Lets in the light through chinks that time has made:
Stronger by weakness wiser men become
As they draw near to their eternal home:
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new."
EDMUND WALLER.
One day Pamela walked down to Hopetoun to lunch with Mrs. Hope. Augusta had gone away on a short visit and Pamela had promised to spend as much time as possible with her mother.
"You won't be here much longer," Mrs. Hope had said, "so spend as much time with me as you can spare, and we'll talk books and quote poetry, and," she had finished defiantly1, "I'll miscall my neighbours if I feel inclined."
It was February now, and there was a hint of spring in the air. The sun was shining as if trying to make up for the days it had missed, the green shoots were pushing daringly forth3, and a mavis in a holly-bush was chirping4 loudly and cheerfully. To-morrow they might be plunged5 back into winter, the green things nipped and discouraged, the birds silent—but to-day it was spring.
Pamela lingered by Tweedside listening to the mavis, looking back at the bridge spanning the river, the church steeple high against the pale blue sky, the little town pouring its houses down to the water's edge. Hopetoun Woods were still bare and brown, but soon the larches6 would get their pencils, the beeches7 would unfurl tiny leaves of living green, and the celandines begin to poke8 their yellow heads through the carpet of last year's leaves.
Mrs. Hope was sitting close to the window that looked out on the Hopetoun Woods. The spring sunshine and the notes of the mavis had brought to her a rush of memories.
"For what can spring renew
More fiercely for us than the need of you."
Her knitting lay on her lap, a pile of new books stood on the table beside her, but her hands were idly folded, and she did not look at the books, did not even notice the sunshine; her eyes were with her heart, and that was far away across the black dividing sea in the last resting-places of her three sons. Wild laddies they had been, never at rest, never out of mischief9, and now—"a' quaitit noo in the grave."
She turned to greet her visitor with her usual whimsical smile. She had grown very fond of Pamela; they were absolutely at ease with each other, and could enjoy talking, or sitting together in silence.
To-day the conversation was brisk between the two at luncheon10. Pamela had been with Jean to Edinburgh and Glasgow on shopping expeditions, and Mrs. Hope was keen to hear all about them.
"I could hardly persuade her to go," Pamela said. "Her argument was,
'Why get clothes from Paris if you can get them in Priorsford?' She only
Edinburgh—my first visit except just waiting a train."
"And weren't you charmed? Edinburgh is our own town, and we are inordinately12 proud of it. It's full of steep streets and east winds and high houses, and you can't move a step without treading on a W.S., but it's a fine place for all that."
"It's a fairy-tale place to see," Pamela said. "The castle at sunset, the sudden glimpses of the Forth, Holyrood dreaming in the mist—these are pictures that will remain with one always. But Glasgow—"
"I know almost nothing of Glasgow," said Mrs. Hope, "but I like the people that come from it. They are not so devoured13 by gentility as our Edinburgh friends; they are more living, more human…."
"Are Edinburgh people very refined?"
"Oh, some of them can hardly see out of their eyes for gentility. I delight in it myself, though I've never attained14 to it. I'm told you see it in its finest flower in the suburbs. A friend of mine was going out by train to Colinton, and she overheard two girls talking. One said, 'I was at a dence lest night.' The other, rather condescendingly, replied, 'Oh, really! And who do you dence with out at Colinton?' 'It depends,' said the first girl. 'Lest night, for instance, I was up to my neck in advocates.' … Priorsford's pretty genteel too. You know the really genteel by the way they say 'Good-bai.' The rest of us who pride ourselves on not being provincial15 say—you may have noticed—'Good-ba—a.'"
Pamela laughed, and said she had noticed the superior accent of
Priorsford.
"Jean and I were much interested in the difference between Edinburgh and Glasgow shops. Not in the things they sell—the shops in both places are most excellent—but in the manner of selling. The girls in the Edinburgh shops are nice and obliging—the war-time manner doesn't seem to have reached shop-assistants in Scotland, luckily—but quite Londonish with their manners and their 'Moddom.' In Glasgow, they give one such a feeling of personal interest. You would really think it mattered to them what you chose. They delighted Jean by remarking as she tried on a hat, 'My, you look a treat in that!' We bought a great deal more than we needed, for we hadn't the heart to refuse what was brought with such enthusiasm. 'I don't know what it is about that hat, but it's awful nice somehow Distinctive16, if you know what I mean. I think when you get it home you'll like it awful well—' Who would refuse a hat after such a recommendation?"
"She hasn't. It was a great disappointment, poor child. She was so excited when she saw them being brought in rich profusion19, but when she tried them on all desire to possess one left her: they became her so ill. They buried her, somehow. She said herself she looked like 'a mouse under a divot,' whatever that may be, and they really did make her look like five out of any six women one meets in the street. Fur coats are very levelling things. Later on when I get her to London we'll see what can be done. Jean needs careful dressing20 to bring out that very real but elusive21 beauty of hers. I persuaded her in the meantime to get a soft cloth coat made with a skunk22 collar and cuffs…. She was so funny about under-things. I wanted her to get some sets of crêpe-de-Chine things, but she was adamant23. She didn't at all approve of them, and said she liked under-things that would boil. She has always had very dainty things made by herself; Great-aunt Alison taught her to do beautiful fine sewing…. Jean is a delightful24 person to do things with; she brings such a freshness to everything is never bored, never blasé. I was glad to see her so deeply interested in new clothes. I confess to having a deep distrust of a woman who is above trying to make herself attractive. She is an insufferable thing."
"I quite agree, my dear. A woman deliberately25 careless of her appearance is an offence. But, on the other hand, the opposite can be carried too far. Look at Mrs. Jowett!"
"Oh, dear Mrs. Jowett, with her lace and her delicate, faded tints26; and her tears of sentiment and her marvellous maids!"
"A good woman," said Mrs. Hope, "but silly. She fears a draught27 more than she does the devil. I'm always reminded of her when I read Weir28 of Hermiston. She has many points in common with Mrs. Weir—'a dwaibly body.' Of the two, I really prefer Mrs. Duff-Whalley. Her great misfortune was being born a woman. With all that energy and perfect health, that keen brain and the indomitable strain that never knows when it is beaten, she might have done almost anything. She might have been a Lipton or a Coats, or even gone out and discovered the South Pole, or contested Lloyd George's Welsh seat in the Conservative interest. As a woman she is cribbed and cabined. What she has set herself to do is to force what she calls 'The County' to recognise her, and marry off her girl as well as possible. She has accomplished29 the first part through sheer perseverance30, and I've no doubt she will accomplish the second; the girl is pretty and well dowered. I have a liking31 for the woman, especially if I haven't seen her for a little. There is some bite in her conversation. Mrs. Jowett is a sweet woman, but to me she is like a vacuum cleaner. When I've talked to her for ten minutes my head feels like a cushion that has been cleaned—a sort of empty, yet swollen32 feeling. I never can understand how Mr. Jowett has gone through life with her and kept his reason. But there's no doubt men like sweet, sentimental33 women, and I suppose they are restful in a house…. Shall we have coffee in the drawing-room? It's cosier34."
In the drawing-room they settled down before the fire very contentedly35 silent. Pamela idly reached out for a book and read a little here and there as she sipped36 her coffee, while her hostess looked into the fire. The room seemed to dream in the spring sunshine. Generations of Hopes had lived in it, and each mistress had set her mark on the room. Beautiful old cabinets stood against the white walls, while beaded ottomans worked in the early days of Victoria jostled slender Chippendale chairs and tables. A large comfortable Chesterfield and down-cushioned arm-chairs gave the comfort moderns ask for. Nothing looked out of place, for the room with its gracious proportions took all the incongruities—the family Raeburns, the Queen Anne cabinets, the miniatures, the Victorian atrocities37, the weak water-colour sketches38, the framed photographs of whiskered gentlemen and ladies with bustles39, and made them into one pleasing whole. There is no charm in a room furnished from showrooms, though it be correct in every detail to the period chosen. Much more human is the room that is full of things, ugly, perhaps, in themselves but which link one generation to another. The ottoman worked so laboriously40 by a ringleted great-aunt stood with its ugly mahogany legs beside a Queen Anne chair, over whose faded wool-work seat a far-off beauty had pricked41 her dainty fingers—and both of the workers were Hopes: while by Pamela's side stood a fire-screen stitched by Augusta, the last of the Hopes. "I wonder," said Mrs. Hope, breaking the silence, "what has become of Lewis Elliot? I haven't heard from him since he went away. Do you know where he is just now?"
Pamela shook her head.
"Why don't you marry him, Pamela?"
"For a very good reason—he hasn't asked me."
Pamela lifted her eyebrows42. "It is generally considered rather necessary, isn't it?" she asked mildly.
"You know quite well that he would ask you to-morrow if you gave him the slightest encouragement The man's afraid of you, that's what's wrong."
Pamela nodded.
"Is that why you have remained Pamela Reston? My dear, men are fools, and blind. And Lewis is modest as well. But …forgive me blundering. I've a long tongue, but you would think at my age I might keep it still."
"No, I don't mind your knowing. I don't think anyone else ever had a suspicion of it. And I thought myself I had long since got over it. Indeed when I came here I was contemplating43 marrying someone else."
"Tell me, did you know Lewis was here when you came to Priorsford?"
"No—I'd completely lost trace of him. I was too proud ever to inquire after him when he suddenly gave up coming near us. Priorsford suggested itself to me as a place to come to for a rest, chiefly, I suppose, because I had heard of it from Lewis, but I had no thought of seeing him. Indeed, I had no notion that he had still a connection with the place. And then Jean suddenly said his name. I knew then I hadn't forgotten; my heart leapt up in the old unreasonable44 way. I met him—and thought he cared for Jean."
"Yes. I used sometimes to wonder why Lewis didn't fall in love with Jean. Of course he was too old for her, but it would have been quite a feasible match. Now I know that he cared for you all the time. Oh, I'm not surprised that he looked at no one else. But that you should have waited…. There must have been so many suitors…."
"A few. But some people are born faithful. Anyway, I'm so glad that when
I thought he cared for Jean it made no difference in my feelings to her.
I should have felt so humiliated45 if I had been petty enough to hate her
for what she couldn't help. My brother Biddy wants to marry Jean, and
I've great hopes that it may work out all right."
Mrs. Hope sat forward in her chair.
"I had my suspicions. Jean has changed lately; nothing to take hold of, but I have felt a difference. It wasn't the money—that's an external thing—the change was in Jean herself, a certain reticence46 where there had been utter frankness; a laugh more frequent, but not quite so gay and light-hearted. Has he spoken to her?"
"Yes, but Jean wouldn't hear of it."
"Dear me! I could have sworn she cared."
"I think she does, but Jean is proud. What a silly thing pride is! However, Biddy is very tenacious48, and he isn't at all down-hearted about his rebuff. He's quite sure that Jean and he were meant for each other, and he has great hopes of convincing Jean. I've never mentioned the subject to her, she is so tremendously reticent49 and shy about such things. I talk about Biddy in a casual way, but if I hadn't known from Biddy I would have learned from Jean's averted50 eyes that something had happened. The child gives herself away every time."
"This, I suppose, happened before the fortune came. What effect will the money have, I wonder?"
"I wonder too," said Pamela. "Now that Jean feels she has something to give it may make a difference. I wish she would speak to me about it, but I can't force her confidence."
"No," said Mrs. Hope. "You can't do that. As you say, Jean is very reticent. I think I'm rather hurt that she hasn't confided51 in me. She is almost like my own…. She was a little child when the news came that Sandy, my youngest boy, was gone…. I'm reticent too, and I couldn't mention his name, or speak about my sorrow, and Jean seemed to understand. She used to garden beside me, and chatter52 about her baby affairs, and ask me questions, and I sometimes thought she saved my reason…."
Pamela sat silent. It was well known that no one dared mention her sons' names to Mrs. Hope. Figuratively she removed her shoes from off her feet, for she felt that it was holy ground.
Mrs. Hope went on. "I dare say you have heard about—my boys. They all died within three years, and Augusta and I were left alone. Generally I get along, but to-day—perhaps because it is the first spring day, and they were so young and full of promise—it seems as if I must speak about them. Do you mind?"
Pamela took the hand that lay on the black silk lap and kissed it. "Ah, my dear," she said.
"Archie was my eldest53 son. His father and I dreamed dreams about him. They came true, though not in the way we would have chosen. He went into the Indian Civil Service—the Hopes were always a far-wandering race—and he gave his life fighting famine in his district…. And Jock would be nothing but a soldier—my Jock with his warm heart and his sudden rages and his passion for animals! (Jock Jardine reminds me of him just a little.) There never was anyone more lovable and he was killed in a Frontier raid—two in a year. Their father was gone, and for that I was, thankful; one can bear sorrow oneself, but it is terrible to see others suffer. Augusta was a rock in a weary land to me; nobody knows what Augusta is but her mother. We had Sandy, our baby, left, and we managed to go on. But Sandy was a soldier too, and when the Boer War broke out, of course he had to go. I knew when I said good-bye to him that whoever came back it wouldn't be my laddie. He was too shining-eyed, too much all that was young and innocent and brave to win through…. Archie and Jock were men, capable, well equipped to fight the world, but Sandy was our baby—he was only twenty…. Of all the things the dead possessed55 it is the thought of their gentleness that breaks the heart. You can think of their qualities of brain and heart and be proud, but when you think of their gentleness and their youth you can only weep and weep. I think our hearts broke—Augusta's and mine—when Sandy went…. He had been, they told us later, the life of his company. His spirits never went down. It was early morning, and he was singing 'Annie Laurie' when the bullet killed him—like a lark56 shot down in the sun-rising…. His great friend came to see us when everything was over. He was a very honest fellow, and couldn't have made up things to tell us if he had tried. He sat and racked his brains for details, for he saw that we hungered and thirsted for anything. At last he said, 'Sandy was a funny fellow. If you left a cake near him he ate all the currants out of it.' … My little boy, my little, little boy! I don't know why I should cry. We had him for twenty years. Stir the fire, will you, Pamela, and put on a log—I don't like it when it gets dull. Old people need a blaze even when the sun is outside."
"You mustn't say you are old," Pamela said, as she threw on a log and swept the hearth57, shading her eyes, smarting with tears, from the blaze. "You must stay with Augusta for a long time. Think how everyone would miss you. Priorsford wouldn't be Priorsford without you."
"Priorsford would never look over its shoulder. Augusta would miss me, yes, and some of the poor folk, but I've too ill-scrapit a tongue to be much liked. Sorrow ought to make people more tender, but it made my tongue bitter. To an unregenerate person with an aching heart like myself it is a relief to slash58 out at the people who annoy one by being too correct, or too consciously virtuous59. I admit it's wrong, but there it is. I've prayed for charity and discretion60, but my tongue always runs away with me. And I really can't be bothered with those people who never say an ill word of anyone. It makes conversation as savourless as porridge without salt. One needn't talk scandal. I hate scandal—but there is no harm in remarking on the queer ways of your neighbours: anyone who likes can remark on mine. Even when you are old and done and waiting for the summons it isn't wrong surely to get amusement out of the other pilgrims—if you can. Do you know your Pilgrim's Progress, Pamela? Do you remember where Christiana and the others reach the Land of Beulah? It is the end of the journey, and they have nothing to do but to wait, while the children go into the King's gardens and gather there sweet flowers…. It is all true. I know, for I have reached the Land of Beulah. 'How welcome is death,' says Bunyan, 'to them that have nothing to do but to die.' For the last twenty-five years the way has been pretty hard. I've stumbled along very lamely61, followed my Lord on crutches62 like Mr. Fearing, but now the end is in sight and I can be at ease. All these years I have never been able to read the letters and diaries of my boys—they tore my very heart—but now I can read them without tears, and rejoice in having had such sons to give. I used to be tortured by dreams of them, when I thought I held them and spoke47 to them, and woke to weep in agony, but now when they come to me I can wake and smile, satisfied that very soon they will be mine again. Sorrow is a wonderful thing. It shatters this old earth, but it makes a new heaven. I can thank God now for taking my boys. Augusta is a saint and acquiesced63 from the first, but I was rebellious64. I see that Heaven and myself had part in my boys; now Heaven has all, and all the better is it for the boys. I hope God will forgive my bitterness, and all the grief I have given with words. 'No suffering is for the present joyous65 … nevertheless afterwards….' When the Great War broke out and the terrible casualty lists became longer and longer, and 'with rue54 our hearts were laden,' I found some of the 'peaceable fruits' we are promised. I found I could go without impertinence into the house of mourning, even when I hardly knew the people, and ask them to let me share their grief, and I think sometimes I was able to help just a little."
"I know how you helped," said Pamela; "the Macdonalds told me. Do you know, I think I envy you. You have suffered much, but you have loved much. Your life has meant something. Looking back I've nothing to think on but social successes that now seem very small and foolish, and years of dressing and talking and dancing and laughing. My life seems like a brightly coloured bubble—as light and as useless."
"Not useless. We need the flowers and the butterflies and the things that adorn…. I wish Jean would give herself over to pleasure for a little. Her poor little head is full of schemes—quite practical schemes they are too, she has a shrewd head—about helping66 others. I tell her she will do it all in good time, but I want her to forget the woes67 of the world for a little and rejoice in her youth."
"I know," said Pamela. "I was astonished to find how responsible she felt for the misery68 in the world. She is determined69 to build a heaven in hell's despair! It reminds one of Saint Theresa setting out holding her little brother's hand to convert the Moors70!… Now I've stayed too long and tired you, and Augusta will have me assassinated71. Thank you, my very dear lady, for letting me come to see you, and for—telling me about your sons. Bless you…."
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1
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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hoots
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| 咄，啐 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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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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larches
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| n.落叶松（木材）( larch的名词复数 ) | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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poke
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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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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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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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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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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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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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cosier
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| adj.温暖舒适的( cosy的比较级 )；亲切友好的 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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bustles
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| 热闹( bustle的名词复数 )； （女裙后部的）衬垫； 撑架 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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41
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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43
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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44
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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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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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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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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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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