On the Sunday nothing was seen of Mr. Gilmore. He did not come to church, nor would he dine at the Vicarage. He remained the whole day in his own house, pretending to write, trying to read, with accounts before him, with a magazine in his hand, even with a volume of sermons open on the table before him. But neither the accounts, nor the magazines, nor the sermons, could arrest his attention for a moment. He had staked everything on obtaining a certain object, and that object was now beyond his reach. Men fail often in other things, in the pursuit of honour, fortune, or power, and when they fail they can begin again. There was no beginning again for him. When Mary Lowther should have married this captain, she would be a thing lost to him for ever;—and was she not as bad as married to this man already? He could do nothing to stop her marriage.
Early in the afternoon of Monday the Rev2. Henry Fitzackerley Chamberlaine reached Hampton Privets. He came with his own carriage and a pair of post-horses, as befitted a prebendary of the good old times. Not that Mr. Chamberlaine was a very old man, but that it suited his tastes and tone of mind to adhere to the well-bred ceremonies of life, so many of which went out of fashion when railroads came in. Mr. Chamberlaine was a gentleman of about fifty-five years of age, unmarried, possessed4 of a comfortable private independence, the incumbent5 of a living in the fens6 of Cambridgeshire, which he never visited,—his health forbidding him to do so,—on which subject there had been a considerable amount of correspondence between him and a certain right rev. prelate, in which the prebendary had so far got the better in the argument as not to be disturbed in his manner of life; and he was, as has been before said, the owner of a stall in Salisbury Cathedral. His lines had certainly fallen to him in very pleasant places. As to that living in the fens, there was not much to prick7 his conscience, as he gave up the parsonage house and two-thirds of the income to his curate, expending8 the other third on local charities. Perhaps the argument which had most weight in silencing the bishop9 was contained in a short postscript10 to one of his letters. “By-the-by,” said the postscript, “perhaps I ought to inform your lordship that I have never drawn11 a penny of income out of Hardbedloe since I ceased to live there.” “It’s a bishop’s living,” said the happy holder12 of it, “to one or two clerical friends, and Dr. —— thinks the patronage13 would be better in his hands than in mine. I disagree with him, and he’ll have to write a great many letters before he succeeds.” But his stall was worth ￡800 a year and a house, and Mr. Chamberlaine, in regard to his money matters, was quite in clover.
He was a very handsome man, about six feet high, with large light grey eyes, a straight nose, and a well cut chin. His lips were thin, but his teeth were perfect,—only that they had been supplied by a dentist. His grey hair encircled his head, coming round upon his forehead in little wavy14 curls, in a manner that had conquered the hearts of spinsters by the dozen in the cathedral. It was whispered, indeed, that married ladies would sometimes succumb15, and rave16 about the beauty, and the dignity, and the white hands, and the deep rolling voice of the Rev. Henry Fitzackerley Chamberlaine. Indeed, his voice was very fine when it would be heard from the far-off end of the choir17 during the communion service, altogether trumping18 the exertion19 of the other second-rate clergyman who would be associated with him at the altar. And he had, too, great gifts of preaching, which he would exercise once a week during thirteen weeks of the year. He never exceeded twenty-five minutes; every word was audible throughout the whole choir, and there was a grace about it that was better than any doctrine20. When he was to be heard the cathedral was always full, and he was perhaps justified21 in regarding himself as one of the ecclesiastical stars of the day. Many applications were made to him to preach here and there, but he always refused. Stories were told of how he had declined to preach before the Queen at St. James’s, averring22 that if Her Majesty23 would please to visit Salisbury, every accommodation should be provided for her. As to preaching at Whitehall, Westminster, and St. Paul’s, it was not doubted that he had over and over again declared that his appointed place was in his own stall, and that he did not consider that he was called to holding forth24 in the market-place. He was usually abroad during the early autumn months, and would make sundry25 prolonged visits to friends; but his only home was his prebendal residence in the Close. It was not much of a house to look at from the outside, being built with the plainest possible construction of brick; but within it was very pleasant. All that curtains, and carpets, and armchairs, and books, and ornaments26 could do, had been done lavishly27, and the cellar was known to be the best in the city. He always used post-horses, but he had his own carriage. He never talked very much, but when he did speak people listened to him. His appetite was excellent, but he was a feeder not very easy to please; it was understood well by the ladies of Salisbury that if Mr. Chamberlaine was expected to dinner, something special must be done in the way of entertainment. He was always exceedingly well dressed. What he did with his hours nobody knew, but he was supposed to be a man well educated at all points. That he was such a judge of all works of art, that not another like him was to be found in Wiltshire, nobody doubted. It was considered that he was almost as big as the bishop, and not a soul in Salisbury would have thought of comparing the dean to him. But the dean had seven children, and Mr. Chamberlaine was quite unencumbered.
Henry Gilmore was a little afraid of his uncle, but would always declare that he was not so. “If he chooses to come over here he is welcome,” the nephew would say; “but he must live just as I do.” Nevertheless, though there was but little left of the ‘47 Lafitte in the cellar of Hampton Privets, a bottle was always brought up when Mr. Chamberlaine was there, and Mrs. Bunker, the cook, did not pretend but that she was in a state of dismay from the hour of his coming to that of his going. And yet, Mrs. Bunker and the other servants liked him to be there. His presence honoured the Privets. Even the boy who blacked his boots felt that he was blacking the boots of a great man. It was acknowledged throughout the household that the Squire having such an uncle, was more of a Squire than he would have been without him. The clergyman, being such as he was, was greater than the country gentleman. And yet Mr. Chamberlaine was only a prebendary, was the son of a country clergyman who had happened to marry a wife with money, and had absolutely never done anything useful in the whole course of his life. It is often very curious to trace the sources of greatness. With Mr. Chamberlaine, I think it came from the whiteness of his hands, and from a certain knack28 he had of looking as though he could say a great deal, though it suited him better to be silent, and say nothing. Of outside deportment, no doubt, he was a master.
Mr. Fenwick always declared that he was very fond of Mr. Chamberlaine, and greatly admired him. “He is the most perfect philosopher I ever met,” Fenwick would say, “and has gone to the very centre depth of contemplation. In another ten years he will be the great Akinetos. He will eat and drink, and listen, and be at ease, and desire nothing. As it is, no man that I know disturbs other people so little.” On the other hand, Mr. Chamberlaine did not profess29 any great admiration30 for Mr. Fenwick, who he designated as one of the smart “windbag tribe, clever, no doubt, and perhaps conscientious31, but shallow and perhaps a little conceited32.” The Squire, who was not clever and not conceited, understood them both, and much preferred his friend the Vicar to his uncle the prebendary.
Gilmore had once consulted his uncle,—once in an evil moment, as he now felt,—whether it would not be well for him to marry Miss Lowther. The uncle had expressed himself as very adverse33 to the marriage, and would now, on this occasion, be sure to ask some question about it. When the great man arrived the Squire was out, still wandering round among the bullocks and sheep; but the evening after dinner would be very long. On the following day Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick, with Mr. and Mrs. Greenthorne, were to dine at the Privets. If this first evening were only through, Gilmore thought that he could get some comfort, even from his uncle. As he came near the house, he went into the yard, and saw the Prebendary’s grand carriage, which was being washed. No; as far as the groom34 knew, Mr. Chamberlaine had not gone out; but was in the house then. So Gilmore entered, and found his uncle in the library.
His first questions were about the murder. “You did catch one man, and let him go?” said the Prebendary.
“Yes; a tenant35 of mine; but there was no evidence against him. He was not the man.”
“I would not have let him go,” said Mr. Chamberlaine.
“You would not have kept a man that was innocent?” said Gilmore.
“I would not have let the young man go.”
“But the law would not support us in detaining him.”
“Nevertheless, I would not have let him go,” said Mr. Chamberlaine. “I heard all about it.”
“From whom did you hear?”
“From Lord Trowbridge. I certainly would not have let him go.” It appeared, however, that Lord Trowbridge’s opinion had been given to the Prebendary prior to that fatal meeting which had taken place in the house of the murdered man.
The uncle drank his claret in silence on this evening. He said nothing, at least, about Mary Lowther.
“I don’t know where you got it, Harry36, but that is not a bad glass of wine.”
“We think there’s none better in the country, sir,” said Harry.
“I should be very sorry to commit myself so far; but it is a good glass of wine. By the bye, I hope your chef has learned to make a cup of coffee since I was here in the spring. I think we will try it now.” The coffee was brought, and the Prebendary shook his head,—the least shake in the world,—and smiled blandly37.
“Coffee is the very devil in the country,” said Harry Gilmore, who did not dare to say that the mixture was good in opposition38 to his uncle’s opinion.
After the coffee, which was served in the library, the two men sat silent together for half an hour, and Gilmore was endeavouring to think what it was that made his uncle come to Bullhampton. At last, before he had arrived at any decision on this subject, there came first a little nod, then a start and a sweet smile, then another nod and a start without the smile, and, after that, a soft murmuring of a musical snore, which gradually increased in deepness till it became evident that the Prebendary was extremely happy. Then it occurred to Gilmore that perhaps Mr. Chamberlaine might become tired of going to sleep in his own house, and that he had come to the Privets, as he could not do so with comfortable self-satisfaction in the houses of indifferent friends. For the benefit of such a change it might perhaps be worth the great man’s while to undergo the penalty of a bad cup of coffee.
And could not he, too, go to sleep,—he, Gilmore? Could he not fall asleep,—not only for a few moments on such an occasion as this,—but altogether, after the Akinetos fashion, as explained by his friend Fenwick? Could he not become an immoveable one, as was this divine uncle of his? No Mary Lowther had ever disturbed that man’s happiness. A good dinner, a pretty ring, an easy chair, a china tea-cup, might all be procured39 with certainty, as long as money lasted. Here was a man before him superbly comfortable, absolutely happy, with no greater suffering than what might come to him from a chance cup of bad coffee, while he, Harry Gilmore himself, was as miserable40 a devil as might be found between the four seas, because a certain young woman wouldn’t come to him and take half of all that he owned! If there were any curative philosophy to be found, why could not he find it? The world might say that the philosophy was a low philosophy; but what did that matter, if it would take away out of his breast that horrid41 load which was more than he could bear? He declared to himself that he would sell his heart with all its privileges for half-a-farthing, if he could find anybody to take it with all its burden. Here, then, was a man who had no burden. He was snoring with almost harmonious42 cadence,—slowly, discreetly,—one might say, artistically43, quite like a gentleman; and the man who so snored could not but be happy. “Oh, d——n it!” said Gilmore, in a private whisper, getting up and leaving the room; but there was more of envy than of anger in the exclamation44.
“Ah! you’ve been out,” said Mr. Chamberlaine, when his nephew returned.
“Been to look at the horses made up.”
“I never can see the use of that; but I believe a great many men do it. I suppose it’s an excuse for smoking generally.” Now, Mr. Chamberlaine did not smoke.
“Well; I did light my pipe.”
“There’s not the slightest necessity for telling me so, Harry. Let us see if Mrs. Bunker’s tea is better than her coffee.” Then the bell was rung, and Mr. Chamberlaine desired that he might have a cup of black tea, not strong, but made with a good deal of tea, and poured out rapidly, without much decoction. “If it be strong and harsh I can’t sleep a wink,” he said. The tea was brought, and sipped45 very leisurely46. There was then a word or two said about certain German baths from which Mr. Chamberlaine had just returned; and Mr. Gilmore began to believe that he should not be asked to say anything about Mary Lowther that night.
But the Fates were not so kind. The Prebendary had arisen with the intention of retiring for the night, and was already standing47 before the fire, with his bedroom candle in his hand, when something,—the happiness probably of his own position in life, which allowed him to seek the blessings48 of an undivided couch,—brought to his memory the fact that his nephew had spoken to him about some young woman, some young woman who had possessed not even the merit of a dowry.
“By the bye,” said he, “what has become of that flame of yours, Harry?” Harry Gilmore became black and glum49. He did not like to hear Mary spoken of as a flame. He was standing at this moment with his back to his uncle, and so remained, without answering him. “Do you mean to say that you did not ask her, after all?” asked the uncle. “If there be any scrape, Harry, you had better let me hear it.”
“I don’t know what you call a scrape,” said Harry. “She’s not going to marry me.”
“Thank God, my boy!” Gilmore turned round, but his uncle did not probably see his face. “I can assure you,” continued Mr. Chamberlaine, “that the idea made me quite uncomfortable. I set some inquiries50 on foot, and she was not the sort of girl that you should marry.”
“By G——,” said Gilmore, “I’d give every acre I have in the world, and every shilling, and every friend, and twenty years of my life, if I could only be allowed at this moment to think it possible that she would ever marry me!”
“Good heavens!” said Mr. Chamberlaine. While he was saying it, Harry Gilmore walked off, and did not show himself to his uncle again that night.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
rev
|
|
| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
squire
|
|
| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
incumbent
|
|
| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
fens
|
|
| n.（尤指英格兰东部的）沼泽地带( fen的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
prick
|
|
| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
expending
|
|
| v.花费( expend的现在分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
bishop
|
|
| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
postscript
|
|
| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
holder
|
|
| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
patronage
|
|
| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
wavy
|
|
| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
succumb
|
|
| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
rave
|
|
| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
choir
|
|
| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
trumping
|
|
| v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的现在分词 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
exertion
|
|
| n.尽力，努力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
doctrine
|
|
| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
justified
|
|
| a.正当的，有理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
averring
|
|
| v.断言( aver的现在分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
23
majesty
|
|
| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
sundry
|
|
| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
ornaments
|
|
| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
lavishly
|
|
| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
knack
|
|
| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
profess
|
|
| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
conscientious
|
|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
conceited
|
|
| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
adverse
|
|
| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
groom
|
|
| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
tenant
|
|
| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
harry
|
|
| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
blandly
|
|
| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
opposition
|
|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
procured
|
|
| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
harmonious
|
|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
artistically
|
|
| adv.艺术性地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
sipped
|
|
| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
leisurely
|
|
| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
blessings
|
|
| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
glum
|
|
| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
inquiries
|
|
| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |