“And then there is Mr. Incledon,” said Mrs. Wodehouse, who felt that her son had been slighted, and may be excused perhaps for being a little spiteful. “The mother has always had her eye upon him since he came{43} back to Whitton. You will see that will be a match, if she can manage it; and of course it would be a great match for Miss Rose.”
I think if an angel from heaven came down into a country parish and a good woman with daughters entertained him unawares, her neighbors would decide at once which of the girls she meant to marry Gabriel to. But Mrs. Wodehouse had more justification13 than most gossips have. She could not forget the little pleading note which her Edward had made her write, entreating14 Rose to come down if only for one moment, and that the girl had taken no notice of it; though before that expedition to Whitton to see the Perugino and Mr. Incledon’s great house, Rose had been very well satisfied to have the young sailor at her feet. Mrs. Wodehouse had met the mother and daughter but seldom since, for they had been absorbed in attendance upon the rector; but when by chance she did encounter them, she felt proud to think that she had never said anything but “Good morning.” No inquiries15 after their health had come from her lips. She had retired16 into polite indifference17; though sometimes her heart had been touched by poor Rose’s pale cheek, and her wistful look, which seemed to ask pardon. “I do not mind what is done to me,” Mrs. Wodehouse said to her dear friend and confidant, Mrs. Musgrove; “but those who slight my son I will never forgive. I do not see that it is unchristian. It is unchristian not to forgive what is done to yourself; and I am sure no one is less ready to take personal offence than I am.” She was resolved, therefore, that whatever happened, “Good morning” was all the greeting she would give to the Damerels; though of course she was very sorry indeed for them, and as anxious as other people as to how they would be left, and where they would go.
Mrs. Damerel herself was overwhelmed by her grief in a way which could scarcely have been expected from a woman who had so many other considerations to rouse her out of its indulgence, and who had not been for a long time a very happy wife. But when man and wife have been partially18 separated as these two had been, and have ceased to feel the sympathy for each other which such a close relationship requires, a long illness has a wonderful effect often in bringing back to the survivor19 the early image of the being he or she has loved. Perhaps I ought to say she; I do not know if a sick wife is so touching20 to a husband’s imagination as a sick man is to his wife’s. And then a little thing had occurred before the end which had gone to Mrs. Damerel’s heart more than matters of much greater moment. Her husband had called Rose, and on Rose going to him had waved her away, saying, “No, no,” and holding out his feeble hands to her mother. This insignificant21 little incident had stolen away everything but tenderness from the woman’s mind, and she wept for her husband as she might have wept for him had he died in the earlier years of their marriage, with an absorbing grief that drove everything else out of her thoughts. This, however, could not last. When the blinds were drawn22 up from the rectory, and the brisk sunshine shone in again, and the family looked with unveiled faces upon the lawn, where every one still expected to see him, so full was it of his memory, the common cares of life came back, and had to be thought of. Mrs. Damerel’s brothers had both come to the funeral. One of them, the squire, was the trustee under her marriage settlement, and one of the executors of Mr. Damerel’s will; so he remained along with the lawyer and the doctor and Mr. Nolan, and listened to all the provisions of that will, which were extremely reasonable, but of a far back date, and which the lawyer read with an occasional shake of his head, which at the moment no one could understand. Unfortunately, however, it was but too easy to understand. The rector, with the wisest care, had appropriated the money he had to the various members of his family. The life interest of the greater part was to be the mother’s; a small portion was to be given to the girls on their marriage, and to the boys on their outset in life, and the capital to be divided among them at Mrs. Damerel’s death. Nothing could be more sensible or properly arranged. Mr. Hunsdon, Mrs. Damerel’s brother, cleared his ruffled23 brow as he heard it. He had been possessed24 by an alarmed sense of danger—a feeling that his sister and her family were likely to{44} come upon him—which weighed very heavily upon the good man’s mind; but now his brow cleared. Further revelations, however, took away this serenity25. The money which Mr. Damerel had divided so judiciously26 was almost all spent, either in unsuccessful speculations27, of which he had made several with a view to increase dividends28; or by repeated encroachments on the capital made to pay debts; or for one plausible29 reason after another. Of the insurances on his life only one had been kept up, and that chiefly because his bankers held it as security for some advance, and had consequently seen that the premium30 was regularly paid. These discoveries fell like so many thunderbolts upon the little party. I don’t think Mrs. Damerel was surprised. She sat with her eyes cast down and her hands clasped, with a flush of shame and trouble on her face.
“Did you know of this, Rose?” her brother asked, sternly, anxious to find some one to blame.
“I feared it,” she said, slowly, not lifting her eyes. The flush on her cheek dried up all her tears.
Mr. Hunsdon, for one, believed that she was ashamed—not for the dead man’s sake—but because she had shared in the doing of it, and was confounded to find her ill doings brought into the light of day.
“But, good heavens!” he said in her ear, “did you know you were defrauding31 your children when you wasted your substance like this? I could not have believed it. Was my brother-in-law aware of the state of the affairs? and what did he intend his family to do?”
“Mr. Damerel was not a business man,” said the lawyer. “He ought to have left the management in our hands. That mining investment was a thing we never would have recommended, and the neglect of the insurance is most unfortunate. Mr. Damerel was never a man of business.”
In the presence of his wife it was difficult to say more.
“A man may not be a man of business, and yet not be a fool,” said Squire Hunsdon, hastily. “I beg your pardon, Rose; I don’t want to be unkind.”
“Let me go, before you use such language,” she said, rising hastily. “I cannot bear it. Whatever he has done that is amiss, he is not standing4 here to answer before us now.”
“I mean no offence, Rose. Nay32, sit down; don’t go away. You can’t imagine—a man I had so much respect for—that I mean to cast any reflections. We’ll enter into that afterwards,” said Mr. Hunsdon. “Let us know at least what they will have to depend on, or if anything is left.”
“There is very little left,” said Mrs. Damerel, facing the men, who gazed at her wondering, with her pale face and widow’s cap. “We had not very much at first, and it is gone; and you must blame me, if any one is to blame. I was not, perhaps, a good manager. I was careless. I did not calculate as I ought to have done. But if the blame is mine, the punishment will also be mine. Do not say anything more about it, for no one here will suffer but my children and me.”
“I don’t know about that. You must be patient, and you must not be unreasonable,” said her brother. “Of course we cannot see you want; though neither George nor I have much to spare; and it is our duty to inquire.”
“Will inquiring bring back the money that is lost?” she said. “No, no; you shall not suffer by me. However little it is, we will manage to live on it; we will never be a burden upon any one. I don’t think I can bear any more.”
And the judges before whom she stood (and not only she, but one who could not answer for himself) were very compassionate33 to the widow, though Mr. Hunsdon was still curious and much disturbed in his mind. They slurred34 over the rest, and allowed Mrs. Damerel and her son and daughter to go, and broke up the gloomy little assembly. Mr. Hunsdon took Mr. Nolan by the arm and went out with him, leading him on to the lawn, without any thought how the sound of his steps would echo upon the hearts of the mourners. He would have seated himself in the chair which still stood under the lime-trees had not Mr. Nolan managed to sway his steps away from it, and lead him down the slope to the little platform round the old thorn-tree which was invisible from the windows. The good curate was deeply moved for both the living and the dead.{45}
“I don’t mind speaking to you,” said the anxious brother; “I have heard so much of you as an attached friend. You must have known them thoroughly35, and their way of living. I can’t think it was my sister’s fault.”
“And I know,” said Mr. Nolan, with energy, “it was not her fault. It was not any one’s fault. He had a generous, liberal way with him”—
“Had he?” said the squire, doubtfully. “He had a costly36, expensive way with him; is that what you mean? I am not saying anything against my late brother-in-law. We got on very well, for we saw very little of each other. He had a fine mind, and that sort of thing. I suppose they have kept an extravagant37 house.”
“No, I assure you”—
“Entertained a good deal. Kept a good table, I am certain; good wine—I never drank better claret than that we had last night—the sort of wine I should keep for company, and bring up only on grand occasions. If there is much of it remaining I don’t mind buying a few dozen at their own price,” Mr. Hunsdon said, parenthetically. “I see; fine cookery, good wine, all the luxuries of the season, and the place kept up like a duke’s—an expensive house.”
“No,” said the curate, reiterating38 an obstinate39 negative; and then he said, hotly, “she did herself a great deal of injustice40. She is the best of managers—the most careful—making everything go twice as far and look twice as well as anybody else.”
Mr. Hunsdon looked at him curiously41, for he was one of those people who think a man must be “in love with” any woman whose partisan42 he makes himself. He made a private note of the curate’s enthusiasm, and concluded it was best that his sister and her daughter should be warned of his sentiments. “I have not seen very much of my poor brother-in-law for some time,” he said, disguising his scrutiny43, “so that I have no way of judging for myself. I don’t know which is most to blame. In such cases the wife can generally stop the extravagance if she likes. Two boys at Eton, for example—I can’t afford so much.”
“Bertie is on the foundation, and costs very little. He is a boy who will do something in the world yet; and I ought to know, for I taught him his first Greek. As for Reginald, his godfather pays his expenses, as I suppose you know.”
“You have been here for a long time, I perceive,” said the squire, “if you taught the boy his first Greek, as you say?”
“Eight years,” said Mr. Nolan, with a shrug44 of his shoulders.
“And now?”
“Now? I’ll go off again, I suppose, like a rollin’ stone, unless the new rector will have me. God help us, what heartless brutes45 we are!” said the curate, with fiery46 heat; “I’ve just laid my old rector in the grave, and I think of the new one before the day’s gone. God forgive me; it’s the way of the world.”
“And why shouldn’t you be rector yourself? No one would be so good for the parish, I am sure.”
“Me!” said Mr. Nolan, his face lighting47 up with a broad gleam of humor, which he quenched48 next moment in the half-conventional gravity which he felt to be befitting to the occasion. “The days of miracles are over, and I don’t expect to be made an exception. No; I’ll get a district church maybe sometime, with plenty of hard work and little pay; but I am not the kind that are made to be rectors. There is no chance for me.”
“The people would like it,” said Mr. Hunsdon, who was fishing for information; “it would be a popular appointment, and my sister and I would do anything that might lie in our power.”
Mr. Nolan shook his head. “Not they,” he said. “They have a kindness for me in my humble49 condition. They know I’m a friend when they want one; but they want something more to look at for their rector—and so do I too.”
“You are not ambitious?” said Mr. Hunsdon, perplexed50 by his new acquaintance, who shrugged51 his shoulders again, and rose hastily from the seat under the thorn-tree where they had been sitting.
“That depends,” he said, with impatient vagueness; “but I have my work waiting if I can be of no more use here. For whatever I can do, Mrs. Damerel knows I am at her orders. And you won’t let her be worried just yet a while?” he added, with a pleading tone, to which his mellow52 brogue lent an insinuating53 force which few people could resist.{46} “You’ll not go till it’s fixed54 what they are to do?”
“You may be sure I shall do my duty by my sister,” said the squire, who, though he had been willing to take the curate’s evidence about the most intimate details of his sister’s life, instantly resented Mr. Nolan’s “interference” when it came on his side. “He is in love with one or the other, or perhaps with both,” said the man of the world to himself; “I must put Rose on her guard;” which accordingly he tried to do, but quite ineffectually, Mrs. Damerel’s mind being totally unable to take in the insinuation which he scarcely ventured to put in plain words. But, with the exception of this foolish mistake and of a great deal of implied blame which it was not in the nature of the man to keep to himself, he did try to do his duty as became a man with a certain amount of ordinary affection for his sister, and a strong sense of what society required from him as head of his family. However he might disapprove55 of her, and the extravagance in which she had undeniably been act and part, yet he could not abandon so near a relation. I should not like to decide whether benefits conferred thus from a strong sense of duty have more or less merit than those which flow from an affectionate heart and generous nature, but certainly they have less reward of gratitude56. The Green was very much impressed by Mr. Hunsdon’s goodness to his sister, but I fear that to her his goodness was a burden more painful than her poverty. And yet he was very good. He undertook, in his brother’s name and his own, to pay Bertie’s expenses at Eton, where the boy was doing so well; and when it was decided, as the Green by infallible instinct had felt it must be, that the White House was the natural refuge for Mrs. Damerel when the time came to leave the rectory, Mr. Hunsdon made himself responsible for the rent, and put it in order for her with true liberality. The whole parish admired and praised him for this, and said how fortunate Mrs. Damerel was to have so good a brother. And she tried herself to feel it, and to be grateful as he deserved. But gratitude, which springs spontaneous for the simplest of gifts, and exults57 over a nothing, is often very slow to follow great benefits. Poor Mrs. Damerel thought it was the deadness of her grief which made her so insensible to her brother’s kindness. She thought she had grown incapable58 of feeling; and she had so much to realize, so much to accustom59 herself to. A change so great and fundamental confuses the mind. So far as she could see before her, she had nothing now to look forward to in life but an endless, humiliating struggle; and she forgot, in the softening60 of her heart, that for years past she had been struggling scarcely less hardly. When she looked back she seemed to see only happiness in comparison with this dull deprivation61 of all light and hope in which she was left now. But the reader knows that she had not been happy, and that this was but, as it were, a prismatic reflection from her tears, a fiction of imagination and sorrow; and by and by she began to see more clearly the true state of affairs.
They stayed at the rectory till Christmas by grace of the new rector, who unfortunately, however, could not keep on Mr. Nolan, of whose preferment there never had been a glimmer62 of hope, beyond that period. Christmas is a dreary63 time to go into a new home; though I don’t think the rector of Dinglefield thought so, who brought home his bride to the pretty rectory, and thought no life could begin more pleasantly than by those cheerful Christmas services in the church, which was all embowered in holly64 and laurel, in honor of the great English festival and in honor of him; for the Green had of course taken special pains with the decorations on account of the new-comer. The long and dreary autumn which lay between their bereavement65 and their removal was, however, very heavy and terrible for the Damerels. Its rains and fogs and dreary days seemed to echo and increase their own heaviness of heart; and autumn as it sinks into winter is all the more depressing in a leafy woodland country, as it has been beautiful in its earlier stages. Even the little children were subdued66, they knew not why, and felt the change in die house, though it procured67 them many privileges, and they might now even play in the drawing-room unreproved, and were never sent away hurriedly lest they should disturb papa, as had been the case of old when{47} sometimes they would snatch a fearful joy by a romp68 in the twilight69 corners; even the babies felt that this new privilege was somehow a symptom of some falling off and diminution70 in the family life. But no one felt it as Rose did, who had been shaken out of all the habits of her existence, without having as yet found anything to take their place. She had not even entered upon the idea of duty when her secret romance was brought to a sudden close, and that charmed region of imagination in which youth so readily finds a refuge, and which gilds71 the homeliest present with dreams of that which may be hereafter, had been arbitrarily closed to the girl. Had her little romance been permitted to her, she would have had a secret spring of hope and content to fall back upon, and would have faced her new life bravely, with a sense of her own individuality, such as seemed now to have faded altogether out of her mind. Her very appearance changed, as was inevitable72. Instead of the blooming maiden73 we have known, it was the whitest of Roses that went about the melancholy74 house in her black dress, with all the color and life gone out of her, doing whatever she was told with a docility75 which was sad to see. When she was left to herself she would sit idle or drop absorbed into a book; but everything that was suggested to her she did, without hesitation76 and without energy. The whole world had become confined to her within these oppressive walls, within this sorrowful house. The people on the Green looked at her with a kind of wondering reverence77, saying how she must have loved her father, and how she looked as if she would never get over it. But grief was not all of the weight which crushed her. She was for the moment bound as by some frost, paralyzed in all the springs of her interrupted being. She had no natural force of activity in her to neutralize78 the chill her soul had taken. She did all that she was told to do, and took every suggestion gratefully; but she had not yet learned to see for herself with her own eyes what had to be done, nor did she realize all the changes that were involved in the one great change which had come upon them. Misfortune had fallen upon her while she was still in the dreamy vagueness of her youth, when the within is more important than the without, and the real and imaginary are so intermingled that it is hard to tell where one ends and another begins. Necessity laid no wholesome79, vigor-giving hand upon her, because she was preoccupied80 with fancies which seemed more important than the reality. Agatha, all alert and alive in her practical matter-of-fact girlhood, was of more value in the house than poor Rose, who was like a creature in a dream, not seeing anything till it was pointed81 out to her; obeying always and humbly82, but never doing or originating anything from her own mind. Nobody understood her, not even herself; and sometimes she would sit down and cry for her father, thinking he would have known what it meant, without any recollection of the share her father had in thus paralyzing her young life. This strange condition of affairs was unknown, however, to any one out-of-doors except Mr. Nolan, who, good fellow, took it upon him once to say a few coaxing83, admonishing84 words to her.
“You’ll ease the mother when you can, Miss Rose, dear,” he said, taking her soft, passive hands between his own. “You don’t mind me saying so—an old fellow and an old friend like me, that loves every one of you, one better than another? I’ll hang on if I can, if the new man will have me, and be of use—what’s the good of me else?—and you’ll put your shoulder to the wheel with a good heart, like the darling girl that you are?”
“My shoulder to the wheel,” said Rose, with a half-smile, “and with a good heart! when I feel as if I had no heart at all?” and the girl began to cry, as she did now for any reason, if she was startled, or any one spoke85 to her suddenly. What could poor Mr. Nolan do but soothe86 and comfort her? Poor child! they had taken away all the inner strength from her before the time of trial came, and no better influence had yet roused her from the shock, or made her feel that she had something in her which was not to be crushed by any storm. Mr. Nolan knew as little what to make of her as her mother did, who was slowly coming to her old use and wont87, and beginning to feel the sharpness of hardship, and to realize once more how it was and why it was that this hardship came.
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1
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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deducting
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| v.扣除，减去( deduct的现在分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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defrauding
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的现在分词 ) | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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slurred
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| 含糊地说出( slur的过去式和过去分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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44
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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45
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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47
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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48
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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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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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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51
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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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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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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exults
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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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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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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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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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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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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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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71
gilds
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| 把…镀金( gild的第三人称单数 )； 给…上金色； 作多余的修饰（反而破坏原已完美的东西）； 画蛇添足 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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neutralize
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| v.使失效、抵消，使中和 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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81
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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82
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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83
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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84
admonishing
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| v.劝告( admonish的现在分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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85
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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86
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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87
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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