The social lift that the two women had derived6 from the alliance was considerable; but when the exhilaration which accompanies a first residence in London, the sensation of standing7 on a pivot8 of the world, had passed, their lives promised to be somewhat duller than when, at despised Exonbury, they had enjoyed a nodding acquaintance with three-fourths of the town. Mr. Millborne did not criticise9 his wife; he could not. Whatever defects of hardness and acidity10 his original treatment and the lapse11 of years might have developed in her, his sense of a realized idea, of a re-established self-satisfaction, was always thrown into the scale on her side, and out-weighed all objections.
It was about a month after their settlement in town that the household decided12 to spend a week at a watering-place in the Isle13 of Wight, and while there the Reverend Percival Cope (the young curate aforesaid) came to see them, Frances in particular. No formal engagement of the young pair had been announced as yet, but it was clear that their mutual14 understanding could not end in anything but marriage without grievous disappointment to one of the parties at least. Not that Frances was sentimental15. She was rather of the imperious sort, indeed; and, to say all, the young girl had not fulfilled her father’s expectations of her. But he hoped and worked for her welfare as sincerely as any father could do.
Mr. Cope was introduced to the new head of the family, and stayed with them in the Island two or three days. On the last day of his visit they decided to venture on a two hours’ sail in one of the small yachts which lay there for hire. The trip had not progressed far before all, except the curate, found that sailing in a breeze did not quite agree with them; but as he seemed to enjoy the experience, the other three bore their condition as well as they could without grimace16 or complaint, till the young man, observing their discomfort17, gave immediate18 directions to tack19 about. On the way back to port they sat silent, facing each other.
Nausea20 in such circumstances, like midnight watching, fatigue21, trouble, fright, has this marked effect upon the countenance22, that it often brings out strongly the divergences23 of the individual from the norm of his race, accentuating25 superficial peculiarities26 to radical27 distinctions. Unexpected physiognomies will uncover themselves at these times in well-known faces; the aspect becomes invested with the spectral28 presence of entombed and forgotten ancestors; and family lineaments of special or exclusive cast, which in ordinary moments are masked by a stereotyped29 expression and mien30, start up with crude insistence31 to the view.
Frances, sitting beside her mother’s husband, with Mr. Cope opposite, was naturally enough much regarded by the curate during the tedious sail home; at first with sympathetic smiles. Then, as the middle-aged32 father and his child grew each gray-faced, as the pretty blush of Frances disintegrated33 into spotty stains, and the soft rotundities of her features diverged34 from their familiar and reposeful35 beauty into elemental lines, Cope was gradually struck with the resemblance between a pair in their discomfort who in their ease presented nothing to the eye in common. Mr. Millborne and Frances in their indisposition were strangely, startlingly alike.
The inexplicable36 fact absorbed Cope’s attention quite. He forgot to smile at Frances, to hold her hand; and when they touched the shore he remained sitting for some moments like a man in a trance.
As they went homeward, and recovered their complexions37 and contours, the similarities one by one disappeared, and Frances and Mr. Millborne were again masked by the commonplace differences of sex and age. It was as if, during the voyage, a mysterious veil had been lifted, temporarily revealing a strange pantomime of the past.
During the evening he said to her casually38: ‘Is your step-father a cousin of your mother, dear Frances?’
‘Oh, no,’ said she. ‘There is no relationship. He was only an old friend of hers. Why did you suppose such a thing?’
He did not explain, and the next morning started to resume his duties at Ivell.
Cope was an honest young fellow, and shrewd withal. At home in his quiet rooms in St. Peter’s Street, Ivell, he pondered long and unpleasantly on the revelations of the cruise. The tale it told was distinct enough, and for the first time his position was an uncomfortable one. He had met the Franklands at Exonbury as parishioners, had been attracted by Frances, and had floated thus far into an engagement which was indefinite only because of his inability to marry just yet. The Franklands’ past had apparently39 contained mysteries, and it did not coincide with his judgment40 to marry into a family whose mystery was of the sort suggested. So he sat and sighed, between his reluctance41 to lose Frances and his natural dislike of forming a connection with people whose antecedents would not bear the strictest investigation42.
A passionate43 lover of the old-fashioned sort might possibly never have halted to weigh these doubts; but though he was in the church Cope’s affections were fastidious—distinctly tempered with the alloys44 of the century’s decadence45. He delayed writing to Frances for some while, simply because he could not tune46 himself up to enthusiasm when worried by suspicions of such a kind.
Meanwhile the Millbornes had returned to London, and Frances was growing anxious. In talking to her mother of Cope she had innocently alluded47 to his curious inquiry48 if her mother and her step-father were connected by any tie of cousinship. Mrs. Millborne made her repeat the words. Frances did so, and watched with inquisitive49 eyes their effect upon her elder.
‘What is there so startling in his inquiry then?’ she asked. ‘Can it have anything to do with his not writing to me?’
Her mother flinched50, but did not inform her, and Frances also was now drawn51 within the atmosphere of suspicion. That night when standing by chance outside the chamber52 of her parents she heard for the first time their voices engaged in a sharp altercation53.
The apple of discord54 had, indeed, been dropped into the house of the Millbornes. The scene within the chamber-door was Mrs. Millborne standing before her dressing-table, looking across to her husband in the dressing-room adjoining, where he was sitting down, his eyes fixed55 on the floor.
‘Why did you come and disturb my life a second time?’ she harshly asked. ‘Why did you pester56 me with your conscience, till I was driven to accept you to get rid of your importunity57? Frances and I were doing well: the one desire of my life was that she should marry that good young man. And now the match is broken off by your cruel interference! Why did you show yourself in my world again, and raise this scandal upon my hard-won respectability—won by such weary years of labour as none will ever know!’ She bent58 her face upon the table and wept passionately59.
There was no reply from Mr. Millborne. Frances lay awake nearly all that night, and when at breakfast-time the next morning still no letter appeared from Mr. Cope, she entreated60 her mother to go to Ivell and see if the young man were ill.
Mrs. Millborne went, returning the same day. Frances, anxious and haggard, met her at the station.
Was all well? Her mother could not say it was; though he was not ill.
One thing she had found out, that it was a mistake to hunt up a man when his inclinations61 were to hold aloof62. Returning with her mother in the cab Frances insisted upon knowing what the mystery was which plainly had alienated63 her lover. The precise words which had been spoken at the interview with him that day at Ivell Mrs. Millborne could not be induced to repeat; but thus far she admitted, that the estrangement64 was fundamentally owing to Mr. Millborne having sought her out and married her.
‘And why did he seek you out—and why were you obliged to marry him?’ asked the distressed65 girl. Then the evidences pieced themselves together in her acute mind, and, her colour gradually rising, she asked her mother if what they pointed66 to was indeed the fact. Her mother admitted that it was.
A flush of mortification67 succeeded to the flush of shame upon the young woman’s face. How could a scrupulously68 correct clergyman and lover like Mr. Cope ask her to be his wife after this discovery of her irregular birth? She covered her eyes with her hands in a silent despair.
In the presence of Mr. Millborne they at first suppressed their anguish69. But by and by their feelings got the better of them, and when he was asleep in his chair after dinner Mrs. Millborne’s irritation70 broke out. The embittered71 Frances joined her in reproaching the man who had come as the spectre to their intended feast of Hymen, and turned its promise to ghastly failure.
‘Why were you so weak, mother, as to admit such an enemy to your house—one so obviously your evil genius—much less accept him as a husband, after so long? If you had only told me all, I could have advised you better! But I suppose I have no right to reproach him, bitter as I feel, and even though he has blighted72 my life for ever!’
‘Frances, I did hold out; I saw it was a mistake to have any more to say to a man who had been such an unmitigated curse to me! But he would not listen; he kept on about his conscience and mine, till I was bewildered, and said Yes! . . . Bringing us away from a quiet town where we were known and respected—what an ill-considered thing it was! O the content of those days! We had society there, people in our own position, who did not expect more of us than we expected of them. Here, where there is so much, there is nothing! He said London society was so bright and brilliant that it would be like a new world. It may be to those who are in it; but what is that to us two lonely women; we only see it flashing past! . . . O the fool, the fool that I was!’
Now Millborne was not so soundly asleep as to prevent his hearing these animadversions that were almost execrations, and many more of the same sort. As there was no peace for him at home, he went again to his club, where, since his reunion with Leonora, he had seldom if ever been seen. But the shadow of the troubles in his household interfered73 with his comfort here also; he could not, as formerly74, settle down into his favourite chair with the evening paper, reposeful in the celibate’s sense that where he was his world’s centre had its fixture76. His world was now an ellipse, with a dual24 centrality, of which his own was not the major.
The young curate of Ivell still held aloof, tantalizing77 Frances by his elusiveness78. Plainly he was waiting upon events. Millborne bore the reproaches of his wife and daughter almost in silence; but by degrees he grew meditative79, as if revolving80 a new idea. The bitter cry about blighting81 their existence at length became so impassioned that one day Millborne calmly proposed to return again to the country; not necessarily to Exonbury, but, if they were willing, to a little old manor-house which he had found was to be let, standing a mile from Mr. Cope’s town of Ivell.
They were surprised, and, despite their view of him as the bringer of ill, were disposed to accede82. ‘Though I suppose,’ said Mrs. Millborne to him, ‘it will end in Mr. Cope’s asking you flatly about the past, and your being compelled to tell him; which may dash all my hopes for Frances. She gets more and more like you every day, particularly when she is in a bad temper. People will see you together, and notice it; and I don’t know what may come of it!’
‘I don’t think they will see us together,’ he said; but he entered into no argument when she insisted otherwise. The removal was eventually resolved on; the town-house was disposed of; and again came the invasion by furniture-men and vans, till all the movables and servants were whisked away. He sent his wife and daughter to an hotel while this was going on, taking two or three journeys himself to Ivell to superintend the refixing, and the improvement of the grounds. When all was done he returned to them in town.
The house was ready for their reception, he told them, and there only remained the journey. He accompanied them and their personal luggage to the station only, having, he said, to remain in town a short time on business with his lawyer. They went, dubious83 and discontented—for the much-loved Cope had made no sign.
‘If we were going down to live here alone,’ said Mrs Millborne to her daughter in the train; ‘and there was no intrusive84 tell-tale presence! . . . But let it be!’
The house was a lovely little place in a grove85 of elms, and they liked it much. The first person to call upon them as new residents was Mr. Cope. He was delighted to find that they had come so near, and (though he did not say this) meant to live in such excellent style. He had not, however, resumed the manner of a lover.
‘Your father spoils all!’ murmured Mrs. Millborne.
But three days later she received a letter from her husband, which caused her no small degree of astonishment86. It was written from Boulogne.
It began with a long explanation of settlements of his property, in which he had been engaged since their departure. The chief feature in the business was that Mrs. Millborne found herself the absolute owner of a comfortable sum in personal estate, and Frances of a life-interest in a larger sum, the principal to be afterwards divided amongst her children if she had any. The remainder of his letter ran as hereunder:—
‘I have learnt that there are some derelictions of duty which cannot be blotted87 out by tardy88 accomplishment89. Our evil actions do not remain isolated90 in the past, waiting only to be reversed: like locomotive plants they spread and re-root, till to destroy the original stem has no material effect in killing91 them. I made a mistake in searching you out; I admit it; whatever the remedy may be in such cases it is not marriage, and the best thing for you and me is that you do not see me more. You had better not seek me, for you will not be likely to find me: you are well provided for, and we may do ourselves more harm than good by meeting again.
‘F. M.’
Millborne, in short, disappeared from that day forward. But a searching inquiry would have revealed that, soon after the Millbornes went to Ivell, an Englishman, who did not give the name of Millborne, took up his residence in Brussels; a man who might have been recognized by Mrs. Millborne if she had met him. One afternoon in the ensuing summer, when this gentleman was looking over the English papers, he saw the announcement of Miss Frances Frankland’s marriage. She had become the Reverend Mrs. Cope.
‘Thank God!’ said the gentleman.
But his momentary92 satisfaction was far from being happiness. As he formerly had been weighted with a bad conscience, so now was he burdened with the heavy thought which oppressed Antigone, that by honourable93 observance of a rite75 he had obtained for himself the reward of dishonourable laxity. Occasionally he had to be helped to his lodgings94 by his servant from the Cercle he frequented, through having imbibed95 a little too much liquor to be able to take care of himself. But he was harmless, and even when he had been drinking said little.
March 1891.
该作者的其它作品
《忧郁的双眸 A Pair of Blue Eyes》
《韦塞克斯的故事 Wessex Tales》
《无名的裘德 Jude the Obscure》
《Tess of the D‘Urbervilles德伯家的苔丝》
该作者的其它作品
《忧郁的双眸 A Pair of Blue Eyes》
《韦塞克斯的故事 Wessex Tales》
《无名的裘德 Jude the Obscure》
《Tess of the D‘Urbervilles德伯家的苔丝》
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1
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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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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pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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acidity
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| n.酸度，酸性 | |
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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divergences
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| n.分叉( divergence的名词复数 )；分歧；背离；离题 | |
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dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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accentuating
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| v.重读( accentuate的现在分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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disintegrated
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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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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alloys
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| n.合金( alloy的名词复数 ) | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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60
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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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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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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elusiveness
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| 狡诈 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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