Knowing what my intentions had been toward Vi, my grandmother was terribly flustered6 at the discovery that Vi was a married woman. She was hurt in her pride; she wanted to blame somebody. Her sense of the proprieties7 was offended, and she felt that her reputation was secretly tarnished8. An immoral9 situation was existing under her roof—at least, that was what she felt. She wanted to get rid of Vi directly, but the doctor forbade her to be moved.
“And to think I should ’ave come to this!” she kept exclaiming, “after livin’ all these years honored and respected in my little town! Mind, I don’t blame you, and I don’t blame ’er. Poor things! You couldn’t ’elp it. But I can’t get over it—there was you a-proposin’ in my spare bedroom to a married woman, and she a-lyin’ in bed! What would folks say if they was to ’ear about it? And in my ’ouse! And me so honored and respected!”
Her horror seemed to center in the fact that it should have happened in the spare bedroom of all places, where all her dead had been laid out.
She took it for granted that Vi and I would part forever, as soon as she was well enough to travel. “By all showings, it’s ’igh time she went back to ’er ’usband,” she said.
She suffered another shock when I undeceived her. “You’re playin’ with fire, Dante; that’s what you’re doin’. Take the word of an old woman who knows the world—friendship will drift into familiarity and, more’n likely, familiarity ’ll drift into something else. A Cardover’s bad enough where wimmen is concerned, but an Evrard’s the devil. It’s the gipsy blood that makes ’em mad.”
I turned a deaf ear to all her protests. Vi and I had done nothing wicked, and we weren’t going to run away from one another as though we had. A mistake had occurred which concerned only ourselves; we had nothing to be ashamed of. Then my grandmother threatened to send for Ruthita so that, at least, we might not be alone together. I was quick to see that Ruthita’s presence would be a protection, so agreed that she should be invited down to Ransby provided she was told nothing. Meanwhile no meetings between Vi and myself were allowed. My grandmother guarded the spare bedroom like a dragon.
But in a timid way, in her heart of hearts, she was proud of the complication. It intrigued10 her. It made us all interesting persons. She wore the indignant face of a Mother Grundy because she knew that society would expect it of her; in many little sympathetic ways she revealed her truer self. She would take her knitting up to Vi’s bedside—Mrs. Carpenter as she insisted on calling her—and would spend long hours there. When conversing11 with me in the keeping-room late at night, she would grow reminiscent and tell brave stories of the rewards which came at length to thwarted12 lovers. I learnt from her that Mr. Randall Carpenter was much older than either Vi or myself. If he were to die——!
On the second morning that Vi had been in the house I returned from a desultory13 walk to find my grandmother in close conference with a stranger. He was a dapper, perky little man, white-haired, bald-headed, whiskered, with darting14 birdlike manners and a dignified15 air of precision about him. He had the well-dressed appearance of a city gentleman rather than of a Ransbyite. He wore a frock-coat, top-hat, gray trousers, shiny boots, and white spats16. I judged that he belonged to a profession.
Apologizing for my intrusion, I crossed the keeping-room, and was on the point of mounting the stairs when the little man rose, all smiles.
“Your grandson, Mrs. Cardover, I presume? He’s more of an Evrard than a Cardover—all except his mouth.”
He was introduced to me as Mr. Seagirt, the lawyer.
“Happy to know you, Mr. Cardover. Happy to know you, sir.” He pulled off his gloves and shook hands in a gravely formal manner. “We shall see more of one another as time goes on. I hope it most sincerely. In fact, I may say, from the way things are going, there is little doubt of it.”
We all sat down. There was a strange constrained17 atmosphere of excitement and embarrassment18 about both Mr. Seagirt and my grandmother. They balanced on the edge of their chairs, flickering19 their eyelids20 and twiddling their thumbs. Lawyer Seagirt kept up a hurried flow of procrastinating21 conversation, continually limiting or overemphasizing his statements.
“I have heard of what you did a day or two ago, Mr. Cardover—we have all heard of it. You have created an excellent impression—most excellent. The papers have been very flattering, but not more so than you deserve. Ransby feels quite proud of you. Though you are a Londoner, you belong to Ransby—no getting away from that. I suppose you’d tell us that you belong to Oxford22. Ah, well, it’s natural—but we claim you first.”
All the time he had been talking he and my grandmother had been signaling to one another with their eyes, as though one were saying, “You tell him,” and the other, “No, you tell him.”
When they did make up their minds to take me inta their secret, they did it both together.
“Your grandfather—Sir Charles Evrard,” they began, and there they stuck.
At last it came out that my grandfather had expressed a wish to see me, and had sent Lawyer Seagirt to make the necessary inquiries23 about me. This action on his part could have but one meaning.
Two days later I was invited over to Woadley Hall to spend a week there. Before I went, I had an interview with Vi, in my grandmother’s presence. She promised me that she would not leave Ransby until after I returned. My fear had been that some spasm24 of caution might make her seize this opportunity to return to America.
I drove out to Woadley Hall late in the afternoon, planning to get there in time for dinner. I felt considerably25 nervous. I had been brought up in dread26 of Sir Charles since childhood. I did not know what kind of conduct was expected from me or what kind of reception I might expect.
As we swung in through the iron gates and passed up the long avenue of chestnuts27 and elms which led through the parkland to the house, my nervousness increased into childish consternation28. The pride of ancestry29 and the comfortable signs of wealth filled me with distress30. I belonged to this, and was on my way to be examined to see whether I could prove worthy31. I was not ashamed of my father’s family, but I was prepared to be angry if anyone else should show shame of them.
Far away, on the edge of the green grassland32, just where the woods began to cast their shadow, I could see dappled fallow-deer grazing. Colts, hearing us approaching, lifted up their heads and stared, then whisking their tails galloped33 off to watch us from behind their dams. Turrets34 and broken gables of the old Jacobean Hall rose out of the trees before us. Rooks were coming home to their nests in the tall elms, cawing. The home-farm lay over to our left; the herd35 was coming out from the milking, jingling36 their bells. A streak37 of orange lay across the blue of the west—the beginning of the sunset.
Immediately on my arrival, I was shown to my bedroom to dress. I began to have the sense of “belonging.” The windows looked out on a sunken garden, all ablaze38 with stocks, snap-dragon, sweet-william, and all manner of old-world flowers. In the scented39 stillness I could hear the splash of a fountain playing in the center. Beyond that were other gardens, Dutch and Italian, divided by red walls and terraces. Beyond them all, through the shadowed trees one caught glimpses of a lake, with swans and gaily-painted water-fowl sailing like toy-yachts upon its surface.
When the servant had left me, I commenced to dress leisurely40. After that I sat down, waiting for the gong to sound. I wondered if this was the room where my mother had slept. How much my father’s love must have meant to her that she should have sacrificed so much prosperous certainty to share his insecure fortunes. Yet, as I looked back, it was a smiling face that I remembered, with no marks of misgiving41 or regret upon it.
I did not meet my grandfather until the meal was about to be served. I think he had planned our first encounter carefully, so that our conduct might be restrained by the presence of servants. His greeting was that of any host to any guest. Our conversation at dinner was on impersonal42, intellectual topics—the kind that is carried on between well-bred persons who are thrown together for the moment and are compelled to be polite to one another. The only way in which he betrayed nervousness was by crumbling43 his bread with his left hand while he was conversing.
Finding that I was not anxious to force matters, he became more at his ease. He addressed me as Mr. Cardover, with stiff and kindly44 courtesy. We took our cigars out on to the terrace to watch the last of the sunset. He was talking of Oxford, and the changes which had taken place in the University since he was an undergraduate.
“I believe you are a Fellow of Lazarus, Mr. Cardover?”
“Yes.”
“I had a nephew there a few years ago, Lord Halloway, the son of my poor brother-in-law, the Earl of Lovegrove. You may know him.”
“Only by hearsay45. He was before my time.”
My grandfather knocked the ash from his cigar. Then, speaking in a low voice, very deliberately46, “I’m afraid you have heard nothing good about him. He has not turned out well.”
He paused: I felt that I was being tested. When I kept silent, he continued, “I have no son. He was to have followed me.”
Shortly afterwards he excused himself, saying that he was an old man and retired47 early to bed.
For six days we maintained our polite and measured interchange of courtesies. I was left free most of the time to entertain myself. He was a perfect host, and knew exactly how far to share my company without appearing-niggardly of his companionship or, on the other hand, intruding48 it on me to such an extent that we wore out our common fund of interests. For myself, I wished that I might see more of him. Never by any direct statement did he own that there was any relationship between us. Yet gradually he began to imply his intention in having me to visit him.
I would have been completely happy, had it not been that Vi was absent. I reckoned up the hours until I should return. All day my imagination was following her movements. I refused to look ahead to the certainty of approaching separation—it was enough for me that I could’ be near her in the present.
It was strange how poignant49 the world had become, how subtly, swiftly suggestive, since I had discovered her presence in it. All my sensations, even those outwardly unrelated to her, grouped themselves into a memory of her sweetness. It was a blind and pagan love she had aroused—one which recognized no standards, but craved50 only fulfilment.
There were times when I stood back appalled51, as a man who comes suddenly to the edge of a precipice52, when I realized where this love was leading. Then my awakened53 conscience would remind me of my promise—that we would be only friends.
These were the thoughts which now made me glad, now sorrowful, as I rode through the leafy lanes round Woadley at the side of my proud old grandfather. I would steal guilty glances at him, marveling that no rumor54 of what I was thinking had come to him by some secret process of telepathy. He looked so cold and unimpassioned, I wondered if he had ever loved a woman.
I began to love the Woadley country with the love which only comes from ownership. The white Jacobean Hall, with the chestnuts and elm-trees grouped about it and the doves fluttering above its gables, became the starting point for all the future chapters of my romance. I began to see life in its prosperous, substantial aspect. The stately dignity of my environment had its subconscious55 effect upon my lawless turbulence56. In the morning I would wake with the rooks cawing and, going to the window, would look out on the sunken garden, the peaches ripening57 against the walls, the dew sparkling on the trim box-hedges, and the leaves beating the air like wings of anchored butterflies as the wind from the sea stirred them. Everywhere the discipline of history was apparent—the accumulated, ordered effort of generations of men and women dead and gone. I had been accustomed to regard myself as an isolated58 unit, responsible to myself alone for my actions.
The last evening on entering my bedroom, I noticed that there had been a change in the ornaments59 on my dressing-table. A gold-framed miniature had been placed in the middle of the table, face up, before the mirror. It was a delicate, costly60 piece of work done on ivory. I held it to the light to examine it, wondering how it had come there.
It must have been taken in the heyday61 of my mother’s girlhood, when all the county bachelors were courting her. The gray eyes looked out on me with bewitching frankness. The red lips were parted as if on the point of widening into laughter. The long white neck held the head poised62 at an angle half-arch, half-haughty. As I gazed on it, I saw that the similarity between our features was extraordinary. It was my grandfather’s way of expressing to me the tenderness that he could not bring himself to utter. .
After breakfast next morning, he led the way into the library. He looked graver and more unapproachable than ever. “Mr. Cardover, your visit has been a great pleasure to me. Mr. Seagirt will be here before you leave. Before he comes I wish to say that I want no thanks for what I am doing. It is more or less a business matter. All your life there have been strained relations between myself and your father, which it is impossible for any of us to overlook or forget. So far as you are concerned, you owe him your loyalty63. I do not propose to bring about unhappiness between a father and a son by encouraging your friendship further. This week was a necessary exception; I could not take the step I have now decided64 on without knowing something about you.”
He cleared his throat and rose from his chair, as if afraid that I might lay hold of him. He walked up and down the library, with his head bowed and his right hand held palm out towards me in a gesture that asked for silence. He halted by the big French window, on the blind before which years ago I had watched his shadow fall. He stood with his back towards me, looking down the avenue. Then he turned again to me. The momentary65 emotion which had interrupted him had vanished. His voice was more cold and polite than ever. Only the twitching66 of the muscles about his eyes betrayed the storm of feeling that stirred him.
“In any case,” he said, “you would have inherited my baronetcy. Perhaps, you did not know that. I could not alienate67 that from you. The patent under which it is held allows it to pass, for one generation, through the female line to the next male holder68. Until recently my will was made in the favor of my nephew, Lord Halloway. Circumstances have arisen which lead me to believe that such a disposal of my estate would be unwise. We Evrards have had our share of frailties69, but we have always been noted70 as clean men. Something that I saw about you in the papers brought your name before my notice. I made up my mind then and there that, if you proved all that I hoped for, I would make you my successor. As I have said, this is a business transaction, in return for which I neither expect nor wish any display of gratitude71.”
While we had been speaking I had heard the trot72 of a horse approaching. Just as he finished Mr. Seagirt entered.
“Mr. Seagirt,” said Sir Charles, “I have explained the situation to Mr. Cardover. Any communications he or I have to make to one another relative to the estate, we will make through you. If you have brought the will, I will sign it.”
He was fingering his pen, when I startled him by speaking. “Sir Charles, you have spoken of not encouraging my friendship. I am a grown man and of an age to choose my own friendships where I like, and this without offense73 to my father. I have another loyalty, to my dead mother—a loyalty which you share. If you care to trust me, I should like to be your friend.”
He took my hand in his and for one small moment let his left hand rest lightly on my shoulder. We gazed frankly74 into one another’s eyes without pretense75 or disguise. Then the shame of revealing his true feelings returned.
“We shall see. We shall see,” he muttered hastily; “I am an old man.”
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1
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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6
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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7
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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9
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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11
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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12
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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13
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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14
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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15
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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16
spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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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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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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21
procrastinating
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| 拖延，耽搁( procrastinate的现在分词 )； 拖拉 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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24
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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25
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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27
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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grassland
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| n.牧场，草地，草原 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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36
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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38
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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39
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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40
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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41
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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42
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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43
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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44
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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45
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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46
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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47
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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48
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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49
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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50
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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51
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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52
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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53
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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54
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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55
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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56
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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57
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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58
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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59
ornaments
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| 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 ) | |
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60
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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61
heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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62
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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63
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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64
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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66
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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67
alienate
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| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
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68
holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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69
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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70
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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71
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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72
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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73
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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74
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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75
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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