“Roses have nothing to do out of the rose garden,” said Mr. Damerel, with an attempt to overcome his own fretfulness, and perhaps a compunction over the suffering he caused. He was not in a humor for talking, and when this was the case he seldom gave himself the trouble to talk; but some covert8 feeling or other made him willing to attempt a diversion, for the moment at least. “I wish people had a more general conception of the fitness of things. Your namesakes out-of-doors take no pleasure in the storm. Poor roses, how it will batter9 and beat them down, and strew10 their poor helpless petals11 about!”
“I do not find fault with Rose for being timid,” said her mother; “but your craze about her name is fantastic, Herbert. She will have a good many storms to brave which she cannot escape from if she is to do her duty in life.”
“Then I hope she will not do her duty,” said the rector; “don’t, my Rose in June. I had rather see you sweet and fresh, with your rose heart unruffled, than draggled and battered12 with the rain. I’ll take the moral risk upon my own head.”
Mrs. Damerel uttered an impatient little exclamation13 under her breath. She turned to Wodehouse with an arbitrary and sudden change of the subject. “Do you expect to be long away?” she said.
“Two years at the very least,” said the young man, piteously, looking at her with such imploring14 eyes that she felt his look, though her own eyes were fixed15 upon her work, and neither could nor would see. She felt it; and as she was but a woman, though stern in purpose, she winced16 a little and was sorry for him, though she would not help him. Her voice softened17 as she replied,—
“I am very sorry for your poor{33} mother. How she will miss you! We must do our best to keep her cheerful while you are away.”
“The storm is going off,” said the rector; “did you ever remark, Wodehouse, how seldom we have a complete thunderstorm to ourselves here? There have been three going on to-night: one towards London, one northwards, the other east. We never have more than the tail of a storm, which is somewhat humbling18 when you come to think of it. I suppose it has something to do with the lie of the ground as you call it—eh?”
Edward answered something, he did not know what, while his opponent regarded him with amused observation. Now that the matter was tolerably safe in his own hands, Mr. Damerel was not without a certain enjoyment19 in the study of character thus afforded him. It was to him like what I suppose vivisection is to an enterprising physiologist20. He had just enough realization21 of the pain he was inflicting22 to give interest to the throbbing24 nerves upon which he experimented. He was not old enough to have quite forgotten some few pangs25 of a similar kind which he had experienced in his day; but he was old enough to regard the recollection with some degree of amusement and a sense of the absolute folly26 of the whole which neutralized27 that sense of pain. He liked, rather, to hold the young man in talk about scientific facts, while he knew that the young man was longing28 to escape, and watching, with dismay and despair, every hope disappearing of another kind of conversation which seemed like the balance of life and death to the foolish youth. Mr. Damerel saw all these symptoms of torture, and his sense of humor was tickled29. He was almost sorry when at length, the rain still continuing to fall in torrents30 and the storm roaring and groaning31 in the distance, young Wodehouse rose to go away. “I will not give you my blessing32 again,” he said, smiling, “as I was rash enough to do before; for I dare say we shall meet again, one way or another, before you go away.”
“Oh, I shall call when the last moment, the absolute good-by, comes!” said poor Edward, trying to smile.
Rose put out a timid little hand to him, rising from her chair when he came up to her. She had grown bewildered again, and disconcerted, and had fallen far from the light and illumination which had flashed over her in the afternoon. The storm had frightened her: something malign33 seemed in the air; and she was disappointed and mortified34, she scarcely could have told why. Was this to be the end of the evening to which they had both looked forward? Alas35! such clouds will drop over even the brightest skies. I think both of the young people could have wept with sheer misery36, disappointment, and despite, when they realized that it was over, and could not now be mended, whatever might happen. He went home, and she stole up to her room, enveloped37 by the mists of a suppressed excitement which seemed to wrap them round and round, and afforded no way of escape.
That, however, was the last bright day known in the rectory for a very long time. The rector had not been quite himself that night. His very pleasure in the torture of the poor young lovers was perhaps a sign that the fine organization upon which he prided himself was somehow out of gear. I do not believe, though many people were of that opinion, that his hurried visit to the poor woman who was dying of fever was the reason why Mr. Damerel took the fever, and of all that followed. He could not have fallen ill so immediately if poor Susan Aikin’s death-chamber had been the cause of his malady38. Next day he was ill, feverish39, and wretched, and was reported to have a bad cold. The next after that the village and all the houses on the Green were struck dumb by the information that the rector had caught the same fever of which Susan Aikin died. The news caused such a sensation as few warnings of mortality produce. The whole neighborhood was hushed and held its breath, and felt a shiver of dismay run through it. It was not because Mr. Damerel was deeply beloved. Mr. Nolan, for example, was infinitely40 more friendly and dear to the population generally; yet had he encountered the same fate people would have grieved, but would not have been surprised. But the rector! that he should fall under such a disease—that the plague which is born of squalor, and dirt, and ill nourishment41, and bad air should seize upon him, the very impersonation of everything that was opposite and antagonistic{34} to those causes which brought it forth42!—this confused everybody, great and small. Comfortable people shuddered43, asking themselves who was safe? and began to think of the drainage of their houses, and to ask whether any one knew if the rectory was quite right in that respect. There was an anxious little pause of fright in the place, every one wondering whether it was likely to prove an epidemic44, and neighbor inquiring of neighbor each time they met whether “more cases” had occurred; but this phase passed over, and the general security came back. The disease must “take its course,” the doctor said, and nothing could be prognosticated at so early a stage. The patient was still in middle age, of unbroken constitution, and had everything in his favor—good air, good nursing, good means—so that nothing need be spared. With such words as these the anxieties of the neighborhood were relieved—something unwillingly45 it must be allowed, for the world is very exigeant in this as in many other respects, and, when it is interested in an illness, likes it to run a rapid course, and come to an issue one way or other without delay. It was therefore with reluctance46 that the Green permitted itself to be convinced that no “change” could be looked for in the rector’s illness for some time to come. Weeks even might be consumed ere the climax47, the crisis, the real dramatic point at which the patient’s fate would be concluded, should come. This chilling fact composed the mind of the neighborhood, and stilled it back into the calm of indifference48 after a while. I am not sure now that there was not a little adverse49 feeling towards the rector, in that he left everybody in suspense50, and having, as it were, invited the world to behold51 the always interesting spectacle of a dangerous illness, put off from week to week the dénouement. Such a barbarous suggestion would have been repulsed52 with scorn and horror had it been put into words, but that was the feeling in most people’s hearts.
In-doors, however, Mr. Damerel’s illness was a very terrible matter, and affected every member of the household. Mrs. Damerel gave up everything to nurse him. There was no hesitation53 with her as to whether she should or should not postpone54 her family and cares to her husband. From the moment that the dreadful word “fever” crossed the doctor’s lips she put aside the house and the school-room and every other interest, and took her place by the sick-bed. I do not know if any foreboding was in her mind from the first, but she never paused to think. She went to the children and spoke55 to them, appealing to their honor and affection. She gave Dick and Patty permission to roam as they liked, and to enjoy perfect immunity56 from lessons and routine, so long as they would be quiet in-doors, and respect the stillness that was necessary in the house; and to Agatha she gave the charge of the infants, exacting57 quiet only, nothing but quiet. “The house must be kept quiet,” she said to them all imperatively58. “The child who makes a noise I shall think no child of mine. Your papa’s life may depend upon it. It will be Rose’s part to see that you all do what I tell you. No noise! that is the chief thing. There must be no noise!”
The children all promised very solemnly, and even closed round her with great eyes uplifted to ask in hushed tones of awe59, as if he had been dead, how papa was? The house altogether was strangely subdued60 all at once, as if the illness had already lasted for weeks. The drawing-room became a shut-up, uninhabited place, where Rose only entered now and then to answer the inquiries61 of some anxious parishioners not too frightened to come and ask how the rector was. The tide of life, of interest, of occupation, all flowed towards the sick-room—everything centred in it. After a few days it would have seemed as unnatural62 to Rose to have gone out to the lawn as it was at first to sit in the little anteroom, into which her father’s room opened, waiting to receive her mother’s commissions, to do anything she might want of her. A few days sufficed to make established habits of all these new circumstances of life. Mr. Damerel was not a bad patient. He was a little angry and annoyed when he found what his illness was, taking it for granted, as so many people did, that he had taken it from Susan Aikin. “I wish Providence63 had directed me anywhere else than to that cottage door at that particular moment,” he said, half ruefully, half indignantly, “and put me in the way{35} of that fanatic64 Nolan, who can stand everything. I knew my constitution was very different. Never mind, it was not your fault, Martha; and he is a good fellow. I must try to push him on. I will write to the bishop65 about him when I get well.”
These were heavenly dispositions66, as the reader will perceive. He was a very good patient, grateful to his nurses, cheerful in his demeanor67, making the best of the long struggle he had embarked68 upon—indeed, few people could have rallied more bravely from the first shock and discouragement, or composed themselves more courageously69 to fill the first position which was forced upon him, and discharge all its duties, such as they were. His illness came on not violently, but in the leisurely70, quiet way which so often distinguishes a disease which is meant to last long. He was ill, but not very ill, on the fourth day, descending71 into depths of it, but going very quietly, and retaining his self-command and cheerfulness. This particular day, on which he was a little worse than he had been before, was mild and rainy and warm, very unlike the wonderful blaze of summer which had preceded it. Rose sat by the open window of the little anteroom, which was now her general position. The rain fell softly outside with a subdued, perpetual sound, pattering upon the leaves. The whole atmosphere was full of this soft patter. The door of the sick-room was ajar, and now and then Rose heard her father move in the restlessness of his illness, or utter a low little moan of suffering, or speak to Mrs. Damerel, who was with him. Everything was hushed down-stairs; and the subdued stirring of the rain outside, and the sounds of the sick-room within, were all that Rose could hear. She had a book in her hand, and read now and then; but she had come for the first time to that point in life when one’s own musings are as interesting as any story, and often the book dropped on her lap, and she did nothing but think. She thought it was thinking, but I fancy that dreaming was more like it. Poor Rose! her dreaming was run through by sombre threads, and there was one shadow of wondering doubt and suspicion mingled72 in it. As she sat thus, one of the maids came softly to the door to say that Mrs. Wodehouse and her son were in the drawing-room, and would she tell Mrs. Damerel? Rose’s heart gave a sudden leap; she hesitated a moment whether she should not run down without saying anything to her mother, as it was she, up to this moment, who had answered all inquiries; but the habit of dependence73 prevailed over this one eager throb23 of nature. She stole into the sick-room under shade of the curtains, and gave her message. The answer had invariably been, “Go you, Rose, and tell them I am very sorry, but I cannot leave your papa.” She expected to hear the same words again, and stood, half-turned to the door, ready, when authorized74, to rush down-stairs, with her heart already throbbing, and nature preparing in her for a crisis.
“What is it?” said the patient, drowsily75.
“It is Edward Wodehouse come to say good-by,” answered his wife. “Herbert, can you do without me for a moment? I ought to go.”
“Yes: go, go; Rose will stay with me instead,” said Mr. Damerel. He put out his hot hand and drew the girl towards him, who almost resisted, so stupefied was she. “Do not be long, Martha,” he said to his wife; and before Rose could realize what had happened she found herself in her mother’s chair, seated in the shaded stillness near the sick-bed, while Mrs. Damerel’s step going softly along the passage outside testified to the bewildering fact that it was she who was to receive the visitors. It was so sudden, so totally different from her expectations, so cruel a disappointment to her, that the girl sat motionless, struck dumb, counting the soft fall of her mother’s steps, in the stupor76 that fell upon her. Her father said something, but she had not the heart to answer. It seemed incredible, impossible. After ten minutes or so, which seemed to Rose so many hours, during which she continued to sit dumb, listening to her father’s stirrings in his restless bed and the pattering of the rain, the same maid came to the door again and handed in a little scrap77 of paper folded like a note. She opened it mechanically. It was from Mrs. Wodehouse. “Dear Rose, dearest Rose, come and bid my boy good-by, if it is only for a moment,” it said. She put it down on the table,{36} and rose up and looked at her father. “If only for a moment,”—he was not so ill that any harm could happen to him if he were left for a moment. He did not look ill at all, as he lay there with his eyes closed. Was he asleep?—and surely, surely for that moment she might go!
While she looked at him, her heart beating wildly, and something singing and throbbing in her ears, he opened his eyes. “What is it?” he said.
“It is—oh, papa I may I go for one moment—only for a moment—I should come back directly; to bid—poor—Mr. Wodehouse good-by?”
“What, could ye not watch with me one hour?” said the rector, with perhaps unintentional profaneness78, smiling at her a smile which seemed to make Rose wild. He put out his hand again and took hers. “Never mind poor Mr. Wodehouse,” he said; “he will get on very well without you. Stay with me, my Rose in June; to see you thus does me good.”
“I should only stay one moment.” Her heart beat so that it almost stifled79 her voice.
“No, my darling,” he said, coaxingly80; “stay with me.”
And he held her hand fast. Rose stood gazing at him with a kind of desperation till he closed his eyes again, holding her tightly by the wrist. I think even then she made a little movement to get free—a movement balked81 by the closer clasping of his feverish fingers. Then she sat down suddenly on her mother’s chair. The pulsations were in her ears like great roars of sound coming and going. “Very well, papa,” she said, with a stifled voice.
I do not know how long it was before she heard steps below, for her senses were preternaturally quickened—and then the sound of the hall door closed, and then the rain again, as if nothing had happened. What had happened? Nothing, indeed, except that Mrs. Damerel herself had seen the visitors, which was a great compliment to them, as she never left her husband’s side. By and by her soft steps came back again, approaching gradually up the stairs and the long corridor. The sound of them fell upon Rose’s heart—was it all over then? ended forever? Then her mother came in, calm and composed, and relieved her. She did not even look at Rose, as if there were anything out of the ordinary in this very simple proceeding82. She told her husband quietly that she had said good-by to young Wodehouse; that he was going early next morning; that she was very sorry for his poor mother. “Yes, my dear; but if mothers were always to be considered, sons would never do anything. Mayn’t I have something to drink?” said the patient; and thus the subject was dismissed at once and forever.
“Go and see if Mary has made some fresh lemonade,” said Mrs. Damerel. Rose obeyed mechanically. The pulses were still beating so that her blood seemed like the tide at sea beating upon a broad beach, echoing hollow and wild in huge rolling waves. She went down-stairs like one in a dream and got the lemonade and carried it back again, hearing her own steps as she had heard her mother’s. When this piece of business was over, and Rose found herself again in the little anteroom, all alone, with nothing but the sound of the rain to fill up the silence, and the great waves of sound in her ears beginning to die into moans and dreary83 sobbing84 echoes, what can I say of her feelings? Was it possible that all was over and ended—that she would never more see him again—that he was gone without even a good-by? It was not only incredible to her, but it was intolerable; must she bear it? She could not bear it; yet she must. She stood at the window and looked out, and the bluish-gray world and the falling rain looked in at Rose, and no other sound came to console the aching in her heart. He was gone, and there was no hope that he would come back; and she could not, dared not, go to him. The evening went on while she sat in this train of excited feelings, wondering whether the anguish85 in her heart would not call for an answer somehow, and unable to believe that neither God nor man would interfere86. When it was dark she broke forth from all control, and left her post, as she could not do when leaving it was of any use: but there is a point at which the intolerable cannot be borne any longer. She put a blue waterproof87 cloak on her, and went out into the rain and the dark; but what was poor Rose to do, even when her pain became past bearing? She strayed round the dark{37} lawn, and looked, but in vain, for the lights of the cottage at Ankermead; and then she ventured to the gate, and stood there looking out, helpless and wistful. But no good angel whispered to Edward Wodehouse, heart-sore and wounded, what poor little watcher there was looking helplessly, piteously out upon the little gulf88 of distance which separated them as much as continents and oceans could have done. He was packing for his early journey, and she, poor maiden89 soul, could not go to him, nor could the cry of her heart reach him. When she had waited there a while, she went in again speechless and heart-broken, feeling indeed that all was over, and that neither light nor happiness would ever return to her more.
Poor child! I don’t think it occurred to her to blame those who had done it, or even to ask herself whether they knew what they were doing. Perhaps she did not believe that they had done it willingly. I do not think she asked herself any question on the subject. She had to bear it, and she could not bear it. Her mind was capable of little more.
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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strew
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| vt.撒；使散落；撒在…上，散布于 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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humbling
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| adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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physiologist
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| n.生理学家 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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neutralized
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| v.使失效( neutralize的过去式和过去分词 )；抵消；中和；使（一个国家）中立化 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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45
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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47
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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51
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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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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immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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profaneness
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| n.渎神，污秽 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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