Mrs. Millar had too much good sense and womanly experience to approve of long engagements, and she did not like the chance of Annie's
[393]
going to Africa—still she would fulfil what Mrs. Millar considered the highest and happiest destiny for a woman, that of becoming the wife of a worthy7 man. As to Africa, the little Doctor, a fixture8 in his chair, told her, "My dear Maria, we shall simply be giving hostages to Providence9, for man was told to occupy the earth, and carry civilization and redemption to its utmost bounds."
To spare Annie's feelings, her relations kept her engagement and their laughter well in the background, while Dr. Harry Ironside, having probed the Russian fever to the bottom, and seen nearly the last of it, returned in triumph to London, to make arrangements for his medical mission.
As for Annie, in her eagerness to escape from the rallying she had provoked, she talked incessantly10 about going back to St. Ebbe's, where, however, she was not yet due. A longer leave of absence had been granted to her, in consideration of the fact that her holiday had been mainly spent in hard work in the impromptu11 hospital at Redcross. She would not have accepted the additional grant apart from the circumstance that Harry Ironside was in London. Annie admitted to herself, in the secret recesses12 of her heart, that now it had come to this, she would fain have passed these last precious weeks near her young lover. But she would not consent to give occasion to
[394]
Rose, or any other person—not even to Harry Ironside himself—to think or say that she, Annie Millar, was already not able to live without him. Annie's wings might be clipped, but she would be Annie proud and "plucky13" to the last; and her lover, instinctively14 knowing her to be true as steel, loved her the better because of her regard for what she considered his credit as well as her own. The pride was only skin deep; the pluck was part of the heroic element in Annie.
Rose had been delayed in her work. She had not found it in her heart to walk about taking sketches15 when the good friend who had so much to do with the commission was little likely to see its completion. But when Tom Robinson could sit up, walk into the next room, and go back to his own house, she felt at liberty to set about her delightful16 business, in which her father took so keen an interest. She lost no time in starting every fine day in pursuit of the selected views, to put them on canvas while their autumnal hues17 were still but tinges18 of red, russet, and gold.
Rose was mostly waited on by May, who took much satisfaction in helping19 to carry and set up the artist's apparatus20, feeling, as she said, that she was part of a painter when she did so.
Dora had been with Rose, May, and Tray at a pretty reach of the Dewes. The elder sister was
[395]
returning alone, along the path between the elms by the river, near the place where Tom Robinson had come to Tray's rescue, when she met him face to face. He was taking what "constitutional" he was able for, and enjoying the light breeze which was rippling21 the river, just as it rippled22 the ripe corn and fanned the hot brows of the men who were working the corn machine in the field beyond.
Dora had seen and spoken to him several times since his illness, but there had been other people present, and now the old shy dread24 of a tête-à-tête again took possession of her. She would have contented25 herself with a fluttered inquiry after his health, and a faltering26 remark that she ought not to detain him. She would have hurried on, as if the errand on which she was bound demanded the utmost speed, supremely27 wretched while she did so, to notice how pale and worn he still looked when she saw him in the broad sunshine. She would have mourned over the circumstance that he wore no wrap, though there was always some damp by the river, and speculated in despondency whether it could be right for him, while he still looked so ill, to be walking thus by himself? What would happen if faintness overtook him, and he could not accomplish the distance between him and the town?
Tom Robinson, delicate though he looked, quiet as he was, would not let Dora have her way. He
[396]
turned and walked back with her, which ought to have set one of her fears at rest. And his appearance must have belied28 him, for he was clearly in excellent spirits, with not the most distant intention of being overcome by faintness.
"This is very pleasant," he said, with a smile, and his smile was a peculiarly agreeable one.
Dora could not tell whether he meant the day, or the road, or her company, or even her summer dress, which was fresher and better cared for than when he had encountered the family group "place-hunting" in London. Dora had owned more leisure lately, and, absurd as it might sound, her heart had been singing with joy, so that she could not resist making her dress in keeping with the gladness of her spirit. Her little fingers had been cleverer than they had ever shown themselves before in the manufacture of a frock and the trimming of a hat which would not have disgraced the taste and execution of Miss Franklin. Yet the materials were simple and inexpensive to the last degree—a brown holland and a shady brown hat, and about the frock and the hat some old Indian silk which in its mellowed29 gorgeousness of red and maize30 colours softly reflected the hues of Rose's parrot tulips.
Dora did not dare to ask her companion what he thought so pleasant. It seemed right to take it for
[397]
granted that it was the weather, so she answered quickly, Yes, it was a fine day for the harvest, which she believed was going to be a good one this year.
"Our present encounter is more tranquil31 than our last, near this very spot," he went on, still smiling. "Perhaps it is as well that there are no disturbing elements of collies and terriers on the scene, for though I am getting on famously, I am not sure that I am up to the mark of dragging Tray and a giant assailant to the edge of the bank, and pitching them head-foremost into the water."
"I should think not," said Dora briefly32.
"How 'little May' screamed, and you stood, as white as a sheet, valorously aiming your stone."
"We were great cowards, both of us," admitted Dora, smiling too; "and I am thankful to say Tray has been much better behaved since he was at the veterinary surgeon's."
"There was room for improvement," Tom Robinson said, with the gravity of a judge.
"I left him on in front, begging to May for a bit of chalk."
"It is as well that it was not for a bit of beef," he said. Then he suddenly changed the subject. "Do you know that I have something of yours which has come into my hands that I have been
[398]
wishing to give back to you ever since I was a responsible being again?"
As he spoke23, he unfastened for the second time in their acquaintance the tiny vinaigrette case from his watch-chain, and handed it to her.
Dora flushed scarlet35, and took it without a word.
"I got it one night in the course of that fever, when I was at the worst, and I know you will like to hear that I am sure it did me good. The first thing that I recollect36 after a long blank, which lasted for days, I believe, was feebly fingering and sniffing37 at the little box, with a curious agreeable sense of old association. Then I was able to look at it, and recognize it as my mother's vinaigrette. She had let me play with it when I was a child; and when I was a boy, subject to headache from staying too long in the hot sunshine in the cricket-field, she used to lend me her vinaigrette for a cure. But I knew that I had asked you to have it, and that you had done me the favour to accept it. The fascinating puzzle was, how had it come back to me? At last I questioned Barbara Franklin. She could not tell any more than myself at first, and was equally puzzled, until she remembered your sister Annie's running into the room on the night when you were listening for news of my death, and asking for a smelling-bottle, and
[399]
your fumbling38 for an instant in your pocket, and giving her something. That made it perfectly39 plain."
Too plain, Dora reflected in horror, for what might not Miss Franklin have suspected and communicated in addition to her cousin?
"I was glad I had it in my pocket," said Dora, stammering40. "I took it up to London with me, and—and found it often refreshing41 in the middle of the heat and fatigue42. I am thankful to hear it was of use to you, who have the best right to it."
"No," he said emphatically, "though it was of the greatest use. My cousin Barbara said also that you were very sorry for me. Dora, was that so?" Tom himself blushed a little in asking the question, as if he had a guilty consciousness of having taken rather a mean advantage of Dora Millar, first by coming so near to death without actually dying, and then by listening to what his kinswoman had to say of Miss Dora Millar's state of mind at the crisis.
On Dora's part there was no denying such a manifest truth; she could only utter a tremulous "yes," and turn her head aside.
"That was good of you, though I do not know that I am repaying the goodness properly," he said, with another smile, very wistful this time. "For I must add, that hearing of it tempted43 me to
[400]
wonder once again whether you could ever learn to think of me? If you cannot, just say no, and I'll cease from this moment to tease you" (as if he had been doing nothing else save besiege44 and pester45 her for the last year and a half!).
Dora could not say "no" any more than she could say "yes" straight out, though she was certain that to be kept any longer than was absolutely necessary in a state of acute suspense46 was very bad for him in his weakened health. By a great effort she brought herself to say in little breaks and gasps47, "I do not need to learn, Mr. Tom, because I have thought of you for a long time now—long before you were so good and generous to all of us—almost ever since you wished—you asked—what I was so silly and so ungrateful as to refuse."
He drew her hand through his arm and held it tightly; he could not trust himself to say or do more. He was almost as shy as she was in the revulsion of his great happiness.
She struggled conscientiously48 to continue her confession49. "I had thought hardly at all of you before then. Girls are so full of themselves, and I did not know that you wished me to think of you. I seem to see now that if you had given me more time, and let me grow familiar with the idea, even though we were 'donkeys,' as Annie and Rose
[401]
say, and though we were choke-full of youthful folly——" She stopped short without finishing her sentence, or going farther into the nature of what she seemed to see.
"But I besought50 you to take time, Dora, love," he remonstrated51. "You forget, I urged you to let me wait for the chance of your answer's being different." He could not help, even in the hour of the attainment52 of the dearest wish of his heart, being just to his old modest, reasonable self.
"Yes," she said, with the prettiest, faintest, arch smile hovering53 about the corners of her mouth. "But men ought to be wiser than to take simple girls at their first word, which the girls can never, never unsay, unless the men bid them. Now I'll tell you how malicious54 people will view the present situation. They will say that I refused you point blank when I thought we were well off, then got you to propose again, and graciously accepted the proposal, when I knew we had not a penny in the world. I own it looks very like it, and it is partly your fault; you should not have let me go the first time. But I don't care what people say, so long as there is not a word of truth in it."
"Nor I," said Tom undauntedly. "They may also say that I was able to make myself useful to your family, and like a very tradesman, traded on the usefulness, buying a reluctant bride with it.
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But what do we care when we love each other, and God has given us to each other? 'They say,'—what do they say? Let them say."
There was not the shadow of a cloud the size of a man's hand on Dr. and Mrs. Millar's pleasure in their daughter Dora's marriage to Tom Robinson. For instead of going with Annie to Africa, or starting on a mission of her own to bring May's college fees from Jamaica, Dora remained at Redcross to be Tom Robinson's dear wife and cherished darling. Mrs. Millar had long seen, in her turn, that Dora could not do better. The fine old shop, and the fantastic shade of poor Aunt Penny, had both become of no account. The single thing which troubled Mrs. Millar was that the instant Lady Mary Pemberton heard of the wedding in prospect55, she invited herself to come down to it.
Dora's sisters, with the charming inconsistency of young women, were not only acquiescent56 in her undignified fate—they were jubilant over it.
It did not arrest, though it subdued57 the general congratulations, when it was discovered that the event made Harry Ironside all at once both envious58 and aggressive. He could not see why, if Dora Millar were marrying a rich man, and he himself had a sufficient income not merely to make a satisfactory settlement on his wife, but to do his part in helping her relatives, who would also be
[403]
his from the day he married her, that his marriage should not take place as soon as Dora and Tom Robinson's. In place of an indefinite engagement, with thousands of miles of land and sea, and all the uncertainties59 of life into the bargain, between him, Harry Ironside, and Annie Millar, would it not be much better that he should carry away with him the brightest, bravest woman who ever asked little from a new colony; who, in place of asking, would give full measure and running over? For Annie was not like poor dear little Kate—Annie would be a godsend, even though she had to go the length of learning to fire a revolver as a defence against lions and hostile natives. It would be nothing else than savage60 pride in Dr. Millar, Harry continued to argue, to decline to let Tom Robinson defray May's small expenses at St. Ambrose's, whether she won a scholarship or not. He was a man with an ample fortune, as well as the nicest fellow in the world, who was going to be not only May's coach, but her brother-in-law. In like manner it would be downright churlish and positively61 unkind to Dora if her parents refused to occupy the pleasant small house with the large garden belonging to Tom Robinson, and close to what would be their daughter's house. It was conveniently vacant, and looked as if it had been made for a couple of elderly gentle-folks, who were not rich, but were
[404]
comfortably provided for. In fact, it had been fitted up by the late Mr. Charles Robinson for just such a pair, who had in the course of nature left the house empty.
With regard to Rose, she would have to submit to be more or less Harry Ironside's charge till she painted and sold such 'stunning62' pictures that she could afford to look down on his paltry63 aid. What, not allow him to assist his own sister-in-law, when he was so thankful to think that she might be like a sister in the meantime for his poor little Kate to fall back upon? Why, the girls could go on making a home together at his good friend Mrs. Jennings's, till it was right for Kate, after she was old enough to choose, to cast in her lot with him and Annie, supposing the colony prospered64. His heart was already in that strange, far-away region, which, with all its mysteries and wonders—ay, and its terrors—has such an attraction for the young and high-spirited, the typical pilgrims to a later New England.
And what did Annie think of this march stolen upon her, this attempt to extort65 a yard where she had only granted an inch of favour? Perhaps she was dazzled by what would have repelled66 many another woman, in the primitive67, precarious68, exciting details of the life of a young colony. Perhaps her heart and imagination were alike taken by
[405]
storm when she thought of the untenanted hospital wards33 and the patients calling for her to go over and help them. Perhaps she was simply beginning so to identify herself with Harry Ironside that what he did seemed her doing. Anyhow Annie did not say no.
The Miss Dyers remarked oracularly, when the double marriage was announced in Redcross, that it was just what they had expected. The observation was somewhat vague, like other oracles69' speeches. The general public of Redcross, including the Careys and Hewetts, were less indefinite and more cordial in their expression of satisfaction at the suitable settlement in life of the little Doctor's elder daughters.
Miss Franklin could not be too thankful and pleased that, after all, she had done no mischief70 to her cousin Tom by her blunder, and by what had been her only too personal reproaches and revelations addressed to his future wife on the night when he was believed to be lying dying. In fact, if she, Barbara Franklin, had not been conscious of a huge mistake, with all the deplorable consequences it might have carried in its train, if she had not thus been kept shamefacedly humble71 and silent as to her share in the business, she might have taken credit to herself, with greater reason than Mrs. Jennings could boast, of having united a supremely happy couple who were drifting apart.
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Even if Miss Franklin's part in it had been played voluntarily and advisedly, she would never have cause to regret that night's work. For Dora Robinson had no scruple72 in being the fast friend and affectionate cousin of her husband's forewoman. She had no more qualm than she would have felt if Miss Franklin had never condescended73 to trade, but had remained within the bounds of poor gentility by laboriously74 keeping up her halting classical music and waning75 foreign languages, and by continuing a finishing governess to the day of her death—or rather till she was superannuated76, and had to retire to a too literal garret.
"Oh! Jonathan"—Mrs. Millar could not resist a long-drawn sob77 on the great day of the double marriage—"it is all very well to say Annie has got a good husband—a fine disinterested78 young man, certain to be distinguished79 in his profession, you tell me. I believe that, and am very thankful for it. How could I bear the parting otherwise? But to let our eldest80, our prettiest, and wittiest81, with her warm heart and untiring energy—'the flower of the flock,' as people used to call her when the children were young—go out to Africa, it may be to meet unheard-of trials, like your poor Aunt Penny, it may be never to see our faces again——" Mrs. Millar could say no more.
"Hush82! hush! Maria; you must be reasonable
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—you must take the bad with the good," enjoined83 the little Doctor from his arm-chair. "Why, you are making as much commotion84 as you did when Annie said she would be a nurse. Is an hospital ward34 at home so preferable to an hospital ward in the dark continent, which is ceasing to be dark? Its sun is only too blazingly bright, its river plains too teemingly fertile, its mountains too grand even in the grander monotony of its deserts. There is gold in its dust, and its rocks are glittering with diamonds. But, thank God, that is not all. It is the great country for which Livingstone was content to spend his life, where the Moffats made the wilderness85 blossom like the rose, and Colenso won the wild heart of the Zulu to trust him as a brother. You will have Dora and Tom next door to you, and Rose and 'little May' will be constantly coming and going. As for Annie and Harry, how can you tell that their special gifts would not be wasted here, as I have often thought hers would have been if she had continued only a pretty, sprightly86 young lady, and not grown up into an hospital nurse!"
"Perhaps you are right, Jonathan," answered his wife meekly87, coming round, as she did now more than ever, to his side of the question.
"Do you think Sir John Richardson's daughter, Bishop88 Selwyn's wife, missed the highest calling
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she was capable of when, instead of presiding over a pleasant country-house or a fine London drawing-room, she consented with all her heart to be landed on an island in Melanesia, and left among the native converts to help to prepare the Malay girls for confirmation89? Her husband was away in the meantime in his missionary90 yacht on his noble enterprise, ready to take her off the island on his return, and not fearing to trust her in the interval91 to their God whose work she was doing," argued the old man, with a note of something like exultation92 in his voice. "Annie and Harry are not going out to Africa, as my Aunt Penny and poor Beauchamp of Waylands went to Australia in the days of the earlier squatters, entirely93 for their own hand, and because they cannot help themselves, since there is nothing left for them to do here. Our children are going to render gallant94 service on which their talents are well bestowed95, of which we shall always be proud to hear. They are, as I told you before, our hostages in the carrying out of the great purpose of the Almighty96 Ruler of the universe, by which light is to take the place of darkness, and good of evil, from the rivers even to the ends of the earth."
THE END.
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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instinctively
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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tinges
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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dread
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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supremely
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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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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briefly
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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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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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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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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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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besiege
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| vt.包围，围攻，拥在...周围 | |
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pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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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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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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wittiest
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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