The jubilation1 of George at the turn events had taken may perhaps be more easily imagined than described. There is generally one weak point about all artful schemes to keep other people out of their rights; they break down over some unforeseen detail, or through the neglect of some trivial and obvious precaution. But this was one of the glorious instances to the contrary that prove the rule. Nothing had broken down, everything had prospered2 as a holy cause always should, and does — in theory. The stars in their courses had fought for Sisera, everything had succeeded beyond expectation, nothing had failed. In the gratitude3 of his heart, George would willingly have given a thousand pounds towards the establishment of a training-school for anonymous4 letter-writers, or the erection of a statue to Hilda Caresfoot, whose outraged5 pride and womanly jealousy6 had done him such yeoman service.
Speaking seriously, he had great cause for rejoicing. Instead of a comparatively slender younger son’s portion, he had stepped into a fine and unencumbered property of over five thousand a year, and that in the heyday7 of his youth, when in the full possession of all his capacities for enjoyment8, which were large indeed. Henceforth everything that money could buy would be his, including the respect and flattery of his poorer neighbours. An added flavour too was given to the overflowing9 cup of his good fortune by the fact that it had been wrenched10 from the hands of the cousin whom he hated, and on whom he had from a boy sworn to be avenged11. Poor Philip! bankrupt in honour and broken in fortune, he could afford to pity him now, to pity him ostentatiously and in public. He was open-handed with his pity was George. Nor did he lack a sympathizer in these delicious moments of unexpected triumph.
“Did I not tell you,” said Mrs. Bellamy, in her full, rich tones, on the afternoon of the reading of the will —“did I not tell you that, if you would consent to be guided by me, I would pull you through, and have I not pulled you through? Never misdoubt my judgment12 again, my dear George; it is infinitely13 sounder than your own.”
“You did, Anne, you certainly did; you are a charming woman, and as clever as you are charming.”
“Compliments are all very well, and I am sure I appreciate yours”— and she gave a little curtsey —“at their proper value; but I must remind you, George, that I have done my part of the bargain, and that now you must do yours.”
“Oh! that’s all right; Bellamy shall have the agency and two hundred a year with it, and, to show you that I have not forgotten you, perhaps you will accept this in memorial of our joint14 achievement;” and he drew from his pocket and opened a case containing a superb set of sapphires15.
Mrs. Bellamy had all a beautiful woman’s love for jewels, and especially adored sapphires.
“Oh!” she said, clasping her hands, “thank you, George; they are perfectly17 lovely!”
“Perhaps,” he replied, politely; “but not half so lovely as their wearer. I wonder,” he added, with a little laugh, “what the old boy would say, if he could know that a thousand pounds of his personalty had gone by anticipation18 to buy a necklace for Anne Bellamy.”
To this remark she made no reply, being apparently19 absorbed in her own thoughts. At last she spoke20.
“I don’t want to seem ungracious, George, but these”— and she touched the jewels —“were not the reward I expected: I want the letters you promised me back.”
“My dear Anne, you are under a mistake, I never promised you the letters; I said that, under the circumstances, I might possibly restore them — a very different thing from promising21.”
Mrs. Bellamy flushed a little, and the great pupils of her sleepy eyes contracted till she looked quite dangerous.
“Then I must have strangely misunderstood you,” she said.
“What do you want the letters for? Can’t you trust me with them?”
“Don’t you think, George, that if you had passed through something very terrible, you would like to have all the mementoes of that dark time destroyed? Those letters are the record of my terrible time; nothing remains22 of it but those written lines. I want to burn them, to stamp them into powder, to obliterate23 them as I have obliterated24 all the past. Whilst they exist I can never feel safe. Supposing you were to turn traitor25 to me and let those letters fall into the hands of others, supposing that you lost them, I should be a ruined woman. I speak frankly26, you see; I fully27 appreciate my danger, principally because I know that, the more intimate a man and woman have been, the more chance there is of their becoming bitter enemies. George, give me those letters; do not overcloud my future with the shadows of the past.”
“You talk as well as you do everything else, Anne; you are really a very remarkable28 woman. But, curiously29 enough, those letters, the existence of which is so obnoxious30 to you, are to me a source of great interest. You know that I love to study character — curious occupation for a young man, isn’t it?— but I do. Well, in my small experience, I have never yet, either in fiction or in real life, come across such a fascinating display as is reflected in those letters. There I can, and often do, trace in minutest detail the agony of a strong mind, can see the barriers of what people call religion, early training, self-respect, and other curiosities which we name virtues31, bursting away one by one under pressure, like the water-tight bulkheads they put in passenger steamers, till at length the work is done; the moral ship sinks, and the writer stands revealed what you are, my dear Anne, the loveliest, the cleverest, and the most utterly32 unscrupulous woman in the three kingdoms.”
She rose very quietly, but quite white with passion, and answered in her low voice —
“Whatever I am you made me, and you are a devil, George Caresfoot, or you could not take pleasure in the tortures you inflicted33 before you destroyed. But, don’t go too far, or you may regret it. Am I a woman to be played with? I think that you have trained me too well.”
He laughed a little uneasily.
“There, you see; grattez le Russe, &c., and out comes the true character. Look at your face in the glass; it is magnificent, but not pleasant; rather dangerous, indeed. Why, Anne, do be reasonable; if I gave you those letters, I should never be able to sleep in peace. For the sake of my own safety I dare not abandon the whip-hand I have of you. Remember you could, if you chose, say some unpleasant things about me, and I don’t want that any more than you do just now. But, you see, whilst I hold in my power what would, if necessary, effectually ruin you, and probably Bellamy too — for this country society is absurdly prejudiced — I have little cause for fear. Perhaps in the future you may be able to render me some service for which you shall have the letters — who knows? You see I am perfectly frank with you, for the simple reason that I know that it is useless to try to conceal34 my thoughts from a person of your perception.”
“Well, well, perhaps you are right: it is difficult to trust oneself, much less any one else. At any rate,” she said, with a bitter smile, “you have given me Bellamy, a start in society, and a sapphire16 necklace. In twenty years, I hope, if the fates are kind, to have lost Bellamy on the road — he is really unendurable — to rule society, and to have as many sapphire necklaces and other fine things as I care for. In enumerating35 my qualities, you omitted one, ambition.”
“With your looks, your determination, and your brains, there is nothing that you will not be able to do if you set your mind to it, and don’t make an enemy of your devoted36 friend.”
And thus the conversation ended.
Now little Bellamy had, after much anxious thought, just about this time come to a bold determination — namely, to asset his marital37 authority over Mrs. Bellamy. Indeed, his self-pride was much injured by the treatment he received at his wife’s hands, for it seemed to him that he was utterly ignored in his own house. In fact, it would not be too much to say that he was an entire nonentity38. He had married Mrs. Bellamy for love, or rather from fascination39, though she had nothing in the world — married her in a fortnight from the time that George had first introduced him. When he had walked out of church with his beautiful bride, he had thought himself the luckiest man in London, whereas now he could not but feel that matrimony had not fulfilled his expectations. In the first place, Love’s young dream — he was barely thirty — came to a rude awakening40, for, once married, it was impossible — though he had, in common with the majority of little men, a tolerably good opinion of himself — but that he should perceive that his wife did not care one brass41 farthing about him. To his soft advances she was as cold as a marble statue, the lovely eyes never grew tender for him. Indeed, he found that she was worse than a statue, for statues cannot indulge in bitter mockery and contemptuous comments, and Mrs. Bellamy could, and, what is more, frequently did.
“It is very well,” reflected her husband, “to marry the loveliest woman in the county, but I don’t see the use of it if she treats one like a dog.”
At last this state of affairs had grown intolerable, and, meditating42 in the solitude43 of his office, Mr. Bellamy resolved to assert himself once and for all, and set matters on a proper footing, and Mrs. Bellamy in her place. But it is one thing for husbands of the Bellamy stamp to form high-stomached resolutions, and another for them to put those resolutions into active and visible operation on wives of the Mrs. Bellamy stamp. Indeed, had it not been for a little incident about to be detailed44, it is doubtful if Mr. Bellamy would have ever come to the scratch at all.
When George had gone, Mrs. Bellamy sat down in by no means the sweetest of tempers to think. But thinking in this instance proved an unprofitable occupation, and she gave it up, in order to admire the sapphire necklace that lay upon her knee. At that moment her husband entered the room, but she took no notice, merely going on examining the stones. After moving about a little, as though to attract attention, the gentleman spoke.
“I have managed to get home to lunch, my dear.”
“Indeed.
“Well, you might take a little notice of me.”
“Why? Is there anything remarkable about you this morning?”
“No, there is not; but, remarkable or not, a man who has been fool enough”— Mr. Bellamy laid great emphasis on the word “fool”—“to get married has a right to expect when he comes into his own house that he will have a little notice taken of him, and not be as completely overlooked as — as though he were a tub of butter in a grocer’s shop;” and he pugged out his chest, rubbed his hands, and looked defiant45.
The lady laid her head back on the chair, and laughed with exquisite46 enjoyment.
“Really, my dear John, you will kill me,” she said at length.
“May I ask,” he replied, looking as though there was nothing in the world that he would like better, “what you are laughing at?”
“Your slightly vulgar but happy simile47; it is easy to see where you draw your inspiration from. If you had only said butterine, inferior butter, you know, the counterfeit48 article, it would have been perfect.”
Her husband gave a glance at his tubby little figure in the glass.
“Am I to understand that you refer to me as ‘butterine,’ Mrs. Bellamy?”
“Oh! certainly yes, if you like; but, butter or not, you will melt if you lose your temper so.”
“I have not lost my temper, madam; I am perfectly cool,” he replied, positively49 gasping50 with fury. Here his eye fell upon the necklace. “What necklace is that? who gave you that necklace? I demand to know.”
“You demand to know! Be careful what you say, please. Mr. George Caresfoot gave me the necklace. It cost a thousand pounds. Are you satisfied?”
“No, I am not satisfied; I will not have that cursed George Caresfoot continually here. I will send him back his necklace. I will assert my rights as an Englishman and a spouse51, I will ——”
“You will sit down and listen to me.”
The tone of the voice checked his absurd linguistic52 and physical capers53, and caused him to look at his wife. She was standing54 and pointing to a chair. Her face was calm and immovable, only her eyes appeared to expand and contract with startling rapidity. One glance was enough for Bellamy. He felt frightened, and sat down in the indicated chair.
“That’s right,” she said, pleasantly; “now we can have a cosy55 chat. John, you are a lawyer, and therefore, I suppose, more or less a man of the world. Now, as a lawyer and a man of the world, I ask you to look at me and then at yourself, and say if you think it likely or even possible that I married you for love. To be frank, I did nothing of the sort; I married you because you were the person most suited to my purpose. If you will only understand that it will save us both a great deal of trouble. As for your talk about asserting yourself and exercising your authority, it is simple nonsense. You are very well in your way, my dear John, and a fair attorney, but do you suppose for one moment that you are capable of matching yourself against me? If so, you make a shocking mistake. Be advised, and do not try the experiment. But don’t think that the bargain is all my side — it is not. If you will behave yourself properly and be guided by my advice, I will make you one of the richest and most powerful men in the county. If you will not, I shall shake myself free of you as soon as I am strong enough. Rise I must and will, and if you will not rise with me, I will rise alone. As regards your complaints of my not caring about you, the world is wide, my dear John; console yourself elsewhere. I shall not be jealous. And now I think I have explained everything. It is so much more satisfactory to have a clear understanding. Come, shall we go to lunch?”
But Bellamy wanted no lunch that day.
“After all,” he soliloquized to himself, between the pangs56 of a racking headache brought on by his outburst of temper, “time sometimes brings its revenges, and, if it does, you may look out, Mrs. Bellamy.”
收听单词发音 |
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jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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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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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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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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sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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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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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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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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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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enumerating
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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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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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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linguistic
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| adj.语言的，语言学的 | |
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capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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