His thoughts were always on Glenavelin, and when he happened to be near it he used to look with anxious eyes for a slim figure which was rarely out of his fancy. He had not seen Alice since the accident, save for one short minute, when riding from Gledsmuir he had passed her one afternoon at the Glenavelin gates. He had earnestly desired to stop, but his curious cowardice5 had made him pass with a lifted hat and a hasty smile. Could he have looked back, he might have seen the girl watching him out of sight with tearful eyes. To himself he was the hopeless lover, and she the scornful lady, while she in her own eyes was the unhappy girl for whom the soldier in the song shakes his bridle6 reins7 and cries an eternal adieu.
Matters did not improve when the Manorwaters left and Mr. Wishart himself came down, bringing with him Stocks, a certain Mr. Andrews and his wife, and an excellent young man called Thompson. All were pleasant people, with the manners which the world calls hearty8, well-groomed, presentable folk, who enjoyed this life and looked forward to a better.
Mr. Wishart explored the place thoroughly9 the first evening, and explained that he was thankful indeed that he had been led to take it. He was a handsome man with a worn, elderly face, a square jaw10 and somewhat weary eyes. It is given to few men to make a great fortune and not bear the signs of it on their persons.
“I expect you enjoyed staying with Lady Manorwater, Alice?” Mrs. Andrews declared at dinner. “They are very plain people, aren’t they, to be such great aristocrats11?
“I suppose so,” said the girl listlessly.
“I once met Lady Manorwater at Mrs. Cookson’s at afternoon tea. I thought she was badly dressed. You know Manorwater, don’t you, George?” said the lady to her husband, with the boldness which comes from the use of a peer’s name without the handle.
“Oh yes, I know him well. I have met him at the Liberal Club dinners, and I was his chairman once when he spoke13 on Irish affairs. A delightful14 man!”
“I suppose they would have a pleasant house-party when you were here, my dear?” asked the lady. “And of course you had the election. What fun! And what a victory for you, Mr. Stocks! I hear you beat the greatest landowner in the district.”
Mr. Stocks smiled and glanced at Alice. The girl flushed; she could not help it; and she hated Mr. Stocks for his look.
Her father spoke for the first time. “What is the young man like, Mr. Stocks? I hear he is very proud and foolish, the sort of over-educated type which the world has no use for.”
“I like him,” said Mr. Stocks dishonestly. “He fought like a gentleman.”
“These people are so rarely gentlemen,” said Mrs. Andrews, proud of her high attitude. “I suppose his father made his money in coal and bought the land from some poor dear old aristocrat12. It is so sad to think of it. And that sort of person is always over-educated, for you see they have not the spirit of the old families and they bury themselves in books.” Mrs. Andrews’s father had kept a crockery shop, but his daughter had buried the memory.
Mr. Wishart frowned. The lady had been asked down for her husband’s sake, and he did not approve of this chatter15 about family. Mr. Stocks, who was about to explain the Haystoun pedigree, caught his host’s eye and left the dangerous subject untouched.
“You said in your letters that they had been kind to you at this young man’s place. We must ask him down here to dinner, Alice. Oh, and that reminds me I found a letter from him to-day asking me to shoot. I don’t go in for that sort of thing, but you young fellows had better try it.”
Mr. Stocks declined, said he had given it up. Mr. Thompson said, “Upon my word I should like to,” and privately16 vowed17 to forget the invitation. He distrusted his prowess with a gun.
“By the by, was he not at the picnic when you saved my daughter’s life? I can never thank you enough, Stocks. What should I have done without my small girl?”
“Yes, he was there. In fact he was with Miss Alice at the moment she slipped.”
He may not have meant it, but the imputation18 was clear, and it stirred one fiery19 expostulation. “Oh, but he hadn’t time before Mr. Stocks came after me,” she began, and then feeling it ungracious towards that gentleman to make him share a possibility of heroism20 with another, she was silent. More, a lurking21 fear which had never grown large enough for a suspicion, began to catch at her heart. Was it possible that Lewis had held back?
For a moment the candle-lit room vanished from her eyes. She saw the warm ledge22 of rock with the rowan berries above. She saw his flushed, eager face—it was her last memory before she had fallen. Surely never—never was there cowardice in those eyes!
Mrs. Andrews’s vulgarities and her husband’s vain repetitions began to pall23 upon the anxious girl. The young Mr. Thompson talked shrewdly enough on things of business, and Mr. Stocks abated24 something of his pomposity25 and was honestly amiable26. These were her own people, the workers for whom she had craved27. And yet—were they so desirable? Her father’s grave, keen face pleased her always, but what of the others? The radiant gentlewomen whom she had met with the Manorwaters seemed to belong to another world than this of petty social struggling and awkward ostentation28. And the men! Doubtless they were foolish, dilettanti, barbarians29 of sport, half-hearted and unpractical! And she shut her heart to any voice which would defend them.
Lewis drove over to dine some four days later with dismal30 presentiments31. The same hopeless self-contempt which had hung over him for weeks was still weighing on his soul. He dreaded32 the verdict of Alice’s eyes, and in a heart which held only kindness he looked for a cold criticism. It was this despair which made his position hopeless. He would never take his chance; there could be no opportunity for the truth to become clear to both; for in his plate-armour of despair he was shielded against the world. Such was his condition to the eyes of a friend; to himself he was the common hopeless lover who sighed for a stony33 mistress.
He noticed changes in Glenavelin. Businesslike leather pouches34 stood in the hall, and an unwontedly large pile of letters lay on a table. The drawing-room was the same as ever, but in the dining-room an escritoire had been established which groaned35 under a burden of papers. Mr. Wishart puzzled and repelled36 him. It was a strong face, but a cold and a stupid one, and his eyes had the glassy hardness of the man without vision. He was bidden welcome, and thanked in a tactless way for his kindness to Mr. Wishart’s daughter. Then he was presented to Mrs. Andrews, and his courage sank as he bowed to her.
At table the lady twitted him with graceful37 badinage38. “Alice and you must have had a gay time, Mr. Haystoun. Why, you’ve been seeing each other constantly for months. Have you become great friends?” She exerted herself, for, though he might be a parvenu39, he was undeniably handsome.
Mr. Stocks explained that Mr. Haystoun had organized wonderful picnic parties. The lady clapped her many-ringed hands, and declared that he must repeat the experiment. “For I love picnics,” she said, “I love the simplicity40 and the fresh air and the rippling41 streams. And washing up is fun, and it is such a great chance for you young men.” And she cast a coy glance over her shoulder.
“Do you live far off, Mr. Haystoun?” she asked repeatedly. “Four miles? Oh, that’s next door. We shall come and see you some day. We have just been staying with the Marshams—Mr. Marsham, you know, the big cotton people. Very vulgar, but the house is charming. It was so exciting, for the elections were on, and the Hestons, who are the great people in that part of the country, were always calling. Dear Lady Julia is so clever. Did you ever meet Mr. Marsham, by any chance?”
“Not that I remember. I know the Hestons of course. Julia is my cousin.”
The lady was silenced. “But I thought,” she murmured. “I thought—they were—” She broke off with a cough.
“Yes, I spent a good many of my school holidays at Heston.”
Alice broke in with a question about the Manorwaters. The youthful Mr. Thompson, who, apart from his solicitor’s profession, was a devotee of cricket, asked in a lofty way if Mr. Haystoun cared for the game.
“I do rather. I’m not very good, but we raised an eleven this year in the glen which beat Gledsmuir.”
The notion pleased the gentleman. If a second match could be arranged he might play and show his prowess. In all likelihood this solemn and bookish laird, presumably brought up at home, would be a poor enough player.
“I played a lot at school,” he said. “In fact I was in the Eleven for two years and I played in the Authentics match, and once against the Eton Ramblers. A strong lot they were.”
“Let me see. Was that about seven years ago? I seem to remember.”
“Seven years ago,” said Mr. Thompson. “But why? Did you see the match?”
“No, I wasn’t in the match; I had twisted my ankle, jumping. But I captained the Ramblers that season, so I remember it.”
Respect grew large in Mr. Thompson’s eyes. Here were modesty42 and distinction equally mated. The picture of the shy student had gone from his memory.
“If you like to come up to Etterick we might get up a match from the village,” said Lewis courteously43. “Ourselves with the foresters and keepers against the villagers wouldn’t be a bad arrangement.”
To Alice the whole conversation struck a jarring note. His eye kindled44 and he talked freely on sport. Was it not but a new token of his incurable45 levity46? Mr. Wishart, who had understood little of the talk, found in this young man strange stuff to shape to a politician’s ends. Contrasted with the gravity of Mr. Stocks, it was a schoolboy beside a master.
“I have been reading,” he said slowly, “reading a speech of the new Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. I cannot understand the temper of mind which it illustrates47. He talks of the Bosnian war, and a brave people struggling for freedom, as if it were merely a move in some hideous48 diplomatists’ game. A man of that sort cannot understand a moral purpose.”
“Tommy—I mean to say Mr. Wratislaw—doesn’t believe in Bosnian freedom, but you know he is a most ardent49 moralist.”
“I do not understand,” said Mr. Wishart drily.
“I mean that personally he is a Puritan, a man who tries every action of his life by a moral standard. But he believes that moral standards vary with circumstances.”
“Pernicious stuff, sir. There is one moral law. There is one Table of Commandments.”
“But surely you must translate the Commandments into the language of the occasion. You do not believe that ‘Thou shalt not kill’ is absolute in every case?”
“I mean that except in the God-appointed necessity of war, and in the serving of criminal justice, killing50 is murder.”
“Suppose a man goes travelling,” said Lewis with abstracted eyes, “and has a lot of native servants. They mutiny, and he shoots down one or two. He saves his life, he serves, probably, the ends of civilization. Do you call that murder?”
“Assuredly. Better, far better that he should perish in the wilderness51 than that he should take the law into his own hands and kill one of God’s creatures.”
“But law, you know, is not an absolute word.”
Mr. Wishart scented52 danger. “I can’t argue against your subtleties53, but my mind is clear; and I can respect no man who could think otherwise.”
Lewis reddened and looked appealingly at Alice. She, too, was uncomfortable. Her opinions sounded less convincing when stated dogmatically by her father.
Mr. Stocks saw his chance and took it.
“Did you ever happen to be in such a crisis as you speak of, Mr. Haystoun? You have travelled a great deal.”
“I have never had occasion to put a man to death,” said Lewis, seeing the snare54 and scorning to avoid it.
“But you have had difficulties?”
“Once I had to flog a couple of men. It was not pleasant, and worst of all it did no good.”
“No, for, as I was going to say, it was a clear case where the men should have been put to death. They had deserved it, for they had disobeyed me, and by their disobedience caused the death of several innocent people. They decamped shortly afterwards, and all but managed to block our path. I blame myself still for not hanging them.”
A deep silence hung over the table. Mr. Wishart and the Andrews stared with uncomprehending faces. Mr. Stocks studied his plate, and Alice looked on the speaker with eyes in which unwilling56 respect strove with consternation57.
Only the culprit was at his ease. The discomfort58 of these good people for a moment amused him. Then the sight of Alice’s face, which he wholly misread, brought him back to decent manners.
“I am afraid I have shocked you,” he said simply. “If one knocks about the world one gets a different point of view.”
Mr. Wishart restrained a flood of indignation with an effort. “We won’t speak on the subject,” he said. “I confess I have my prejudices.”
Mr. Stocks assented59 with a smile and a sigh. In the drawing-room afterwards Lewis was presented with the olive-branch of peace. He had to attend Mrs. Andrews to the piano and listen to her singing of a sentimental60 ballad61 with the face of a man in the process of enjoyment62. Soon he pleaded the four miles of distance and the dark night, and took his leave. His spirits had in a measure returned. Alice had not been gracious, but she had shown no scorn. And her spell at the first sight of her was woven a thousand-fold over his heart.
He found her alone for one moment in the hall.
“Alice—Miss Wishart, may I come and see you? It is a pity such near neighbours should see so little of each other.”
The girl had the sense to pierce the disguise. “You may come and see us, if you like, Mr. Haystoun. We shall be at home all next week.”
“I shall come very soon,” he cried, and he was whirled away from the light; with the girl’s face framed in the arch of the doorway65 making a picture for his memory.
When the others had gone to bed, Stocks and Mr. Wishart sat up over a last pipe by the smoking-room fire.
The younger man moved uneasily in his chair. He had something to say which had long lain on his mind, and he was uncertain of its reception.
“You have been for a long time my friend, Mr. Wishart,” he began. “You have done me a thousand kindnesses, and I only hope I have not proved myself unworthy of them.”
Mr. Wishart raised his eyebrows66 at the peculiar67 words. “Certainly you have not,” he said. “I regard you as the most promising68 by far of the younger men of my acquaintance, and any little services I may have rendered have been amply repaid me.”
The younger man bowed and looked into the fire.
“It is very kind of you to speak so,” he said. “I have been wondering whether I might not ask for a further kindness, the greatest favour which you could confer upon me. Have you made any plans for your daughter’s future?”
Mr. Wishart sat up stiffly on the instant. “You mean?” he said.
“I mean that I love Alice ... your daughter ... and I wish to make her my wife. If you will give me your consent, I will ask her.”
“But—but,” said the old man, stammering69. “Does the girl know anything of this?”
“She knows that I love her, and I think she will not be unkind.”
“I don’t know that I object,” said Mr. Wishart after a long pause. “In fact I am very willing, and I am very glad that you had the good manners to speak to me first. Yes, upon my word, sir, I am pleased. You have had a creditable career, and your future promises well. My girl will help you, for though I say it, she will not be ill-provided for. I respect your character and I admire your principles, and I give you my heartiest70 good wishes.”
Mr. Stocks rose and held out his hand. He felt that the interview could not be prolonged in the present fervour of gratitude71.
“Had it been that young Haystoun now,” said Mr. Wishart, “I should never have given my consent. I resolved long ago that my daughter should never marry an idle man. I am a plain man, and I care nothing for social distinctions.”
But as Mr. Stocks left the room the plain man glanced after him, and sitting back suffered a moment’s reflection. The form of this worker contrasted in his mind with the figure of the idler who had that evening graced his table. A fool, doubtless, but a fool with an air and a manner! And for one second he allowed himself to regret that he was to acquire so unromantic a son-in-law.
该作者的其它作品
《Greenmantle绿斗篷》
《Mr. Standfast》
《No man's land》
该作者的其它作品
《Greenmantle绿斗篷》
《Mr. Standfast》
《No man's land》
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1
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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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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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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7
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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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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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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11
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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12
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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13
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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14
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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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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16
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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17
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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24
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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pomposity
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| n.浮华；虚夸；炫耀；自负 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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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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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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pouches
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| n.（放在衣袋里或连在腰带上的）小袋( pouch的名词复数 )；（袋鼠等的）育儿袋；邮袋；（某些动物贮存食物的）颊袋 | |
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35
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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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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parvenu
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| n.暴发户，新贵 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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43
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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44
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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45
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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47
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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48
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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49
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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50
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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51
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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52
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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53
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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54
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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55
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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56
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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57
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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58
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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59
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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62
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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64
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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65
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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66
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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67
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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68
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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69
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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