"Dear me," he said absently, "that is strange—very strange."
The bride, who was very nervous, began to cry. The bridegroom, who was not in the least nervous, giggled9.
"Please, sir, I think you're burying us instead of marrying us," he said.
"Excuse me," said Mr. Meredith, as it it did not matter much. He turned up the marriage service and got through with it, but the bride never felt quite properly married for the rest of her life.
He forgot his prayer-meeting again—but that did not matter, for it was a wet night and nobody came. He might even have forgotten his Sunday service if it had not been for Mrs. Alec Davis. Aunt Martha came in on Saturday afternoon and told him that Mrs. Davis was in the parlour and wanted to see him. Mr. Meredith sighed. Mrs. Davis was the only woman in Glen St. Mary church whom he positively10 detested11. Unfortunately, she was also the richest, and his board of managers had warned Mr. Meredith against offending her. Mr. Meredith seldom thought of such a worldly matter as his stipend12; but the managers were more practical. Also, they were astute13. Without mentioning money, they contrived14 to instil15 into Mr. Meredith's mind a conviction that he should not offend Mrs. Davis. Otherwise, he would likely have forgotten all about her as soon as Aunt Martha had gone out. As it was, he turned down his Ewald with a feeling of annoyance16 and went across the hall to the parlour.
Mrs. Davis was sitting on the sofa, looking about her with an air of scornful disapproval17.
What a scandalous room! There were no curtains on the window. Mrs. Davis did not know that Faith and Una had taken them down the day before to use as court trains in one of their plays and had forgotten to put them up again, but she could not have accused those windows more fiercely if she had known. The blinds were cracked and torn. The pictures on the walls were crooked18; the rugs were awry19; the vases were full of faded flowers; the dust lay in heaps—literally in heaps.
Jerry and Carl had been whooping21 and sliding down the banisters as she came through the hall. They did not see her and continued whooping and sliding, and Mrs. Davis was convinced they did it on purpose. Faith's pet rooster ambled22 through the hall, stood in the parlour doorway23 and looked at her. Not liking24 her looks, he did not venture in. Mrs. Davis gave a scornful sniff25. A pretty manse, indeed, where roosters paraded the halls and stared people out of countenance26.
Adam shooed. He was a wise rooster and Mrs. Davis had wrung28 the necks of so many roosters with her own fair hands in the course of her fifty years that an air of the executioner seemed to hang around her. Adam scuttled29 through the hall as the minister came in.
Mr. Meredith still wore slippers and dressing gown, and his dark hair still fell in uncared-for locks over his high brow. But he looked the gentleman he was; and Mrs. Alec Davis, in her silk dress and beplumed bonnet30, and kid gloves and gold chain looked the vulgar, coarse-souled woman she was. Each felt the antagonisn of the other's personality. Mr. Meredith shrank, but Mrs. Davis girded up her loins for the fray31. She had come to the manse to propose a certain thing to the minister and she meant to lose no time in proposing it. She was going to do him a favour— a great favour—and the sooner he was made aware of it the better. She had been thinking about it all summer and had come to a decision at last. This was all that mattered, Mrs. Davis thought. When she decided32 a thing it WAS decided. Nobody else had any say in the matter. That had always been her attitude. When she had made her mind up to marry Alec Davis she had married him and that was the end to it. Alec had never known how it happened, but what odds33? So in this case—Mrs. Davis had arranged everything to her own satisfaction. Now it only remained to inform Mr. Meredith.
"Will you please shut that door?" said Mrs. Davis, unprimming her mouth slightly to say it, but speaking with asperity34. "I have something important to say, and I can't say it with that racket in the hall."
Mr. Meredith shut the door meekly35. Then he sat down before Mrs. Davis. He was not wholly aware of her yet. His mind was still wrestling with Ewald's arguments. Mrs. Davis sensed this detachment and it annoyed her.
"I have come to tell you, Mr. Meredith," she said aggressively, "that I have decided to adopt Una."
"To—adopt—Una!" Mr. Meredith gazed at her blankly, not understanding in the least.
"Yes. I've been thinking it over for some time. I have often thought of adopting a child, since my husband's death. But it seemed so hard to get a suitable one. It is very few children I would want to take into MY home. I wouldn't think of taking a home child—some outcast of the slums in all probability. And there is hardly ever any other child to be got. One of the fishermen down at the harbour died last fall and left six youngsters. They tried to get me to take one, but I soon gave them to understand that I had no idea of adopting trash like that. Their grandfather stole a horse. Besides, they were all boys and I wanted a girl—a quiet, obedient girl that I could train up to be a lady. Una will suit me exactly. She would be a nice little thing if she was properly looked after—so different from Faith. I would never dream of adopting Faith. But I'll take Una and I'll give her a good home, and up-bringing, Mr. Meredith, and if she behaves herself I'll leave her all my money when I die. Not one of my own relatives shall have a cent of it in any case, I'm determined36 on that. It was the idea of aggravating37 them that set me to thinking of adopting a child as much as anything in the first place. Una shall be well dressed and educated and trained, Mr. Meredith, and I shall give her music and painting lessons and treat her as if she was my own."
Mr. Meredith was wide enough awake by this time. There was a faint flush in his pale cheek and a dangerous light in his fine dark eyes. Was this woman, whose vulgarity and consciousness of money oozed38 out of her at every pore, actually asking him to give her Una—his dear little wistful Una with Cecilia's own dark-blue eyes—the child whom the dying mother had clasped to her heart after the other children had been led weeping from the room. Cecilia had clung to her baby until the gates of death had shut between them. She had looked over the little dark head to her husband.
"Take good care of her, John," she had entreated39. "She is so small—and sensitive. The others can fight their way—but the world will hurt HER. Oh, John, I don't know what you and she are going to do. You both need me so much. But keep her close to you—keep her close to you."
These had been almost her last words except a few unforgettable ones for him alone. And it was this child whom Mrs. Davis had coolly announced her intention of taking from him. He sat up straight and looked at Mrs. Davis. In spite of the worn dressing gown and the frayed40 slippers there was something about him that made Mrs. Davis feel a little of the old reverence41 for "the cloth" in which she had been brought up. After all, there WAS a certain divinity hedging a minister, even a poor, unworldly, abstracted one.
"I thank you for your kind intentions, Mrs. Davis," said Mr. Meredith with a gentle, final, quite awful courtesy, "but I cannot give you my child."
Mrs. Davis looked blank. She had never dreamed of his refusing.
"Why, Mr. Meredith," she said in astonishment42. "You must be cr—you can't mean it. You must think it over—think of all the advantages I can give her."
"There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis. It is entirely43 out of the question. All the worldly advantages it is in your power to bestow44 on her could not compensate45 for the loss of a father's love and care. I thank you again—but it is not to be thought of."
Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the power of old habit to control. Her broad red face turned purple and her voice trembled.
"Why did you think that?" asked Mr. Meredith quietly.
"Because nobody ever supposed you cared anything about any of your children," retorted Mrs. Davis contemptuously. "You neglect them scandalously. It is the talk of the place. They aren't fed and dressed properly, and they're not trained at all. They have no more manners than a pack of wild Indians. You never think of doing your duty as a father. You let a stray child come here among them for a fortnight and never took any notice of her—a child that swore like a trooper I'm told. YOU wouldn't have cared if they'd caught small-pox from her. And Faith made an exhibition of herself getting up in preaching and making that speech! And she rid a pig down the street—under your very eyes I understand. The way they act is past belief and you never lift a finger to stop them or try to teach them anything. And now when I offer one of them a good home and good prospects47 you refuse it and insult me. A pretty father you, to talk of loving and caring for your children!"
"That will do, woman!" said Mr. Meredith. He stood up and looked at Mrs. Davis with eyes that made her quail48. "That will do," he repeated. "I desire to hear no more, Mrs. Davis. You have said too much. It may be that I have been remiss49 in some respects in my duty as a parent, but it is not for you to remind me of it in such terms as you have used. Let us say good afternoon."
Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable50 as good afternoon, but she took her departure. As she swept past the minister a large, plump toad51, which Carl had secreted52 under the lounge, hopped53 out almost under her feet. Mrs. Davis gave a shriek54 and in trying to avoid treading on the awful thing, lost her balance and her parasol. She did not exactly fall, but she staggered and reeled across the room in a very undignified fashion and brought up against the door with a thud that jarred her from head to foot. Mr. Meredith, who had not seen the toad, wondered if she had been attacked with some kind of apoplectic55 or paralytic56 seizure57, and ran in alarm to her assistance. But Mrs. Davis, recovering her feet, waved him back furiously.
"Don't you dare to touch me," she almost shouted. "This is some more of your children's doings, I suppose. This is no fit place for a decent woman. Give me my umbrella and let me go. I'll never darken the doors of your manse or your church again."
Mr. Meredith picked up the gorgeous parasol meekly enough and gave it to her. Mrs. Davis seized it and marched out. Jerry and Carl had given up banister sliding and were sitting on the edge of the veranda58 with Faith. Unfortunately, all three were singing at the tops of their healthy young voices "There'll be a hot time in the old town to-night." Mrs. Davis believed the song was meant for her and her only. She stopped and shook her parasol at them.
"Your father is a fool," she said, "and you are three young varmints that ought to be whipped within an inch of your lives."
"He isn't," cried Faith. "We're not," cried the boys. But Mrs.
Davis was gone.
"Goodness, isn't she mad!" said Jerry. "And what is a 'varmint' anyhow?"
John Meredith paced up and down the parlour for a few minutes; then he went back to his study and sat down. But he did not return to his German theology. He was too grievously disturbed for that. Mrs. Davis had wakened him up with a vengeance59. WAS he such a remiss, careless father as she had accused him of being? HAD he so scandalously neglected the bodily and spiritual welfare of the four little motherless creatures dependent on him? WERE his people talking of it as harshly as Mrs. Davis had declared? It must be so, since Mrs. Davis had come to ask for Una in the full and confident belief that he would hand the child over to her as unconcernedly and gladly as one might hand over a strayed, unwelcome kitten. And, if so, what then?
John Meredith groaned60 and resumed his pacing up and down the dusty, disordered room. What could he do? He loved his children as deeply as any father could and he knew, past the power of Mrs. Davis or any of her ilk, to disturb his conviction, that they loved him devotedly62. But WAS he fit to have charge of them? He knew—none better—his weaknesses and limitations. What was needed was a good woman's presence and influence and common sense. But how could that be arranged? Even were he able to get such a housekeeper63 it would cut Aunt Martha to the quick. She believed she could still do all that was meet and necessary. He could not so hurt and insult the poor old woman who had been so kind to him and his. How devoted61 she had been to Cecilia! And Cecilia had asked him to be very considerate of Aunt Martha. To be sure, he suddenly remembered that Aunt Martha had once hinted that he ought to marry again. He felt she would not resent a wife as she would a housekeeper. But that was out of the question. He did not wish to marry—he did not and could not care for anyone. Then what could he do? It suddenly occurred to him that he would go over to Ingleside and talk over his difficulties with Mrs. Blythe. Mrs. Blythe was one of the few women he never felt shy or tongue-tied with. She was always so sympathetic and refreshing64. It might be that she could suggest some solution of his problems. And even if she could not Mr. Meredith felt that he needed a little decent human companionship after his dose of Mrs. Davis—something to take the taste of her out of his soul.
He dressed hurriedly and ate his supper less abstractedly than usual. It occurred to him that it was a poor meal. He looked at his children; they were rosy65 and healthy looking enough—except Una, and she had never been very strong even when her mother was alive. They were all laughing and talking—certainly they seemed happy. Carl was especially happy because he had two most beautiful spiders crawling around his supper plate. Their voices were pleasant, their manners did not seem bad, they were considerate of and gentle to one another. Yet Mrs. Davis had said their behaviour was the talk of the congregation.
As Mr. Meredith went through his gate Dr. Blythe and Mrs. Blythe drove past on the road that led to Lowbridge. The minister's face fell. Mrs. Blythe was going away—there was no use in going to Ingleside. And he craved66 a little companionship more than ever. As he gazed rather hopelessly over the landscape the sunset light struck on a window of the old West homestead on the hill. It flared67 out rosily68 like a beacon69 of good hope. He suddenly remembered Rosemary and Ellen West. He thought that he would relish70 some of Ellen's pungent71 conversation. He thought it would be pleasant to see Rosemary's slow, sweet smile and calm, heavenly blue eyes again. What did that old poem of Sir Philip Sidney's say?—"continual comfort in a face"—that just suited her. And he needed comfort. Why not go and call? He remembered that Ellen had asked him to drop in sometimes and there was Rosemary's book to take back—he ought to take it back before he forgot. He had an uneasy suspicion that there were a great many books in his library which he had borrowed at sundry72 times and in divers73 places and had forgotten to take back. It was surely his duty to guard against that in this case. He went back into his study, got the book, and plunged74 downward into Rainbow Valley.
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收听单词发音
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1
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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17
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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18
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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primmed
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| v.循规蹈矩的( prim的过去式和过去分词 )；整洁的；（人）一本正经；循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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23
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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26
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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28
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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29
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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31
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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32
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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39
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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42
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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45
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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46
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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50
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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51
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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52
secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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53
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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54
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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55
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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56
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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58
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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59
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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60
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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61
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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62
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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63
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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64
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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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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67
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68
rosily
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| adv.带玫瑰色地，乐观地 | |
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69
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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70
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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71
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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72
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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73
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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74
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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