“I have a holiday you see, Mr. Walker.”
Mr. Walker made some general answer and passed into the inner room. The gentleman left almost immediately; but Carry did not, as was her custom, come into the parlour, but remained in the shop all the afternoon. It was not until the shop was closed for the evening, and Carry had taken her work and sat down, that father and daughter were together alone. Even then Stephen Walker had difficulty in approaching the subject, for Carry seemed to feel instinctively9 what he wished to speak of, and endeavoured, by talking forcedly upon all sorts of topics, to keep him from approaching it. At last he took advantage of a momentary10 pause in her talk to begin.
“My dear Carry, you know very well that I love you dearly. I am a poor, nervous creature, my dear, but I cannot but see that you are not the same as you used to be.”
Carry, with a very pale face, laid down her work when her father commenced, and she now [106] interposed with a faint protest that she was quite well.
“My dear Carry, I am not quite sure that I would not rather know that you are not quite well. You may be, as you say, quite well bodily; that is, you may be free from any actual illness, but you are unquestionably changed, you are pale, and nervous, and out of spirits; it follows then that your illness must be mental. Now, my dear Carry, if you had a mother you would tell her, and she would advise you and talk to you as I cannot do. You are very unfortunately placed, dear—unfortunate in being so much alone, very unfortunate that the only person upon whom you can rely is a poor nervous man like myself. But do not think of this, Carry, only think that your old father loves you with all his heart, only think that your happiness is his only object in life, and open your heart to him, dear, as you would to a mother.”
Carry was crying now, kneeling at her father's knees.
“Can't you tell me, Carry?”
She shook her head.
[107]
“Perhaps I can guess, dear. I have noticed for months how often Mr. Bingham comes here, and I have seen you change colour when he comes in. Is it he, Carry? Do you love him, my child?”
Carry was still crying, but after a pause she said, very low,
“I promised not to tell you, father, but as you have guessed, I can speak. But please, please, do not let him see that you know. Yes, father, I do love Mr. Bingham, and he loves me. He has told me so, but he does not want anyone to know it, because he has no money of his own, and we must wait. He has a very rich uncle, a Captain Bradshaw, who lives in Lowndes Square, and who is going to leave Mr. Bingham a great deal of money, but he dares not offend him by marrying. He is very old, so we are going to wait. But I promised not to tell you about it, father. Please do not let him know.”
Stephen Walker was silent for a little time, and then said,
[108]
“I wish, Carry, I had known it before. I should have warned—no, not warned you, dear, but advised you against it before it was too late.
I do not like these long engagements, Carry. They seldom come to anything. I know the world better than you do, my child. I have not used my knowledge to much purpose as far as I myself am concerned, still I can see clearly enough in your case. I had rather it had been some young clerk, ay, Carry, or even an honest mechanic or small tradesman that had asked for you. Still, dear, I do not wish to blight11 your hopes, but do not build too much upon it; these things seldom come off.”
“Oh, father,” Carry said, “would you not like to see me a lady, in a house of my own, where you would always live with us, and have no more care and trouble? Oh, father, I have thought of that so much. And this, father, is quite, quite certain to come off.”
[109]
“Yes, my child, we always think so, and the disappointment is in proportion to the hope. No, Carry, a long engagement is always bad; but when the parties are in different stations of life the chances of its being broken off are tenfold. However, Carry, we will hope for the best. But be careful, my child, you know nothing of the world. Do not encourage him to be here too much. Neighbours will get to talk of it, and a good name is easily lost; and, although I know my little Carry too well not to be able to trust her as well, ay, and very much better, than myself, still, dear, you don't know the world and cannot be too careful. If you had only had a mother——”
And here Stephen Walker's warnings were put a stop to, for Carry's face, which had been bent12 down while he had been speaking, had become deadly white; her hand was pressed against her heart, and with a half sob13, half cry, she leant forward; and her father, on stooping down, found that she was insensible. Very poignant14 were Stephen Walker's self-reproaches as he ran to get some water and endeavoured to bring her round.
“That is just like me,” he muttered to himself, “frightening the poor child, and telling her her love affair would come to nothing. As if I could not see that she worried enough about it without my making her worse. What an old fool I am, to be sure. And to think of her fainting, too—dear, dear.”
And so he wandered on, until, to his intense [110] relief, he saw her open her eyes. She looked round in a frightened way.
“There, there, my dear; don't worry yourself, Carry. It is all right now. I have been wrong to frighten you, Carry, very wrong, and I have no doubt it will all come right. Why shouldn't it? A man who has once fallen in love with my Carry would not be likely to draw back. No, no, indeed. I thought I was talking wisdom, Carry, and I was an old fool after all.”
Carry smiled feebly, and stroked her father's hair as he bent over her.
“I am better now, father, but I am not very strong. You are quite right in what you say, as you always are, dear, dear, old father. But oh, I wish, oh I wish you had spoken before.” Then, after a pause, she said, “How foolish of me to faint! But I am better now. Kiss me, father, I will go up to bed.”
After Carry had gone upstairs, Stephen Walker sat for a long time in the parlour. His thoughts were not pleasant.
“Poor child, poor child!” he said, “I would [111] have given all the little I have in the world to have saved her this. Why did she not fall in love with some one of her own station, some one who would have been proud of my bright, pretty Carry, who would have shown her to his friends with pleasure and pride? Carry would have been very happy in such a home as that. And now she must wait for years; and perhaps, after all, be deserted15. For when the time comes friends will step in and dissuade16 him, and he will begin to think himself that he might choose a wife better suited to him than out of a tobacconist's shop. I hope he is not lying to her. He would, indeed, be a scoundrel who would lie to such an innocent child as Carry. But, at any rate, I will see if there is any Captain Bradshaw lives in Lowndes Square; and will find out, if I can, if he is really Mr. Bingham's uncle. If so, I shall feel more comfortable, and can wait. Perhaps, after waiting a bit, Carry too may get tired of it, and may not take it to heart if it is broken off at last. So, perhaps, no very great harm may come of it. But I am sorry, I am very sorry.”
If Stephen Walker could have looked into the room where Carry was lying on the bed, crying passionately17, he would have been even more sorry than he was. For the next two or three days [112] after this talk Stephen Walker was but little at home; for, having found out by a Directory Captain Bradshaw's address in Lowndes Square, he watched there for hours, until, on the third evening, he saw Fred Bingham enter. Having thus, found out that his story was true so far, he went home more satisfied.
There was another who was watching Carry as closely and as anxiously as did her father. She had been very restless lately, and had very often gone into Mrs. Holl's for a chat. Mrs. Holl was frequently out, and even when she was at home the conversation was principally between Carry and the cripple lad. To him Carry was as an angel of light. He almost worshipped her, and she knew it. Carry liked being admired, it was her nature; she turned as naturally for admiration18 as a flower for light. Besides, she pitied James. Had he been other than he was, a helpless cripple, Carry might have tossed her head a little loftily at the idea of an admirer who was an inmate19 of John Holl's cottage. As it was, she knew that his feeling had no idea of self in it, that it was as disinterested20 an attachment21 as that of a brother for a sister. Accordingly, she [113] was very kind to the poor lad; and, indeed, enjoyed a chat with him greatly. He had read so much, and his whole current of thought and his earnest talk were so different from anything she ever met with elsewhere, that she could have listened to him for hours with pleasure.
The cripple had noticed a change in Carry long before it had been visible to her father, almost before she had become conscious of it herself. At first it had been merely an occasional absent manner while talking to him, a kindling22 of the eye, a little flush of colour, as if she were thinking of some pleasant thing. Then James had sighed deeply, for he felt that she was in love. It was a pain to him to know that. He knew she could not be for him, he had never thought it. But as long as she remained as she was he had at least the pleasure of seeing her often, of knowing that she liked him very much, that she pitied him, and accepted the homage23 which he paid her. If she married, all this would be over. She would be no longer able to come to see him; the visits which were the great happiness of his life would cease, and in the love of a husband she would soon forget the poor cripple, [114] who would have gladly laid down his life to save her a pang24. But, as time went on, the change in Carry had deepened and altered, and the lad saw that she was anxious and unhappy. James in vain tried to find some solution of this. The wax-flowers made but small progress, and the books on mathematics were laid aside. That Carry should love anyone and not be loved in return seemed to him impossible. She was so perfectly different from the few women he had ever seen that he thought every one must see Carry in the light of an exceptional being, as he did himself. What then could it be which could make her unhappy?
A few days after her conversation with her father Carry went into the Holls'. Mother was out, and the children were all away. Carry drew up a chair to the side of the cripple's table, and, after the first greeting, sat silently watching him as he worked. James broke the silence by putting down his work and saying suddenly,—
“Oh, Miss Carry, I do so grieve to see that you are not happy.”
“Not happy, James!” Carry said, starting from her reverie and colouring deeply; “not happy! [115] What makes you think such an extraordinary thing as that?”
“There is no thinking about it, Miss Carry,” the boy said, sadly; “I am as sure of it as I am that I am sitting here. I have watched your face for so many years that I can read it as I can an open book. Oh, Miss Carry, I am miserable25 to see that you are sad, and that I can do nothing. Had I been like other men I might perhaps have made you happy. I would have made a place and a name for myself, and I would have loved you so much that you could not have helped loving me a little in return. But that was not to be. I am a cripple, and my love for you is as the love I might have for a dear sister. It is hard on me then, to know that you are not happy, and to be able to do nothing but sit here helpless, when I would so willingly give my life if it could do you good.”
Carry had sat pale and quiet while he was speaking. Then she took his hand, and said,
[116]
“It is better as it is, James. I should never have made such a wife as you ought to have had. I have always known that you loved me, always, James, and as a brother I shall always love you. But had you been a brother, had you been well and strong, you could have done no good here, James. But you must not think I am unhappy,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully; “I am rather worried, but it will soon be over now, and then I shall be very happy. I will tell you then, James; you shall be one of the first to hear it. You will always love me, James, whatever comes, won't you?” she asked, wistfully, as she rose.
“Always, Carry, till I die.”
“You will never judge me harshly, whatever people say, James?”
“Never, Carry; as God hears me, nothing will ever change me.”
“Thank you, James,” she said, “I believe you. God grant you may never be put to the test.”
And then, leaning over him, she kissed him quietly, and without a word went out from the cottage.
The next morning Stephen Walker was in the shop with Carry when Fred Bingham came in for his paper, but he was busy arranging his books, and did not hear Carry's whispered sentence, [117] “At the old place, this evening at five.” And then, as he seemed to hesitate, she added in such an agonised whisper, “You must, you must,” that he nodded assent26 as he went out of the shop.
“I wonder what she wants,” he said moodily27 to himself as he waited at the end of the street for an omnibus; “the same thing as usual, I suppose. Bah, I begin to think I have made a fool of myself.”
At the appointed time Carry was walking restlessly backwards28 and forwards in a retired29 part of Kensington Gardens. There the trees grew thick and close, and through them the Long water could be seen, with groups of children playing about and throwing food to the waterfowl. Away to the right the band was playing, and through the vista30 of the trees crowds of fashionably-dressed people could be seen moving slowly to and fro. For some time no one came near the solitary31, restless figure. At last a man approached, whom she recognised as far as she could see him. Then she stopped walking and leaned against a tree, with her hand pressed upon her heart as if to still its beating.
[118]
“You're early, Carry. It wants five minutes to the hour. Is anything the matter?”
“Oh, Fred,” the girl panted out. “Father begins to suspect something; he has been asking me questions about you, and he sees I am ill. Oh, Fred, keep your promise to me. You know you swore it, swore it on the Bible. You said that if your uncle lived, so that you could not marry me publicly, you would marry me privately32 in a month. It is three months now, Fred. Oh, dear, dear Fred, don't put me off any longer!”
[119]
“No, Carry, I will not; but you see I have not been able to arrange matters. You see I never thought the old man would have held on so long, and then we could have done it publicly; but, as it is, I will see about getting it done privately.”
“You are not deceiving me, Fred? You have disappointed me so often. Oh, Fred! if it is found out, what shall I do, what shall I do? I would much rather die—oh, how much rather. Oh, Fred! marry me in some out of the way chapel33, anywhere. I swear to you that I will never tell anyone but father till you give me leave, and we will go away and live anywhere, so that it can never be found out. Only marry me, Fred, so that I may be able to tell him I am a wife. If not, it will kill him! Oh, Fred! dear, dear Fred, have pity upon me!”
“Now, my dear Carry, don't be unreasonable34. You know how fond I am of you, and you may be sure that I will keep my word and make it all right. There, I promise you I will see about it at once, and in a few days I will write and tell you what the arrangements are. It is no use your fretting36 so, Carry, you only make yourself pale and ill.”
“I try not to, Fred; but oh, I am so, so miserable. I have to try to talk and laugh, and to seem careless and happy, when God knows I am wishing I was dead. I am obliged to listen and smile when my father talks to me, and when every kind word hurts me so that I can hardly help screaming out. I shall go mad, Fred, if it goes on much longer. You have disappointed me week after week, and month after month; and though I know so well how you love me, and that you are only detained for a while from marrying me, still I can't help being very miserable. But you will not this time, will you? You [120] won't put me off any more?” she said pleadingly.
“No, no, Carry, I mean what I say. But you don't make allowance enough for me. I am so harassed37, and I have so much to do, and have been disappointed in—but there, it will all be right now, and before very long you shall hear from me. I am going into the country on business, but will make all my arrangements for the affair to come off as soon as I get back. There, good-bye, Carry, do not fret35, child, it will be all right soon.”
So he kissed her and walked off hastily before she could say anything more. When he looked round and saw that she was going away in the opposite direction, he sat down on a bench by the water, and, picking up some small stones, threw them viciously at the ducks who swam up to his feet for crumbs38. “It is a great annoyance,” he said, “and the deuce of it is the worst [121] has not come yet. I have a good mind to take her to some out of the way place and get married and send her away, as she proposes, into the country, where I could run down and see her sometimes. I have no doubt she would live quietly enough for years, and her old fool of a father with her. The betting is ten to one it would never come out, and would be pleasant enough. But then it is a nasty risk. Bigamy does not sound well—case of imprisonment39. Still it might be managed somehow, of course after the other. I might get some one to manage it—get some fellow to act as a registrar40, and do a civil marriage.” And he laughed unpleasantly as he hit a duck upon the head. “It's lucky her old father is such an arrant41 idiot. But there, I can think it over while I am away. I shan't be gone more than a fortnight, and I will carry out this little drama somehow a day or two after I get back. I know a billiard marker who would do well enough, and then all I have got to do is to get them away from that den1 into the country. She will never know of the other affair. They know no one, and she never reads the papers. At any rate it need not come out for years. Still it is rather a nuisance altogether. Take that, you little brute42.”
The last observation was addressed to a child who had bowled his hoop43 against the speaker's legs. Fred Bingham accompanied the words by [122] taking the hoop and throwing it far out into the middle of the Long water; and then, with his unpleasant laugh, he strolled off, pursued by the loud roaring of the child and the indignant scoldings and threatenings of its nurse.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
den
|
|
| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
scraps
|
|
| 油渣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
unnatural
|
|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
physically
|
|
| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
conjectures
|
|
| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
repudiated
|
|
| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
confidentially
|
|
| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
instinctively
|
|
| adv.本能地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
blight
|
|
| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
sob
|
|
| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
poignant
|
|
| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
dissuade
|
|
| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
passionately
|
|
| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
inmate
|
|
| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
disinterested
|
|
| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
attachment
|
|
| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
kindling
|
|
| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
homage
|
|
| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
assent
|
|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
moodily
|
|
| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
backwards
|
|
| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
vista
|
|
| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
privately
|
|
| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
chapel
|
|
| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
unreasonable
|
|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
fret
|
|
| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
fretting
|
|
| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
harassed
|
|
| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
crumbs
|
|
| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
imprisonment
|
|
| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
registrar
|
|
| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
arrant
|
|
| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
brute
|
|
| n.野兽，兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
hoop
|
|
| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |