Concerning the Scrupulous2 Gentleman who Came Too Late
On the Saturday of his appointment Redworth arrived at Copsley, with a shade deeper of the calculating look under his thick brows, habitual3 to him latterly. He found Lady Dunstane at her desk, pen in hand, the paper untouched; and there was an appearance of trouble about her somewhat resembling his own, as he would have observed, had he been open-minded enough to notice anything, except that she was writing a letter. He begged her to continue it; he proposed to read a book till she was at leisure.
‘I have to write, and scarcely know how,’ said she, clearing her face to make the guest at home, and taking a chair by the fire, ‘I would rather chat for half an hour.’
She spoke5 of the weather, frosty, but tonic6; bad for the last days of hunting, good for the farmer and the country, let us hope.
Redworth nodded assent7. It might be surmised8 that he was brooding over those railways, in which he had embarked9 his fortune. Ah! those railways! She was not long coming to the wailful10 exclamation11 upon them, both to express her personal sorrow at the disfigurement of our dear England, and lead to a little, modest, offering of a woman’s counsel to the rash adventurer; for thus could she serviceably put aside her perplexity awhile. Those railways! When would there be peace in the land? Where one single nook of shelter and escape from them! And the English, blunt as their senses are to noise and hubbub12, would be revelling13 in hisses14, shrieks15, puffings and screeches16, so that travelling would become an intolerable affliction. ‘I speak rather as an invalid,’ she admitted; ‘I conjure17 up all sorts of horrors, the whistle in the night beneath one’s windows, and the smoke of trains defacing the landscape; hideous18 accidents too. They will be wholesale19 and past help. Imagine a collision! I have borne many changes with equanimity20, I pretend to a certain degree of philosophy, but this mania21 for cutting up the land does really cause me to pity those who are to follow us. They will not see the England we have seen. It will be patched and scored, disfigured... a sort of barbarous Maori visage—England in a New Zealand mask. You may call it the sentimental22 view. In this case, I am decidedly sentimental: I love my country. I do love quiet, rural England. Well, and I love beauty, I love simplicity24. All that will be destroyed by the refuse of the towns flooding the land—barring accidents, as Lukin says. There seems nothing else to save us.’
Redworth acquiesced25. ‘Nothing.’
‘And you do not regret it?’ he was asked.
‘Not a bit. We have already exchanged opinions on the subject. Simplicity must go, and the townsman meet his equal in the countryman. As for beauty, I would sacrifice that to circulate gumption26. A bushelful of nonsense is talked pro4 and con1: it always is at an innovation. What we are now doing, is to take a longer and a quicker stride, that is all.’
‘And establishing a new field for the speculator.’
‘Yes, and I am one, and this is the matter I wanted to discuss with you, Lady Dunstane,’ said Redworth, bending forward, the whole man devoted27 to the point of business.
She declared she was complimented; she felt the compliment, and trusted her advice might be useful, faintly remarking that she had a woman’s head: and ‘not less’ was implied as much as ‘not more,’ in order to give strength to her prospective28 opposition30.
All his money, she heard, was down on the railway table. He might within a year have a tolerable fortune: and, of course, he might be ruined. He did not expect it; still he fronted the risks. ‘And now,’ said he, ‘I come to you for counsel. I am not held among my acquaintances to be a marrying man, as it’s called.’
He paused. Lady Dunstane thought it an occasion to praise him for his considerateness.
‘You involve no one but yourself, you mean?’ Her eyes shed approval. ‘Still the day may come... I say only that it may: and the wish to marry is a rosy31 colouring... equal to a flying chariot in conducting us across difficulties and obstructions32 to the deed. And then one may have to regret a previous rashness.’
These practical men are sometimes obtuse33: she dwelt on that vision of the future.
He listened, and resumed: ‘My view of marriage is, that no man should ask a woman to be his wife unless he is well able to support her in the comforts, not to say luxuries, she is accustomed to.’ His gaze had wandered to the desk; it fixed34 there. ‘That is Miss Merion’s writing,’ he said.
‘The letter?’ said Lady Dunstane, and she stretched out her hand to press down a leaf of it. ‘Yes; it is from her.’
‘Is she quite well?’
‘I suppose she is. She does not speak of her health.’
He looked pertinaciously35 in the direction of the letter, and it was not rightly mannered. That letter, of all others, was covert37 and sacred to the friend. It contained the weightiest of secrets.
‘I have not written to her,’ said Redworth.
He was astonishing: ‘To whom? To Diana? You could very well have done so, only I fancy she knows nothing, has never given a thought to railway stocks and shares; she has a loathing38 for speculation39.’
‘And speculators too, I dare say!’
‘It is extremely probable.’ Lady Dunstane spoke with an emphasis, for the man liked Diana, and would be moved by the idea of forfeiting40 her esteem41.
‘She might blame me if I did anything dishonourable!’
‘She certainly would.’
‘She will have no cause.’
Lady Dunstane began to look, as at a cloud charged with remote explosions: and still for the moment she was unsuspecting. But it was a flitting moment. When he went on, and very singularly droning to her ear: ‘The more a man loves a woman, the more he should be positive, before asking her, that she will not have to consent to a loss of position, and I would rather lose her than fail to give her all—not be sure, as far as a man can be sure, of giving her all I think she’s worthy42 of’: then the cloud shot a lightning flash, and the doors of her understanding swung wide to the entry of a great wonderment. A shock of pain succeeded it. Her sympathy was roused so acutely that she slipped over the reflective rebuke43 she would have addressed to her silly delusion44 concerning his purpose in speaking of his affairs to a woman. Though he did not mention Diana by name, Diana was clearly the person. And why had he delayed to speak to her?—Because of this venture of his money to make him a fortune, for the assurance of her future comfort! Here was the best of men for the girl, not displeasing45 to her; a good, strong, trustworthy man, pleasant to hear and to see, only erring46 in being a trifle too scrupulous in love: and a fortnight back she would have imagined he had no chance; and now she knew that the chance was excellent in those days, with this revelation in Diana’s letter, which said that all chance was over.
‘The courtship of a woman,’ he droned away, ‘is in my mind not fair to her until a man has to the full enough to sanction his asking her to marry him. And if he throws all he possesses on a stake... to win her—give her what she has a right to claim, he ought.... Only at present the prospect29 seems good.... He ought of course to wait. Well, the value of the stock I hold has doubled, and it increases. I am a careful watcher of the market. I have friends—brokers and railway Directors. I can rely on them.’
‘Pray,’ interposed Lady Dunstane, ‘specify—I am rather in a mist—the exact point upon which you do me the honour to consult me.’ She ridiculed47 herself for having imagined that such a man would come to consult her upon a point of business.
‘It is,’ he replied, ‘this: whether, as affairs now stand with me—I have an income from my office, and personal property... say between thirteen and fourteen hundred a year to start with—whether you think me justified48 in asking a lady to share my lot?’
‘Why not? But will you name the lady?’
‘Then I may write at once? In your judgement.... Yes, the lady. I have not named her. I had no right. Besides, the general question first, in fairness to the petitioner49. You might reasonably stipulate50 for more for a friend. She could make a match, as you have said...’ he muttered of ‘brilliant,’ and ‘the highest’; and his humbleness51 of the honest man enamoured touched Lady Dunstane. She saw him now as the man of strength that she would have selected from a thousand suitors to guide her dear friend.
She caught at a straw: ‘Tell me, it is not Diana?’
‘Diana Merion!’
As soon as he had said it he perceived pity, and he drew himself tight for the stroke. ‘She’s in love with some one?’
‘She is engaged.’
He bore it well. He was a big-chested fellow, and that excruciating twist within of the revolution of the wheels of the brain snapping their course to grind the contrary to that of the heart, was revealed in one short lift and gasp52, a compression of the tremendous change he underwent.
‘Why did you not speak before?’ said Lady Dunstane. Her words were tremulous.
‘I should have had no justification53!’
‘You might have won her!’ She could have wept; her sympathy and her self-condolence under disappointment at Diana’s conduct joined to swell54 the feminine flood.
The poor fellow’s quick breathing and blinking reminded her of cruelty in a retrospect55. She generalized, to ease her spirit of regret, by hinting it without hurting: ‘Women really are not puppets. They are not so excessively luxurious56. It is good for young women in the early days of marriage to rough it a little.’ She found herself droning, as he had done.
He had ears for nothing but the fact.
‘Then I am too late!’
‘I have heard it today.’
‘She is engaged! Positively57?’
Lady Dunstane glanced backward at the letter on her desk. She had to answer the strangest of letters that had ever come to her, and it was from her dear Tony, the baldest intimation of the weightiest piece of intelligence which a woman can communicate to her heart’s friend. The task of answering it was now doubled. ‘I fear so, I fancy so,’ she said, and she longed to cast eye over the letter again, to see if there might possibly be a loophole behind the lines.
‘Then I must make my mind up to it,’ said Redworth. ‘I think I’ll take a walk.’
She smiled kindly58. ‘It will be our secret.’
‘I thank you with all my heart, Lady Dunstane.’
He was not a weaver59 of phrases in distress60. His blunt reserve was eloquent61 of it to her, and she liked him the better; could have thanked him, too, for leaving her promptly62.
When she was alone she took in the contents of the letter at a hasty glimpse. It was of one paragraph, and fired its shot like a cannon63 with the muzzle64 at her breast:—
‘MY OWN EMMY,—I have been asked in marriage by Mr. Warwick, and have accepted him. Signify your approval, for I have decided23 that it is the wisest thing a waif can do. We are to live at The Crossways for four months of the year, so I shall have Dada in his best days and all my youngest dreams, my sunrise and morning dew, surrounding me; my old home for my new one. I write in haste, to you first, burning to hear from you. Send your blessing65 to yours in life and death, through all transformations66,
‘TONY.’
That was all. Not a word of the lover about to be decorated with the title of husband. No confession67 of love, nor a single supplicating68 word to her friend, in excuse for the abrupt69 decision to so grave a step. Her previous description of, him, as a ‘gentlemanly official’ in his appearance, conjured71 him up most distastefully. True, she might have made a more lamentable72 choice; a silly lordling, or a hero of scandals; but if a gentlemanly official was of stabler mould, he failed to harmonize quite so well with the idea of a creature like Tony. Perhaps Mr. Redworth also failed in something. Where was the man fitly to mate her! Mr. Redworth, however, was manly70 and trustworthy, of the finest Saxon type in build and in character. He had great qualities, and his excess of scrupulousness73 was most pitiable.
She read: ‘The wisest thing a waif can do.’ It bore a sound of desperation. Avowedly74 Tony had accepted him without being in love. Or was she masking the passion? No: had it been a case of love, she would have written very differently to her friend.
Lady Dunstane controlled the pricking75 of the wound inflicted76 by Diana’s novel exercise in laconics where the fullest flow was due to tenderness, and despatched felicitations upon the text of the initial line: ‘Wonders are always happening.’ She wrote to hide vexation beneath surprise; naturally betraying it. ‘I must hope and pray that you have not been precipitate77.’ Her curiosity to inspect the happiest of men, the most genuine part of her letter, was expressed coldly.
When she had finished the composition she perused78 it, and did not recognize herself in her language, though she had been so guarded to cover the wound her Tony dealt their friendship—in some degree injuring their sex. For it might now, after such an example, verily seem that women are incapable79 of a translucent80 perfect confidence: their impulses, caprices, desperations, tricks of concealment81, trip a heart-whole friendship. Well, tomorrow, if not today, the tripping may be expected! Lady Dunstane resigned herself sadly to a lowered view of her Tony’s character. This was her unconscious act of reprisal82. Her brilliant beloved Tony, dazzling but in beauty and the gifted mind, stood as one essentially83 with the common order of women. She wished to be settled, Mr. Warwick proposed, and for the sake of living at The Crossways she accepted him—she, the lofty scorner of loveless marriages! who had said—how many times! that nothing save love excused it! She degraded their mutual84 high standard of womankind. Diana was in eclipse, full three parts. The bulk of the gentlemanly official she had chosen obscured her. But I have written very carefully, thought Lady Dunstane, dropping her answer into the post-bag. She had, indeed, been so care ful, that to cloak her feelings, she had written as another person. Women with otiose85 husbands have a task to preserve friendship.
Redworth carried his burden through the frosty air at a pace to melt icicles in Greenland. He walked unthinkingly, right ahead, to the red West, as he discovered when pausing to consult his watch. Time was left to return at the same pace and dress for dinner; he swung round and picked up remembrances of sensations he had strewn by the way. She knew these woods; he was walking in her footprints; she was engaged to be married. Yes, his principle, never to ask a woman to marry him, never to court her, without bank-book assurance of his ability to support her in cordial comfort, was right. He maintained it, and owned himself a donkey for having stuck to it. Between him and his excellent principle there was war, without the slightest division. Warned of the danger of losing her, he would have done the same again, confessing himself donkey for his pains. The principle was right, because it was due to the woman. His rigid86 adherence87 to the principle set him belabouring his donkey-ribs, as the proper due to himself. For he might have had a chance, all through two Winters. The opportunities had been numberless. Here, in this beech88 wood; near that thornbush; on the juniper slope; from the corner of chalk and sand in junction89, to the corner of clay and chalk; all the length of the wooded ridge90 he had reminders91 of her presence and his priceless chances: and still the standard of his conduct said No, while his heart bled.
He felt that a chance had been. More sagacious than Lady Dunstane, from his not nursing a wound, he divined in the abruptness92 of Diana’s resolution to accept a suitor, a sober reason, and a fitting one, for the wish that she might be settled. And had he spoken!—If he had spoken to her, she might have given her hand to him, to a dishonourable brute93! A blissful brute. But a worse than donkey. Yes, his principle was right, and he lashed94 with it, and prodded95 with it, drove himself out into the sour wilds where bachelordom crops noxious96 weeds without a hallowing luminary97, and clung to it, bruised98 and bleeding though he was.
The gentleness of Lady Dunstane soothed99 him during the term of a visit that was rather like purgatory100 sweetened by angelical tears. He was glad to go, wretched in having gone. She diverted the incessant101 conflict between his insubordinate self and his castigating102, but avowedly sovereign, principle. Away from her, he was the victim of a flagellation so dire36 that it almost drove him to revolt against the lord he served, and somehow the many memories at Copsley kept him away. Sir Lukin, when speaking of Diana’s ‘engagement to that fellow Warwick,’ exalted103 her with an extraordinary enthusiasm, exceedingly hard for the silly beast who had lost her to bear. For the present the place dearest to Redworth of all places on earth was unendurable.
Meanwhile the value of railway investments rose in the market, fast as asparagus-heads for cutting: a circumstance that added stings to reflection. Had he been only a little bolder, a little less the fanatical devotee of his rule of masculine honour, less the slave to the letter of success.... But why reflect at all? Here was a goodly income approaching, perhaps a seat in Parliament; a station for the airing of his opinions—and a social status for the wife now denied to him. The wife was denied to him; he could conceive of no other. The tyrant-ridden, reticent104, tenacious105 creature had thoroughly106 wedded107 her in mind; her view of things had a throne beside his own, even in their differences. He perceived, agreeing or disagreeing, the motions of her brain, as he did with none other of women; and this it is which stamps character on her, divides her from them, upraises and enspheres. He declined to live with any other of the sex.
Before he could hear of the sort of man Mr. Warwick was—a perpetual object of his quest—the bridal bells had rung, and Diana Antonia Merion lost her maiden108 name. She became the Mrs. Warwick of our footballing world.
Why she married, she never told. Possibly, in amazement109 at herself subsequently, she forgot the specific reason. That which weighs heavily in youth, and commits us to desperate action, will be a trifle under older eyes, to blunter senses, a more enlightened understanding. Her friend Emma probed for the reason vainly. It was partly revealed to Redworth, by guess-work and a putting together of pieces, yet quite luminously110, as it were by touch of tentacle-feelers—one evening that he passed with Sir Lukin Dunstane, when the lachrymose111 exdragoon and son of Idlesse, had rather more than dined.
收听单词发音 |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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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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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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wailful
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| adj.悲叹的，哀悼的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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screeches
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| n.尖锐的声音( screech的名词复数 )v.发出尖叫声( screech的第三人称单数 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gumption
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| n.才干 | |
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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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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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forfeiting
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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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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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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petitioner
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| n.请愿人 | |
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stipulate
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| vt.规定，（作为条件）讲定，保证 | |
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humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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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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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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weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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transformations
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| n.变化( transformation的名词复数 )；转换；转换；变换 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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scrupulousness
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| n.一丝不苟；小心翼翼 | |
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avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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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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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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reprisal
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| n.报复，报仇，报复性劫掠 | |
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83
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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otiose
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| adj.无效的，没有用的 | |
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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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adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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luminary
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| n.名人，天体 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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101
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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102
castigating
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| v.严厉责骂、批评或惩罚（某人）( castigate的现在分词 ) | |
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103
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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104
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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105
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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106
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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107
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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109
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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110
luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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111
lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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