It is poor sport keeping up an attitude of defiance5 towards a person who is entirely6 unconscious of one's intention; and whether Mr. Harrod was really unconscious of my intention or not, he certainly acted as if he were, and was, as far as his reserved nature would allow, so friendly towards me, that I could not choose but be friendly towards him in return. Anyhow, it is true that ere three weeks had[131] passed, that began to happen which Joyce had so anxiously desired: Mr. Harrod and I began to make friends over our common interests.
A certain amount of defiance had begun to be transferred in me from him, whose coming I had so bitterly resented, to those who shared that resentment7 of mine.
Reuben was still sadly refractory8. Luckily he was not much among the men; but where there's a will there's a way; and I'm afraid he had influence enough to do no good. And Deborah troubled me more. Although mother was for the bailiff, because he was the squire9's friend, and also because, I think, she was really far more anxious about father's health than she allowed us to guess, and wanted him to be saved work—Deborah had not really allowed herself to be convinced as she generally was.
She was not unreasonable; she was too clever to be unreasonable, and she loved us all too dearly to resent any step which she chose to believe was for the good of any of us. But I am sure she never believed that this step was for the good of any of us. From beginning to end she never liked Trayton Harrod. And what specially10 annoyed me about her at this time was that she pretended to be trying to make me like him; and as I innocently began to change my own feelings, so I naturally began to resent this attitude in her.
On the very afternoon of which I am thinking, I resented Deborah's attitude. I had been in the kitchen making cakes (when Joyce was away it was I who had to make the cakes), and Deborah had taken advantage of the opportunity to follow up the line already begun by my sister, and to beg me, for father's sake, to forget my grievance11 and to be gracious to the young bailiff. As may be imagined, Deborah did not consider that she was bound to show any consideration in the matter of what she said to us girls.
"I know it comes hard on you, my dear," said she. "There's lots of little jobs you used to do afore, and no doubt did just as well, that'll be this young man's place to do now, and he won't notice whether you mind it or no. 'Tain't likely. But so long as he don't interfere12 with what we've got to do, we'll mind our own business and never give him a thought. You see, child, it's your father has got to say whether the young man's a-helping or a-hindering. Maybe he'll find out these chaps, that have learned it all on book and paper, don't know the top from the bottom any better nor he do himself. But that's for them to settle atween 'em, and it's none of our lookout13."
I don't know why this speech should specially have irritated me,[132] but it did. Even if I had begun to guess that I was growing to like Mr. Harrod better than I had intended to like him, I certainly should not have been glad that any one else should guess it. But the fact is that I believe I had lived the last fortnight without any thought, and that this speech of Deborah's roused me to an investigation14 of my feelings which was annoying to me.
"I have no intention at all of being rude, Deb," exclaimed I. "I leave that to you. I don't think it's lady-like to be rude."
Deb laughed.
"Oh, come now, none of your hoighty-toightyness!" exclaimed she. "Who carried on up-stairs and down when first squire talked about a bailiff to master at all? I haven't nursed you when you were a baby not to know when you're in a bad temper. It's plain enough, my dear."
"I know I have a bad temper," said I; "but I don't see that that has anything to do with the matter."
I suppose something in the way I said it must have touched old Deb, who had a soft heart for all her rough ways, for she said in her topsy-turvy way:
"Well, there—no more I don't see that it has. All I mean is that if you let him alone he'll let you alone, and no harm done. You'll have the more time for your books and for looking after your clothes a bit. You know I've often told you you'll never get a beau so long as you go about gypsying as you do."
"Deborah, how dare you!" cried I, angrily. "You know very well that—"
"That I wouldn't have a lover for anything in the world," I was going to say, and deeply perjure15 myself; but at that very moment mother opened the door and looked into the kitchen. She had her spectacles still on her nose, and an open letter in her hand.
"I can't come just now, mother," answered I. "The cakes will burn."
"Deborah will see to the cakes," said mother, and I knew by her tone of voice that I must do as she bade me. "I want you at once."
I knew what it was about. Two days ago I had had a letter from Joyce. It gave me no news; she had got on with her tapestry17; she had trimmed herself a new bonnet18; Aunt Naomi's rheumatism19 was no better; she hoped that father's gout had not returned—no news until the very end. Then she said she had been to the Royal[133] Academy of pictures in London, with an old lady who lived close to Aunt Naomi, and that she had there met Captain Forrester.
Certainly this was a big enough piece of news to suffice for one letter. But why had Joyce put it at the very end? and why did she hurry it over as quickly as possible, making no sort or kind of comment upon it? It was another of the things about Joyce that I could not make out. Why was she not proud of her engagement? Why did she never care to speak of it? I thought that if I were engaged to a man whom I loved I should be very proud of it, whereas she always seemed anxious to avoid the subject.
Of course it was horrible to be parted from him, but then it should lighten her burden to speak of it to some one who sympathized with her as I did. But I knew well enough why it was. It all came from that overstrained notion of duty. She had promised mother that she would not see Frank, and would not write to Frank, and would not speak of Frank, and she kept so strictly20 to the letter of this promise that she would not speak of him even to me.
When first I had read Joyce's letter I had been angry with her for a cold-hearted girl, but now I was not angry with her. I admired her, but I made up my mind that her passion for self-sacrifice should not wreck21 her life's happiness if I could prevent it. Face to face it was difficult to scold Joyce. There was a kind of gentle obstinacy22 about her which took one unawares, and was very hard to deal with. But in a letter I could speak my mind, and I would speak my mind—not only to her, but, what was far more difficult, to mother also. So that when mother put her head in at the kitchen door and summoned me to the parlor, I guessed what it was about, and I knew pretty well what I was going to say. She put the letter into my hand and sat down, looking up at me over her spectacles as I read it, with her clear blue eyes intent and a little frown on her white brow. It was from Aunt Naomi, and it said that a young man named Captain Forrester had just been to call upon Joyce; she thought she noticed a certain confusion on Joyce's part during his presence, she therefore wrote at once to know whether his visits were sanctioned by her parents, as she did not wish to get into any trouble.
Oh, what a horrid23 old woman she was! "How could people be narrow-minded and selfish to such a point as that?" I said to myself. Mother watched me, and Deborah came into the room to lay the cloth. It was just curiosity that brought her.
"It's a ridiculous letter," said I, roughly, throwing it down with[134] an ill grace, and looking defiantly24, not at mother, but at the old woman, who regarded me with reproving eyes. "Why in the world shouldn't Joyce receive a visit from a gentleman—still more from the man she's going to marry?"
"She's not going to marry him, at least not with my free consent," said mother, putting her lips together in a set curve that I knew.
"Well, then, of course it will be a great pity, but I suppose it will have to be without your consent," said I, rashly.
"Well, I'm sure!" ejaculated Deborah, under her breath, and looking at me with something like remonstrance25. Mother rose with dignity, and turning to the table she said, "Deborah, would you be so kind as to fetch in the cold ham?"
Of course Deborah knew that she was being sent out of the room that I might have a piece of mother's mind, and my own was a struggle between pleasure that Deborah should for once be set down, and anger that she should know the reason of her dismissal. She stayed a moment, setting the forks round the table to a nicety of precision; then, as she passed out of the room she gave me a friendly nudge, and looked at me a moment with a sort of humorous kindliness26 in her shrewd gray eyes.
Mother took up the letter again. "Do you know how Captain Forrester knew where Joyce was staying?" asked she.
"No, how should I know?" answered I. "Joyce told me that she had met him accidentally at the Royal Academy. I suppose he found out where she was. Where there's a will there's a way."
"But he undertook not to try and see her," remarked mother, severely27. "His conduct is dishonorable."
"Well, you might make some allowances," cried I. "It shows he loves her; it shows she will be happy with him. And look here, mother," added I, in a sudden frenzy28 of frankness, "I believe that if I were to get the chance of doing anything to help to bring them together, I should do it."
Mother looked at me fixedly29. "No, you wouldn't," said she at last. "You're headstrong and mistaken, but you're honest. You've taken your word you wouldn't interfere nor mention the matter to any one for a year, and you'll keep your word."
I knew very well that she was right, but I said boldly, "Joyce is my sister, I love her, I want her to be happy, and I shall do what I can to make her so."
Still mother looked at me. "You forget that I want Joyce to be[135] happy too," said she. "If she is your sister she is also my daughter." There was a tremble in her voice, whether of anger or distress30, I did not know.
"Of course I know very well that you care about her and her happiness," said I; "but perhaps you don't see what is best for it. How can old people, whose youth is past ever so long ago, remember how young people feel? They can't know what young folk need to be happy as well as others of their own age can."
"Maybe they can look ahead a bit better, though," said mother, without deigning31 to argue with me. "Be that as it may, I don't think I'll ask you to teach me what's best for my children's happiness. I may be all wrong, of course, but I mean to try and have my own way as long as I can, though I know very well we can't expect the duty and reverence32 we used to pay our parents when I was your age."
"At all events, it's no business of yours," continued mother. "If the thing has got to be fought out, I would rather fight it out with Joyce herself. If she insists upon marrying the young man, I suppose she can do so. She is of age."
I did not answer her, but I laughed. The idea of Joyce insisting upon doing anything was too ridiculous. And, of course, mother knew this quite well, so that it was not quite fair of her.
Having once begun to laugh, the spell of my ill-humor was, however, broken, and it was in a very different tone of voice that I said, "Come, mother, you know very well that sister is far too gentle, and loves you far too much, ever to do anything against your wish, so that's ridiculous, isn't it?"
Mother smiled. "Yes, yes, she's a good girl," she said. "You are both of you good children, but you mustn't be so self-sufficient and headstrong."
"Well, I suppose I am headstrong," said I; "I'm sorry for it. But Joyce isn't. I do think she ought to be put upon less than folk who are. I believe if nobody fought Joyce's battles she'd let herself be wiped right out."
And sure enough, by the afternoon post there came a letter from Joyce which satisfied mother more than it did me. It explained that Captain Forrester had come to Sydenham uninvited and unwelcome; and it begged mother to believe that he would never come again.
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1
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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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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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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12
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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15
perjure
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| v.作伪证；使发假誓 | |
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16
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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32
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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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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