, and could watch the direction she took. One day he perceived that the course she was following in her ramble29 would lead her close to the boundary of the property; making a circuit, he took his position on the other side of the hedge, and therefore off the Harmer estate. When Sophy came along, and he could see that she was immediately opposite him, separated only by the hedge, he discharged both barrels of his gun. Sophy naturally uttered an exclamation30 of surprise and alarm, and this was all he needed.
As if astonished at finding a lady so close to him, he crossed the hedge, and lifting his hat, he apologized deeply for the alarm he had given her, trusted that the shock had not been serious, and in fact made so good a use of his time, that he managed to detain her in conversation for a quarter of an hour.
Robert Gregory, it has already been said, was a handsome man with a good figure. His conversation and manners might not have passed muster31 in critical society, still he had seen enough of the world to be able to assume the air of a gentleman sufficiently32 well to deceive a girl who had hardly ever conversed33 with a young man before in her life; his address to her was straightforward34 and outspoken35, and yet with something deferential37 about it to which Sophy was quite unaccustomed, and which gratified her exceedingly.
The attempt of Robert Gregory was well-timed. Sophy knew that Mr. Harmer had proclaimed her his heiress, and she felt, and felt keenly, that society refused to call upon her or recognise her; she was naturally a sensitive, shy girl, and the accident of her birth had been a constant pain and sorrow to her, and she was, therefore, in exactly the frame of mind to receive with greedy pleasure the expression of Robert Gregory's deference38 and distantly expressed admiration39. She noted40 no bad expression in the handsome face which smiled upon her, she detected no flaw in the fine figure which bent41 a little as he spoke36 to her; she only saw one who treated her—her whom the world scorned and repelled—with respectful deference and admiration; and from that moment her heart went out freely and fully42 towards him.
As he was leaving her, Robert Gregory mentioned that he lived on the other side of Canterbury, but was out for a day's shooting on the neighbouring estate. He said that on that day week he should again be there, and asked her if she frequently walked in that direction; he urged that he should feel really anxious to know if she had suffered from the effect of the sudden alarm he had given her, and that he hoped she would be kind enough to let him know how she was.
Sophy coloured and paused, and then said that she frequently walked in that direction, and that if he happened to see her as she went past, she should of course be happy to assure him that she was not in the least upset by the little start that she had had. And so they parted, and Robert Gregory felt, that as far as she was concerned, the game was won.
Again and again they met, and before very long he spoke of love to her; and Sophy, whose life had been hitherto a joyless one, gave him her heart without concealment43, and found that, for the first time, she had discovered happiness. But that happiness soon had its alloy44 of trouble. When Christmas came, and the Bishop45 and his wife called, and society in general followed their example, Sophy naturally wondered, and asked Robert why he did not do the same. He was prepared for the question, which he knew must come sooner or later, and his answer had long been determined46 upon. He at once said that he threw himself entirely on her mercy, and even if it were the signal for his dismissal from her side for ever, he would tell her the truth. He told her that, owing to want of control as a boy, he had been when a very young man, spendthrift and wild, and that he had dissipated his fortune in folly47 and amusements. That the Christian48 propriety49 of Canterbury had taken upon itself to be greatly scandalized thereby50; and that although he had long since given up his former courses, and had returned and lived happily and quietly with his old father, although that father himself had never complained to him, or, he believed, to any one, of his previous folly, yet that society in general had taken upon itself to refuse its assent51 to the welcome of the prodigal52, but had indeed desired him to go into a far country and be fed upon husks.
Sophy, instead of being shocked at all this, clung to him, as might have been expected, all the closer. The well-affected scorn and bitterness with which he spoke of the Christian charity of society, struck, as he had intended it should, a sympathetic chord in her own breast; for had not she, too, been declared under the ban of society, and for no fault or sin of her own? It is true, society had now condescended53 to visit her, but why? Was she any better or more honourably54 born than before? Had her conduct in any way softened55 them towards her? Not a bit. A bishop had said that she might be visited, and so the world had graciously extended its hand and received her into its fold. But although Sophy accepted the offered hand, she hated the giver of it; and although she arrayed her face with a placid56 smile as she entered into society, it only covered a sense of bitter outrage57 and of indignant contempt. Nursing, as she did, feelings like these, it was with an absolute sense of pleasure that she found that her lover, like herself, was deemed an outcast. To her it was but one more new tie between them; and when Robert had finished his confession58, her own rage and wrongs against society broke out in a stream of bitter, passionate words, and Robert Gregory found there was far more in the ordinarily tranquil59, quiet woman before him than he had ever given her credit for. However, her present frame of mind was most favourable60 for his plans, and he therefore took good care to keep alive her resentment61 against the world, in order to bind62 her more closely to himself. It was soon after this that the fêtes at Harmer Place were given. Robert Gregory managed to obtain an invitation, but arranged with Sophy that he would not dance with her, alleging63 the truth, that if he did so, society would be sure to poison Mr. Harmer's mind against him, and render his consent to their marriage out of the question; and Sophy was content to follow his guidance in all things, and to see everything with his eyes.
The real difficulties of Robert Gregory's course were only yet beginning. Sophy was, indeed, won; but it was Sophy's money, and not herself, that he cared for; now Sophy's money at present depended upon Mr. Harmer, and not upon herself; and Robert feared that in the event of a runaway64 match, Mr. Harmer would very materially alter his will. Still, on the other hand, her grandfather was extremely fond of her; he had no one else to leave his money to, and he might in time reinstate her in his favour. At last he asked Sophy if she thought Mr. Harmer would, after a time, forgive her if she made a runaway match with him, for he had no hope of ever obtaining his consent beforehand. Sophy was very loath65 to answer the question. She was quite ready to marry Robert, but she shrank from the thought of paining the old man who had been so kind to her. However, as Robert again and again returned to the point, she at last came to discuss it as calmly as he did.
"Yes, she thought Mr. Harmer would be reconciled to her; she believed he would miss her so much, that he would be sure to forgive her in a short time; it was not in his nature to bear malice66 to any one. Yes, he would soon come round; indeed, she was certain that if Robert would but make himself known to him, that Mr. Harmer would not care for what other people said, but would judge for himself, and would esteem67 and like him as she did."
This course Sophy pressed very much upon her lover, with many loving entreaties and tears, for she really loved Mr. Harmer truly, and shrank from grieving him. These entreaties, however, Robert always gently, but decidedly put aside. He said that Mr. Harmer would be certain to believe the edict of society against him, would decline to grant him any opportunity of justifying68 himself, and would refuse to allow him to enter the house. Besides he would be just as angry at discovering the secret understanding which existed between them, as he would be at their marriage, and he would be certain to forbid all intercourse69 between them, and perhaps even insert a condition in his will forbidding her to marry him under pain of the forfeiture70 of his fortune. For Robert made no secret from Sophy that her money would be of the greatest use to them; not, as he put it, that he cared for money for its own sake, but that if they were rich they could spend their life abroad, where no scoff71 or sneer72 of society could reach them, and where they should never be disturbed by the sarcasms73 and whispers of the world; while they, in their turn, would be able to show society how heartily74 they despised it, and how well they could do without it.
Sophy, in her present state of mind, thought all this very grand and heroic, and really believed that her lover spoke in a noble and disinterested75 manner; and as she was herself perfectly76 conscious of the advantages of wealth, she quite agreed that, if possible, her fortune should not be sacrificed.
Robert, then, at last, succeeded in persuading her that a runaway match was the only alternative, and as she really believed that she would be very soon forgiven by Mr. Harmer, it was at length arranged to take place shortly. This was in the spring of the year, and their secret acquaintance had then continued eighteen months. The date was fixed77 for the elopement, when the paralytic78 stroke which Mr. Harmer had put a stop to all their plans; and this for two reasons: pressed as he again was for money—for his creditors, who had been only partially79 paid before, were now becoming clamorous—Robert Gregory felt that with Mr. Harmer at the point of death it would be perfect madness to run the risk of Sophy being disinherited, when a few weeks might leave her the undisputed owner of ￡75,000; so although sorely harassed80 for money, he was content to wait. The other reason was that Sophy was full of remorse81 at the thought that she had been at the point of deserting her benefactor82. She met Robert now very seldom, but devoted83 herself to Mr. Harmer. As, however, the weeks ran on, he slowly but surely recovered health and became his former self, and her constant attendance on him was no longer needed; so she fell back to her old habits; her meetings in the plantation84 became more frequent, and his influence resumed its power over her. Robert Gregory had discernment enough to suit his behaviour to his words: when the old man was at his worst, he was full of tender commiseration85 for her; when he began to recover, he pretended a warm interest in his health, although inwardly he was filled with rage and chagrin86 at his convalescence87. At length his own affairs arrived at such a crisis that he was in momentary88 fear of arrest, and he felt that once in prison his union with Sophy must be postponed89 at any rate till after Mr. Harmer's death, which now again appeared to be a distant event. He, therefore, once more began to persuade Sophy to elope with him; but he had a far more difficult task than before. All his old arguments were brought forward; but it was some time before he could succeed. Gradually, however, her old habit of listening to his opinion prevailed; she allowed herself to be persuaded that her grandfather might now live for many years, and that he could for a short time dispense90 with her services; that as she had been so useful to him during his illness, and as he must be more attached to her than ever, it was quite certain that he could not for long remain proof to her entreaties for forgiveness.
And so at last, but not without many tears and much bitter self-reproach, Sophy consented to an elopement—consented at that very interview coming from which Dr. Ashleigh surprised Robert Gregory—who, elated by his success, was making his way off without observing his usual care and precaution.
At breakfast on the following morning, Mr. Harmer remarked that Sophy looked pale and ill; she answered that her head ached sadly, but that she had no doubt a stroll in the grounds would do it good. After breakfast she accordingly went out, and, after wandering for some time carelessly in sight of the house, she made her usual circuit to avoid observation, and then entered the plantation near the road. She found Robert Gregory waiting for her under the tree where they had now met for just two years, sometimes once a week, sometimes once a month, according to the time of year, and the opportunities Sophy had for rambling91 about. Robert looked anxiously at her as she came up, to see if there were any signs of flinching92 or drawing back in her pale face, but there were none. Sophy was quiet and shy, but she had a fund of quiet determination and courage within her. He kissed her tenderly. "You are looking pale this morning, little one."
"I daresay," she answered, "for I have not closed my eyes all night. Is everything ready?"
"Quite. I shall be with the gig in the road just outside that gap, a minute or two before a quarter past eight; if you will get here a few minutes after that time, we shall be able to catch the nine o'clock train to London easily. I shall take you to an Hotel near Euston Square, and we will go on by the early train to Scotland, and shall be half way there before they find out in the morning that you are gone. You can trust me, dearest?"
"Yes, Robert," Sophy said quietly. "I have trusted you all these meetings here, and I have found you an honourable93 gentleman, and I am not going to distrust you now. I feel sure that all will turn out as we wish, and that grandpapa will forgive me very soon, and take us both into favour; and I hope that in a fortnight we shall be back here again, forgiven and welcome." Sophy spoke cheerfully, for she really believed what she said.
"Are you sure to be able to slip out unobserved?"
"Quite sure, Robert. I shall go up to bed at eight, and ask not to be disturbed, as I wish to sleep. I shall bring a bag with me, and shall put on a thick veil, so as not to be recognized by any one as we go through Canterbury. I have, as I told you, plenty of money. Good-bye now, Robert, I must not wait here any longer."
"Good bye, dear, till this evening."
He looked after her as she went lightly away among the trees, her footsteps scarcely sounding in the limp, new-fallen autumn leaves, and a shade of compunction came over his face. He was certainly a blackguard, he knew it well, but, by heavens, he would try to make this little girl happy. They would be rich some day, and then they would travel for years, and when he came back his evil name would have died out, and he could then lead a quiet, happy life, perhaps at the old house there; and then—and then, who knows; perhaps little children would grow up round him: surely then he must be happy. Could it be—good God! could it be possible that he might yet turn out a good man after all? "Yes, there was hope for him yet." And as Robert Gregory turned away, there was a tear in his eye, which was even now growing heavy and red from long excesses and hard drinking, and a sigh, and a half prayer from the heart, from which for long years such things had ceased to rise.
The next morning at ten o'clock, as Sophy had not come down to breakfast, Mr. Harmer, as he went into the library, desired the servant to take his compliments to Miss Needham, and inquire how she felt. Presently the servant came into the library looking very pale and scared. "If you please, sir, Miss Sophy is not in her room, but there was this letter for you laying on the table." So saying, the girl hastily left the room, to relate to the other servants the extraordinary fact that Miss Sophy was not in her room, and that her bed had not been slept in.
The letter to Mr. Harmer was as follows:—
"My dearest Grandpapa,
"If you were other than you are, this letter would not be written; I should not dare to plead my cause with you; but I know you so well—I know how kind and good you are—and so I venture to hope for your forgiveness. I am very wicked, grandpapa; I am going away without your consent to be married. He—my husband that is to be—is named Robert Gregory. He has told me frankly94 that men do not speak well of him, and that when he was young he was wild and bad. He tells me so, and I must believe him; but he must have been very different to what he is now—for now I know him to be good and noble. I have known him long—I own it with shame that I have never told you before, and many tears the concealment has cost me; but, oh, grandpapa, had I told you, you would have sent him away, and I should have lost him. He and you are all I have in the world; let me keep you both. He showed me kindness when all the world, except you—my kindest and best of friends—turned their backs upon me, and I could not give him up. While I write now, my eyes are full of tears, and my heart bleeds to think of the pain this will give you, after all your goodness to me. Oh, forgive me. Do for my sake, dear, dear grandpapa, see him and judge for yourself. I only ask this, and then I know you will forgive him and me. Write soon to me—only one word—say you forgive me, and let me be your little Sophy once more. I shall not love you the less for loving him, and much as I love him, without your forgiveness my life will indeed be miserable95.
"Write soon, grandpapa—write soon, and say you forgive me, and that I shall again be your own—
"Sophy."
Presently the Misses Harmer—who always breakfasted much earlier together, and then retired96 to a dressing-room they had fitted up as a small oratory—were surprised at loud talking, and confusion in the house. In a short time their own maid knocked at the door, and then came in with a face full of excitement, to say that Miss Sophy had not slept in her bed, and that they had searched the whole house, and found no signs of her.
"Does my brother know?" Miss Harmer asked, after hearing the whole story very quietly to the end.
"I can't say, ma'am; there was a letter on Miss Sophy's table, which Mary took into Mr. Harmer, in the library, when she first found it, and he has not come out since."
The Misses Harmer, with their usual deliberate walk, went down stairs, and then into the library.
Mr. Harmer was sitting at the table, with his back to the door, and did not turn round at their approach. They went up. Beside him on the table lay an open letter—the one from Sophy;—in his hand was a pen, and before him a sheet of paper. On it he had written: "My dearest Sophy, come back; I forgive"—but the handwriting was strangely indistinct, and the last word, the word "forgive," was large and sprawling97, like a schoolboy's writing, and then the pen stopped, and had stopped for ever;—Herbert Harmer was dead.
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收听单词发音
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1
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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eradicated
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| 画着根的 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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12
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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13
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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14
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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15
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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16
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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alienate
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| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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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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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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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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30
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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31
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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32
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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33
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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36
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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37
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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39
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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40
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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41
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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42
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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43
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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44
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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45
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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46
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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47
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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48
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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49
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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50
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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51
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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52
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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53
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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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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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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62
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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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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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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forfeiture
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| n.（名誉等）丧失 | |
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scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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72
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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73
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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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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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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