— W.W. PEYTON.
THE Bishop5 was an undersized, spare man, with a rugged6, weather-beaten face and sinewy7 frame. If you had seen him working a crane in a stonemason’s yard, or leading a cut-and-thrust forlorn-hope, or sailing paper-boats with a child, you would have felt he was the right man in the right place. That he was also in his right place as a bishop had never been doubted by any one. Mr. Gresley was the only person who had occasionally had misgivings8 as to the Bishop’s vocation9 as a true priest, but he had put them aside as disloyal.
Jowett is believed to have said, “A Bishop without a sense of humour is lost.” Perhaps that may have been one of the reasons why, by Jowett’s advice, the See of Southminster was offered to its present occupant. The Bishop’s mouth, though it spoke10 of an indomitable will, had a certain twist of the lip, his deep-set, benevolent11 eyes had a certain twinkle which made persons like Lord Newhaven and Hester hail him at once as an ally, but which ought to have been a danger-signal to some of his clerical brethren — to Mr. Gresley in particular.
The Bishop respected and upheld Mr. Gresley as a clergyman, but as a conversationalist the young Vicar wearied him. If the truth were known (which it never was) he had arranged to visit Hester when he knew Mr. Gresley would be engaging the reluctant attention of a ruri-dicanal meeting.
He gave a sigh of relief as he became aware that Hester and Rachel were the only occupants of the cool, darkened room. Mrs. Gresley, it seemed, was also out.
Hester made tea, and presently the Bishop, who looked much exhausted12, roused himself. He had that afternoon attended two deathbeds, one the deathbed of a friend, and the other that of the last vestige13 of peace, expiring amid the clamour of a distracted Low Church parish and High Church parson, who could only meet each other after the fashion of cymbals14. For the moment even his courageous15 spirit had been disheartened.
“I met a son of Anak the other night at the Newhavens,” he said to Hester, “who claimed you as a cousin — a Mr. Richard Vernon. He broke the ice by informing me that I had confirmed him, and that perhaps I should like to know that he had turned out better than he expected.”
“How like Dick,” said Hester.
“I remembered him at last. His father was the squire16 of Fallow, where I was rector before I came to Southminster. Dick was not a source of unmixed pleasure to his parents. As a boy of eight he sowed the parental17 billiard-table with mustard and cress in his father’s absence, and raised a very good crop, and performed other excruciating experiments. I believe he beat all previous records of birch rods at Eton. I remember while he was there he won a bet from another boy who could not pay, and he foreclosed on the loser’s cricketing trousers. His parents were distressed18 about it when he brought them home, and I tried to make him see that he ought not to have taken them. But Dick held firm. He said it was like tithe19, and if he could not get his own in money as I did he must collect it in trousers. I must own he had me there. I noticed that he wore the garments daily as long as any question remained in his parents’ minds as to whether they ought to be returned. After that I felt sure he would succeed in life.”
“I believe he is succeeding in Australia.”
“I advised his father to send him abroad. There really was not room for him in England, and unfortunately for the army, the examiners jibbed at his strictly20 phonetic21 spelling. He tells me he has given up being an A.D.C. and has taken to vine-growing, because if people are up in the world they always drink freely, and if they are ‘down on their luck’ they drink all the more to drown care. The reasoning appeared to me sound.”
“He and James used to quarrel frightfully in the holidays,” said Hester. “It was always the same reason, about playing fair. Poor James did not know that games were matters of deadly importance, and that a rule was a sacred thing. I wonder why it is that clergymen so often have the same code of honour as women; quite a different code from that of the average man.”
“I think,” said the Bishop, “it is owing to that difference of code that women clash so hopelessly with men when they attempt to compete or work with them. Women have not to begin with the esprit de corps22 which the most ordinary men possess. With what difficulty can one squeeze out of a man any fact that is detrimental23 to his friend, or even to his acquaintance, however obviously necessary it may be that the information should be asked for and given. Yet I have known many good and earnest and affectionate women who lead unselfish lives, who will ‘give away’ their best woman friend at the smallest provocation24, or without any provocation at all; will inform you à propos of nothing that she was jilted years ago, or that her husband married her for her money. The causes of humiliation25 and disaster in a woman’s life seem to have no sacredness for her women friends. Yet if that same friend whom she has run down is ill, the runner down will nurse her day and night with absolutely selfless devotion.”
“I have often been puzzled by that,” said Rachel. “I seem to be always making mistakes about women, and perhaps that is the reason. They show themselves capable of some deep affection or some great self-sacrifice, and I respect and admire them, and think they are like that all through. And the day comes when they are not quite straightforward26, or are guilty of some petty meanness, which a man who is not fit to black their boots would never stoop to.”
Hester’s eyes fixed27 on her friend.
“Do you tell them? Do you show them up to themselves?” she asked; “or do you leave them?”
“I do neither,” said Rachel. “I treat them just the same as before.”
“Then aren’t you a hypocrite, too?”
Hester’s small face was set like a flint.
“I think not,” said Rachel tranquilly28, “any more than they are. The good is there for certain, and the evil is there for certain. Why should I take most notice of the evil which is just the part which will be rubbed out of them presently while the good will remain.”
“I think Rachel is right,” said the Bishop.
“I don’t think she is, at all,” said Hester, her plumage ruffled29, administering her contradiction right and left to her two best friends like a sharp peck from a wren30. “I think we ought to believe the best of people until they prove themselves unworthy, and then —”
“Then what?” said the Bishop, settling himself in his chair.
“Then leave them in silence.”
“I only know of a woman’s silence by hearsay31. I have never met it. Do you mean bitterly reproach the thistle for not bearing grapes?”
“I do not. It is my own fault if I idealise a thistle until the thistle and I both think it is a vine. But if people appear to love and honour certain truths which they know are everything to me, and claim kinship with me on that common ground, and then desert when the pinch comes, as it always does come, and act from worldly motives32, then I know that they have never really cared for what they professed33 to love, that what I imagined to be a principle was only a subject of conversation — and — I withdraw.”
“You withdraw!” echoed the Bishop. “This is terrible.”
“Just as I should,” continued Hester, “if I were in political life. If a man threw in his lot with me, and then, when some means of worldly advancement34 seemed probable from the other side, deserted35 to it, I should not in consequence think him incapable36 of being a good husband and father and landlord. But I should never again believe that he cared for what I had staked my all on. And when he began to talk as if he cared (as they always do, as if nothing had happened) I should not show him up to himself. I have tried that and it is no use. I should —”
“Denounce him as an apostate37?” suggested the Bishop.
“No. He should be to me thenceforward as a heathen.”
“Thrice miserable38 man!”
“You would not have me treat him as a brother after that?”
“Of course not, because he would probably dislike that still more.”
At this moment a hurricane seemed to pass through the little house, and the three children rushed into the drawing-room, accompanied by Boulou, in a frantic39 state of excitement. Boulou, like Hester, had no happy medium in his character. He was what Mrs. Gresley called “very Frenchy,” and he now showed his “Frenchyness” by a foolish exhibition of himself in coursing round and round the room with his silly foreign tail crooked40 the wrong way.
“Mother got out at Mrs. Brown’s,” shrieked41 Regie, in his highest voice, “and I drove up.”
“Oh, Regie,” expostulated Mary the virtuous42, the invariable corrector of the statements of others. “You held the reins43, but William walked beside.”
Hester made the children shake hands with her guests, and then they clustered round her to show what they had bought.
Though the Bishop was fond of children, he became suddenly restive44. He took out his watch, and was nervously45 surprised at the lapse46 of time. The carriage was sent for, and in a few minutes that dignified47 vehicle was bowling48 back to Southminster.
“I am not satisfied about Hester,” said the Bishop. “She looks ill and irritable49, and she has the tense expression of a person who is making a colossal50 effort to be patient, and whose patience, after successfully meeting twenty calls upon it in the course of the day, collapses51 entirely52 at the twenty-first. That is a humiliating experience.”
“She spoke as if she were a trial to her brother and his wife.”
“I think she is. I have a sort of sympathy with Gresley as regards his sister. He has been kind to her according to his lights, and if she could write little goody-goody books he would admire her immensely, and so would half the neighbourhood. It would be felt to be suitable. But Hester jars against the preconceived ideas which depute that clergymen’s sisters and daughters should, as a matter of course, offer up their youth and hair and teeth and eyesight on the altar of parochial work. She does and is nothing that long custom expects her to do and be. Originality is out of place in a clergyman’s family, just because it is so urgently needed. It is a constant source of friction53. But, on the other hand, the best thing that could happen to Hester is to be thrown for a time among people who regard her as a nonenity, who have no sense of humour, and to whom she cannot speak of any of the subjects she has at heart. If Hester had remained in London after the success of her ‘Idyll’ she would have met with so much sympathy and admiration54 that her next book would probably have suffered in consequence. She is so susceptible55, so expansive, that repression56 is positively57 necessary to her to enable her, so to speak, to get up steam. There is no place for getting up steam like a country vicarage with an inner cordon58 of cows round it, and an outer one of amiable59 country neighbours, mildly contemptuous of originality in any form. She cannot be in sympathy with them in her present stage. It is her loss, not theirs. At forty she will be in sympathy with them, and appreciate them as I do; but that is another story. She has been working at this new book all winter with a fervour and concentration which her isolation60 has helped to bring about. She owes a debt of gratitude61 to her surroundings, and some day I shall tell her so.”
“She says her temper has become that of a fiend.”
“She is passionate62, there is no doubt. She nearly fell on us both this afternoon. She is too much swayed by every little incident. Everything makes a vivid impression on her and shakes her to pieces. It is rather absurd and disproportionate now, like the long legs of a foal, but it is a sign of growth. My experience is that people without that fire of enthusiasm on the one side and righteous indignation on the other never achieve anything except in domestic life. If Hester lives she will outgrow63 her passionate nature, or at least she will grow up to it and become passive, contemplative. Then instead of unbalanced anger and excitement, the same nature which is now continually upset by them will have learnt to receive impressions calmly, and, by reason of that receptiveness and insight, she will go far.”
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1
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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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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11
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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cymbals
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| pl.铙钹 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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phonetic
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| adj.语言的，语言上的，表示语音的 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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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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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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apostate
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| n.背叛者，变节者 | |
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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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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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41
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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43
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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46
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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47
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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49
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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51
collapses
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| 折叠( collapse的第三人称单数 )； 倒塌； 崩溃； （尤指工作劳累后）坐下 | |
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52
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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53
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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54
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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55
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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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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cordon
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| n.警戒线，哨兵线 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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60
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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passionate
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| 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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outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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