‘You see, all you public schoolboys have a kind of freemasonry of your own, and outsiders are looked on by you much as I look on rabbits and all that isn’t game. Ay, you may laugh, but it is so; and your friends will throw their eyes askance at me, and never think on my pedigree, which would beat theirs all to shivers, I’ll be bound. No: I’ll have no one here at the Hall who will look down on a Hamley of Hamley, even if he only knows how to make a cross instead of write his name.’
Then, of course, they must not visit at houses to whose sons the squire could not or would not return a like hospitality. On all these points Mrs. Hamley had used her utmost influence without avail; his prejudices were immovable. As regarded his position as head of the oldest family in three counties, his pride was invincible53; as regarded himself personally — ill at ease in the society of his equals, deficient54 in manners, and in education — his morbid sensitiveness was too sore and too self-conscious to be called humility55.
Take one instance from among many similar scenes of the state of feeling between the squire and his eldest56 son, which, if it could not be called active discord57, showed at least passive estrangement58.
It took place on an evening in the March succeeding Mrs. Hamley’s death. Roger was at Cambridge. Osborne had also been from home, and he had not volunteered any information as to his absence. The squire believed that Osborne had been either in Cambridge with his brother, or in London; he would have liked to hear where his son had been, what he had been doing, and whom he had seen, purely59 as pieces of news, and as some diversion from the domestic worries and cares which were pressing him hard; but he was too proud to ask any questions, and Osborne had not given him any details of his journey. This silence had aggravated60 the squire’s internal dissatisfaction, and he came home to dinner weary and sore-hearted a day or two after Osborne’s return. It was just six o’clock, and he went hastily into his own little business-room on the ground-floor, and, after washing his hands, came into the drawing-room feeling as if he were very late, but the room was empty. He glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece, as he tried to warm his hands at the fire. The fire had been neglected, and had gone out during the day; it was now piled with half-dried wood, which sputtered61 and smoked instead of doing its duty in blazing and warming the room, through which the keen wind was cutting its way in all directions. The clock had stopped, no one had remembered to wind it up, but by the squire’s watch it was already past dinner-time. The old butler put his head into the room, but, seeing the squire alone, he was about to draw it back, and wait for Mr. Osborne, before announcing dinner. He had hoped to do this unperceived, but the squire caught him in the act.
‘Why isn’t dinner ready?’ he called out sharply. ‘It’s ten minutes past six. And, pray, why are you using this wood? It’s impossible to get oneself warm by such a fire as this.’
‘I believe, sir, that Thomas —’
‘Don’t talk to me of Thomas. Send dinner in directly.’
About five minutes elapsed, spent by the hungry squire in all sorts of impatient ways — attacking Thomas, who came in to look after the fire; knocking the logs about, scattering62 out sparks, but considerably63 lessening64 the chances of warmth; touching65 up the candles, which appeared to him to give a light unusually insufficient66 for the large cold room. While he was doing this, Osborne came in dressed in full evening dress. He always moved slowly; and this, to begin with, irritated the squire. Then an uncomfortable consciousness of a rough black coat, drab trowsers, checked cotton cravat67, and splashed boots, forced itself upon him as he saw Osborne’s point-device costume. He chose to consider it affectation and finery in Osborne, and was on the point of bursting out with some remark, when the butler, who had watched Osborne downstairs before making the announcement, came in to say that dinner was ready.
‘It surely isn’t six o’clock?’ said Osborne, pulling out his dainty little watch. He was scarcely more aware than it of the storm that was brewing68.
‘Six o’clock! It’s more than a quarter past,’ growled69 out his father,
‘I fancy your watch must be wrong, sir. I set mine by the Horse Guards only two days ago.’
Now, impugning70 that old steady, turnip-shaped watch of the squire’s was one of the insults which, as it could not reasonably be resented, was not to be forgiven. That watch had been given him by his father when watches were watches long ago. It had given the law to house-clocks, stable-clocks, kitchen-clocks — nay71, even to Hamley Church clock in its day; and was it now, in its respectable old age, to be looked down upon by a little whipper-snapper of a French watch which could go into a man’s waistcoat pocket, instead of having to be extricated72, with due effort, like a respectable watch of size and position, from a fob in the waistband? No! Not if the whipper-snapper were backed by all the Horse Guards that ever were, with the Life Guards to boot. Poor Osborne might have known better than to cast this slur73 on his father’s flesh and blood; for so dear did he hold his watch!
‘My watch is like myself,’ said the squire, ‘girning,’ as the Scotch74 say —‘plain, but steady-going. At any rate, it gives the law in my house. The King may go by the Horse Guards if he likes.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Osborne, really anxious to keep the peace; ‘I went by my watch, which is certainly right by London time; and I’d no idea you were waiting for me, otherwise I could have dressed much quicker.’
‘I should think so,’ said the squire, looking sarcastically75 at his son’s attire76. ‘When I was a young man I should have been ashamed to have spent as much time at my looking-glass as if I’d been a girl. I could make myself as smart as any one when I was going to a dance, or to a party where I was likely to meet pretty girls; but I should have laughed myself to scorn if I’d stood fiddle-faddling at a glass, smirking77 at my own likeness78, all for my own pleasure.’
Osborne reddened, and was on the point of letting fly some caustic79 remark on his father’s dress at the present moment; but he contented80 himself with saying, in a low voice —
‘My mother always expected us all to dress for dinner. I got into the habit of doing it to please her, and I keep it up now.’ Indeed, he had a certain kind of feeling of loyalty81 to her memory in keeping up all the little domestic habits and customs she had instituted or preferred. But the contrast which the squire thought was implied by Osborne’s remark, put him beside himself.
‘And I, too, try to attend to her wishes. I do: and in more important things. I did when she was alive; and I do so now.’
‘I never said you did not,’ said Osborne, astonished at his father’s passionate words and manner.
‘Yes, you did, sir. You meant it. I could see by your looks. I saw you look at my morning-coat. At any rate, I never neglected any wish of hers in her life-time. If she’d wished me to go to school again and learn my A, B, C, I would. By — I would; and I wouldn’t have gone playing me, and lounging away my time, for fear of vexing82 and disappointing her. Yet some folks older than schoolboys —’ The squire choked here; but though the words would not come his passion did not diminish. ‘I’ll not have you casting up your mother’s wishes to me, sir. You, who went near to break her heart at last!’
Osborne was strongly tempted83 to get up and leave the room. Perhaps it would have been better if he had; it might then have brought about an explanation, and a reconciliation84 between father and son. But he thought he did well in sitting still and appearing to take no notice. This indifference85 to what he was saying appeared to annoy the squire still more, and he kept on grumbling86 and talking to himself till Osborne, unable to bear it any longer, said, very quietly, but very bitterly — ‘I am only a cause of irritation to you, and home is no longer home to me, but a place in which I am to be controlled in trifles, and scolded about trifles as if I were a child. Put me in a way of making a living for myself — that much your oldest son has a right to ask of you — I will then leave this house, and you shall be no longer vexed87 by my dress, or my want of punctuality.’
‘You make your request pretty much as another son did long ago: “Give me the portion that falleth to me.” But I don’t think what he did with his money is much encouragement for me to —’ Then the thought of how little he could give his son his ‘portion,’ or any part of it, stopped the squire.
Osborne took up the speech.
‘I’m as ready as any man to earn my living; only the preparation for any profession will cost money, and money I haven’t got.’
‘No more have I,’ said the squire, shortly.
‘What is to be done then?’ said Osborne, only half believing his father’s words.
‘Why, you must learn to stop at home, and not take expensive journeys; and you must redeem88 your tailor’s bills. I don’t ask you to help me in the management of the land — you’re far too fine a gentleman for that; but if you can’t earn money, at least you needn’t spend it.’
‘I’ve told you I’m willing enough to earn money,’ cried Osborne, passionately at last. ‘But how am I to do it? You really are very unreasonable89, sir.’
‘Am I?’ said the squire — cooling in manner, though not in temper, as Osborne grew warm. ‘But I don’t set up for being reasonable: men who have to pay away money that they haven’t got for their extravagant90 sons, aren’t likely to be reasonable. There’s two things you’ve gone and done which put me beside myself, when I think of them: you’ve turned out next door to a dunce at college, when your poor mother thought so much of you — and when you might have pleased and gratified her so if you chose — and, well! I won’t say what the other thing is.’
‘Tell me, sir,’ said Osborne, almost breathless with the idea that his father had discovered his secret marriage; but the father was thinking of the money-lenders, who were calculating how soon Osborne would come into the estate.
‘No!’ said the squire. ‘I know what I know; and I’m not going to tell you how I know it. Only, I’ll just say this — your friends no more know a piece of good timber when they see it than you or I know how you could earn five pounds if it was to keep you from starving. Now, there’s Roger — we none of us made an ado about him; but he’ll have his fellowship now I’ll warrant him, and be a bishop91, or a chancellor92, or something, before we’ve found out he’s clever — we’ve been so much taken up thinking about you. I don’t know what’s come over me to speak of “we”—“we” in this way,’ said he, suddenly dropping his voice — a change of tone as sad as sad could be. ‘I ought to say “I;” it will be “I” for evermore in this world.’
He got up and left the room in quick haste, knocking over his chair, and not stopping to pick it up. Osborne, who was sitting and shading his eyes with his hand, as he had been doing for some time, looked up at the noise, and then rose as quickly and hurried after his father, only in time to hear the study-door locked on the inside the moment he reached it.
Osborne returned into the dining-room chagrined93 and sorrowful. But he was always sensitive to any omission94 of the usual observances, which might excite remark; and even with his heavy heart he was careful to pick up the fallen chair, and restore it to its place near the bottom of the table; and afterwards so to disturb the dishes as to make it appear that they had been touched, before ringing for Robinson. When the latter came in, followed by Thomas, Osborne thought it necessary to say to him that his father was not well, and had gone into the study; and that he himself wanted no dessert, but would have a cup of coffee in the drawing-room. The old butler sent Thomas out of the room, and came up confidentially95 to Osborne.
‘I thought master wasn’t justly himself, Mr. Osborne, before dinner. And therefore I made excuses for him — I did. He spoke29 to Thomas about the fire, sir, which is a thing I could in nowise put up with, unless by reason of sickness, which I am always ready to make allowances for.’
‘Why shouldn’t my father speak to Thomas?’ said Osborne. ‘But, perhaps, he spoke angrily, I daresay; for I’m sure he’s not well.’
‘No, Mr. Osborne, it wasn’t that. I myself am given to anger; and I’m blessed with as good health as any man in my years. Besides, anger’s a good thing for Thomas. He needs a deal of it. But it should come from the right quarter — and that is me myself, Mr. Osborne. I know my place, and I know my rights and duties as well as any butler that lives. And it’s my duty to scold Thomas, and not master’s. Master ought to have said, “Robinson! you must speak to Thomas about letting out the fire,” and I’d ha’ given it him well — as I shall do now, for that matter. But as I said before, I make excuses for master, as being in mental distress96 and bodily ill-health; so I’ve brought myself round not to give warning, as I should ha’ done, for certain, under happier circumstances.’
‘Really, Robinson, I think it’s all great nonsense,’ said Osborne, weary of the long story the butler had told him, and to which he had not half attended. ‘What in the world does it signify whether my father speaks to you or to Thomas? Bring me coffee in the drawing-room, and don’t trouble your head any more about scolding Thomas.’
Robinson went away offended at his grievance97 being called nonsense. He kept muttering to himself in the intervals98 of scolding Thomas, and saying — ‘Things is a deal changed since poor missis went. I don’t wonder master feels it, for I’m sure I do. She was a lady who had always a becoming respect for a butler’s position, and could have understood how he might be hurt in his mind. She’d never ha’ called his delicacies99 of feelings nonsense — not she; no more would Mr. Roger. He’s a merry young gentleman, and over-fond of bringing dirty, slimy creatures into the house; but he’s always a kind word for a man who is hurt in his mind. He’d cheer up the squire, and keep him from getting so cross and wilful100. I wish Mr. Roger was here, I do.’
The poor squire, shut up with his grief and his ill-temper as well, in the dingy101, dreary102 study in which he daily spent more and more of his indoors life, turned over his cares and troubles till he was as bewildered with the process as a squirrel must be in going round in a cage. He had out day-books and ledgers103, and was calculating up back-rents; and every time the sum-totals came to different amounts. He could have cried like a child over his sums; he was worn out and weary, angry and disappointed. He closed his books at last with a bang.
‘I’m getting old,’ he said, ‘and my head’s less clear than it used to be. I think sorrow for her has dazed me. I never was much to boast on; but she thought a deal of me — bless her! She’d never let me call myself stupid; but, for all that, I am stupid. Osborne ought to help me. He’s had money enough spent on his learning; but instead, he comes down dressed like a popinjay, and never troubles his head to think how I’m to pay his debts. I wish I’d told him to earn his living as a dancing-master,’ said the squire, with a sad smile at his own wit. ‘He’s dressed for all the world like one. And how he’s spent the money no one knows! Perhaps Roger will turn up some day with a heap of creditors at his heels. No, he won’t — not Roger; he may be slow, but he’s steady, is old Roger. I wish he was here. He’s not the eldest son, but he’d take an interest in the estate; and he’d do up these weary accounts for me. I wish Roger was here!’
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1
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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2
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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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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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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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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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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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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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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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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marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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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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disparagingly
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| adv.以贬抑的口吻，以轻视的态度 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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curtailed
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| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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53
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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54
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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55
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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56
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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57
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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60
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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61
sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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62
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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63
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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64
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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65
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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66
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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67
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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68
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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69
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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impugning
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| v.非难，指谪( impugn的现在分词 )；对…有怀疑 | |
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71
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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72
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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74
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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75
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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76
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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78
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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82
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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83
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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85
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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86
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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88
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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90
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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93
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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96
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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98
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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99
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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100
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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101
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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102
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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103
ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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