The change was so unaccountable that he could not believe in it. He told himself that the real thing at fault was his own sickly imagination, that he was morbidly3 sensitive, as well as foolishly exacting4. He convinced his understanding, but could not silence his heart. That Cassandra of the depths continually smote5 his unwilling6 ear with her lugubrious7 voice, calling upon him to observe how strangely Mrs. Bergan had been transformed overnight, from the interested, cordial, even affectionate aunt, into the polite and practised woman of the world, doing merely what courtesy required for the entertainment of the guest that circumstances had flung upon her hands.
In this state of affairs, Bergan would gladly have exchanged the dinner at Oakstead for a quiet afternoon in his room and a sober talk with his thoughts. But the invitation being already accepted, he must needs abide8 by the event. Accordingly, he took the vacant seat in his uncle's carriage, and was soon set down at the cottage steps.
Before dinner, the two gentlemen were left to a quiet chat by themselves on the cool, shady piazza9. Bergan embraced this opportunity to explain, more fully10 than he had yet done, his motives11 and aims. He told his uncle,—a little proudly, it might be, for he wished it to be understood that he had come hither with a self-respecting purpose of independence, and not with any idea of leaning upon his friends,—he told his uncle that his choice of Berganton as the starting-point of his professional career, was due to the influence of his mother. Her childhood's home, and its vicinity, had always kept a tenacious12 hold on her affections, despite the fact that more than two-thirds of her womanhood had been spent elsewhere, and all the deeper joys and sorrows of her life had blossomed and fruited in different soil. When, therefore, it became necessary for one of her sons to go out into the world, in search of a better field of labor13 than was afforded in his native village, her thoughts naturally turned to the spot so haloed in her memory, and where her ancestry14 had sent such deep, old roots into the soil, as to create a kind of kinship for evermore between their descendants and the locality. It would be a pleasant thing for Bergan, she thought, to make a home and a name for himself in a place where he possessed15 so strong a claim to residence; it would be equally pleasant for the old town to recognize the familiar mould of features and character in its streets; and it would be pleasantest of all for herself to know that her son was with her kinsfolk, amid well-known scenes, rather than among strangers, on ground where her thoughts could find no foothold. Some day, she hoped to visit him there, and feed her mother's pride upon his success, at the same time that she renewed her girlhood amid old associations.
Bergan then touched lightly upon his disappointment in the dull old town—finding it so much duller and older, even to decrepitude16, than he had expected, and consequently, so little eligible17 to his purpose. And here, if he had been met by a more interested glance, and a fuller sympathy, he would have gone on to speak of the disgraceful scene into which he had been betrayed by his uncle—the Major—and the obligation under which he felt himself placed thereby18 to remain in Berganton, at least long enough to efface19 any unfavorable impression which it might have caused. But, though his uncle Godfrey heard him patiently and courteously20 enough, there was so little of the hearty21 interest of kinship in his manner, that Bergan could not bring himself to open the subject. Not only was it unpleasant in itself, but it touched at many points on deep things of his nature, which instinctively22 refused to pour themselves into any but a friendly, sympathetic ear.
If he had known whence came the cloud between his relatives and himself, he would have spoken, as a matter of course, at whatever cost of feeling. But this explanation of the matter suggested itself to him, only to be inevitably23 rejected. Although it might serve to account for the coolness that had characterized his uncle's manner from the first, it seemed to throw no light whatever upon the difficult problem of the sudden change from cordiality to reserve, in Mrs. Bergan and Carice. A much more natural supposition appeared to be, that something in his own manner or conversation had unfortunately awakened24 prejudice or created dislike. For that, there was no remedy save in time. He could hope that, when his kinsfolk should come to know him better, they might be fain to reverse their hasty judgment25, and account him worthy26 of a place in their liking27. But, until that time should arrive,—though he would do anything in reason to help it on,—there was nothing to encourage or to warrant any overflow28 of personal confidences.
It was scarcely possible, under the circumstances, that Bergan should have reached a different conclusion. Of his meeting with Mr. Bergan and Carice, during his frenzy29 of rage and intoxication30, he retained but the vaguest recollection; and he had totally failed to recognize either his uncle or cousin as his co-actors in the dim and misty31 adventure. Nor was this the only missing link in the chain of events. Dr. Remy's casual talk, in the visit immediately preceding his own, which had first made Mr. Bergan acquainted with the fact of his nephew's presence in the neighborhood, and gradually led to his identification with the intoxicated33 cavalier of whom he entertained so disagreeable an impression; Carice's subsequent recognition of him, as soon as his features were distinctly revealed to her; and his aunt's later discovery of the same lamentable34 identity;—all these facts were necessary to a clear understanding of the situation, and its requirements. Without them, no wonder that Bergan was led astray both in his conclusions and his acts; the former being the inevitable35 result of the false logic36 of the few facts of which he knew, and the latter going to help the equally false logic of the facts known to others, of which he knew nothing.
So, after Mr. Bergan had politely assented37 to his observations upon the dulness of Berganton, and somewhat pointedly38 remarked that perseverance39 and energy, when conjoined with upright habits, were pretty sure to command a reasonable measure of success anywhere, the conversation turned aside into other channels. The opportunity for a frank explanation—which could alone have placed him upon his proper footing with his new-found relatives—was lost. It would not return until it was too late to be of any considerable service.
Nevertheless, at the dinner-table, the moral atmosphere cleared a little. Mr. Bergan could not, in justice to himself, allow any guest at his board—much less his sister's son—to shiver long in an impalpable mist of coolness and reserve. His wife gladly seconded his efforts toward geniality41 and cheerfulness. Under this opportune42 sunshine, Bergan's manner soon lost its reflected touch of constraint43, and sparkled with pleasant humor, or was warmed through and through with a rich glow of enthusiasm. Despite their prejudices, his relatives could not but feel its potent44 charm. Under protest, as it were, they yielded him a portion of their liking, even while they refused him their confidence. "What a pity," they thought, "that he is so dissipated, when he can be so captivating! What a fine character his might be, but for its one miserable45, ruinous flaw!"
Especially was this thought prominent in the mind of Carice, as she listened delightedly to the pleasant flow of his talk, and her youthful enthusiasm involuntarily sprang forward to meet his. Two or three times, he caught her eyes fixed46 upon him with an expression that not only puzzled, but pained him. But for the absurdity47 of the supposition, he would have said that it was pity!
In the hope of finding a clue to the mystery, he took a position near her, when they rose from the table,—leaning with an easy grace against the mantel, while she occupied the low window-seat,—and the two were soon deep in a conversation of absorbing interest. Beginning with books, if slowly led, by the way of the morning's service and sermon, up to vital questions of duty and morals. In its course, it developed so many points of sympathy between the colloquists,—such happy correspondence of opinion, without lifeless unanimity,—so many dove-tailed segments of thought, glad to meet in close and completing union,—that Mr. and Mrs. Bergan, listening, at first, with indulgent interest, finally began to exchange uneasy glances, and, at length, withdrew to the piazza for a hurried consultation48.
For this fair daughter of theirs—this blue-eyed Carice, with the lily-like pose, and the rose-like face—was their idol49. Not specially1 congenial on other points, they were yet made one by their engrossing50 devotion to her. She was at once their exceeding joy and their exquisite51 pain. Although she had scarcely been ill a day in her life, she had a seeming delicacy52 of constitution that kept them in a constant quake of terror. She had also a sensitiveness of temperament53, as well as a singular purity and simplicity54 of character, that filled them with nameless forebodings for her happiness. All their days were spent in keeping safe watch and ward40 between her and the first threatenings of evil, of whatever nature. Every coming shadow, every adverse55 influence, was foreseen or forefelt, and turned aside, before it could reach her.
Especially, of late,—seeing her continual growth in loveliness, of a character at once so rare and so attractive,—they had charged themselves with the duty of watching against any unwise bestowal56 of her affections, and consequent misery57. And, up to this time, there had been no cause for alarm. But now, as Mrs. Bergan glanced back through the window at the rapt talker and listener, noting the earnestness and heightened color of the one, and the unwonted brightness half-hidden under the drooping58 lashes59 of the other, she turned to her husband with an anxiety that needed no further explanation.
"They are cousins, remember," said Mr. Bergan, snatching at the first thread of hope, though not without a sufficient sense of its fragility.
"Only half-cousins, at best,—or rather, at worst," replied his wife. "And so utterly60 different in type and temperament, that the relationship could never be set up as an insurmountable barrier. Besides, having never met before, they now meet as strangers."
"Then it will not do to encourage him in coming here," said Mr. Bergan, after a pause. "I could never give Carice to a drunkard, though he were fifty times as handsome and talented."
At this moment, Carice, awaking as from a dream, looked round for her parents. Seeing them on the piazza, she quickly rose, and came toward them, followed by Bergan. There was something in the action inexpressibly reassuring61 to the troubled spectators. The engrossing spell of the young man's conversation was so suddenly broken, when she missed her father and mother from her side! They looked at each other with a smile, and Mrs. Bergan playfully whispered,—
"I suspect that we are two fools!"
Nevertheless, enough of the effect of these few moments of parental62 anxiety remained, to fling a slight shadow over the party. Carice felt it first, in her quick sympathy with all her parents' moods; and Bergan caught it from her as speedily as if there were already some invisible bond between the two. Without knowing why, he very soon became aware that the atmosphere was again growing chill around him. He had been basking63, not in a broad glory of summer, but only in a flicker64 of winter sunshine.
Under these circumstances, Mr. Bergan's announcement that it was time to set forth65 for the five o'clock service, was heard as a relief. Almost immediately, however, it was followed by an unreasoning pang66 of regret. It needed no soothsayer to tell him that moments like those just passed, were to be rare in his immediate32 experience of life.
Dusk was fast gathering67 in the corners and under the arches of the little church, when the service was over. Parting with his relatives at the door, Bergan went his solitary68 way to his lodgings69, through the deepening twilight70. He walked slowly, not that the road was so pleasant, but because the end had so little attraction. The walls and furniture of his room were still strangers to him;—no one corner would allure71 him with a more familiar charm than another, no particular chair would draw him irresistibly72 to its accustomed arms, no sweet, tangled73 crop of associations would fling their mingled74 light and shadow across the floor. It would all be dim, blank, lonely. And the foot falls but heavily on the path, the termination of which neither habit nor excites imagination!
Nevertheless, the slowest progress brings one quickly to the end, if the journey be short; and Bergan's lingering steps brought him to Mrs. Lyte's gate ere the dusk had deepened into total obscurity. Entering the wide hall, which extended through the whole depth of the house, he saw Mrs. Lyte seated at the farther end, in a doorway75 opening on the garden. Her little daughter Cathie was sobbing76 at her side, in what seemed an uncontrollable passion of grief and indignation. The child's protector and playmate, a half-superannuated old mastiff, named Nix, sat on his haunches at a little distance, watching the scene with sympathetic, intelligent eyes.
Cathie was already Bergan's fast friend. During yesterday's work of arrangement, she had at first hovered77 around him at a distance; then, yielding to the unconscious fascination78 of the young man's look and smile, as well as the irresistible79 attraction of the litter of books and papers, she had drawn80 nearer; later on, she had eagerly favored him with the somewhat questionable81 help of her small fingers, and the amusing chatter82 of her tireless tongue; and she had ended by giving him all her childish confidence, and a large share of her freakish affections.
Freakish—because Cathie was a sort of elf-child;—or it might be truer to say that, in her small compass, there were many elf-children; manifesting their several individualities through her changeable moods, and sending their various gleam through the almost weird83 splendor84 of her dark eyes. She could be wild and tender, playful and passionate85, wise and simple, by turns; or in such quick and capricious succession that she seemed to be all at once. She took as many shapes, in her flittings about the house, as there were hours in the day;—now a teasing sprite, now a dancing fairy,—at this moment, a tender human child, melting into your arms with dewey kisses,—the next, a mocking elf, slipping from your grasp like quicksilver, and leaving you with a doubt if there could be anything human about her,—and anon, a fiery86 little demon87, with enough of concentrated rage in her small frame to suffice for a giant.
It was in this latter phase that she was now exhibiting herself.
"I won't believe it!" she screamed, clenching88 her small fists, and jumping up and down in a fury of excitement. "I won't believe it! It isn't true! Miss Ferrars is a—"
"Hush89!" said the mother, softly, hearing the sound of Bergan's step.
—"A mean, lying old maid!" went on Cathie, without an instant's hesitation90. "I wish I had told her so! I will, when I see her again!"
"Hush!" said the mother again, more decidedly; laying her hand over the rebellious91 month, by way of enforcing the mandate92.
But Cathie broke from her, and ran towards Bergan. At a few paces distant, she stopped and underwent one of her sudden metamorphoses; the convulsive fury left her features, and in its stead, there came a grave sorrow and wistfulness, piteous to behold93. Fixing her dark, bright eyes full on Bergan's face, she solemnly asked,—
"Are you bad, Mr. Arling? Tell me, are you really a bad man?"
Whatever mistakes Bergan may have made, in his life, or may make hereafter,—whatever sins he may commit, through ignorance, or in sudden passion,—let it be remembered, to his credit, that he could meet those clear, innocent, child-eyes, without a blush, and answer the question as gravely and simply as it had been asked,—
"No, Cathie, I do not think that I am."
The truthful94 accents found their instant way to the child's heart. Her confidence—which, in truth, had really never been lost—was restored fourfold. She threw herself into his arms, and laid her young cheek against his, in a loving attempt to atone95 for the wrong that had been done him. Nix came also, and rubbed his great head against the young man's knee, with an apparent understanding of the whole matter.
Nor was the child's mind the only one to which Bergan's words had brought quick conviction. Hearing his low, grave tones of denial, Mrs. Lyte felt a weight lifted from her spirits. She had just been listening to the story of Bergan's intoxication, with adornments, brought by a gossiping neighbor, and her heart had sunk with fear lest trouble and discomfort96 had found their way under her roof, with the new inmate97. But seeing him thus acquitted98 by the child and the dog,—two most unprejudiced judges, she thought,—she quietly dismissed her fears. For, though so gentle and shrinking in manner as to give the impression of having no character at all, Mrs. Lyte was yet quite capable of forming an independent opinion, and of abiding99 by it.
So, when Bergan came toward her, leading Cathie by the hand, she did not hesitate to point him to a seat.
"Your room must be lonely," said she, kindly100. "Will you sit with us for awhile?"
But Bergan did not heed101, if he heard, the invitation. He merely looked his hostess in the eyes, and said;—
"Mrs. Lyte, will you be so kind as to tell me what made Cathie ask me that question just now?"
"Certainly, if you wish it. But, Mr. Arling, the subject was closed, for me, with her question and your answer. Would it not be as well for you to let it rest there, also?"
Bergan only shook his head. And after a moment's study of his grave face, Mrs. Lyte, very quietly, as if it were a matter in which she had no concern, mentioned the report that had been brought her. As quietly, Bergan told her the whole story of his stay at the Hall:—doing so the more readily, it needs not to be said to those anywise skilled in the intricacies of the human mind, because he felt that it was not required of him. For, though Mrs. Lyte listened with the kindest interest and sympathy, she took care to show by her manner that she did so more to satisfy him than herself. In matters like this, she was accustomed to trust her instincts more implicitly102 than her reason; and she was wise enough to know that trust is the short road to truth, in all characters not radically103 bad.
And thus, with the singular inconsequence of human life, the explanation was made where it was not needed, and left unspoken where it would have availed much against future misunderstanding, trouble, wrong, and sorrow!
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1
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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motives
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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ancestry
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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decrepitude
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| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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thereby
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efface
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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instinctively
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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lamentable
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inevitable
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logic
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointedly
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perseverance
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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engrossing
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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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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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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64
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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65
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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66
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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67
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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68
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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69
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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70
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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71
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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72
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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73
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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74
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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75
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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76
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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77
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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78
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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79
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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80
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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81
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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82
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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83
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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84
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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85
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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86
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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87
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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88
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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89
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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90
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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91
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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92
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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93
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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94
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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95
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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96
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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97
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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98
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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99
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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100
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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101
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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102
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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103
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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