So Mrs. Gunther (for that was the lady's name) re-entered the shabby house, and a great activity accompanied by perpetual scolding pervaded12 it for some hours, during which the late tenant13 was journeying down to Amherst.
George Dallas strictly14 observed the directions contained in his mother's letter, and having started by an early train, reached Amherst at noon. Rightly supposing that at such an hour it would be useless to look for his mother in the little town, he crossed the railroad in a direction leading away from Amherst, struck into some fields, and wandered on by a rough footpath15 which led through a copse of beech-trees to a round bare hill. He sat down when he had reached this spot, from whence he could see the road to and from Poynings. A turnpike was at a little distance, and he saw a carriage stopped beside the gate, and a footman at the door receiving an order from a lady, whose bonnet16 he could just discern in the distance. He stood up and waited. The carriage approached, and he saw that the liveries were those of Mr. Carruthers. Then he struck away down the side of the little declivity17, and crossing the railway at another point, attained18 the main street of the little town. It was market-day. He avoided the inn, and took up a position whence he could watch his mother's approach. There were so many strangers and what Mr. Deane would have called "loafers" about, some buying, some selling, and many honestly and unfeignedly doing nothing, that an idler more or less was certain to pass without any comment, and it was not even necessary to keep very wide of the inn. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking into the window of the one shop in Amherst devoted19 to the interests of literature, which was profusely20 decorated with out-of-date valentines, much criticised by flies, and with feebly embossed cards, setting forth21 the merits of local governesses. At that time prophetic representations of the International Exhibition of '62 were beginning to appeal to the patriotic22 soul in light blue drawings, with flags innumerable displayed wheresoever they could be put "handy." George Dallas calmly and gravely surveyed the stock-in-trade, rather distracted by the process of watching the inn door, between which and his position intervened a group of farmers, who were to a man chewing bits of whipcord, and examining samples of corn, which they extracted in a stealthy manner from their breeches-pocket, and displayed grudgingly23 on their broad palms. On the steps of the inn door were one or two busy groups, and not a man or woman of the number took any notice of Mrs. Carruthers's son. They took very considerable notice of Mrs. Carruthers herself, however, when her carriage stopped; and Mr. Page, the landlord, actually came out, quite in the old fashioned style, to open the lady's carriage, and escort her into the house. George watched his mother's tall and elegant figure, as long as she was in sight, with mingled24 feelings of pleasure, affection, something like real gratitude25, and very real bitterness; then he turned, strolled past the inn where the carriage was being put up, and took his way down the main street, to the principal draper's shop, He went in, asked for some gloves, and turned over the packets set before him with slowness and indecision. Presently his mother entered, and took the seat which the shopman, a mild person in spectacles, handed her. She, too, asked for gloves, and, as the shopman turned his back to the counter, rapidly passed a slip of paper to her son. She had written on it, in pencil:
"At Davis's the dentist's, opposite, in ten minutes."
"These will do, thank you. I think you said three and sixpence?" said George to the shopman, who, having placed a number of gloves before Mrs. Carruthers for her selection, had now leisure to attend to his less important customer.
"Yes, sir, three and sixpence, sir. One pair, sir? You'll find them very good wear, sir."
"One pair will do, thank you," said George. He looked steadily26 at his mother, as he passed her on his way to the door, and once more anger arose, fierce and keen, in his heart--anger, not directed against her, but against his stepfather. "Curse him!" he muttered, as he crossed the street, "what right has he to treat me like a dog, and her like a slave? Nothing that I have done justifies--no, by Heaven, and nothing that I could do, would justify27--such treatment."
Mr. Davis's house had the snug28, cleanly, inflexible29 look peculiarly noticeable even amid the general snugness30, cleanliness, and inflexibility31 of a country town, as attributes of the residences of surgeons and dentists, and gentlemen who combine both those fine arts. The clean servant who opened the door looked perfectly32 cheerful and content. It is rather aggravating33, when one is going to be tortured, even for one's ultimate good, to be assured in a tone almost of glee:
"No, sir, master's not in, sir; but he'll be in directly, sir. In the waiting-room, sir." George Dallas not having come to be tortured, and not wishing to see Mr. Davis, bore the announcement with good humour equal to that of the servant, and sat down very contentedly34 on a high, hard, horsehair chair, to await events. Fortune again favoured him; the room had no other occupant; and in about five minutes he again heard the cheerful voice of the beaming girl at the door say,
"No, m'm, master's not in; but he'll be in d'rectly, m'm. In the waiting-room, m'm. There's one gentleman a-waitin', m'm, but master will attend on you first, of course, m'm."
The next moment his mother was in the room, her face shining on him, her arms round him, and the kind words of the truest friend any human being can be to another, poured into his ears.
"You are looking much better, George," she said, holding him back from her, and gazing fondly into his face. "You are looking brighter, my darling, and softer, and as if you were trying to keep your word to me."
"Pretty well, mother, and I am very thankful to you. But your letter puzzled me. What does it mean? Have you really got the money, and how did you manage to get it?"
"I have not got it, dear," she said quickly, and holding up her hand to keep him silent; "but it is only a short delay, not a disappointment. I shall have it in two or three days."
George's countenance35 had fallen at her first words, but the remainder of the sentence reassured36 him, and he listened eagerly as she continued:
"I am quite sure of getting it, George. If it does but set you free, I shall not regret the price I have paid for it."
"Tell me what it is mother," George asked eagerly. "Stay, you must not sit so close to me."
"I'm not sure that your voice ought to be heard either, speaking so familiarly, tête-à-tête with the important Mrs. Carruthers of Poynings--a personage whose sayings and doings are things of note at Amherst," said Mrs. Carruthers with a smile, as he took a seat at a little distance, and placed one of the samples of periodical literature strewn about the table, after the fashion of dentists' and surgeons' waiting-rooms, ready to her hand, in case of interruption. Then she laid her clasped hands on the table, and leaned against them, with her clear dark eyes fixed37 upon her son's face, and her steady voice, still sweet and pure in its tones as in her youth, as she told him what she had done.
"Do you remember, George, that on that wretched night you spoke38 of my diamonds, and seemed to reproach me that I should wear jewels, while you wanted so urgently but a small portion of their price?"
"I remember, mother," returned George, frowning, "and a beast I was to hint such a thing to you, who gave me all that ever was your own! I hoped you had forgiven and forgotten it. Can it be possible that you have sold--But no; you said they were family jewels."
"I will tell you. When you had gone away that night, and I was in the ball-room, and later, when I was in my dressing-room alone, and could think of it all again, the remembrance of what you had said tormented39 me. The jewels you had seen me wearing were, indeed, as I had told you, not my own; nevertheless, the remembrance of all I had ever read about converting jewels into money occupied my mind that night, and occupied it after that night for days and days. One day Mr. Tatham came to Poynings, and in the evening being, as he always is, very entertaining, he related an extraordinary story of a client of his. The tale, as he told it, had many particulars, but one caught my attention. The client was a woman of large fortune, who married for love a man much younger than herself, a dissipated fellow who broke her fortune, and might have broken her heart, but for his getting killed in riding a steeple-chase. After his timely death it was discovered, among a variety of dishonourable transactions, that he had stolen his wife's diamonds, with the connivance40 of her maid; had had them imitated in mock stones by a famous French dealer41 in false jewelry42; and had substituted the false for the real. No suspicion of the fact had ever crossed his wife's mind. The discovery was made by the jeweller's bill for the imitation being found among the papers. This led to inquiry43 of the dealer, who gave the required information. The moment I heard the story, I conceived the idea of getting you the money you wanted by a similar expedient44."
"Oh, mother!"
She lifted one hand with a gesture of caution, and continued, in a voice still lower than before:
"My jewels--at least those I have sold--were my own, George. Those I wore that night were, as I told you, family diamonds; but Mr. Carruthers gave me, when we were married, a diamond bracelet45, and I understood then that it was very valuable. I shrank from such a deception46. But it was for you, and I caught at it."
George Dallas sat with his hands over his face and no more interrupted her by a single word.
"By one or two questions I stimulated47 Mr. Carruthers's curiosity in the strange story, so that he asked Mr. Tatham several questions as to where the mock jewels were made, whether they cost much, and, in fact, procured48 for me all the information I required. That bracelet was the only thing I had of sufficient value for the purpose, because it is expensive to get an imitation of any ornament49 made of very fine stones, as my bracelet is, and richly set. If the act were still to do, I should do it, George--for you--and still I should feel, as I do most bitterly feel, that in doing it I shamefully50 deceive my husband!"
Still George Dallas did not speak. He felt keenly the degradation51 to which he had reduced his mother; but so great and pervading52 was his bitterness of feeling towards his mother's husband, that when the wrong to him presented itself to his consideration, he would not entertain it. He turned away, rose, and paced the room. His mother sighed heavily as she went on.
"George, you know this is not the first time I have suffered through and for you, and that this is the first time I have ever done an act which I dare not avow53. I will say no more."
He was passing behind her chair as she spoke, and he paused in his restless walk to kneel down by her, clasp her in his arms, and kiss her. As he rose from his knees, she looked at him with a face made radiant with hope, and with a mother's love.
"This is how it was done, George," she continued. "I wrote to an old friend of mine in Paris, a French lady, once my schoolfellow. I told her I wanted my bracelet matched, in the best manner of imitation jewelry, as our English fashions required two, and I could not afford to purchase another made of real diamonds. I urged the strictest secrecy54, and I know she will observe it; for she loves mystery only a little less than she loves dress. She undertook the commission with alacrity55, and I expected to have had both the bracelets56 yesterday!"
"What a risk you would have run, mother, supposing an occasion for your wearing the bracelet had arisen!"
"Like Anne of Austria and the studs?" said his mother with a smile. "But there was no help for it. More deceit and falsehood must have followed the first. If the occasion had arisen, Mr. Carruthers would have questioned me, and I should have said I had sent it to be cleaned, when he would have been angry that I should have done so without consulting him."
"All the meanness and all the falsehood was planned and ready, George; but it was needless. Mr. Carruthers was summoned to York, and is still there. It is much for me that the parcel should arrive during his absence. I heard from my friend the day before I wrote to you, that she was about to send it immediately, and I wrote to you at once. It is to be directed to Nurse Brookes."
"How did you explain that, mother!" George asked quickly.
"More lies, more lies," she answered sadly, rejoicing in her heart the while to see how he writhed58 under the words. "I told her what was needful in the way of false explanation, and I made certain of having the bracelets to-day. So I must have done but for a second letter from my friend Madame de Haulleville, to the effect that, having a sudden opportunity of sending the packet to England by a private hand, she had availed herself of it, at the loss of (at most, she writes) a day or two."
"Confound her French parsimony59!" said George; "think of the unnecessary risk she makes us run, when I come down here for nothing."
"It is not so much parsimony as precaution, George. And she could know nothing of any risk."
"What is to be done, then?" he asked, in a softer tone.
"Can you not remain at Amherst?" asked his mother. "Have you anything to do which will prevent your remaining here for a day or two? If not you will be as well here as in London, for there is no danger of Mr. Carruthers seeing you."
"Suppose he did?" George burst out. "Is he the lord and master of all England, including Amherst? Perhaps the sunshine belongs to him, and the fresh air? If I keep away from Poynings, that's enough for him, surely."
Mrs. Carruthers had risen, and looked appealingly at him.
"Remember, George, your misconduct would justify Mr. Carruthers in the eyes of the world, for the course he has taken towards you; or," here she moved near to him, and laid her hand on his arm, "if you refuse to consider that, remember that Mr. Carruthers is my husband, and that I love him."
"I will, mother, I will," said George impetuously. "Graceless, ungrateful wretch5 that I am! I will never say another word against him. I will remain quietly here as you suggest. Shall I stay at the inn? Not under my own name; under my not very well known but some day of course widely to be famous pen-name--Paul Ward8. Don't forget it, mother, write it down; stay, I'll write it for you. P-a-u-l W-a-r-d." He wrote the name slowly on a slip of paper, which Mrs. Carruthers placed between the leaves of her pocket-book.
"You must go now," she said to him; "it is impossible you can wait here longer. We have been singularly fortunate as it is. When I write, I will tellyou whether I can come to you here--in the town, I mean--or whether you shall come to me. I think you will have to come to me. Now go, my darling boy." She embraced him fondly.
"And you, mother?"
"I will remain here a little longer. I have really something to say to Mr. Davis."
He went. Black care went with him, and shame and remorse60 were busy at his heart. Would remorse deepen into repentance61, and would repentance bear wholesome62 fruit of reformation? That was for the future to unravel63. The present had acute stinging pain in it, which he longed to stifle64, to crush out, to get away from, anyhow. He loved his mother, and her beautiful earnest face went with him along the dusty road; the unshed tears in her clear dark eyes seemed to drop in burning rain upon his heart; the pleading tones of her sorrowful voice filled all the air. How wicked and wretched, how vain, silly, and insipid65, how worthless and vulgar, all his pleasures and pursuits seemed now! A new spirit arose in the wayworn, jaded66 man; a fresh ambition sprang up in his heart. "It's a wretched, low, mean way of getting free, but I have left myself no choice. I must take advantage of what she has done for me, and then I never will wrong her love and generosity67 again. I will do right, and not wrong; this is my resolution, and I will work it out, so help me God!"
He had unconsciously come to a stop at the noble old oak gates, flung hospitably68 open, of a wide-spreading park, through one of whose vistas69 a grand old mansion70 in the most elaborate manner of the Elizabethan style was visible. He looked up, and the beauty of the prospect71 struck him as if it had been created by an enchanter's wand. He looked back along the road by which he had come, and found that he had completely lost sight of Amherst.
He went a pace or two beyond the gate pillars. A hale old man was employed in nailing up a trailing branch of jessamine against the porch of the lodge9.
"Good afternoon, old gentleman. This is a fine place, I fancy."
"Good afternoon, sir. It is a fine place. You'll not see many finer in Amherst. Would you like to walk through it, sir? You're quite welcome."
"Thank you. I should like to walk through it. I have never been down this way before. What is the name of this place, and to whom does it belong?"
"It is called the Sycamores, sir, and it belongs to Sir Thomas Boldero."
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收听单词发音
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1
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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6
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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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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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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grudgingly
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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snugness
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inflexibility
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| n.不屈性，顽固，不变性；不可弯曲；非挠性；刚性 | |
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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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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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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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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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53
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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54
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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55
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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56
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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60
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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61
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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62
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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63
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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64
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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65
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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66
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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67
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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68
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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69
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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70
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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71
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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