Even the sermon she managed to hear him preach one Sunday morning, when a visit from one of the scholarly gentlemen whom her uncle considered dangerous, gave her a free half day, even her recognition, through that sermon, of the man's mental barrenness, did not quench7 her passion.
What did finally kill it, after three months of mingled8 misery9 and ecstasy10, was an occasion as trivial as that which had given birth to it. One day, in front of a grocery shop, where some provisions were being piled into her phaeton, and where, to her quivering delight, the Object of her adoration11 just chanced at that moment to come to make some purchases, she heard him say to a negro employee of the grocer, "Yes, sir, two pecks of potatoes and a head of cabbage; no, sir, no strawberries."
To say "sir" to a negro! The scales fell from Margaret's eyes. Her heart settled down comfortably in her bosom12. Her nerves became quiet. The young minister stood before her as he was. His Adam's apple was no longer a peculiar13 distinction, but an Adam's apple. For this was South Carolina.
Thereafter, her uncle found her a much more comfortable companion. But keenly observant though he was, he had never suspected for a moment, during those three months of Margaret's obsession14, that she was actually experiencing the thing he was so persistently15 trying to avert16; for it would not have been conceivable to him that any woman, least of all his niece, Margaret Berkeley, could fall in love with "a milksop" like "Rev17. Hoops," as the poor man's printed visiting card proclaimed him.
Never in all the rest of her life could Margaret laugh at that youthful ordeal18. That she could have been so insanely deluded19 was a mystery to wonder over, to speculate about; but the passion itself, the depth, the height, the glory of it, its revelation of human nature's capacity for ecstasy—all this was a reality that would always be sacred to her.
At the same time, her discovery that an emotional experience so intense and vital, so fundamental, could grow out of an absolute illusion and be so ephemeral, made her almost as cynical20 about love as was her uncle himself; so that always after that the seed of skepticism, which he so earnestly endeavoured to plant in her mind, fell on prepared soil.
Had Margaret adopted indiscriminately her uncle's philosophical21, ethical22, social, political, or even literary ideas, it would certainly have unfitted her for living in a society so complacent23, optimistic, and conventional as that of most American communities. As it was, the opinions she did come to hold, from her intercourse24 with this fearless, if pessimistic, thinker, and from her wide and varied25 reading with him, and also the ideals of life she formed in the solitude26 which gave her so much time for thought, were unusual enough to make her unique among women. One aspect of this difference from her kind was that she was entirely27 free from the false sentimentality of the average young woman, and this in spite of the fact that she was fervently30 imaginative and, in a high degree, sensitive to the beauty and poetry of life. Another and more radical31 point of difference was that she had what so very few women do have—spiritual and intellectual fearlessness. And both of these mental attitudes she owed not only to her own natural largeness of heart and mind, but to the strong bias32 given her by her uncle toward absolute honesty.
While, by reason of her more than ordinary mentality29, as well as because of a very adaptable33 disposition34, Margaret bore her life of self-sacrifice and isolation35 with less unhappiness than most girls could have done, there was one phase of it which was vastly harder upon her. Her nature being unusually strong in its affections, it took hard schooling36 indeed before she could endure with stoicism the loveless life she led. It was upon her relation with her elder sister Harriet, the only human being who really belonged to her, that she tried to feed her starved heart, cherishing almost with passion this one living bond; idealizing her sister and her sister's love for her, looking with an intensity37 of longing38 to the time when she would be free to be with Harriet, to lavish39 upon her all her unspent love, to live in the happiness of Harriet's love for her.
Harriet's lukewarmness, not manifest under her easy, good-natured bearing, was destined40 one day to come as a great shock to Margaret.
It was one night about five months before her uncle's sudden death that he talked with her of his will. They were together in the library, waiting for Henry, the negro manservant, to finish his night's chores about the place before coming to help the master of the house to bed.
"I trust, Margaret," Berkeley, with characteristic abruptness41, broke a silence that had fallen between them, "that you are not counting on flourishing as an heiress when I have passed out?"
"I must admit," said Margaret apologetically, "that I never thought of that, stupid as it may seem to you, Uncle Osmond. Now that you mention it, it would be pleasant."
"'Pleasant?' To have me die and leave you rich?"
"I mean only the heiress part would be pleasant—and having English dukes marrying me, you know, and all that."
"How many English dukes, pray? I fancy they are a high-priced commodity, and my fortune isn't colossal42."
"I shouldn't want a really colossal fortune."
"Modest of you. But," he added, "if I did mean to do you the injury of leaving you all I have, it would be more than enough to spoil what is quite too rare and precious for spoiling"—he paused, his keen eyes piercing her as he deliberately43 added—"a very perfect woman."
"Meaning me?" Margaret asked with wide-eyed astonishment44.
"So I don't intend to leave you a dollar."
"Suit yourself, honey."
"You are like all the Berkeleys, entirely lacking in money sense. Now the lack of money sense is refreshing45 and charming, but disastrous46. I shall not leave my money to you for four reasons." He counted them off on his long, emaciated47 fingers. "First, because you wouldn't be sufficiently48 interested in the damned money to take care of it; secondly49, you'd give it away to your sister, or to her husband, or to your own husband, or to any one that knew how to work you; thirdly, riches are death to contentment and to usefulness and the creator of parasitism50; fourthly, I wish you to be married for your good, sweet self, my dear child, and not for my money."
"But if I'm penniless, I may have to marry for money. From what you tell me of love, money is the only thing left to marry for. And if it has to be a marriage for money, I prefer to be the one who has the money, if you please, Uncle Osmond."
"Well, you won't get mine. I tell you you are worth too much to be turned into one of these parasitical51 women who are the blot52 on our modern civilization. In no other age of the world has there been such a race of feminine parasites53 as at the present. Let me tell you something, Margaret: there is just one source of pure and unadulterated happiness in life, and that I bequeath to you in withholding54 from you my fortune. Congenial work, my girl, is the only sure and permanent joy. Love? Madness and anguish55. Family affection? Endless anxiety, heartache, care. You are talented, child; discover what sort of work you love best to do, fit yourself to do it pre?minently well, and you'll be happy and contented56."
"But my gracious! Uncle Osmond, what chance have I to fit myself for an occupation, out here at Berkeley Hill, taking care of you? These years of my youth in which I might be preparing for a career I'm devoting to you, my dear. So I really think it would only be poetic57 justice for you to leave me your money, don't you?"
Her uncle, looking as though her words had startled and surprised him, did not answer her at once. Considering her earnestly as she sat before him, the firelight shining upon her dark hair and clear olive skin, the peculiar expression of his gaze puzzled Margaret.
"That," he said slowly, "is an aspect of your case I had not considered."
"Of course you had not; it wouldn't be at all like you to have considered it, my dear."
"Well," he snapped, "my will is made. I'm leaving all I have, except this place, for the founding of a college which shall be after my idea of a college. Berkeley Hill, however, must, of course, remain in the family."
"Don't, for pity's sake, burden the family (that's Harriet and me) with Berkeley Hill, Uncle Osmond, if you don't give us the wherewithal to keep it up and pay the taxes on it!" protested Margaret.
Again her uncle gazed at her with an enigmatical stare. "Huh!" he muttered, "you've got some money sense after all. More than any Berkeley I ever met."
"I know this much about money," she said sententiously: "that while poverty can certainly rob us of all that is worth while in life, wealth can't buy the two essentials to happiness—love and good health."
"Since when have you taken to making epigrams?"
"Why, that is an epigram, isn't it! Good enough for a copybook."
"I tell you, girl, if I leave you rich, I rob you of the necessity to work, and that is robbing you of life's only worth. The most pitiable wretches58 on the face of the earth are idle rich women."
"If it's all the same to you, Uncle Osmond, I'd rather take my chances for happiness with riches than without them."
"I am to understand, then, that you actually have the boldness to tell me to my face that you expect me to leave to you all I die possessed59 of?"
"Yes, please."
"It's wonderfully like your damned complacency! Well, as I've told you, I've already made my will."
"Here's Henry to take you upstairs. But you can make it over, or add a codicil60. Which shall I bring you to-night, an eggnog or beer?"
"I'm sick of all your slops. Let me alone."
"Yes, dear. Good-night," she answered with the perfunctory, artificial pleasantness which she always employed, as per contract, in responding to his surliness; and the absurdity61, as well as the audacity62, of that bought-and-paid-for cheerfulness of tone, never failed to entertain the old misanthrope63.
Five months later the will which Osmond Berkeley's lawyer read to the "mourners" gave Berkeley Hill to Margaret and her sister, Mrs. Walter Eastman, while all the rest of the considerable estate was left to a board of five trustees to be used for the founding of a college in which there should be absolute freedom of thought in every department, such a college as did not then exist on the face of the earth.
Harriet's husband, being a lawyer, offered at once to secure for Margaret, through process of law, a reasonable compensation for her eight years of service. But Margaret objected.
"You see Uncle Osmond didn't wish me to have any of his money, Walter."
"Don't be sentimental28 about it, Margaret. Your uncle had a lot of sentiment, didn't he, about your sacrificing your life for him?"
"He had his reasons for not giving me his money. He sincerely thought it would be better for me not to have it. He really did have some heart for me, Walter. I'm not sentimental, but I couldn't touch a dollar he didn't wish me to have."
"Then you certainly are sentimental," Walter insisted.
Almost immediately after the funeral Harriet and her family moved out from Charleston to live at Berkeley Hill with Margaret, retaining the two old negroes who for so many years had done all the work that was done on the estate.
"We couldn't rent the place without spending thousands in repairing it, so we'll have to live on it ourselves."
The sentiment that Margaret and Harriet cherished for this old homestead which had for so long been occupied by some branch of the family was so strong as to preclude64 any idea of selling the place.
It was Margaret's wish, at this time, to go away from Berkeley Hill and earn her own living, as much for the adventure of it as because she thought she ought not to be a burden to Walter. But the Southerner's principle that a woman may with decency65 work for her living only when bereft66 of all near male kin3 to earn it for her led Walter to protest earnestly against her leaving their joint67 home.
Harriet, too, was at first opposed to it.
"You could be such a help and comfort to me, Margaret, dear, if you'd stay. Henry and Chloe are too old and have too much work to do on this huge place to help me with the children; and out here I can't do as I did in Charleston—get in some one to stay with the babies whenever I want to go anywhere. So you see how tied down I'd be. But with you here, I should always feel so comfortable about the children whenever I had to be away from them."
"But for what it would cost Walter to support me, Harriet, dear, you could keep a nurse for the children."
"And spend half my time at the Employment Agency. A servant would leave as soon as she discovered how lonesome it is out here, a half mile from the trolley68 line. It's well Henry and Chloe are too attached to the place to leave it."
"So the advantage of having me rather than a child's nurse is that I'd be a fixture69?" Margaret asked, hiding with a smile her inclination70 to weep at this only reason Harriet had to urge for her remaining with her.
"Of course you'll be a fixture," Harriet answered affectionately. "Walter and I are only too glad to give you a home."
So, for nearly a year after her uncle's death, Margaret continued to live at Berkeley Hill.
Harriet always referred to their home as "My house," "My place," and never dreamed of consulting her younger sister as to any changes she saw fit to make in the rooms or about the grounds.
It was during these first weeks of Margaret's life with Harriet that she suffered the keen grief of finding her own warm affection for her sister thrown back upon itself in Harriet's want of enthusiasm over their being together; her always cool response to Margaret's almost passionate71 devotion; her abstinence from any least approach to sisterly intimacy72 and confidence. It was not that Harriet disliked Margaret or meant to be cold to her. It was only that she was constitutionally selfish and indifferent.
So, in the course of time, Margaret came to lavish all the thwarted73 tenderness of her heart upon her sister's three very engaging children.
But before that first year of her new life had passed over her head she came to feel certain conditions of it to be so unbearable74 that, in spite of Walter's protests (only Walter's this time), she made a determined75 effort to get some self-supporting employment. And it was then that she became aware of a certain fact of modern life of which her isolation had left her in ignorance: she discovered that in these days of highly specialized76 work there was no employment of any sort to be obtained by the untrained. School teachers, librarians, newspaper women, even shopgirls, seamstresses, cooks, and housemaids must have their special equipment. And Margaret had no money with which to procure77 this equipment. There is, perhaps, no more tragic78 figure in our strenuous79 modern life than the penniless woman of gentle breeding, unqualified for self-support.
The worst phase of Margaret's predicament was that it had become absolutely impossible for her to continue to live longer under the same roof with Walter and Harriet. The simple truth was, Harriet was jealous of Walter's quite brotherly affection for her—for so Margaret interpreted his kindly80 attitude toward her. Having no least realization81 of her own unusual maidenly82 charm, the fact that her brother-in-law was actually fighting a grande passion for her would have seemed to her grotesque83, incredible; for Walter, being a Southern gentleman, controlled his feelings sufficiently to treat her always with scrupulous84 consideration and courtesy. Therefore, she considered Harriet's jealousy85 wholly unreasonable86. Why, her sister seemed actually afraid to trust the two of them alone in the house together! (Margaret did not dream that Walter was afraid to trust himself alone in the house with her.) And if by chance Harriet ever found them in a tête-à-tête, she would not speak to Margaret for days, and as Walter, too, was made to take his punishment, Margaret was sure he must wish her away. Of course, since she had become a cause for discord87 and unhappiness between Harriet and Walter, she must go. A way must be found for her to live away from Berkeley Hill.
It was this condition of things which she faced the night she lay on the couch in her sister's room keeping guard over her sleeping children while Harriet and Walter were seeing Nazimova in "Hedda Gabler."
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1
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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3
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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6
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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7
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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8
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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9
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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13
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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16
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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adaptable
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| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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41
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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42
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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43
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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44
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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45
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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46
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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47
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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48
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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49
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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50
parasitism
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| n.寄生状态，寄生病；寄生性 | |
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51
parasitical
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| adj. 寄生的(符加的) | |
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52
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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53
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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54
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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55
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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56
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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57
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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58
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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59
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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60
codicil
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| n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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61
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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62
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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63
misanthrope
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| n.恨人类的人；厌世者 | |
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64
preclude
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| vt.阻止，排除，防止；妨碍 | |
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65
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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66
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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67
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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68
trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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69
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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71
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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72
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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73
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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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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75
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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76
specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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77
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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78
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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79
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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80
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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81
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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82
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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83
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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84
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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85
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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86
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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87
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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