THE leaves had fallen in the grounds at Ten Acres Lodge1, and stormy winds told drearily2 that winter had come.
An unchanging dullness pervaded3 the house. Romayne was constantly absent in London, attending to his new religious duties under the guidance of Father Benwell. The litter of books and manuscripts in the study was seen no more. Hideously4 rigid5 order reigned6 in the unused room. Some of Romayne’s papers had been burned; others were imprisoned7 in drawers and cupboards — the history of the Origin of Religions had taken its melancholy8 place among the suspended literary enterprises of the time. Mrs. Eyrecourt (after a superficially cordial reconciliation9 with her son-in-law) visited her daughter every now and then, as an act of maternal10 sacrifice. She yawned perpetually; she read innumerable novels; she corresponded with her friends. In the long dull evenings, the once-lively lady sometimes openly regretted that she had not been born a man — with the three masculine resources of smoking, drinking, and swearing placed at her disposal. It was a dreary11 existence, and happier influences seemed but little likely to change it. Grateful as she was to her mother, no persuasion12 would induce Stella to leave Ten Acres and amuse herself in London. Mrs. Eyrecourt said, with melancholy and metaphorical13 truth, “There is no elasticity14 left in my child.”
On a dim gray morning, mother and daughter sat by the fireside, with another long day before them.
“Where is that contemptible15 husband of yours?” Mrs. Eyrecourt asked, looking up from her book.
“Lewis is staying in town,” Stella answered listlessly.
“In company with Judas Iscariot?”
Stella was too dull to immediately understand the allusion16. “Do you mean Father Benwell?” she inquired.
“Don’t mention his name, my dear. I have re-christened him on purpose to avoid it. Even his name humiliates17 me. How completely the fawning18 old wretch19 took me in — with all my knowledge of the world, too! He was so nice and sympathetic — such a comforting contrast, on that occasion, to you and your husband — I declare I forgot every reason I had for not trusting him. Ah, we women are poor creatures — we may own it among ourselves. If a man only has nice manners and a pleasant voice, how many of us can resist him? Even Romayne imposed upon me — assisted by his property, which in some degree excuses my folly20. There is nothing to be done now, Stella, but to humor him. Do as that detestable priest does, and trust to your beauty (there isn’t as much of it left as I could wish) to turn the scale in your favor. Have you any idea when the new convert will come back? I heard him ordering a fish dinner for himself, yesterday — because it was Friday. Did you join him at dessert-time, profanely21 supported by meat? What did he say?”
“What he has said more than once already, mama. His peace of mind is returning, thanks to Father Benwell. He was perfectly22 gentle and indulgent — but he looked as if he lived in a different world from mine. He told me he proposed to pass a week in, what he called, Retreat. I didn’t ask him what it meant. Whatever it is, I suppose he is there now.”
“My dear, don’t you remember your sister began in the same way? She retreated. We shall have Romayne with a red nose and a double chin, offering to pray for us next! Do you recollect23 that French maid of mine — the woman I sent away, because she would spit, when she was out of temper, like a cat? I begin to think I treated the poor creature harshly. When I hear of Romayne and his Retreat, I almost feel inclined to spit, myself. There! let us go on with your reading. Take the first volume — I have done with it.”
“What is it, mama?”
“A very remarkable24 work, Stella, in the present state of light literature in England — a novel that actually tells a story. It’s quite incredible, I know. Try the book. It has another extraordinary merit — it isn’t written by a woman.”
Stella obediently received the first volume, turned over the leaves, and wearily dropped the wonderful novel on her lap. “I can’t attend to it,” she said. “My mind is too full of my own thoughts.”
“About Romayne?” said her mother.
“No. When I think of my husband now, I almost wish I had his confidence in Priests and Retreats. The conviction grows on me, mama, that my worst troubles are still to come. When I was younger, I don’t remember being tormented25 by presentiments26 of any kind. Did I ever talk of presentiments to you, in the bygone days?”
“If you had done anything of the sort, my love (excuse me, if I speak plainly), I should have said, ‘Stella, your liver is out of order’; and I should have opened the family medicine-chest. I will only say now send for the carriage; let us go to a morning concert, dine at a restaurant, and finish the evening at the play.”
This characteristic proposal was entirely28 thrown away on Stella. She was absorbed in pursuing her own train of thought. “I almost wish I had told Lewis,” she said to herself absently.
“Told him of what, my dear?”
“Of what happened to me with Winterfield.”
Mrs. Eyrecourt’s faded eyes opened wide in astonishment29.
“Do you really mean it?” she asked.
“I do, indeed.”
“Are you actually simple enough, Stella, to think that a man of Romayne’s temper would have made you his wife if you had told him of the Brussels marriage?”
“Why not?”
“Why not! Would Romayne — would any man — believe that you really did part from Winterfield at the church door? Considering that you are a married woman, your innocence30, my sweet child, is a perfect phenomenon! It’s well there were wiser people than you to keep your secret.”
“Don’t speak too positively31, mama. Lewis may find it out yet.”
“Is that one of your presentiments?”
“Yes.”
“How is he to find it out, if you please?”
“I am afraid, through Father Benwell. Yes! yes! I know you only think him a fawning old hypocrite — you don’t fear him as I do. Nothing will persuade me that zeal32 for his religion is the motive33 under which that man acts in devoting himself to Romayne. He has some abominable34 object in view, and his eyes tell me that I am concerned in it.”
Mrs. Eyrecourt burst out laughing.
“What is there to laugh at?” Stella asked.
“I declare, my dear, there is something absolutely provoking in your utter want of knowledge of the world! When you are puzzled to account for anything remarkable in a clergyman’s conduct (I don’t care, my poor child, to what denomination35 he belongs) you can’t be wrong in attributing his motive to — Money. If Romayne had turned Baptist or Methodist, the reverend gentleman in charge of his spiritual welfare would not have forgotten — as you have forgotten, you little goose — that his convert was a rich man. His mind would have dwelt on the chapel36, or the mission, or the infant school, in want of funds; and — with no more abominable object in view than I have, at this moment, in poking37 the fire — he would have ended in producing his modest subscription38 list and would have betrayed himself (just as our odious39 Benwell will betray himself) by the two amiable40 little words, Please contribute. Is there any other presentiment27, my dear, on which you would like to have your mother’s candid41 opinion?”
Stella resignedly took up the book again.
“I daresay you are right,” she said. “Let us read our novel.”
Before she had reached the end of the first page, her mind was far away again from the unfortunate story. She was thinking of that “other presentiment,” which had formed the subject of her mother’s last satirical inquiry42. The vague fear that had shaken her when she had accidentally touched the French boy, on her visit to Camp’s Hill, still from time to time troubled her memory. Even the event of his death had failed to dissipate the delusion43, which associated him with some undefined evil influence that might yet assert itself. A superstitious44 forewarning of this sort was a weakness new to her in her experience of herself. She was heartily45 ashamed of it — and yet it kept its hold. Once more the book dropped on her lap. She laid it aside, and walked wearily to the window to look at the weather.
Almost at the same moment Mrs. Eyrecourt’s maid disturbed her mistress over the second volume of the novel by entering the room with a letter.
“For me?” Stella asked, looking round from the window.
“No, ma’am — for Mrs. Eyrecourt.”
The letter had been brought to the house by one of Lady Loring’s servants. In delivering it he had apparently46 given private instructions to the maid. She laid her finger significantly on her lips when she gave the letter to her mistress.
In these terms Lady Loring wrote:
“If Stella happens to be with you, when you receive my note, don’t say anything which will let her know that I am your correspondent. She has always, poor dear, had an inveterate47 distrust of Father Benwell; and, between ourselves, I am not sure that she is quite so foolish as I once thought. The Father has unexpectedly left us — with a well-framed excuse which satisfied Lord Loring. It fails to satisfy Me. Not from any wonderful exercise of penetration48 on my part, but in consequence of something I have just heard in course of conversation with a Catholic friend. Father Benwell, my dear, turns out to be a Jesuit; and, what is more, a person of such high authority in the Order, that his concealment49 of his rank, while he was with us, must have been a matter of necessity. He must have had some very serious motive for occupying a position so entirely beneath him as his position in our house. I have not the shadow of a reason for associating this startling discovery with dear Stella’s painful misgivings50 — and yet there is something in my mind which makes me want to hear what Stella’s mother thinks. Come and have a talk about it as soon as you possibly can.”
Mrs. Eyrecourt put the letter in her pocket smiling quietly to herself.
Applying to Lady Loring’s letter the infallible system of solution which she had revealed to her daughter, Mrs. Eyrecourt solved the mystery of the priest’s conduct without a moment’s hesitation51. Lord Loring’s check, in Father Benwell’s pocket, representing such a liberal subscription that my lord was reluctant to mention it to my lady — there was the reading of the riddle52, as plain as the sun at noonday! Would it be desirable to enlighten Lady Loring as she had already enlightened Stella? Mrs. Eyrecourt decided53 in the negative. As Roman Catholics, and as old friends of Romayne, the Lorings naturally rejoiced in his conversion54. But as old friends also of Romayne’s wife, they were bound not to express their sentiments too openly. Feeling that any discussion of the priest’s motives55 would probably lead to the delicate subject of the conversion, Mrs. Eyrecourt prudently56 determined57 to let the matter drop. As a consequence of this decision, Stella was left without the slightest warning of the catastrophe58 which was now close at hand.
Mrs. Eyrecourt joined her daughter at the window.
“Well, my dear, is it clearing up? Shall we take a drive before luncheon59?”
“If you like, mama.”
She turned to her mother as she answered.
The light of the clearing sky, at once soft and penetrating60, fell full on her. Mrs. Eyrecourt, looking at her as usual, suddenly became serious: she studied her daughter’s face with an eager and attentive61 scrutiny62.
“Do you see any extraordinary change in me?” Stella asked, with a faint smile.
Instead of answering, Mrs. Eyrecourt put her arm round Stella with a loving gentleness, entirely at variance63 with any ordinary expression of her character. The worldly mother’s eyes rested with a lingering tenderness on the daughter’s face. “Stella!” she said softly — and stopped, at a loss for words for the first time in her life.
After a while, she began again. “Yes; I see a change in you,” she whispered —“an interesting change which tells me something. Can you guess what it is?”
Stella’s color rose brightly, and faded again.
She laid her head in silence on her mother’s bosom64. Worldly, frivolous65, self-interested, Mrs. Eyrecourt’s nature was the nature of a woman — and the one great trial and triumph of a woman’s life, appealing to her as a trial and a triumph soon to come to her own child, touched fibers66 under the hardened surface of her heart which were still unprofaned. “My poor darling,” she said, “have you told the good news to your husband?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t care, now, for anything that I can tell him.”
“Nonsense, Stella! You may win him back to you by a word — and do you hesitate to say the word? I shall tell him!”
Stella suddenly drew herself away from her mother’s caressing67 arm. “If you do,” she cried, “no words can say how inconsiderate and how cruel I shall think you. Promise — on your word of honor — promise you will leave it to me!”
“Will you tell him, yourself — if I leave it to you?”
“Yes — at my own time. Promise!”
“Hush68, hush! don’t excite yourself, my love; I promise. Give me a kiss. I declare I am agitated69 myself!” she exclaimed, falling back into her customary manner. “Such a shock to my vanity, Stella — the prospect70 of becoming a grandmother! I really must ring for Matilda, and take a few drops of red lavender. Be advised by me, my poor dear, and we will turn the priest out of the house yet. When Romayne comes back from his ridiculous Retreat — after his fasting and flagellation, and Heaven knows what besides —then bring him to his senses; then is the time to tell him. Will you think of it?”
“Yes; I will think of it.”
“And one word more, before Matilda comes in. Remember the vast importance of having a male heir to Vange Abbey. On these occasions you may practice with perfect impunity71 on the ignorance of the men. Tell him you’re sure it’s going to be a boy!”
收听单词发音 |
1
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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metaphorical
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| a.隐喻的，比喻的 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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humiliates
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| 使蒙羞，羞辱，使丢脸( humiliate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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profanely
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| adv.渎神地，凡俗地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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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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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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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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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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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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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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fibers
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| 光纤( fiber的名词复数 )； （织物的）质地； 纤维，纤维物质 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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