“Here all my plans of happiness and improvement are again overturned: Dora cannot improve me, can give me no motive3 for making myself any thing better than what I am. Polish my manners! no, when she has such rude, odious4 manners herself; much changed for the worse — a hundred times more agreeable when she was a child. Lost to me she is every way — no longer my playfellow — no chance of her being my friend. Her good father hoped she would be a sister to me — very sorry I should be to have such a sister: then I am to consider her as a married woman — pretty wife she will make! I am convinced she cares no more for that man she is going to marry than I do — marrying merely to be married, to manage her own affairs, and have her own way — so childish! — or marrying merely to get an establishment — so base! How women, and such young creatures, can bring themselves to make these venal6 matches — I protest Peggy Sheridan’s worth a hundred of such. Moriarty may think himself a happy fellow — Suzy — Jenny, any body — only with dress and manner a little different — is full as good in reality. I question whether they’d give themselves, without liking7, to any White Connal in their own rank, at the first offer, for a few sheep, or a cow, or to have their own way.”
Such was the summing up of the topics of invective9, which, during a two hours’ walk, had come round and round continually in Ormond’s indignant fancy. He went plucking off the hawthorn10 blossoms in his path, till at one desperate tug11, that he gave to a branch which crossed his way, he opened to a bank that sloped down to the lake. At a little distance below him he saw old Sheelah sitting under a tree rocking herself backwards12 and forwards; while Dora stood motionless opposite to her, with her hand covering her eyes, and her head drooping13. They neither of them saw Ormond, and he walked on pursuing his own path; it led close behind the hedge to the place where they were, so close, that the sounds “Willastrew! Willastrew!” from Old Sheelah, in her funereal14 tone, reached his ear, and then the words, “Oh, my heart’s darling! so young to be a sacrifice — But what next did he say?”
Ormond’s curiosity was strongly excited; but he was too honourable15 to listen or to equivocate16 with conscience: so to warn them that some one was within hearing, he began to whistle clear and strong. Both the old woman and the young lady started.
“Murder!” cried Sheelah, “it’s Harry17 Ormond. Oh! did he overhear any thing — or all, think ye?”
“Not I,” answered Ormond, leaping over the hedge directly, and standing18 firm before them: “I overheard nothing — I heard only your last words, Sheelah — you spoke19 so loud I could not help it. They are as safe with me as with yourself — but don’t speak so loud another time, if you are talking secrets; and whatever you do, never suspect me of listening — I am incapable20 of that, or any other baseness.”
So saying, he turned his back, and was preparing to vault21 over the hedge again, when he heard Dora, in a soft low voice, say, “I never suspected you, Harry, of that, or any other baseness.”
“Thank you, Dora,” said he, turning with some emotion, “thank you, Dora, for this first, this only kind word you’ve said to me since you came home.”
Looking at her earnestly, as he approached nearer, he saw the traces of tears, and an air of dejection in her countenance22, which turned all his anger to pity and tenderness in an instant. With a soothing23 tone be said, “Forgive my unseasonable reproach — I was wrong — I see you are not as much to blame as I thought you were.”
“To blame!” cried Dora. “And pray how — and why — and for what did you think me to blame, sir?”
The impossibility of explanation, the impropriety of what he had said flashed suddenly on his mind; and in a few moments a rapid succession of ideas followed. “Was Dora to blame for obeying her father, for being ready to marry the man to whom her father had destined25 — promised her hand; and was he, Harry Ormond, the adopted child, the trusted friend of the family, to suggest to the daughter the idea of rebelling against her father’s will, or disputing the propriety24 of his choice?”
Ormond’s imagination took a rapid flight on Dora’s side of the question, and he finished with the conviction that she was “a sacrifice, a martyr26, and a miracle of perfection!” “Blame you, Dora!” cried he, “blame you! No — I admire, I esteem27, I respect you. Did I say that I blamed you? I did not know what I said, or what I meant.”
“And are you sure you know any better what you say or what you mean, now?” said Dora.
The altered look and tone of tartness28 in which this question was asked produced as sudden a change in Harry’s conviction. He hesitatingly answered, “I am —”
“He is,” said Sheelah, confidently.
“I did not ask your opinion, Sheelah: I can judge for myself,” said Dora. “Your words tell me one thing, sir, and your looks another,” said she, turning to Ormond; “which am I to believe, pray?”
“Oh! believe the young man any way, sure,” said Sheelah; “silence speaks best for him.”
“Best against him, in my opinion,” said Dora.
“Dora, will you hear me?” Ormond began.
“No, sir, I will not,” interrupted Dora. “What’s the use of hearing or listening to a man who does not, by the confession29 of his own eyes, and his own tongue, know two minutes together what he means, or mean two minutes together the same thing? A woman might as well listen to a fool or a madman!”
“Too harsh, too severe, Dora,” said he.
“Too true, too sincere, perhaps you mean.”
“Since I am allowed, Dora, to speak to you as a brother —”
“Who allowed you, sir?” interrupted Dora.
“Your father, Dora.”
“My father cannot, shall not! Nobody but nature can make any man my brother — nobody but myself shall allow any man to call himself my brother.”
“I am sorry I presumed so far, Miss O’Shane — I was only going to offer one word of advice.”
“I want no advice — I will take none from you, sir.”
“You shall have none, madam, henceforward, from Harry Ormond.”
“’Tis well, sir. Come away, Sheelah.”
“Oh! wait, dear — Och! I am too old,” said Sheelah, groaning30 as she rose slowly. “I’m too slow entirely31 for these quick passions.”
“Passions!” cried Dora, growing scarlet32 and pale in an instant: “what do you mean by passions, Sheelah?”
“I mean changes,” said Sheelah, “changes, dear. I am ready now — where’s my stick? Thank you, Master Harry. Only I say I can’t change my quarters and march so quick as you, dear.”
“Well, well, lean on me,” said Dora impatiently.
“Don’t hurry, poor Sheelah — no necessity to hurry away from me,” said Ormond, who had stood for a few moments like one transfixed. “’Tis for me to go — and I will go as fast and as far as you please, Dora, away from you and for ever.”
“For ever!” said Dora: “what do you mean?”
“Away from the Black Islands? he can’t mean that,” said Sheelah.
“Why not? — Did not I leave Castle Hermitage at a moment’s warning?”
“Warning! Nonsense!” cried Dora: “lean on him, Sheelah — he has frightened you; lean on him, can’t you? — sure he’s better than your stick. Warning! — where did you find that pretty word? Is Harry Ormond then turned footman?”
“Harry Ormond! — and a minute ago she would not let me — Miss O’Shane, I shall not forget myself again — amuse yourself with being as capricious as you please, but not at my expense; little as you think of me, I am not to be made your butt33 or your dupe: therefore, I must seriously beg, at once, that I may know whether you wish me to stay or to go.”
“To stay, to be sure, when my father invites you. Would you expose me to his displeasure? you know he can’t bear to be contradicted; and you know that he asked you to stay and live here.”
“But without exposing you to any displeasure, I can,” replied Ormond, “contrive34 —”
“Contrive nothing at all — do leave me to contrive for myself. I don’t mean to say leave me — you take up one’s words so quickly, and are so passionate35, Mr. Ormond.”
“If you would have me understand you, Dora, explain how you wish me to live with you.”
“Lord bless me! what a fuss the man makes about living with one — one would think it was the most difficult thing in the world. Can’t you live on like any body else? There’s my aunt in the hedge-row walk, all alone — I must go and take care of her: I leave you to take care of Sheelah — you know you were always very good-natured when we were children.”
Dora went off quick as lightning, and what to make of her, Ormond did not well know. Was it mere5 childishness, or affectation, or coquetry? No; the real tears, and real expression of look and word forbade each of these suppositions. One other cause for her conduct might have been suggested by a vain man. Harry Ormond was not a vain man; but a little fluttering delight was just beginning to play round his head, when Sheelah, leaning heavily on his arm as they ascended36 the bank, reminding him of her existence —“My poor old Sheelah!” said he, “are you not tired?”
“Not now, thanks to your arm, Master Harry, dear, that was always good to me — not now — I am not a whit8 tired; now I see all right again between my childer — and happy I was, these five minutes past, watching you smiling to yourself; and I don’t doubt but all the world will smile on ye yet. If it was my world, it should. But I can only wish you my best wish, which I did long ago —may you live to wonder at your own good luck!”
Ormond looked as if he was going to ask some question that interested him much, but it ended by wondering what o’clock it was. Sheelah wondered at him for thinking what the hour was, when she was talking of Miss Dora. After a silence, which brought them to the chicken-yard door, where Sheelah was “to quit his arm,” she leaned heavily again,
“The marriage — that they are all talking of in the kitchen, and every where through the country — Miss Dora’s marriage with White Connal, is reprieved37 for the season. She axed time till she’d be seventeen — very rasonable. So it’s to be in October — if we all live till those days — in the same mind. Lord, he knows — I know nothing at all about it; but I thank you kindly38, Master Harry, and wish you well, any way. Did you ever happen to see the bridegroom that is to be?”
“Never.”
Harry longed to hear what she longed to say; but he did not deem it prudent39, he did not think it honourable, to let her enter on this topic. The prudential consideration might have been conquered by curiosity; but the honourable repugnance40 to obtaining second-hand41 information, and encouraging improper42 confidence, prevailed. He deposited Sheelah safe on her stone bench at the chicken-yard door, and, much against her will, he left her before she had told or hinted to him all she did know — and all she did not know.
The flattering delight that played about our young hero’s head had increased, was increasing, and ought to be diminished. Of this he was sensible. It should never come near his heart — of that he was determined43; he would exactly follow the letter and spirit of his benefactor’s commands — he would always consider Dora as a married woman; but the prospect44 of there being some temptation, and some struggle, was infinitely45 agreeable to our young hero — it would give him something to do, something to think of, something to feel.
It was much in favour of his resolution, that Dora really was not at all the kind of woman he had pictured to himself, either as amiable46 or charming: she was not in the least like his last patterns of heroines, or any of his approved imaginations of the beau ideal. But she was an exceedingly pretty girl; she was the only very pretty and tolerably accomplished47 girl immediately near him. A dangerous propinquity!
点击收听单词发音
1 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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2 rambled | |
(无目的地)漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 ); (喻)漫谈; 扯淡; 长篇大论 | |
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3 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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4 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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5 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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6 venal | |
adj.唯利是图的,贪脏枉法的 | |
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7 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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8 whit | |
n.一点,丝毫 | |
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9 invective | |
n.痛骂,恶意抨击 | |
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10 hawthorn | |
山楂 | |
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11 tug | |
v.用力拖(或拉);苦干;n.拖;苦干;拖船 | |
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12 backwards | |
adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
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13 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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14 funereal | |
adj.悲哀的;送葬的 | |
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15 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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16 equivocate | |
v.模棱两可地,支吾其词 | |
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17 harry | |
vt.掠夺,蹂躏,使苦恼 | |
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18 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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19 spoke | |
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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20 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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21 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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22 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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23 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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24 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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25 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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26 martyr | |
n.烈士,殉难者;vt.杀害,折磨,牺牲 | |
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27 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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28 tartness | |
n.酸,锋利 | |
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29 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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30 groaning | |
adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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31 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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32 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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33 butt | |
n.笑柄;烟蒂;枪托;臀部;v.用头撞或顶 | |
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34 contrive | |
vt.谋划,策划;设法做到;设计,想出 | |
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35 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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36 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37 reprieved | |
v.缓期执行(死刑)( reprieve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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39 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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40 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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41 second-hand | |
adj.用过的,旧的,二手的 | |
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42 improper | |
adj.不适当的,不合适的,不正确的,不合礼仪的 | |
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43 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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44 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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45 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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46 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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47 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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