IT was not likely that Will, who had speculated so much on the family history, should remain unmoved by all these changes. His intellect was very lively, and well developed, and his conscience was to a great extent dormant1. If he had been in the way of seeing, or being tempted2 into actual vices3, no doubt the lad’s education would have served him in better stead, and his moral sense would have been awakened4. But he had been injured in his finer moral perceptions by a very common and very unsuspected agency. He had been in the way of hearing very small offences indeed made into sins. Aunt Agatha had been almost as hard upon him forgetting a text as if he had told a lie—and his tutor, the curate, had treated a false quantity, or a failure of memory, as a moral offence. That was in days long past, and it was Wilfrid now who found out his curate in false quantities, and scorned him accordingly; and who had discovered that Aunt Agatha herself, if she remembered the text, knew very little about it. This system of making sins out of trifles had passed quite harmlessly over Hugh and Islay; but Wilfrid’s was the exceptional mind to which it did serious harm. And the more he discovered that the sins of his childhood were not sins, the more confused did his mind become, and the more dull his conscience, as to those sins of thought and feeling, which were the only ones at present into which he was tempted. What had any one to do with the complexion5 of his thoughts? If he felt one way or another, what matter was it to any one but himself? Other people might dissemble and take credit for the emotions approved of by public opinion, but he would be true and genuine. And accordingly he did not see why he should pretend to be pleased at Hugh’s advancement6. He was not pleased. He said to himself that it went against all the rules of natural justice. Hugh was no better than he; on the contrary, he was less clever, less capable of mental exertion7, which, so far as Will knew, was the only standard of superiority; and yet he was Mr. Ochterlony of Earlston, with a house and estate, with affairs to manage, and tenants8 to influence, and the Psyche9 and the Venus to do what he liked with: whereas Will was nobody, and was to have two thousand pounds for all his inheritance. He had been talking, too, a great deal to Mr. Penrose, and that had not done him any good; for Uncle Penrose’s view was that nothing should stand in the way of acquiring money or other wealth—nothing but the actual law. To do anything dishonest, that could be punished, was of course pure insanity10—not to say crime; but to let any sort of false honour, or pride, or delicacy11 stand between you and the acquisition of money was almost as great insanity, according to his ideas. “Go into business and keep at it, and you may buy him up—him and his beggarly estate”—had been Uncle Penrose’s generous suggestion; and it was a good deal in Wilfrid’s mind. To be sure it was quite opposed to the intellectual tendency which led him to quite a different class of pursuits. But what was chiefly before him in the meantime was Hugh, preferred to so much distinction, and honour, and glory; and yet if the truth were known, a very stupid fellow in comparison with himself—Will. And it was not only that he was Mr. Ochterlony of Earlston. He was first with everybody. Sir Edward, who took but little notice of Will, actually consulted Hugh, and he was the first to be thought of in any question that occurred in the Cottage; and, what went deepest of all, Nelly—Nelly Askell whom Will had appropriated, not as his love, for his mind had not as yet opened to that idea, but as his sympathizer-in-chief—the listener to all his complaints and speculations—his audience whom nobody had any right to take from him—Nelly had gone over to his brother’s side. And the idea of going into business, even at the cost of abandoning all his favourite studies, and sticking close to it, and buying him up—him and his beggarly estate—was a good deal at this moment in Wilfrid’s thoughts. Even the new-comer, Winnie, who might if she pleased have won him to herself, had preferred Hugh. So that he was alone on his side, and everybody was on his brother’s—a position which often confuses right and wrong, even to minds least set upon their own will and way.
He was sauntering on Kirtell banks a few days after the visit above recorded, in an unusually uncomfortable state of mind. Mrs. Askell had felt great compunction about her share in that event, and she had sent Nelly, who was known to be a favourite at the cottage, with a very anxious letter, assuring her dear Madonna that it was not her fault. Mary had not received the letter with much favour, but she had welcomed Nelly warmly; and Hugh had found means to occupy her attention; and Will, who saw no place for him, had wandered out, slightly sulky, to Kirtell-side. He was free to come and go as he liked. Nobody there had any particular need of him; and a solitary12 walk is not a particularly enlivening performance when one has left an entire household occupied and animated13 behind. As he wound his way down the bank he saw another passenger on the road before him, who was not of a description of man much known on Kirtell-side. It seemed to Will that he had seen this figure somewhere before. It must be one of the regiment14, one of the gentlemen of whom the Cottage was a little jealous, and who were thought to seek occasions of visiting Kirtell oftener than politeness required. As Will went on, however, he saw that the stranger was somebody whom he had never seen before, and curiosity was a lively faculty15 in him, and readily awakened. Neither was the unknown indifferent to Will’s appearance or approach; on the contrary, he turned round at the sound of the youth’s step and scrutinized16 him closely, and lingered that he might be overtaken. He was tall, and a handsome man, still young, and with an air which only much traffic with the world confers. No man could have got that look and aspect who had lived all his life on Kirtell; and even Will, inexperienced as he was, could recognise this. It did not occur to him, quick as his intellect was at putting things together, who it was; but a little expectation awoke in his mind as he quickened his steps to overtake the stranger, who was clearly waiting to be overtaken.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, as soon as Wilfrid had come up to him; “are you young Ochterlony? I mean, one of the young Ochterlonys?”
“No,” said Will, “and yet yes; I am not young Ochterlony, but I am one of the young Ochterlonys, as you say.”
Upon this his new companion gave a keen look at him, as if discerning some meaning under the words.
“I thought so,” he said; “and I am Major Percival, whom you may have heard of. It is a queer question, but I suppose there is no doubt that my wife is up there?”
He gave a little jerk with his hand as he spoke17 in the direction of the Cottage. He was standing18 on the very same spot where he had seen Winnie coming to him the day they first pledged their troth; and though he was far from being a good man, he remembered it, having still a certain love for his wife, and the thought gave bitterness to his tone.
“Yes, she is there,” said Will.
“Then I will thank you to come back with me,” said Percival. “I don’t want to go and send in my name, like a stranger. Take me in by the garden, where you enter by the window. I suppose nobody can have any objection to my seeing my wife: your aunt, perhaps, or your mother?”
“Perhaps she does not wish to see you,” said Will.
The stranger laughed.
“It is a pleasant suggestion,” he said; “but at least you cannot object to admit me, and let me try.”
Wilfrid might have hesitated if he had been more fully19 contented20 with everybody belonging to him; but, to tell the truth, he knew no reason why Winnie’s husband should not see her. He had not been sufficiently21 interested to wish to fathom22 the secret, and he had accepted, not caring much about it, Aunt Agatha’s oft-repeated declaration, that their visitor had arrived so suddenly to give her “a delightful23 surprise.” Wilfrid did not care much about the matter, and he made no inquiries24 into it. He turned accordingly with the new-comer, not displeased25 to be the first of the house to make acquaintance with him. Percival had all a man’s advantage over his wife in respect to wear and tear. She had lost her youth, her freshness, and all that gave its chief charm to her beauty, but he had lost very little in outward appearance. Poor Winnie’s dissipations were the mildest pleasures in comparison with his, and yet he had kept even his youth, while hers was gone for ever. And he had not the air of a bad man—perhaps he was not actually a bad man. He did whatever he liked without acknowledging any particular restraint of duty, or truth, or even honour, except the limited standard of honour current among men of his class—but he had no distinct intention of being wicked; and he was, beyond dispute, a little touched by seeing, as he had just done, the scene of that meeting which had decided26 Winnie’s fate. He went up the bank considerably27 softened28, and disposed to be very kind. It was he who had been in the wrong in their last desperate struggle, and he found it easy to forgive himself; and Aunt Agatha’s garden, and the paths, and flower-pots he remembered so well, softened him more and more. If he had gone straight in, and nothing had happened, he would have kissed his wife in the most amiable29 way, and forgiven her, and been in perfect amity30 with everybody—but this was not how it was to be.
Winnie was sitting as usual, unoccupied, indoors. As she was not doing anything her eyes were free to wander further than if they had been more particularly engaged, and at that moment, as it happened, they were turned in the direction of the window from which she had so often watched Sir Edward’s light. All at once she started to her feet. It was what she had looked for from the first; what, perhaps, in the stagnation31 of the household quiet here she had longed for. High among the roses and waving honeysuckles she caught a momentary32 glimpse of a head which she could have recognised at any distance. At that sight all the excitement of the interrupted struggle rushed back into her heart. A pang33 of fierce joy, and hatred34, and opposition35 moved her. There he stood who had done her so much wrong; who had trampled36 on all her feelings and insulted her, and yet pretended to love her, and dared to seek her. Winnie did not say anything to her companions; indeed she was too much engrossed37 at the moment to remember that she had any companions. She turned and fled without a word, disappearing swiftly, noiselessly, in an instant, as people have a gift of doing when much excited. She was shut up in her room, with her door locked, before any one knew she had stirred. It is true he was not likely to come upstairs and assail38 her by force; but she did not think of that. She locked her door and sat down, with her heart beating, and her breath coming quick, expecting, hoping—she would herself have said fearing—an attack.
Winnie thought it was a long time before Aunt Agatha came, softly, tremulously, to her door, but in reality it was but a few minutes. He had come in, and had taken matters with a high hand, and had demanded to see his wife. “He will think it is we who are keeping you away from him. He will not believe you do not want to come,” said poor Aunt Agatha, at the door.
“Nothing shall induce me to see him,” said Winnie, admitting her. “I told you so: nothing in the world—not if he were to go down on his knees—not if he were——”
“My dear love, I don’t think he means to go down on his knees,” said Aunt Agatha, anxiously. “He does not think he is in the wrong. Oh, Winnie, my darling!—if it was only for the sake of other people—to keep them from talking, you know——”
“Aunt Agatha, you are mistaken if you think I care,” said Winnie. “As for Mary’s friends, they are old-fashioned idiots. They think a woman should shut herself up like an Eastern slave when her husband is not there. I have done nothing to be ashamed of. And he—Oh, if you knew how he had insulted me!—Oh, if you only knew! I tell you I will not consent to see him, for nothing in this world.”
Winnie was a different woman as she spoke. She was no longer the worn and faded creature she had been. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks glowing. It was a clouded and worn magnificence, but still it was a return to her old splendour.
“Oh, Winnie, my dear love, you are fond of him in spite of all,” said Aunt Agatha. “It will all come right, my darling, yet. You are fond of each other in spite of all.”
“You don’t know what you say,” said Winnie, in a blaze of indignation.—“Fond of him!—if you could but know! Tell him to think of how we parted. Tell him I will never more trust myself near him again.”
It was with this decision, immovable and often repeated, that Miss Seton at last returned to her undesired guest. But she sent for Mary to come and speak to her before she went into the drawing-room. Aunt Agatha was full of schemes and anxious desires. She could not make people do what was right, but if she could so plot and manage appearances as that they should seem to do what was right, surely that was better than nothing. She sent for Mrs. Ochterlony into the dining-room, and she began to take out the best silver, and arrange the green finger-glasses, to lose no time.
“What is the use of telling all the world of our domestic troubles?” said Aunt Agatha. “My dear, though Winnie will not see him, would it not be better to keep him to dinner, and show that we are friendly with him all the same? So long as he is with us, nobody is to know that Winnie keeps in her own room. After the way these people behaved to the poor dear child——”
“They were very foolish and ill-bred,” said Mary; “but it was because she had herself been foolish, not because she was away from her husband: and I don’t like him to be with my boys.”
“But for your dear sister’s sake! Oh, Mary, my love, for Winnie’s sake!” said Aunt Agatha; and Mary yielded, though she saw no benefit in it. It was her part to go back into the drawing-room, and make the best of Winnie’s resistance, and convey the invitation to this unlooked-for guest, while Aunt Agatha looked after the dinner, and impressed upon Peggy that perhaps Major Percival might not be able to stay long; and was it not sad that the very day her husband came to see her, Mrs. Percival should have such a very bad headache? “She is lying down, poor dear, in hopes of being able to sit up a little in the evening,” said the anxious but innocent deceiver—doubly innocent since she deceived nobody, not even the housemaid, far less Peggy. As for Major Percival, he was angry and excited, as Winnie was, but not to an equal extent. He did not believe in his wife’s resistance. He sat down in the familiar room, and expected every moment to see Winnie rush down in her impulsive39 way, and throw herself into his arms. Their struggles had not terminated in this satisfactory way of late, but still she had gone very far in leaving him, and he had gone very far in condescending40 to come to seek her; and there seemed no reason why the monster quarrel should not end in a monster reconciliation41, and all go on as before.
But it was bad policy to leave him with Mary. The old instinctive42 dislike that had existed between them from the first woke up again unawares. Mrs. Ochterlony could not conceal43 the fact that she took no pleasure in his society, and had no faith in him. She stayed in the room because she could not help it, but she did not pretend to be cordial. When he addressed himself to Will, and took the boy into his confidence, and spoke to him as to another man of the world, he could see, and was pleased to see, the contraction44 in Mary’s forehead. In this one point she was afraid of him, or at least he thought so. Winnie stayed upstairs with the door locked, watching to see him go away; and Hugh, to whom Winnie had been perhaps more confidential45 than to any one else in the house, went out and in, in displeasure ill-concealed, avoiding all intercourse46 with the stranger. And Mary sat on thorns, bearing him unwilling47 company, and Nelly watched and marvelled48. Poor Aunt Agatha all the time arranged her best silver, and filled the old-fashioned épergne with flowers, thinking she was doing the very best for her child, saving her reputation, and leaving the way open for a reconciliation between her and her husband, and utterly49 unconscious of any other harm that could befall.
When the dinner-hour arrived, however (which was five o’clock, an hour which Aunt Agatha thought a good medium between the early and the late), Major Percival’s brow was very cloudy. He had waited and listened, and Winnie had not come, and now, when they sat down at table, she was still invisible. “Does not my wife mean to favour us with her company?” he asked, insolently50, incredulous after all that she could persevere51 so long, and expecting to hear that she was only “late as usual;” upon which Aunt Agatha looked at Mary with anxious beseeching52 eyes.
“My sister is not coming down to-day,” said Mary, with hesitation53, “at least I believe——”
“Oh, my dear love, you know it is only because she has one of her bad headaches!” Aunt Agatha added, precipitately54, with tears of entreaty55 in her eyes.
Percival looked at them both, and he thought he understood it all. It was Mary who was abetting56 her sister in her rebellion, encouraging her to defy him. It was she who was resisting Miss Seton’s well-meant efforts to bring them together. He saw it all as plain, or thought he saw it, as if he had heard her tactics determined57 upon. He had let her alone, and restrained his natural impulse to injure the woman he disliked, but now she had set herself in his way, and let her look to it. This dinner, which poor Aunt Agatha had brought about against everybody’s will, was as uncomfortable a meal as could be imagined. She was miserable58 herself, dreading59 every moment that he might burst out into a torrent60 of rage against Winnie before “the servants,” or that Winnie’s bell would ring violently and she would send a message—so rash and inconsiderate as she was—to know when Major Percival was going away. And nobody did anything to help her out of it. Mary sat at the foot of the table as stately as a queen, showing the guest only such attentions as were absolutely necessary. Hugh, except when he talked to Nelly, who sat beside him, was as disagreeable as a young man who particularly desires to be disagreeable and feels that his wishes have not been consulted, can be. And as for the guest himself, his countenance61 was black as night. It was a heavy price to pay for the gratification of saying to everybody that Winnie’s husband had come to see her, and had spent the day at the Cottage. But then Aunt Agatha had not the remotest idea that beyond the annoyance62 of the moment it possibly could do any harm.
It was dreadful to leave him with the boys after dinner, who probably—or at least Hugh—might not be so civil as was to be wished; but still more dreadful ten minutes after to hear Hugh’s voice with Nelly in the garden. Why had he left his guest?
“He left me,” said Hugh. “He went out under the verandah to smoke his cigar. I don’t deny I was very glad to get away.”
“But I am sure, Hugh, you are very fond of smoking cigars,” said Aunt Agatha, in her anxiety and fright.
“Not always,” Hugh answered, “nor under all circumstances.” And he laughed and coloured a little, and looked at Nelly by his side, who blushed too.
“So there is nobody with him but Will?” said Aunt Agatha with dismay, as she went in to where Mary was sitting; and the news was still more painful to Mary. Will was the only member of the family who was really civil to the stranger, except Aunt Agatha, whose anxiety was plainly written in her countenance. He was sitting now under the verandah which shaded the dining-room windows, quite at the other side of the house, smoking his cigar, and Will sat dutifully and not unwillingly63 by, listening to his talk. It was a new kind of talk to Will—the talk of a man blasé yet incapable64 of existing out of the world of which he was sick—a man who did not pretend to be a good man, nor even possessed65 of principles. Perhaps the parish of Kirtell in general would not have thought it very edifying66 talk.
“It is he who has come into the property, I suppose,” said Percival, pointing lazily with his cigar towards the other end of the garden, where Hugh was visible far off with Nelly. “Get on well with him, eh? I should say not if the question was asked of me?”
“Oh yes, well enough,” said Will, in momentary confusion, and with a clouding of his brows. “There is nothing wrong with him. It’s the system of the eldest67 sons that is wrong. I have nothing to say against Hugh.”
“By Jove,” said Percival, “the difficulty is to find out which is anybody’s eldest son. I never find fault with systems, for my part.”
“Oh, about that there can’t be any doubt,” said Will; “he is six years older than I am. I am only the youngest; though I don’t see what it matters to a man, for my part, being born in ’32 or ’38.”
“Sometimes it makes a great deal of difference,” said Percival; and then he paused: for a man, even when he is pushed on by malice68 and hate and all uncharitableness, may hesitate before he throws a firebrand into an innocent peaceful house. However, after his pause he resumed, making a new start as it were, and doing it deliberately69, “sometimes it may make a difference to a man whether he was born in ’37 or ’38. You were born in ’38 were you? Ah! I ought to recollect70.”
“Why ought you to recollect?” asked Will, startled by the meaning of his companion’s face.
“I was present at a ceremony that took place about then,” said Percival; “a curious sort of story. I’ll tell it you some time. How is the property left, do you know? Is it to him in particular as being the favourite, and that sort of thing?—or is it simply to the eldest son?”
“Simply to the eldest son,” said Will, more and more surprised.
Percival gave such a whistle as Uncle Penrose had given when he heard of the museum, and nodded his head repeatedly. “It would be good fun to turn the tables,” he said, as if he were making a remark to himself.
“How could you turn the tables? What do you mean? What do you know about it?” cried Will, who by this time was getting excited. Hugh came within his line of vision now and then, with Nelly—always with Nelly. It was only the younger brother, the inferior member of the household, who was left with the unwelcome guest. If any one could turn the tables! And again he said, almost fiercely, “What do you mean?”
“It is very easy to tell you what I mean; and I wonder what your opinion will be of systems then?” said Percival. “By Jove! it’s an odd position, and I don’t envy you. You think you’re the youngest, and you were born as you say in ’38.”
“Good heavens! what is that to do with it?” cried Wilfrid. “Of course I was born in ’38. Tell me what you mean.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you what I mean,” said Percival, tossing away the end of his cigar, “and plainly too. That fellow there, who gives himself such airs, is no more the eldest son than I am. The property belongs to you.”
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收听单词发音
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1
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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sufficiently
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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delightful
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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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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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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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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amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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stagnation
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momentary
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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engrossed
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assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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abetting
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的现在分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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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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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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