As soon as the door was shut upon her she looked round the room, and started at perceiving a handsome man snugly4 ensconced in the couch, like the recumbent figure within some canopied5 mural tomb of the fifteenth century, except that his hands were by no means clasped in prayer. She had no doubt that this was the doctor. Awaken6 him herself she could not, and her immediate7 impulse was to go and pull the broad ribbon with a brass8 rosette which hung at one side of the fireplace. But expecting the landlady9 to re-enter in a moment she abandoned this intention, and stood gazing in great embarrassment10 at the reclining philosopher.
The windows of Fitzpiers’s soul being at present shuttered, he probably appeared less impressive than in his hours of animation11; but the light abstracted from his material presence by sleep was more than counterbalanced by the mysterious influence of that state, in a stranger, upon the consciousness of a beholder12 so sensitive. So far as she could criticise13 at all, she became aware that she had encountered a specimen14 of creation altogether unusual in that locality. The occasions on which Grace had observed men of this stamp were when she had been far removed away from Hintock, and even then such examples as had met her eye were at a distance, and mainly of coarser fibre than the one who now confronted her.
She nervously15 wondered why the woman had not discovered her mistake and returned, and went again towards the bell-pull. Approaching the chimney her back was to Fitzpiers, but she could see him in the glass. An indescribable thrill passed through her as she perceived that the eyes of the reflected image were open, gazing wonderingly at her, and under the curious unexpectedness of the sight she became as if spellbound, almost powerless to turn her head and regard the original. However, by an effort she did turn, when there he lay asleep the same as before.
Her startled perplexity as to what he could be meaning was sufficient to lead her to precipitately16 abandon her errand. She crossed quickly to the door, opened and closed it noiselessly, and went out of the house unobserved. By the time that she had gone down the path and through the garden door into the lane she had recovered her equanimity17. Here, screened by the hedge, she stood and considered a while.
Drip, drip, drip, fell the rain upon her umbrella and around; she had come out on such a morning because of the seriousness of the matter in hand; yet now she had allowed her mission to be stultified18 by a momentary19 tremulousness concerning an incident which perhaps had meant nothing after all.
In the mean time her departure from the room, stealthy as it had been, had roused Fitzpiers, and he sat up. In the reflection from the mirror which Grace had beheld20 there was no mystery; he had opened his eyes for a few moments, but had immediately relapsed into unconsciousness, if, indeed, he had ever been positively21 awake. That somebody had just left the room he was certain, and that the lovely form which seemed to have visited him in a dream was no less than the real presentation of the person departed he could hardly doubt.
Looking out of the window a few minutes later, down the box-edged gravel-path which led to the bottom, he saw the garden door gently open, and through it enter the young girl of his thoughts, Grace having just at this juncture22 determined23 to return and attempt the interview a second time. That he saw her coming instead of going made him ask himself if his first impression of her were not a dream indeed. She came hesitatingly along, carrying her umbrella so low over her head that he could hardly see her face. When she reached the point where the raspberry bushes ended and the strawberry bed began, she made a little pause.
Fitzpiers feared that she might not be coming to him even now, and hastily quitting the room, he ran down the path to meet her. The nature of her errand he could not divine, but he was prepared to give her any amount of encouragement.
“I beg pardon, Miss Melbury,” he said. “I saw you from the window, and fancied you might imagine that I was not at home — if it is I you were coming for.”
“I was coming to speak one word to you, nothing more,” she replied. “And I can say it here.”
“No, no. Please do come in. Well, then, if you will not come into the house, come as far as the porch.”
Thus pressed she went on to the porch, and they stood together inside it, Fitzpiers closing her umbrella for her.
“I have merely a request or petition to make,” she said. “My father’s servant is ill — a woman you know — and her illness is serious.”
“I am sorry to hear it. You wish me to come and see her at once?”
“No; I particularly wish you not to come.”
“Oh, indeed.”
“Yes; and she wishes the same. It would make her seriously worse if you were to come. It would almost kill her. . . . My errand is of a peculiar24 and awkward nature. It is concerning a subject which weighs on her mind — that unfortunate arrangement she made with you, that you might have her body — after death.”
“Oh! Grammer Oliver, the old woman with the fine head. Seriously ill, is she!”
“And SO disturbed by her rash compact! I have brought the money back — will you please return to her the agreement she signed?” Grace held out to him a couple of five-pound notes which she had kept ready tucked in her glove.
Without replying or considering the notes, Fitzpiers allowed his thoughts to follow his eyes, and dwell upon Grace’s personality, and the sudden close relation in which he stood to her. The porch was narrow; the rain increased. It ran off the porch and dripped on the creepers, and from the creepers upon the edge of Grace’s cloak and skirts.
“The rain is wetting your dress; please do come in,” he said. “It really makes my heart ache to let you stay here.”
Immediately inside the front door was the door of his sitting-room25; he flung it open, and stood in a coaxing26 attitude. Try how she would, Grace could not resist the supplicatory27 mandate28 written in the face and manner of this man, and distressful29 resignation sat on her as she glided30 past him into the room — brushing his coat with her elbow by reason of the narrowness.
He followed her, shut the door — which she somehow had hoped he would leave open — and placing a chair for her, sat down. The concern which Grace felt at the development of these commonplace incidents was, of course, mainly owing to the strange effect upon her nerves of that view of him in the mirror gazing at her with open eyes when she had thought him sleeping, which made her fancy that his slumber31 might have been a feint based on inexplicable32 reasons.
She again proffered33 the notes; he awoke from looking at her as at a piece of live statuary, and listened deferentially34 as she said, “Will you then reconsider, and cancel the bond which poor Grammer Oliver so foolishly gave?”
“I’ll cancel it without reconsideration. Though you will allow me to have my own opinion about her foolishness. Grammer is a very wise woman, and she was as wise in that as in other things. You think there was something very fiendish in the compact, do you not, Miss Melbury? But remember that the most eminent35 of our surgeons in past times have entered into such agreements.”
“Not fiendish — strange.”
“Yes, that may be, since strangeness is not in the nature of a thing, but in its relation to something extrinsic36 — in this case an unessential observer.”
He went to his desk, and searching a while found a paper, which be unfolded and brought to her. A thick cross appeared in ink at the bottom — evidently from the hand of Grammer. Grace put the paper in her pocket with a look of much relief.
As Fitzpiers did not take up the money (half of which had come from Grace’s own purse), she pushed it a little nearer to him. “No, no. I shall not take it from the old woman,” he said. “It is more strange than the fact of a surgeon arranging to obtain a subject for dissection37 that our acquaintance should be formed out of it.”
“I am afraid you think me uncivil in showing my dislike to the notion. But I did not mean to be.”
“Oh no, no.” He looked at her, as he had done before, with puzzled interest. “I cannot think, I cannot think,” he murmured. “Something bewilders me greatly.” He still reflected and hesitated. “Last night I sat up very late,” he at last went on, “and on that account I fell into a little nap on that couch about half an hour ago. And during my few minutes of unconsciousness I dreamed — what do you think? — that you stood in the room.”
Should she tell? She merely blushed.
“You may imagine,” Fitzpiers continued, now persuaded that it had, indeed, been a dream, “that I should not have dreamed of you without considerable thinking about you first.”
He could not be acting38; of that she felt assured.
“I fancied in my vision that you stood there,” he said, pointing to where she had paused. “I did not see you directly, but reflected in the glass. I thought, what a lovely creature! The design is for once carried out. Nature has at last recovered her lost union with the Idea! My thoughts ran in that direction because I had been reading the work of a transcendental philosopher last night; and I dare say it was the dose of Idealism that I received from it that made me scarcely able to distinguish between reality and fancy. I almost wept when I awoke, and found that you had appeared to me in Time, but not in Space, alas39!”
At moments there was something theatrical40 in the delivery of Fitzpiers’s effusion; yet it would have been inexact to say that it was intrinsically theatrical. It often happens that in situations of unrestraint, where there is no thought of the eye of criticism, real feeling glides41 into a mode of manifestation42 not easily distinguishable from rodomontade. A veneer43 of affectation overlies a bulk of truth, with the evil consequence, if perceived, that the substance is estimated by the superficies, and the whole rejected.
Grace, however, was no specialist in men’s manners, and she admired the sentiment without thinking of the form. And she was embarrassed: “lovely creature” made explanation awkward to her gentle modesty44.
“But can it be,” said he, suddenly, “that you really were here?”
“I have to confess that I have been in the room once before,” faltered45 she. “The woman showed me in, and went away to fetch you; but as she did not return, I left.”
“And you saw me asleep,” he murmured, with the faintest show of humiliation46.
“Yes — IF you were asleep, and did not deceive me.”
“Why do you say if?”
“I saw your eyes open in the glass, but as they were closed when I looked round upon you, I thought you were perhaps deceiving me.
“Never,” said Fitzpiers, fervently47 —“never could I deceive you.”
Foreknowledge to the distance of a year or so in either of them might have spoiled the effect of that pretty speech. Never deceive her! But they knew nothing, and the phrase had its day.
Grace began now to be anxious to terminate the interview, but the compelling power of Fitzpiers’s atmosphere still held her there. She was like an inexperienced actress who, having at last taken up her position on the boards, and spoken her speeches, does not know how to move off. The thought of Grammer occurred to her. “I’ll go at once and tell poor Grammer of your generosity,” she said. “It will relieve her at once.”
“Grammer’s a nervous disease, too — how singular!” he answered, accompanying her to the door. “One moment; look at this — it is something which may interest you.”
He had thrown open the door on the other side of the passage, and she saw a microscope on the table of the confronting room. “Look into it, please; you’ll be interested,” he repeated.
She applied48 her eye, and saw the usual circle of light patterned all over with a cellular49 tissue of some indescribable sort. “What do you think that is?” said Fitzpiers.
She did not know.
“That’s a fragment of old John South’s brain, which I am investigating.”
She started back, not with aversion, but with wonder as to how it should have got there. Fitzpiers laughed.
“Here am I,” he said, “endeavoring to carry on simultaneously50 the study of physiology51 and transcendental philosophy, the material world and the ideal, so as to discover if possible a point of contrast between them; and your finer sense is quite offended!”
“Oh no, Mr. Fitzpiers,” said Grace, earnestly. “It is not so at all. I know from seeing your light at night how deeply you meditate52 and work. Instead of condemning53 you for your studies, I admire you very much!”
Her face, upturned from the microscope, was so sweet, sincere, and self-forgetful in its aspect that the susceptible54 Fitzpiers more than wished to annihilate55 the lineal yard which separated it from his own. Whether anything of the kind showed in his eyes or not, Grace remained no longer at the microscope, but quickly went her way into the rain.
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收听单词发音
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1
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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18
stultified
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| v.使成为徒劳，使变得无用( stultify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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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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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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25
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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26
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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supplicatory
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| adj.恳求的，祈愿的 | |
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mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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30
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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31
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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33
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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extrinsic
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| adj.外部的；不紧要的 | |
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37
dissection
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| n.分析；解剖 | |
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38
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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40
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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41
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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42
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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43
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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44
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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45
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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46
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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47
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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48
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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49
cellular
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| adj.移动的；细胞的，由细胞组成的 | |
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50
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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51
physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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52
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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53
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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54
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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55
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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