As I sit writing in my study, I can hear our Jane bumping her way downstairs with a brush and dust-pan. She used in the old days to sing hymn1 tunes2, or the British national song for the time being, to these instruments, but latterly she has been silent and even careful over her work. Time was when I prayed with fervour for such silence, and my wife with sighs for such care, but now they have come we are not so glad as we might have anticipated we should be. Indeed, I would rejoice secretly, though it may be unmanly weakness to admit it, even to hear Jane sing “Daisy,” or, by the fracture of any plate but one of Euphemia’s best green ones, to learn that the period of brooding has come to an end.
Yet how we longed to hear the last of Jane’s young man before we heard the last of him! Jane was always very free with her conversation to my wife, and discoursed3 admirably in the kitchen on a variety of topics — so well, indeed, that I sometimes left my study door open — our house is a small one — to partake of it. But after William came, it was always William, nothing but William; William this and William that; and when we thought William was worked out and exhausted4 altogether, then William all over again. The engagement lasted altogether three years; yet how she got introduced to William, and so became thus saturated6 with him, was always a secret. For my part, I believe it was at the street corner where the Rev7. Barnabas Baux used to hold an open-air service after evensong on Sundays. Young Cupids were wont8 to flit like moths9 round the paraffin flare10 of that centre of High Church hymn-singing. I fancy she stood singing hymns11 there, out of memory and her imagination, instead of coming home to get supper, and William came up beside her and said, “Hello!” “Hello yourself!” she said; and etiquette12 being satisfied, they proceeded to talk together.
As Euphemia has a reprehensible13 way of letting her servants talk to her, she soon heard of him. “He is such a respectable young man, ma’am,” said Jane, “you don’t know.” Ignoring the slur14 cast on her acquaintance, my wife inquired further about this William.
“He is second porter at Maynard’s, the draper’s,” said Jane, “and gets eighteen shillings — nearly a pound — a week, m’m; and when the head porter leaves he will be head porter. His relatives are quite superior people, m’m. Not labouring people at all. His father was a greengrosher, m’m, and had a churnor, and he was bankrup’ twice. And one of his sisters is in a Home for the Dying. It will be a very good match for me, m’m,” said Jane, “me being an orphan15 girl.”
“Then you are engaged to him?” asked my wife.
“Not engaged, ma’am; but he is saving money to buy a ring — hammyfist.”
“Well, Jane, when you are properly engaged to him you may ask him round here on Sunday afternoons, and have tea with him in the kitchen;” for my Euphemia has a motherly conception of her duty towards her maid-servants. And presently the amethystine16 ring was being worn about the house, even with ostentation17, and Jane developed a new way of bringing in the joint18 so that this gage5 was evident. The elder Miss Maitland was aggrieved19 by it, and told my wife that servants ought not to wear rings. But my wife looked it up in Enquire20 Within and Mrs. Motherly’s Book of Household Management, and found no prohibition21. So Jane remained with this happiness added to her love.
The treasure of Jane’s heart appeared to me to be what respectable people call a very deserving young man. “William, ma’am,” said Jane one day suddenly, with ill-concealed complacency, as she counted out the beer bottles, “William, ma’am, is a teetotaller. Yes, m’m; and he don’t smoke. Smoking, ma’am,” said Jane, as one who reads the heart, “do make such a dust about. Beside the waste of money. And the smell. However, I suppose they got to do it — some of them . . . ”
William was at first a rather shabby young man of the ready-made black coat school of costume. He had watery22 gray eyes, and a complexion23 appropriate to the brother of one in a Home for the Dying. Euphemia did not fancy him very much, even at the beginning. His eminent24 respectability was vouched25 for by an alpaca umbrella, from which he never allowed himself to be parted.
“He goes to chapel,” said Jane. “His papa, ma’am ——”
“His what, Jane?”
“His papa, ma’am, was Church: but Mr. Maynard is a Plymouth Brother, and William thinks it Policy, ma’am, to go there too. Mr. Maynard comes and talks to him quite friendly when they ain’t busy, about using up all the ends of string, and about his soul. He takes a lot of notice, do Mr. Maynard, of William, and the way he saves his soul, ma’am.”
Presently we heard that the head porter at Maynard’s had left, and that William was head porter at twenty-three shillings a week. “He is really kind of over the man who drives the van,” said Jane, “and him married, with three children.” And she promised in the pride of her heart to make interest for us with William to favour us so that we might get our parcels of drapery from Maynard’s with exceptional promptitude.
After this promotion26 a rapidly-increasing prosperity came upon Jane’s young man. One day we learned that Mr. Maynard had given William a book. “‘Smiles’ ‘Elp Yourself,’ it’s called,” said Jane; “but it ain’t comic. It tells you how to get on in the world, and some what William read to me was lovely, ma’am.”
Euphemia told me of this, laughing, and then she became suddenly grave. “Do you know, dear,” she said, “Jane said one thing I did not like. She had been quiet for a minute, and then she suddenly remarked, ‘William is a lot above me, ma’am, ain’t he?’”
“I don’t see anything in that,” I said, though later my eyes were to be opened.
One Sunday afternoon about that time I was sitting at my writing-desk — possibly I was reading a good book — when a something went by the window. I heard a startled exclamation27 behind me, and saw Euphemia with her hands clasped together and her eyes dilated28. “George,” she said in an awe-stricken whisper, “did you see?”
Then we both spoke29 to one another at the same moment, slowly and solemnly: “A silk hat! Yellow gloves! A new umbrella!”
“It may be my fancy, dear,” said Euphemia; “but his tie was very like yours. I believe Jane keeps him in ties. She told me a little while ago, in a way that implied volumes about the rest of your costume, ‘The master do wear pretty ties, ma’am.’ And he echoes all your novelties.”
The young couple passed our window again on their way to their customary walk. They were arm in arm. Jane looked exquisitely30 proud, happy, and uncomfortable, with new white cotton gloves, and William, in the silk hat, singularly genteel!
That was the culmination31 of Jane’s happiness. When she returned, “Mr. Maynard has been talking to William, ma’am,” she said, “and he is to serve customers, just like the young shop gentlemen, during the next sale. And if he gets on, he is to be made an assistant, ma’am, at the first opportunity. He has got to be as gentlemanly as he can, ma’am; and if he ain’t, ma’am, he says it won’t be for want of trying. Mr. Maynard has took a great fancy to him.”
“He is getting on, Jane,” said my wife.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Jane thoughtfully; “he is getting on.”
And she sighed.
That next Sunday as I drank my tea I interrogated32 my wife. “How is this Sunday different from all other Sundays, little woman? What has happened? Have you altered the curtains, or re-arranged the furniture, or where is the indefinable difference of it? Are you wearing your hair in a new way without warning me? I perceive a change clearly, and I cannot for the life of me say what it is.”
Then my wife answered in her most tragic33 voice, “George,” she said, “that William has not come near the place today! And Jane is crying her heart out upstairs.”
There followed a period of silence. Jane, as I have said, stopped singing about the house, and began to care for our brittle34 possessions, which struck my wife as being a very sad sign indeed. The next Sunday, and the next, Jane asked to go out, “to walk with William,” and my wife, who never attempts to extort35 confidences, gave her permission, and asked no questions. On each occasion Jane came back looking flushed and very determined36. At last one day she became communicative.
“William is being led away,” she remarked abruptly37, with a catching38 of the breath, apropos39 of tablecloths40. “Yes, m’m. She is a milliner, and she can play on the piano.”
“I thought,” said my wife, “that you went out with him on Sunday.”
“Not out with him, m’m — after him. I walked along by the side of them, and told her he was engaged to me.”
“Dear me, Jane, did you? What did they do?”
“Took no more notice of me than if I was dirt. So I told her she should suffer for it.”
“It could not have been a very agreeable walk, Jane.”
“Not for no parties, ma’am.”
“I wish,” said Jane, “I could play the piano, ma’am. But anyhow, I don’t mean to let her get him away from me. She’s older than him, and her hair ain’t gold to the roots, ma’am.”
It was on the August Bank Holiday that the crisis came. We do not clearly know the details of the fray41, but only such fragments as poor Jane let fall. She came home dusty, excited, and with her heart hot within her.
The milliner’s mother, the milliner, and William had made a party to the Art Museum at South Kensington, I think. Anyhow, Jane had calmly but firmly accosted42 them somewhere in the streets, and asserted her right to what, in spite of the consensus43 of literature, she held to be her inalienable property. She did, I think, go so far as to lay hands on him. They dealt with her in a crushingly superior way. They “called a cab.” There was a “scene,” William being pulled away into the four-wheeler by his future wife and mother-inlaw from the reluctant hands of our discarded Jane. There were threats of giving her “in charge.”
“My poor Jane!” said my wife, mincing44 veal45 as though she was mincing William. “It’s a shame of them. I would think no more of him. He is not worthy46 of you.”
“No, m’m,” said Jane. “He is weak.
“But it’s that woman has done it,” said Jane. She was never known to bring herself to pronounce “that woman’s” name or to admit her girlishness. “I can’t think what minds some women must have — to try and get a girl’s young man away from her. But there, it only hurts to talk about it,” said Jane.
Thereafter our house rested from William. But there was something in the manner of Jane’s scrubbing the front doorstep or sweeping47 out the rooms, a certain viciousness, that persuaded me that the story had not yet ended.
“Please, m’m, may I go and see a wedding tomorrow?” said Jane one day.
My wife knew by instinct whose wedding. “Do you think it is wise, Jane?” she said.
“I would like to see the last of him,” said Jane.
“My dear,” said my wife, fluttering into my room about twenty minutes after Jane had started, “Jane has been to the boot-hole and taken all the left-off boots and shoes, and gone off to the wedding with them in a bag. Surely she cannot mean —”
“Jane,” I said, “is developing character. Let us hope for the best.”
Jane came back with a pale, hard face. All the boots seemed to be still in her bag, at which my wife heaved a premature48 sigh of relief. We heard her go upstairs and replace the boots with considerable emphasis.
“Quite a crowd at the wedding, ma’am,” she said presently, in a purely49 conversational50 style, sitting in our little kitchen, and scrubbing the potatoes; “and such a lovely day for them.” She proceeded to numerous other details, clearly avoiding some cardinal51 incident.
“It was all extremely respectable and nice, ma’am; but her father didn’t wear a black coat, and looked quite out of place, ma’am. Mr. Piddingquirk —”
“Who?”
“Mr. Piddingquirk — William that was, ma’am — had white gloves, and a coat like a clergyman, and a lovely chrysanthemum52. He looked so nice, ma’am. And there was red carpet down, just like for gentlefolks. And they say he gave the clerk four shillings, ma’am. It was a real kerridge they had — not a fly. When they came out of church there was rice-throwing, and her two little sisters dropping dead flowers. And someone threw a slipper53, and then I threw a boot —”
“Threw a boot, Jane!”
“Yes, ma’am. Aimed at her. But it hit him. Yes, ma’am, hard. Gev him a black eye, I should think. I only threw that one. I hadn’t the heart to try again. All the little boys cheered when it hit him.”
After an interval54 —“I am sorry the boot hit him.”
Another pause. The potatoes were being scrubbed violently. “He always was a bit above me, you know, ma’am. And he was led away.”
The potatoes were more than finished. Jane rose sharply with a sigh, and rapped the basin down on the table.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I don’t care a rap. He will find out his mistake yet. It serves me right. I was stuck up about him. I ought not to have looked so high. And I am glad things are as things are.”
My wife was in the kitchen, seeing to the higher cookery. After the confession55 of the boot-throwing, she must have watched poor Jane fuming56 with a certain dismay in those brown eyes of hers. But I imagine they softened57 again very quickly, and then Jane’s must have met them.
“Oh, ma’am,” said Jane, with an astonishing change of note, “think of all that might have been! Oh, ma’am, I could have been so happy! I ought to have known, but I didn’t know . . . You’re very kind to let me talk to you, ma’am . . . for it’s hard on me, ma’am . . . it’s har-r-r-r-d —”
And I gather that Euphemia so far forgot herself as to let Jane sob58 out some of the fullness of her heart on a sympathetic shoulder. My Euphemia, thank Heaven, has never properly grasped the importance of “keeping up her position.” And since that fit of weeping, much of the accent of bitterness has gone out of Jane’s scrubbing and brush work.
Indeed, something passed the other day with the butcher-boy — but that scarcely belongs to this story. However, Jane is young still, and time and change are at work with her. We all have our sorrows, but I do not believe very much in the existence of sorrows that never heal.
收听单词发音 |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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amethystine
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| adj.紫水晶质的，紫色的；紫晶 | |
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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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vouched
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| v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate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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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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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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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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tablecloths
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| n.桌布，台布( tablecloth的名词复数 ) | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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consensus
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| n.(意见等的)一致，一致同意，共识 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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48
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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52
chrysanthemum
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| n.菊，菊花 | |
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53
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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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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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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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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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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