Orde left that evening early. This was at Carroll's request. She preferred herself to inform her family of the news.
"I don't know yet how mother is going to get along," said she. "Come back to-morrow afternoon and see them all."
The next morning Orde, having at last finished and despatched the letter to his mother, drifted up the avenue and into the club. As he passed the smoking room he caught sight of Gerald seated in an armchair by the window. He entered the room and took a seat opposite the young fellow.
Gerald held out his hand silently, which the other took.
"I'm glad to hear it," said Gerald at last. "Very glad. I told you I was on your side." He hesitated, then went on gravely: "Poor Carroll is having a hard time, though. I think it's worse than she expected. It's no worse than I expected. You are to be one of the family, so I am going to give you a piece of advice. It's something, naturally, I wouldn't speak of otherwise. But Carroll is my only sister, and I want her to be happy. I think you are the man to make her so, but I want you to avoid one mistake. Fight it out right now, and never give back the ground you win."
"I feel that," replied Orde quietly.
"Mother made father resign from the army; and while he's a dear old boy, he's never done anything since. She holds me--although I see through her--possibly because I'm weak or indifferent, possibly because I have a silly idea I can make a bad situation better by hanging around. She is rapidly turning Kendrick into a sullen1 little prig, because he believes implicitly2 all the grievances4 against the world and the individual she pours out to him. You see, I have no illusions concerning my family. Only Carroll has held to her freedom of soul, because that's the joyous5, free, sweet nature of her, bless her! For the first time she's pitted her will against mother's, and it's a bad clash."
"Your mother objected?" asked Orde.
Gerald laughed a little bitterly. "It was very bad," said he. "You've grown horns, hoofs6, and a tail overnight. There's nothing too criminal to have escaped your notice. I have been forbidden to consort7 with you. So has the general. The battle of last night had to do with your coming to the house at all. As it is not Carroll's house, naturally she has no right to insist."
"I shall not be permitted to see her?" cried Orde.
"I did not say that. Carroll announced then quite openly that she would see you outside. I fancy that was the crux8 of the matter. Don't you see? The whole affair shifted ground. Carroll has offered direct disobedience. Oh, she's a bully10 little fighter!" he finished in admiring accents. "You can't quite realise what she's doing for your sake; she's not only fighting mother, but her own heart."
Orde found a note at the hotel, asking him to be in Washington Square at half-past two.
Carroll met him with a bright smile.
"Things aren't quite right at home," she said. "It is a great shock to poor mother at first, and she feels very strongly. Oh, it isn't you, dear; it's the notion that I can care for anybody but her. You see, she's been used to the other idea so long that I suppose it seemed a part of the universe to her. She'll get used to it after a little, but it takes time."
Orde examined her face anxiously. Two bright red spots burned on her cheeks; her eyes flashed with a nervous animation11, and a faint shade had sketched12 itself beneath them.
"You had a hard time," he murmured, "you poor dear!"
She smiled up at him.
"We have to pay for the good things in life, don't we, dear? And they are worth it. Things will come right after a little. We must not be too impatient. Now, let's enjoy the day. The park isn't so bad, is it?"
At five o'clock Orde took her back to her doorstep, where he left her.
This went on for several days.
At the end of that time Orde could not conceal13 from himself that the strain was beginning to tell. Carroll's worried expression grew from day to day, while the animation that characterised her manner when freed from the restraint became more and more forced. She was as though dominated by some inner tensity, which she dared not relax even for a moment. To Orde's questionings she replied as evasively as she could, assuring him always that matters were going as well as she had expected; that mother was very difficult; that Orde must have patience, for things would surely come all right. She begged him to remain quiescent14 until she gave him the word; and she implored15 it so earnestly that Orde, though he chafed16, was forced to await the turn of events. Every afternoon she met him, from two to five. The situation gave little opportunity for lovers' demonstrations17. She seemed entirely18 absorbed by the inner stress of the struggle she was going through, so that hardly did she seem able to follow coherently even plans for the future. She appeared, however, to gain a mysterious refreshment19 from Orde's mere20 proximity21; so gradually he, with that streak22 of almost feminine intuition which is the especial gift to lovers, came to the point of sitting quite silent with her, clasping her hand out of sight of the chance passer-by. When the time came to return, they arose and walked back to Ninth Street, still in silence. At the door they said good-bye. He kissed her quite soberly.
"I wish I could help, sweetheart," said he.
She shook her head at him.
"You do help," she replied.
From Gerald at the club, Orde sought more intimate news of what was going on. For several days, however, the young man absented himself from his usual haunts. It was only at the end of the week that Orde succeeded in finding him.
"No," Gerald answered his greeting, "I haven't been around much. I've been sticking pretty close home."
Little by little, Orde's eager questions drew out the truth of the situation. Mrs. Bishop23 had shut herself up in a blind and incredible obstinacy24, whence she sallied with floods of complaints, tears, accusations25, despairs, reproaches, vows26, hysterics--all the battery of the woman misunderstood, but in which she refused to listen to a consecutive27 conversation. If Carroll undertook to say anything, the third word would start her mother off into one of her long and hysterical28 tirades29. It was very wearing, and there seemed to be nothing gained from day to day. Her child had disobeyed her. And as a climax30, she had assumed the impregnable position of a complete prostration31, wherein she demanded the minute care of an invalid32 in the crisis of a disorder33. She could bear no faintest ray of illumination, no lightest footfall. In a hushed twilight34 she lay, her eyes swathed, moaning feebly that her early dissolution at the hands of ingratitude35 was imminent36. Thus she established a deadlock37 which was likely to continue indefinitely. The mere mention of the subject nearest Carroll's heart brought the feeble complaint:
"Do you want to kill me?"
The only scrap38 of victory to be snatched from this stricken field was the fact that Carroll insisted on going to meet her lover every afternoon. The invalid demanded every moment of her time, either for personal attendance or in fulfilment of numerous and exacting39 church duties. An attempt, however, to encroach thus on the afternoon hours met a stone wall of resolution on Carroll's part.
This was the situation Orde gathered from his talk with Gerald. Though he fretted40 under the tyranny exacted, he could see nothing which could relieve the situation save his own withdrawal41. He had already long over-stayed his visit; important affairs connected with his work demanded his attention, he had the comfort of Carroll's love assured; and the lapse42 of time alone could be depended on to change Mrs. Bishop's attitude, a consummation on which Carroll seemed set. Although Orde felt all the lively dissatisfaction natural to a newly accepted lover who had gained slight opportunity for favours, for confidences, even for the making of plans, nevertheless he could see for the present nothing else to do.
The morning after he had reached this conclusion he again met Gerald at the gymnasium. That young man, while as imperturbable43 and languid in movement as ever, concealed44 an excitement. He explained nothing until the two, after a shower and rub-down, were clothing themselves leisurely45 in the empty couch-room.
"Orde," said Gerald suddenly, "I'm worried about Carroll."
Orde straightened his back and looked steadily46 at Gerald, but said nothing.
"Mother has commenced bothering her again. It wasn't so bad as long as she stuck to daytime, but now she's taken to prowling in a dozen times a night. I hear their voices for an hour or so at a time. I'm afraid it's beginning to wear on Carroll more than you realise."
"Thank you," said Orde briefly47.
That afternoon with Carroll he took the affair firmly in hand.
"This thing has come to the point where it must stop," said he, "and I'm going to stop it. I have some rights in the matter of the health and comfort of the girl I love."
"What do you intend to do?" asked Carroll, frightened.
"I shall have it out with your mother," replied Orde.
"You mustn't do that," implored Carroll. "It would do absolutely no good, and would just result in a quarrel that could never be patched up."
"I don't know as I care particularly," said Orde.
"But I do. Think--she is my mother."
Orde stirred uneasily with a mental reservation as to selfishness, but said nothing.
"And think what it means to a girl to be married and go away from home finally without her parent's consent. It's the most beautiful and sacred thing in her life, and she wants it to be perfect. It's worth waiting and fighting a little for. After all, we are both young, and we have known each other such a very short time."
So she pleaded with him, bringing forward all the unanswerable arguments built by the long average experience of the world--arguments which Orde could not refute, but whose falsity to the situation he felt most keenly. He could not specify48 without betraying Gerald's confidence. Raging inwardly, he consented to a further armistice49.
At his hotel he found a telegram. He did not open it until he had reached his own room. It was from home, urging his immediate50 return for the acceptance of some contracted work.
"To hell with the contracted work!" he muttered savagely51, and calling a bell-boy, sent an answer very much to that effect. Then he plunged52 his hands into his pockets, stretched out his legs, and fell into a deep and gloomy meditation53.
He was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Come in!" he called, without turning his head.
He heard the door open and shut. After a moment he looked around. Kendrick Bishop stood watching him.
Orde lit the gas.
"Hello, Kendrick!" said he. "Sit down." The boy made no reply. Orde looked at him curiously54, and saw that he was suffering from an intense excitement. His frame trembled convulsively, his lips were white, his face went red and pale by turns. Evidently he had something to say, but could not yet trust his voice. Orde sat down and waited.
"You've got to let my mother alone," he managed to say finally.
"I have done nothing to your mother, Kendrick," said Orde kindly55.
"You've brought her to the point of death," asserted Keudrick violently. "You're hounding her to her grave. You're turning those she loves best against her."
Orde thought to catch the echo of quotation56 in these words.
"Did your mother send you to me?" he asked.
"If we had any one else worth the name of man in the family, I wouldn't have to come," said Kendrick, almost in the manner of one repeating a lesson.
"What do you want me to do?" asked Orde after a moment of thought.
"Go away," cried Kendrick. "Stop this unmanly contest against a defenceless woman."
"I cannot do that," replied Orde quietly.
Kendrick's face assumed a livid pallor, and his eyes seemed to turn black with excitement. Trembling in every limb, but without hesitation57, he advanced on Orde, drew a short riding-whip from beneath his coat, and slashed58 the young man across the face. Orde made an involuntary movement to arise, but sank back, and looked steadily at the boy. Once again Kendrick hit; raised his arm for the third time; hesitated. His lips writhed59, and then, with a sob9, he cast the little whip from him and burst from the room.
Orde sat without moving, while two red lines slowly defined themselves across his face. The theatrical60 quality of the scene and the turgid rhetorical bathos of the boy's speeches attested61 his youth and the unformed violence of his emotions. Did they also indicate a rehearsal62, or had the boy merely been goaded63 to vague action by implicit3 belief in a woman's vagaries64? Orde did not know, but the incident brought home to him, as nothing else could, the turmoil65 of that household.
"Poor youngster!" he concluded his reverie, and went to wash his face in hot water.
He had left Carroll that afternoon in a comparatively philosophical66 and hopeful frame of mind. The next day she came to him with hurried, nervous steps, her usually pale cheeks mounting danger signals of flaming red, her eyes swimming. When she greeted him she choked, and two of the tears overflowed67. Quite unmindful of the nursemaids across the square, Orde put his arm comfortingly about her shoulder. She hid her face against his sleeve and began softly to cry.
Orde did not attempt as yet to draw from her the cause of this unusual agitation68. A park bench stood between two dense69 bushes, screened from all directions save one. To this he led her. He comforted her as one comforts a child, stroking clumsily her hair, murmuring trivialities without meaning, letting her emotion relieve itself. After awhile she recovered somewhat her control of herself and sat up away from him, dabbing70 at her eyes with a handkerchief dampened into a tiny wad. But even after she had shaken her head vigorously at last, and smiled up at him rather tremulously in token that the storm was over, she would not tell him that anything definite had happened to bring on the outburst.
"I just needed you," she said, "that's all. It's just nothing but being a woman, I think. You'll get used to little things like that."
"This thing has got to quit!" said he grimly.
She said nothing, but reached up shyly and touched his face where Kendrick's whip had stung, and her eyes became very tender. A carriage rolled around Washington Arch, and, coming to a stand, discharged its single passenger on the pavement.
"Why, it's Gerald!" cried Carroll, surprised.
The young man, catching71 sight of them, picked his way daintily and leisurely toward them. He was, as usual, dressed with meticulous72 nicety, the carnation73 in his button-hole, the gloss74 on his hat and shoes, the freshness on his gloves, the correct angle on his stick. His dark, long face with its romantic moustache, and its almost effeminate soft eyes, was as unemotional and wearied as ever. As he approached, he raised his stick slightly by way of salutation.
"I have brought," said he, "a carriage, and I wish you would both do me the favour to accompany me on a short excursion."
Taking their consent for granted, he signalled the vehicle, which rapidly approached.
The three--Carroll and Orde somewhat bewildered--took their seats. During a brief drive, Gerald made conversation on different topics, apparently75 quite indifferent as to whether or not his companions replied. After an interval76 the carriage drew up opposite a brown-stone dwelling77 on a side street. Gerald rang the bell, and a moment later the three were ushered78 by a discreet79 and elderly maid into a little square reception-room immediately off the hall. The maid withdrew.
Gerald carefully deposited his top hat on the floor, placed in it his gloves, and leaned his stick against its brim.
"I have brought you here, among other purposes, to hear from me a little brief wisdom drawn80 from experience and the observation of life," he began, addressing his expectant and curious guests. "That wisdom is briefly this: there comes a time in the affairs of every household when a man must assert himself as the ruler. In all the details he may depend on the woman's judgment81, experience, and knowledge, but when it comes to the big crises, where life is deflected82 into one channel or the other, then, unless the man does the deciding, he is lost for ever, and his happiness, and the happiness of those who depend on him. This is abstruse83, but I come to the particular application shortly.
"But moments of decision are always clouded by many considerations. The decision is sure to cut across much that is expedient84, much that seems to be necessary, much that is dear. Carroll remembers the case of our own father. The general would have made a name for himself in the army; his wife demanded his retirement85; he retired86, and his career ended. That was the moment of his decision. It is very easy to say, in view of that simple statement, that the general was weak in yielding to his wife, but a consideration of the circumstances--"
"Why do you say all this?" interrupted Orde.
Gerald raised his hand.
"Believe me, it is necessary, as you will agree when you have heard me through. Mrs. Bishop was in poor health; the general in poor financial circumstances. The doctors said the Riviera. Mrs. Bishop's parents, who were wealthy, furnished the money for her sojourn87 in that climate. She could not bear to be separated from her husband. A refusal to resign then, a refusal to accept the financial aid offered, would have been cast against him as a reproach--he did not love his wife enough to sacrifice his pride, his ambition, his what-you-will. Nevertheless, that was his moment of decision.
"I could multiply instances, yet it would only accumulate needless proof. My point is that in these great moments a man can afford to take into consideration only the affair itself. Never must he think of anything but the simple elements of the problem--he must ignore whose toes are trodden upon, whose feelings are hurt, whose happiness is apparently marred88. For note this: if a man does fearlessly the right thing, I am convinced that in the readjustment all these conflicting interests find themselves bettered instead of injured. You want a concrete instance? I believe firmly that if the general had kept to his army life, and made his wife conform to it, after the storm had passed she would have settled down to a happy existence. I cannot prove it--I believe it."
"This may be all very true, Gerald," said Orde, "but I fail to see why you have brought us to this strange house to tell it."
"In a moment," replied Gerald. "Have patience. Believing that thoroughly89, I have come in the last twenty-four hours to a decision. That this happens not to affect my own immediate fortunes does not seem to me to invalidate my philosophy."
He carefully unbuttoned his frock coat, crossed his legs, produced a paper and a package from his inside pocket, and eyed the two before him.
"I have here," he went on suddenly, "marriage papers duly made out; in this package is a plain gold ring; in the next room is waiting, by prearrangement, a very good friend of mine in the clergy90. Personally I am at your disposal."
He looked at them expectantly.
"The very thing!" "Oh, no!" cried Orde and Carroll in unison91.
Nevertheless, in spite of this divergence92 of opinion, ten minutes later the three passed through the door into the back apartment--Carroll still hesitant, Orde in triumph, Gerald as correct and unemotional as ever.
In this back room they found waiting a young clergyman conversing93 easily with two young girls. At the sight of Carroll, these latter rushed forward and overwhelmed her with endearments94. Carroll broke into a quickly suppressed sob and clasped them close to her.
"Oh, you dears!" she cried, "I'm so glad you're here!" She flashed a grateful look in Gerald's direction, and a moment later took occasion to press his arm and whisper:
"You've thought of everything! You're the dearest brother in the world!"
Gerald received this calmly, and set about organising the ceremony. In fifteen minutes the little party separated at the front door, amid a chatter95 of congratulations and good wishes. Mr. and Mrs. Orde entered the cab and drove away.
收听单词发音 |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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crux
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| adj.十字形；难事，关键，最重要点 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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tirades
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| 激烈的长篇指责或演说( tirade的名词复数 ) | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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deadlock
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| n.僵局，僵持 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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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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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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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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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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52
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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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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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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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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deflected
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| 偏离的 | |
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abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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84
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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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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