Next day Mary went into Primpton House. Colonel Parsons nodded to her as she walked up the drive, and took off his spectacles. The front door was neither locked nor bolted in that confiding1 neighbourhood, and Mary walked straight in.
"Well, my dear?" said the Colonel, smiling with pleasure, for he was as fond of her as of his own son.
"I thought I'd come and see you alone. Jamie's still out, isn't he? I saw him pass our house. I was standing2 at the window, but he didn't look up."
"I daresay he was thinking. He's grown very thoughtful now."
Mrs. Parsons came in, and her quiet face lit up, too, as she greeted Mary. She kissed her tenderly.
"Jamie's out, you know."
"Mary has come to see us," said the Colonel. "She doesn't want us to feel neglected now that she has the boy."
"We shall never dream that you can do anything unkind, dear Mary," replied Mrs. Parsons, stroking the girl's hair. "It's natural that you should think more of him than of us."
Mary hesitated a moment.
"Don't you think Jamie has changed?"
Mrs. Parsons looked at her quickly.
"I think he has grown more silent. But he's been through so much. And then he's a man now; he was only a boy when we saw him last."
"D'you think he cares for me any more?" asked Mary, with a rapid tremor3 in her voice.
"Mary!"
"Of course he does! He talks of you continually," said Colonel Parsons, "and always as if he were devoted4. Doesn't he, Frances?"
The old man's deep love for Mary had prevented him from seeing in Jamie's behaviour anything incongruous with that of a true lover.
"What makes you ask that question, Mary?" said Mrs. Parsons.
Her feminine tact5 had led her to notice a difference in Jamie's feeling towards his betrothed6; but she had been unwilling7 to think that it amounted even to coldness. Such a change could be explained in a hundred natural ways, and might, indeed, exist merely in her own imagination.
"Oh, he's not the same as he was!" cried Mary, "I don't know what it is, but I feel it in his whole manner. Yesterday evening he barely said a word."
James had dined with the Clibborns in solemn state.
"I daresay he's not very well yet. His wound troubles him still."
"I try to put it down to that," said Mary, "but he seems to force himself to speak to me. He's not natural. I've got an awful fear that he has ceased to care for me."
She looked from Colonel Parsons to his wife, who stared at her in dismay.
"Don't be angry with me," she said; "I couldn't talk like this to anyone else, but I know you love me. I look upon you already as my father and mother. I don't want to be unkind to mamma, but I couldn't talk of it to her; she would only sneer8 at me. And I'm afraid it's making me rather unhappy."
"Of course, we want you to treat us as your real parents, Mary. We both love you as we love Jamie. We have always looked upon you as our daughter."
"You're so good to me!"
"Has your mother said anything to annoy you?"
"Last night, when he went away, she said she didn't think he was devoted to me."
"Oh, I knew it was your mother who'd put this in your head! She has always been jealous of you. I suppose she thinks he's in love with her."
"Mrs. Parsons!" cried Mary, in a tone of entreaty10.
"I know you can't bear anything said against your mother, and it's wicked of me to vex11 you; but she has no right to suggest such things."
"It's not only that. It's what I feel."
"I'm sure Jamie is most fond of you," said Colonel Parsons, kindly12. "You've not seen one another for five years, and you find yourselves altered. Even we feel a little strange with Jamie sometimes; don't we, Frances? What children they are, Frances!" Colonel Parsons laughed in that irresistibly13 sweet fashion of his. "Why, it was only the day before yesterday that Jamie came to us with a long face and asked if you cared for _him_."
"Did he?" asked Mary, with pleased surprise, anxious to believe what the Colonel suggested. "Oh, he must see that I love him! Perhaps he finds me unresponsive.... How could I help caring for him? I think if he ceased to love me, I should die."
"My dearest Mary," cried Mrs. Parsons, the tears rising to her eyes, "don't talk like that! I'm sure he can't help loving you, either; you're so good and sweet. You're both of you fanciful, and he's not well. Be patient. Jamie is shy and reserved; he hasn't quite got used to us yet. He doesn't know how to show his feelings. It will all come right soon."
"Of course he loves you!" said Colonel Parsons. "Who could help it? Why, if I were a young fellow I should be mad to marry you."
"And what about me, Richmond?" asked Mrs. Parsons, smiling.
"Well, I think I should have to commit bigamy, and marry you both."
They laughed at the Colonel's mild little joke, happy to break through the cloud of doubt which oppressed them.
"You're a dear thing," said Mary, kissing the old man, "and I'm a very silly girl. It's wrong of me to give way to whims14 and fancies."
"You must be very brave when you're the wife of a V.C.," said the Colonel, patting her hand.
"Oh, it was a beautiful action!" cried Mary. "And he's as modest about it as though he had done nothing that any man might not do. I think there can be no sight more pleasing to God than that of a brave man risking his life to save a comrade."
"And that ought to be an assurance to you, Mary, that James will never do anything unkind or dishonourable. Trust him, and forgive his little faults of manner. I'm sure he loves you, and soon you'll get married and be completely happy."
Mary's face darkened once more.
"He's been here three days, and he's not said a word about getting married. Oh, I can't help it; I'm so frightened! I wish he'd say something--just one word to show that he really cares for me. He seems to have forgotten that we're even engaged."
Colonel Parsons looked at his wife, begging her by his glance to say something that would comfort Mary. Mrs. Parsons looked down, uncertain, ill at ease.
"You don't despise me for talking like this, Mrs. Parsons?"
"Despise you, my dear! How can I, when I love you so dearly? Shall I speak to Jamie? I'm sure when he understands that he's making you unhappy, he'll be different. He has the kindest heart in the world; I've never known him do an unkind thing in his life."
"No, don't say anything to him," replied Mary. "I daresay it's all nonsense. I don't want him to be driven into making love to me."
* * *
Meanwhile James wandered thoughtfully. The country was undulating, and little hill rose after little hill, affording spacious16 views of the fat Kentish fields, encircled by oak trees and by chestnuts17. Owned by rich landlords, each generation had done its best, and the fruitful land was tended like a garden. But it had no abandonment, no freedom; the hand of man was obvious, perpetually, in the trimness and in the careful arrangement, so that the landscape, in its formality, reminded one of those set pieces chosen by the classic painters. But the fields were fresh with the tall young grass of the new year, the buttercups flaunted18 themselves gaily19, careless of the pitiless night, rejoicing in the sunshine, as before they had rejoiced in the enlivening rain. The pleasant rain-drops still lingered on the daisies. The feathery ball of the dandelion, carried by the breeze, floated past like a symbol of the life of man--a random20 thing, resistless to the merest breath, with no mission but to spread its seed upon the fertile earth, so that things like unto it should spring up in the succeeding summer, and flower uncared for, and reproduce themselves, and die.
James decided21 finally that he must break that very evening his engagement with Mary. He could not put it off. Every day made his difficulty greater, and it was impossible any longer to avoid the discussion of their marriage, nor could he continue to treat Mary with nothing better than friendliness22. He realised all her good qualities; she was frank, and honest, and simple; anxious to do right; charitable according to her light; kindness itself. James felt sincerely grateful for the affectionate tenderness which Mary showed to his father and mother. He was thankful for that and for much else, and was prepared to look upon her as a very good friend, even as a sister; but he did not love her. He could not look upon the prospect23 of marriage without repulsion. Nor did Mary, he said, really love him. He knew what love was--something different entirely24 from that pallid25 flame of affection and esteem26, of which alone she was capable. Mary loved him for certain qualities of mind, because his station in life was decent, his manners passable, his morals beyond reproach.
"She might as well marry the Ten Commandments!" he cried impatiently.
Mary cared for him from habit, from a sense of decorum, and for the fitness of things; but that was not love. He shrugged27 his shoulders scornfully, looking for some word to express the mildly pleasant, unagitating emotion. James, who had been devoured28 by it, who had struggled with it as with a deadly sin, who had killed it finally while, like a serpent of evil, it clung to his throat, drinking his life's blood, James knew what love was--a fire in the veins29, a divine affliction, a passion, a frenzy30, a madness. The love he knew was the love of the body of flesh and blood, the love that engenders31, the love that kills. At the bottom of it is sex, and sex is not ugly or immoral32, for sex is the root of life. The woman is fair because man shall love her body; her lips are red and passionate33 that he may kiss them; her hair is beautiful that he may take it in his hands--a river of living gold.
James stopped, and the dead love rose again and tore his entrails like a beast of prey34. He gasped35 with agony, with bitter joy. Ah, that was the true love! What did he care that the woman lacked this and that? He loved her because he loved her; he loved her for her faults. And in spite of the poignant36 anguish37, he thanked her from the bottom of his heart, for she had taught him love. She had caused him endless pain, but she had given him the strength to bear it. She had ruined his life, perhaps, but had shown him that life was worth living. What were the agony, the torture, the despair, beside that radiant passion which made him godlike? It is only the lover who lives, and of his life every moment is intense and fervid38. James felt that his most precious recollection was that ardent39 month, during which, at last, he had seen the world in all its dazzling movement, in its manifold colour, singing with his youth and laughing to his joy.
And he did not care that hideous40 names have been given to that dear passion, to that rich desire. The vulgar call it lust41, and blush and hide their faces; in their folly42 is the shame, in their prurience43 the disgrace. They do not know that the appetite which shocks them is the very origin of the highest qualities of man. It is they, weaklings afraid to look life in the face, dotards and sentimentalists, who have made the body unclean. They have covered the nakedness of Aphrodite with the rags of their own impurity44. They have disembowelled the great lovers of antiquity45 till Cleopatra serves to adorn46 a prudish47 tale and Lancelot to point a moral. Oh, Mother Nature, give us back our freedom, with its strength of sinew and its humour! For lack of it we perish in false shame, and our fig-leaves point our immodesty to all the world. Teach us that love is not a tawdry sentiment, but a fire divine in order to the procreation of children; teach us not to dishonour15 our bodies, for they are beautiful and pure, and all thy works are sweet. Teach us, again, in thy merciful goodness, that man is made for woman, his body for her body, and that the flesh cannot sin.
Teach us also not to rant48 too much, even in thy service; and though we do set up for prophets and the like, let us not forget occasionally to laugh at our very august selves.
* * *
Then, harking back, Jamie's thoughts returned to the dinner of the previous evening at the Clibborns. He was the only guest, and when he arrived, found Mary and the Colonel by themselves in the drawing-room. It was an old habit of Mrs. Clibborn's not to appear till after her visitors, thinking that so she created a greater effect. The Colonel wore a very high collar, which made his head look like some queer flower on a long white stalk; hair and eyebrows49 were freshly dyed, and glistened50 like the oiled locks of a young Jewess. He was the perfect dandy, even to his bejewelled fingers and his scented51 handkerchief. His manner was a happy mixture of cordiality and condescension52, by the side of which Mary's unaffected simplicity53 contrasted oddly. She seemed less at home in an evening dress than in the walking costume she vastly preferred; her free, rather masculine movements were ungainly in the silk frock, badly made and countrified, while lace and ribbons suited her most awkwardly. She was out of place, too, in that room, decorated with all the abominations of pseudo-fashion, with draperies and tissue-paper, uncomfortable little chairs and rickety tables. In every available place stood photographs of Mrs. Clibborn--Mrs. Clibborn sitting, standing, lying; Mrs. Clibborn full face, three-quarter face, side face; Mrs. Clibborn in this costume or in that costume--grave, gay, thoughtful, or smiling; Mrs. Clibborn showing her beautiful teeth, her rounded arms, her vast shoulders; Mrs. Clibborn dressed to the nines, and Mrs. Clibborn as undressed as she dared.
Finally, the beauty swept in with a great rustle54 of silk, displaying to the full her very opulent charms. Her hair was lightly powdered, and honestly she looked remarkably55 handsome.
"Don't say I've kept you waiting," she murmured. "I could never forgive myself."
James made some polite reply, and they went down to dinner. The conversation was kept at the high level which one naturally expects from persons fashionable enough to dine late. They discussed Literature, by which they meant the last novel but one; Art, by which they meant the Royal Academy; and Society, by which they meant their friends who kept carriages. Mrs. Clibborn said that, of course, she could not expect James to pay any attention to her, since all his thoughts must be for Mary, and then proceeded entirely to absorb him.
"You must find it very dull here," she moaned. "I'm afraid you'll be bored to death." And she looked at Mary with her most smilingly cruel expression. "Oh, Mary, why did you put on that dreadfully dowdy56 frock? I've asked you over and over again to give it away, but you never pay attention to your poor mother."
"It's all right," said Mary, looking down at it, laughing and blushing a little.
Mrs. Clibborn turned again to James.
"I think it's such a mistake for women not to dress well. I'm an old woman now, but I always try to look my best. Reggie has never seen me in a dowdy gown. Have you, Reggie?"
"Any dress would become you, my love."
"Oh, Reggie, don't say that before James. He looks upon his future mother as an old woman."
Then at the end of dinner:
"Don't sit too long over your wine. I shall be so dull with nobody but Mary to amuse me."
Mrs. Clibborn had been fond enough of Mary when she was a little girl, who could be petted on occasion and sent away when necessary; but as she grew up and exhibited a will of her own, she found her almost an intolerable nuisance. The girl developed a conscience, and refused indignantly to tell the little fibs which her mother occasionally suggested. She put her sense of right and wrong before Mrs. Clibborn's wishes, which that lady considered undutiful, if not entirely wicked. It seemed nothing short of an impertinence that Mary should disapprove57 of theatres when there was nothing to which the elder woman was more devoted. And Mrs. Clibborn felt that the girl saw through all her little tricks and artful dodges58, often speaking out strongly when her mother proposed to do something particularly underhand. It was another grievance59 that Mary had inherited no good looks, and the faded beauty, in her vanity, was convinced that the girl spitefully observed every fresh wrinkle that appeared upon her face. But Mrs. Clibborn was also a little afraid of her daughter; such meekness60 and such good temper were difficult to overcome; and when she snubbed her, it was not only to chasten a proud spirit, but also to reassure61 herself.
When the ladies had retired62, the Colonel handed James an execrable cigar.
"Now, I'm going to give you some very special port I've got," he said.
He poured out a glass with extreme care, and passed it over with evident pride. James remembered Mary's story of the doctor, and having tasted the wine, entirely sympathised with him. It was no wonder that invalids63 did not thrive upon it.
"Fine wine, isn't it?" said Colonel Clibborn. "Had it in my cellar for years." He shook it so as to inhale64 the aroma65. "I got it from my old friend, the Duke of St. Olphert's. 'Reggie, my boy,' he said--'Reggie, do you want some good port?' 'Good port, Bill!' I cried--I always called him Bill, you know; his Christian66 name was William--'I should think I do, Billy, old boy.' 'Well,' said the Duke, 'I've got some I can let you have.'"
"He was a wine-merchant, was he?" asked James.
"Wine-merchant! My dear fellow, he was the Duke of St. Olphert's. He'd bought up the cellar of an Austrian nobleman, and he had more port than he wanted."
"And this is some of it?" asked James, gravely, holding the murky67 fluid to the light.
Then the Colonel stretched his legs and began to talk of the war. James, rather tired of the subject, sought to change the conversation; but Colonel Clibborn was anxious to tell one who had been through it how the thing should have been conducted; so his guest, with a mixture of astonishment68 and indignation, resigned himself to listen to the most pitiful inanities69. He marvelled70 that a man should have spent his life in the service, and yet apparently71 be ignorant of the very elements of warfare72; but having already learnt to hold his tongue, he let the Colonel talk, and was presently rewarded by a break. Something reminded the gallant73 cavalryman74 of a hoary75 anecdote76, and he gave James that dreary77 round of stories which have dragged their heavy feet for thirty years from garrison78 to garrison. Then, naturally, he proceeded to the account of his own youthful conquests. The Colonel had evidently been a devil with the ladies, for he knew all about the forgotten ballet-dancers of the seventies, and related with gusto a number of scabrous79 tales.
"Ah, my boy, in my day we went the pace! I tell you in confidence, I was a deuce of a rake before I got married."
When they returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Clibborn was ready with her langorous smile, and made James sit beside her on the sofa. In a few minutes the Colonel, as was his habit, closed his eyes, dropped his chin, and fell comfortably asleep. Mrs. Clibborn slowly turned to Mary.
"Will you try and find me my glasses, darling," she murmured. "They're either in my work-basket or on the morning-room table. And if you can't see them there, perhaps they're in your father's study. I want to read Jamie a letter."
"I'll go and look, mother."
Mary went out, and Mrs. Clibborn put her hand on Jamie's arm.
"Do you dislike me very much, Jamie?" she murmured softly.
"On the contrary!"
"I'm afraid your mother doesn't care for me."
"I'm sure she does."
"Women have never liked me. I don't know why. I can't help it if I'm not exactly--plain, I'm as God made me."
James thought that the Almighty80 in that case must have an unexpected familiarity with the rouge-pot and the powder-puff.
"Do you know that I did all I could to prevent your engagement to Mary?"
"You!" cried James, thunderstruck. "I never knew that."
"I thought I had better tell you myself. You mustn't be angry with me. It was for your own good. If I had had my way you would never have become engaged. I thought you were so much too young."
"Five years ago, d'you mean--when it first happened?"
"You were only a boy--a very nice boy, Jamie. I always liked you. I don't approve of long engagements, and I thought you'd change your mind. Most young men are a little wild; it's right that they should be."
James looked at her, wondering suddenly whether she knew or divined anything. It was impossible, she was too silly.
"You're very wise."
"Oh, don't say that!" cried Mrs. Clibborn, with a positive groan81. "It sounds so middle-aged82.... I always thought Mary was too old for you. A woman should be ten years younger than her husband."
"Tell me all about it," insisted James.
"They wouldn't listen to me. They said you had better be engaged. They thought it would benefit your morals. I was very much against it. I think boys are so much nicer when they haven't got encumbrances--or morals."
At that moment Mary came in.
"I can't find your glasses, mamma."
"Oh, it doesn't matter," replied Mrs. Clibborn, smiling softly; "I've just remembered that I sent them into Tunbridge Wells yesterday to be mended."
收听单词发音 |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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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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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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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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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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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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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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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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engenders
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的第三人称单数 ) | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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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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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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prurience
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| n.好色；迷恋；淫欲；（焦躁等的）渴望 | |
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impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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49
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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50
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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52
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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58
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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67
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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inanities
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| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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72
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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73
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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cavalryman
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| 骑兵 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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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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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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scabrous
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| adj.有疤的，粗糙的 | |
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80
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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81
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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