Among the many sounds blended into that one which roared for ever round Mr. Ford’s offices in the city was the cry of the newsboys.
“Horful p’ticklers of the plague in a village in —shire!” they screamed under the windows. Not that Mr. Ford heard them. But in five minutes the noiseless door opened, and a clerk laid the morning paper on the table, and withdrew in silence. Mr. Ford cut it leisurely2 with a large ivory knife, and skimmed the news. His eye happened to fall upon the Rector’s letter, which, after a short summary of the history of the fever, pointed3 out the objects for which help was immediately required. There was a postscript4. To give some idea of the ravages5 of the epidemic6, and as a proof that the calamity7 was not exaggerated, a list of some of the worst cases was given, with names and particulars. It was gloomy enough. “Mary Smith, lost her husband (a laborer) and six children between the second and the ninth of the month. George Harness, a blacksmith, lost his wife and four children. Master Abel Lake, windmiller of the Tower Mill, lost all his children, five in number, between the fifth and the fifteenth of the month. His wife’s health is completely broken up”—
At this point Mr. Ford dropped the paper, and, unlocking a drawer beside him, referred to some memoranda8, after which he cut out the Rector’s letter with a large pair of office scissors, and enclosed it in one which he wrote before proceeding9 to any other business. He had underlined one name in the doleful list,—Abel Lake, windmiller.
Some hours later the silent clerk ushered11 in a visitor, one of Mr. Ford’s clients. He was a gentleman of middle height and middle age,—the younger half of middle age, though his dark hair was prematurely12 gray. His eyes were black and restless, and his manner at once haughty13 and nervous.
“I am very glad to see you, my dear sir,” said Mr. Ford, suavely14; “I had just written you a note, the subject of which I can now speak about.” And, as he spoke15, Mr. Ford tore open the letter which lay beside him, whilst his client was saying, “We are only passing through town on our way to Scotland. I shall be here two nights.”
“You remember instructing me that it was your wish to economize16 as much as possible during the minority of your son?” said Mr. Ford. His client nodded.
“I think,” continued the man of business, “there is a quarterly payment we have been in the habit of making on your account, which is now at an end.” And, as he spoke, he pushed the Rector’s letter across the table, with his fingers upon the name Abel Lake, windmiller. His client always spoke stiffly, which made the effort with which he now spoke less noticed by the lawyer. “I should like to be certain,” he said. “I mean, that there is no exaggeration or mistake.”
“You have never communicated with the man, or given him any chance of pestering17 you,” said Mr. Ford. “I should hardly do so now, I think.”
“I certainly kept the power of reopening communication in my own hands, knowing nothing of the man; but I should be sorry to discontinue the allowance under a—a mistake of any kind.”
Mr. Ford meditated18. It may be said here that he by no means knew all that the reader knows of Jan’s history; but he saw that his client was anxious not to withhold19 the money if the child were alive.
“I think I have it, my dear sir,” he said suddenly. “Allow me to write, in my own name, to this worthy20 clergyman. I must ask you to subscribe21 to his fund, in my name, which will form an excuse for the letter, and I will contrive22 to ask him if the list of cases has been printed accurately23, and has his sanction. If there has been any error, we shall hear of it. The object of the subscription24 is—let me see—is—a monument to those who have died of the fever and”—
“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Ford,” he said; “your plan is, as usual, excellent. Pray oblige me by sending ten guineas in your own name, and you will let me know if—if there is any mistake. I will call in to-morrow about other matters.”
And before Mr. Ford could reply his client was gone.
The peculiar26 solitude27 to be found in the crowded heart of London was grateful to his present mood. To have been alone with his thoughts in the country would have been intolerable. The fields smack28 of innocence29, and alone with them the past is apt to take the simple tints30 of right and wrong in the memory. But in that seething31 mass, which represents ten thousand heartaches and anxieties, doubtful shifts, and open sins, as bad or worse than a man’s own, there is a silent sympathy and no reproach. Mr. Ford’s client did not lean back, the tension of his mind was too great. He sat stiffly, and gazed vacantly before him, half seeing and half transforming into other visions whatever lay before the hansom, as it wound its way through the streets. Now for a moment a four-wheeled cab, loaded with schoolboy luggage, occupied the field of view, and idle memories of his own boyhood flitted over it. Then, crawling behind a dray, some strange associations built up the barrels into an old weatherstained wooden house in Holland, and for a while an intense realization32 of past scenes which love had made happy put present anxieties to sleep. But they woke again with a horrible pang33, as a grim, hideous34 funeral car drove slowly past, nodding like a nightmare.
As the traffic became less dense35, and the cab went faster, the man’s thoughts went faster too. He strove to do what he had not often tried, to review his life. He had unconsciously gained the will to do it, because a reparation which conscience might hitherto have pressed on him was now impossible, and because the plague that had desolated36 Abel Lake’s home had swept the skeleton out of his own cupboard, and he could repent38 of the past and do his duty in the future. His conscience was stronger than his courage. He had long wished to repent, though he had not found strength to repair.
On one point he did not delude39 himself as he looked back over his life. He had no sentimental40 regrets for the careless happiness of youth. Is any period of human life so tormented41 with cares as a self-indulgent youth? He had been a slave to expensive habits, to social traditions, to past follies42, ever since he could remember. He had been in debt, in pocket or in conscience, from his schoolboy days to this hour. His tradesmen were paid long since, and, if death had cancelled what else he owed, how easy virtue43 would henceforth be!
It had not been easy at the date of his first marriage. He was deeply in debt, and out of favor with his father. It was on both accounts that he went abroad for some months. In Holland he married. His wife was Jan’s mother, and Jan was their only child.
Her people were of middle rank, leading quiet though cultivated lives. Her mother was dead, and she was her old father’s only child. It would be doing injustice44 to the kind of love with which she inspired her husband to dwell much upon her beauty, though it was of that high type which takes possession of the memory for ever. She was very intensely, brilliantly fair, so that in a crowd her face shone out like a star. Time never dimmed one golden thread in her hair; and Death, who had done so much for Mr. Ford’s client, could not wash that face from his brain. It blotted45 the traffic out of the streets, and in their place Dutch pastures, whose rich green levels were unbroken by hedge or wall, stretched flatly to the horizon. It bent46 over a drawing on his knee as he and she sat sketching47 together in an old-world orchard48, where the trees bore more moss49 than fruit. The din10 of London was absolutely unheard by Mr. Ford’s client, but he heard her voice, saying, “You must learn to paint cattle, if you mean to make any thing of Dutch scenery. And also, where the earth gives so little variety, one must study the sky. We have no mountains, but we have clouds.” It was in the orchard, under the apple-tree, across the sketch-book, that they had plighted50 their troth—ten years ago.
They were married. Had he ever denied himself a single gratification, because it would add another knot to the tangle51 of his career? He had pacified52 creditors53 by incurring54 fresh debts, and had evaded55 catastrophes56 by involving himself in new complications all his life. His marriage was accomplished57 at the expense of a train of falsehoods, but his father-in-law was an unworldly old man, not difficult to deceive. He spent most of the next ten months in Holland, and, apart from his anxieties, it was the purest, happiest time he had ever known. Then his father recalled him peremptorily58 to England.
When Mr. Ford’s client obeyed his father’s summons, the climax59 of his difficulties seemed at hand. The old man was anxious for a reconciliation60, but resolved that his son should “settle in life;” and he had found a wife for him, the daughter of a Scotch61 nobleman, young, handsome, and with a good fortune. He gave him a fortnight for consideration. If he complied, the old man promised to pay his debts, to make him a liberal allowance, and to be in every way indulgent. If he thwarted62 his plans, he threatened to allow him nothing during his lifetime, and to leave him nothing that he could avoid bequeathing at his death.
It was at this juncture63 that Jan’s mother followed her husband to England. Her anxieties were not silenced by excuses which satisfied her father. The crisis could hardly have been worse. Mr. Ford’s client felt that confession64 was now inevitable65; and that he could confess more easily by letter when he reached London. But before the letter was written, his wife died.
Weak men, harassed66 by personal anxieties, become hard in proportion to their selfish fears. It is like the cruelty that comes of terror. He had loved his wife; but he was terribly pressed, and there came a sense of relief even with the bitterness of the knowledge that he was free. He took the body to Holland, to be buried under the shadow of the little wooden church where they were married; and to the desolate37 old father he promised to bring his grandson—Jan. But just after the death of an old nurse, in whose care he had placed his child, another crisis came to Mr. Ford’s client. On the same day he got letters from his father and from his father-in-law. From the first, to press his instant return home; from the second, to say that, if he could not at once bring Jan, the old man would make the effort of a voyage to England to fetch him. Jan’s father almost hated him. That the child should have lived when the beloved mother died was in itself an offence. But that that freedom, and peace, and prosperity, which were so dearly purchased by her death, should be risked afresh by him, was irritating to a degree. He was frantic67. It was impossible to fail that very peremptory68 old gentleman, his father. It was out of the question to allow his father-in-law to come to England. He could not throw away all his prospects69. And the more he thought of it, the more certain it seemed that Jan’s existence would for ever tie him to Holland; that for his grandson’s sake the old man would investigate his affairs, and that the truth would come out sooner or later. The very devil suggested to him that if the child had died with its mother he would have been quite free, and intercourse70 with Holland would have died away naturally. He wished to forget. To a nature of his type, when even such a love as he had been privileged to enjoy had become a memory involving pain, it was instinctively71 evaded like any other unpleasant thing. He resolved, at last, to let nothing stand between him and reconciliation with his father. Once more he must desperately72 mortgage the future for present emergencies. He wrote to the old father-in-law to say that the child was dead. He excused this to himself on the ground of Jan’s welfare. If the truth became fully73 known, and his father threw him off, he would be a poor embarrassed man, and could do little for his child. But with his father’s fortune, and, perhaps, the Scotch lady’s fortune, it would be in his power to give Jan a brilliant future, even if he never fully acknowledged him. As yet he hardly recognized such an unnatural74 possibility. He said to himself, that when he was free, all would be well, and the Dutch grandfather would forgive the lie in the joy of discovering that Jan was alive, and would be so well provided for.
Mr. Ford’s client was reconciled to his father. He married Lady Adelaide, and announced the marriage to his father-in-law. After which, his intercourse with Holland died out.
It was a curious result of a marriage so made that it was a very happy one. Still more curious was the likeness75, both physical and mental, between the second wife and the first. Lady Adelaide was half Scotch and half English, a blonde of the most brilliant type, and of an intellectual order of beauty. But fair women are common enough. It was stranger still that the best affections of two women of so high a moral and intellectual standard should have been devoted76 to the same and to such a husband. Not quite in vain. Indeed, but for that grievous sin towards his eldest77 son, Mr. Ford’s client would probably have become an utterly78 different man. But there is no rising far in the moral atmosphere with a wilful79, unrepented sin as a clog80. It was a miserable81 result of the weakness of his character that he could not see that the very nobleness of Lady Adelaide’s should have encouraged him to confess to her what he dared not trust to his father’s imperious, petulant82 affection. But he was afraid of her. It had been the same with his first wife. He had dreaded83 that she should discover his falsehoods far more than he had feared his father-in-law. And years of happy companionship made it even less tolerable to him to think of lowering himself in Lady Adelaide’s regard.
But there was a far more overwhelming consideration which had been gathering84 strength for eight years between him and the idea of recognizing Jan as his eldest son, and his heir. He had another son, Lady Adelaide’s only child. If he had hesitated when the boy was only a baby to tell her that her darling was not his only son, it was less and less easy to him to think of bringing Jan,—of whom he knew nothing—from the rough life of the mill to supplant85 Lady Adelaide’s child, when the boy grew more charming as every year went by. Clever, sweet-tempered, of aristocratic appearance, idolized by the relatives of both his parents, he seemed made by Providence86 to do credit to the position to which he was believed to have been born.
Mr. Ford’s client had almost made the resolve against which that fair face that was not Lady Adelaide’s for ever rose up in judgment87: he was just deciding to put Jan to school, and to give up all idea of taking him home, when death seemed once more to have solved his difficulties. An unwonted ease came into his heart. Surely Heaven, knowing how sincerely he wished to be good, was making goodness easy to him,—was permitting him to settle with his conscience on cheaper terms than those of repentance88 and restitution89. (And indeed, if amendment90, of the weak as well as of the strong, be God’s great purpose for us, who shall say that the ruggedness91 of the narrow road is not often smoothed for stumbling feet?) The fever seemed quite providential, and Mr. Ford’s client felt quite pious92 about it. He was conscious of no mockery in dwelling93 to himself on the thought that Jan was “better off” in Paradise with his mother. And he himself was safe—for the first time since he could remember,—free at last to become worthier94, with no black shadow at his heels. Very touching95 was his resolve that he would be a better father to his son than his own father had been to him. If he could not train him in high principles and self-restraint, he would at least be indulgent to the consequences of his own indulgence, and never drive him to those fearful straits. “But he’ll be a very different young man from what I was,” was his final thought. “Thanks to his good mother.”
His mind was full of Lady Adelaide’s goodness as he entered his house, and she met him in the hall.
“Ah, Edward!” she cried, “I am so glad you’ve come home. I want you to see that quaint96 child I was telling you about.”
“I don’t remember, my dear,” said Mr. Ford’s client.
“You’re looking very tired,” said Lady Adelaide, gently; “but about the child. It is Lady Louisa Ammaby’s little girl. You know I met her just before we left Brighton. I only saw the child once, but it is the quaintest97, most original little being! So unlike its mother! She and her mother are in town, and they were going out to luncheon98 to-day I found, so I asked the child here to dine with D’Arcy. Her bonne is taking off her things, and I must go and bring her down.”
As Lady Adelaide went out, her son came in, and rushed up to his father. If Mr. Ford’s client had failed in natural affection for one son, his love for the other had a double intensity99. He put his arm tenderly round him, whilst the boy told some long childish story, which was not finished when Lady Adelaide returned, leading Amabel by the hand. Amabel was a good deal taller. Her large feet were adorned100 with ornamental101 thread socks, and leathern shoes buttoned round the ankle. Her hair was cropped, because Lady Craikshaw said this made it grow. She wore a big pinafore by the same authority, in spite of which she carried herself with an admirable dignity. The same candor102, good sense, and resolution shone from her clear eyes and fat cheeks as of old. Mr. Ford’s client was alarming to children, but Amabel shook hands courageously103 with him.
She was accustomed to exercise courage in her behavior. From her earliest days a standard of manners had been expected of her beyond her age. It was a consequence of her growth. “You’re quite a big girl now,” was a nursery reproach addressed to her at least two years before the time, and she tried valiantly104 to live up to her inches.
But when Amabel saw D’Arcy, she started and stopped short. “Won’t you shake hands with my boy, Amabel?” said Lady Adelaide. “Oh, you must make friends with him, and he’ll give you a ride on the rocking-horse after dinner. Surely such a big girl can’t be shy?”
Goaded105 by the old reproach, Amabel made an effort, and, advancing by herself, held out her hand, and said, “How do you do, Bogy?”
D’Arcy’s black eyes twinkled with merriment. “How do you do, Mother Bunch?” said he.
“My dear D’Arcy!” said Lady Adelaide, reproachfully.
“Mamma, I am not rude. I am only joking. She calls me Bogy, so I call her Mother Bunch.”
“But I’m not Mother Bunch,” said Amabel.
“And I’m not Bogy,” retorted D’Arcy.
“Yes, you are,” said Amabel. “Only you had very old clothes on in the wood.”
Lady Craikshaw had cruelly warned Lady Adelaide that Amabel sometimes told stories, and, thinking that the child was romancing, Lady Adelaide tried to change the subject. But D’Arcy cried, “Oh, do let her talk, mamma. I do so like her. She is such fun!”
“You oughtn’t to laugh at me,” said poor Amabel, as D’Arcy took her into the dining-room, “I gave you my paint-box.”
The boy’s stare of amazement106 awoke a doubt in Amabel’s mind of his identity with the Bogy of the woods. Between constantly peeping at him, and her anxiety to conduct herself conformably to her size in the etiquette107 of the dinner-table, she did not eat much. When dinner was over, and D’Arcy led her away to the rocking horse, he asked, “Do you still think I’m Bogy?”
“N—no,” said Amabel, “I think perhaps you’re not. But you’re very like him, though you talk differently. Do you make pictures?”
D’Arcy shook his head.
“Not even of leaves?” said Amabel.
When she was going away, D’Arcy asked, “Which do you like best, me or Bogy?”
Amabel pondered. “I like you very much. You made the rocking-horse go so fast; but I liked Bogy. He carried me all up the hill, and he picked up my moss. I wasn’t afraid of him. I gave him a kiss.”
“Well, give me a kiss,” said D’Arcy. But there was a tone of raillery in his voice which put Amabel on her dignity, and she shook her head, and began to go down the steps of the house, one leg at a time.
“If I’m Bogy, you know, you have kissed me once,” shouted D’Arcy. But Amabel’s wits were as well developed as her feet.
“Once is enough for bogies,” said she, and went sturdily away.
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收听单词发音
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1
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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suavely
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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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economize
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| v.节约，节省 | |
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pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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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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subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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48
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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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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incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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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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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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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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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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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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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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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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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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ruggedness
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| 险峻，粗野； 耐久性； 坚固性 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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quaintest
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| adj.古色古香的( quaint的最高级 )；少见的，古怪的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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103
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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105
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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107
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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