Catherine sat alone by the parlour fire--sat there for more than an hour, lost in her meditations1.
Her aunt seemed to her aggressive and foolish, and to see it so clearly--to judge Mrs. Penniman so positively--made her feel old and grave.
She did not resent the imputation2 of weakness; it made no impression on her, for she had not the sense of weakness, and she was not hurt at not being appreciated. She had an immense respect for her father, and she felt that to displease3 him would be a misdemeanour analogous4 to an act of profanity in a great temple; but her purpose had slowly ripened5, and she believed that her prayers had purified it of its violence.
The evening advanced, and the lamp burned dim without her noticing it; her eyes were fixed6 upon her terrible plan.
She knew her father was in his study--that he had been there all the evening; from time to time she expected to hear him move.
She thought he would perhaps come, as he sometimes came, into the parlour.
At last the clock struck eleven, and the house was wrapped in silence; the servants had gone to bed.
Catherine got up and went slowly to the door of the library, where she waited a moment, motionless.
Then she knocked, and then she waited again.
Her father had answered her, but she had not the courage to turn the latch7.
What she had said to her aunt was true enough--she was afraid of him; and in saying that she had no sense of weakness she meant that she was not afraid of herself.
She heard him move within, and he came and opened the door for her.
"What is the matter?" asked the Doctor.
"You are standing8 there like a ghost."
She went into the room, but it was some time before she contrived9 to say what she had come to say.
Her father, who was in his dressing- gown and slippers10, had been busy at his writing-table, and after looking at her for some moments, and waiting for her to speak, he went and seated himself at his papers again.
His back was turned to her--she began to hear the scratching of his pen.
She remained near the door, with her heart thumping11 beneath her bodice; and she was very glad that his back was turned, for it seemed to her that she could more easily address herself to this portion of his person than to his face.
At last she began, watching it while she spoke12.
"You told me that if I should have anything more to say about Mr. Townsend you would be glad to listen to it."
"Exactly, my dear," said the Doctor, not turning round, but stopping his pen.
Catherine wished it would go on, but she herself continued.
"I thought I would tell you that I have not seen him again, but that I should like to do so."
"To bid him good-bye?" asked the Doctor.
The girl hesitated a moment.
"He is not going away."
The Doctor wheeled slowly round in his chair, with a smile that seemed to accuse her of an epigram; but extremes meet, and Catherine had not intended one.
"It is not to bid him good-bye, then?" her father said.
"No, father, not that; at least, not for ever.
I have not seen him again, but I should like to see him," Catherine repeated.
The Doctor slowly rubbed his under lip with the feather of his quill13.
"Have you written to him?"
"Yes, four times."
"You have not dismissed him, then.
Once would have done that."
"No," said Catherine; "I have asked him--asked him to wait."
Her father sat looking at her, and she was afraid he was going to break out into wrath14; his eyes were so fine and cold.
"You are a dear, faithful child," he said at last.
"Come here to your father."
And he got up, holding out his hands toward her.
The words were a surprise, and they gave her an exquisite15 joy.
She went to him, and he put his arm round her tenderly, soothingly16; and then he kissed her.
After this he said:
"Do you wish to make me very happy?"
"I should like to--but I am afraid I can't," Catherine answered.
"You can if you will.
It all depends on your will."
"Is it to give him up?" said Catherine.
"Yes, it is to give him up."
And he held her still, with the same tenderness, looking into her face and resting his eyes on her averted17 eyes.
There was a long silence; she wished he would release her.
"You are happier than I, father," she said, at last.
"I have no doubt you are unhappy just now.
But it is better to be unhappy for three months and get over it, than for many years and never get over it."
"Yes, if that were so," said Catherine.
"It would be so; I am sure of that."
She answered nothing, and he went on.
"Have you no faith in my wisdom, in my tenderness, in my solicitude18 for your future?"
"Oh, father!" murmured the girl.
"Don't you suppose that I know something of men:
their vices19, their follies20, their falsities?"
She detached herself, and turned upon him.
"He is not vicious--he is not false!"
Her father kept looking at her with his sharp, pure eye.
"You make nothing of my judgement, then?"
"I can't believe that!"
"I don't ask you to believe it, but to take it on trust."
Catherine was far from saying to herself that this was an ingenious sophism21; but she met the appeal none the less squarely.
"What has he done--what do you know?"
"He has never done anything--he is a selfish idler."
"Oh, father, don't abuse him!" she exclaimed pleadingly.
"I don't mean to abuse him; it would be a great mistake.
You may do as you choose," he added, turning away.
"I may see him again?"
"Just as you choose."
"Will you forgive me?"
"By no means."
"It will only be for once."
"I don't know what you mean by once.
You must either give him up or continue the acquaintance."
"I wish to explain--to tell him to wait."
"To wait for what?"
"Till you know him better--till you consent."
"Don't tell him any such nonsense as that.
I know him well enough, and I shall never consent."
"But we can wait a long time," said poor Catherine, in a tone which was meant to express the humblest conciliation22, but which had upon her father's nerves the effect of an iteration not characterised by tact23.
The Doctor answered, however, quietly enough:
"Of course you can wait till I die, if you like."
Catherine gave a cry of natural horror.
"Your engagement will have one delightful24 effect upon you; it will make you extremely impatient for that event."
Catherine stood staring, and the Doctor enjoyed the point he had made.
It came to Catherine with the force--or rather with the vague impressiveness--of a logical axiom which it was not in her province to controvert25; and yet, though it was a scientific truth, she felt wholly unable to accept it.
"I would rather not marry, if that were true," she said.
"Give me a proof of it, then; for it is beyond a question that by engaging yourself to Morris Townsend you simply wait for my death."
She turned away, feeling sick and faint; and the Doctor went on. "And if you wait for it with impatience26, judge, if you please, what HIS eagerness will be!"
Catherine turned it over--her father's words had such an authority for her that her very thoughts were capable of obeying him.
There was a dreadful ugliness in it, which seemed to glare at her through the interposing medium of her own feebler reason.
Suddenly, however, she had an inspiration--she almost knew it to be an inspiration.
"If I don't marry before your death, I will not after," she said.
To her father, it must be admitted, this seemed only another epigram; and as obstinacy27, in unaccomplished minds, does not usually select such a mode of expression, he was the more surprised at this wanton play of a fixed idea.
"Do you mean that for an impertinence?" he inquired; an inquiry28 of which, as he made it, he quite perceived the grossness.
"An impertinence?
Oh, father, what terrible things you say!"
"If you don't wait for my death, you might as well marry immediately; there is nothing else to wait for."
For some time Catherine made no answer; but finally she said:
"I think Morris--little by little--might persuade you."
"I shall never let him speak to me again.
I dislike him too much."
Catherine gave a long, low sigh; she tried to stifle29 it, for she had made up her mind that it was wrong to make a parade of her trouble, and to endeavour to act upon her father by the meretricious30 aid of emotion.
Indeed, she even thought it wrong--in the sense of being inconsiderate--to attempt to act upon his feelings at all; her part was to effect some gentle, gradual change in his intellectual perception of poor Morris's character.
But the means of effecting such a change were at present shrouded31 in mystery, and she felt miserably32 helpless and hopeless.
She had exhausted33 all arguments, all replies.
Her father might have pitied her, and in fact he did so; but he was sure he was right.
"There is one thing you can tell Mr. Townsend when you see him again," he said:
"that if you marry without my consent, I don't leave you a farthing of money.
That will interest him more than anything else you can tell him."
"That would be very right," Catherine answered.
"I ought not in that case to have a farthing of your money."
"My dear child," the Doctor observed, laughing, "your simplicity34 is touching35.
Make that remark, in that tone, and with that expression of countenance36, to Mr. Townsend, and take a note of his answer.
It won't be polite--it will, express irritation37; and I shall be glad of that, as it will put me in the right; unless, indeed--which is perfectly38 possible--you should like him the better for being rude to you."
"He will never be rude to me," said Catherine gently.
"Tell him what I say, all the same."
She looked at her father, and her quiet eyes filled with tears.
"I think I will see him, then," she murmured, in her timid voice.
"Exactly as you choose!"
And he went to the door and opened it for her to go out.
The movement gave her a terrible sense of his turning her off.
"It will be only once, for the present," she added, lingering a moment.
"Exactly as you choose," he repeated, standing there with his hand on the door.
"I have told you what I think.
If you see him, you will be an ungrateful, cruel child; you will have given your old father the greatest pain of his life."
This was more than the poor girl could bear; her tears overflowed39, and she moved towards her grimly consistent parent with a pitiful cry.
Her hands were raised in supplication40, but he sternly evaded41 this appeal.
Instead of letting her sob42 out her misery43 on his shoulder, he simply took her by the arm and directed her course across the threshold, closing the door gently but firmly behind her. After he had done so, he remained listening.
For a long time there was no sound; he knew that she was standing outside.
He was sorry for her, as I have said; but he was so sure he was right.
At last he heard her move away, and then her footstep creaked faintly upon the stairs.
The Doctor took several turns round his study, with his hands in his pockets, and a thin sparkle, possibly of irritation, but partly also of something like humour, in his eye.
"By Jove," he said to himself, "I believe she will stick--I believe she will stick!"
And this idea of Catherine "sticking" appeared to have a comical side, and to offer a prospect44 of entertainment.
He determined45, as he said to himself, to see it out.
收听单词发音 |
1
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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2
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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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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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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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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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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quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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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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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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sophism
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| n.诡辩 | |
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conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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controvert
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| v.否定；否认 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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41
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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45
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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