JULIA took Mr. Hardie’s note and read it:—
“MADAM — I have received a very juvenile1 letter from my son, by which I learn he has formed a sudden attachment2 to your daughter. He tells me, however, at the same time, that you await my concurrence3 before giving your consent. I appreciate your delicacy4; and it is with considerable regret I now write to inform you this match is out of the question. I have thought it due to you to communicate this to yourself and without delay, and feel sure that you will, under the circumstances, discountenance my son’s further visits at your house — I am, Madam, with sincere respect, your faithful servant,
“RICHARD HARDIE.”
Julia read this letter, and reread it in silence. It was an anxious moment to the mother.
“Shall our pride be less than this parvenu’s?” she faltered5. “Tell me yourself, what ought we to do?”
“What we ought to do is, never to let the name of Hardie be mentioned again in this house.”
This reply was very comforting to Mrs. Dodd.
“Shall I write to him, or do you feel strong enough?”
“I feel that, if I do, I may affront6 him. He had no right to pretend that his father would consent. You write, and then we shall not lose our dignity though we are insulted.”
“I feel so weary, mamma. Life seems ended.
“I could have loved him well. And now show me how to tear him out of my heart; or what will become of me?”
While Mrs. Dodd wrote to Alfred Hardie, Julia sank down and laid her head on her mother’s knees. The note was shown her; she approved it languidly. A long and sad conversation followed; and, after kissing her mother and clinging to her, she went to bed chilly7 and listless, but did not shed a single tear. Her young heart was benumbed by the unexpected blow.
Next morning early, Alfred Hardie started gaily8 to spend the day at Albion Villa9. Not a hundred yards from the gate he met Sarah, with Mrs. Dodd’s letter, enclosing a copy of his father’s to her. Mrs. Dodd here reminded him that his visits had been encouraged only upon a misapprehension of his father’s sentiments; for which misapprehension he was in some degree to blame: not that she meant to reproach him on that score, especially at this unhappy moment: no, she rather blamed herself for listening to the sanguine10 voice of youth; but the error must now be repaired. She and Julia would always wish him well, and esteem11 him, provided he made no further attempt to compromise a young lady who could not be his wife. The note concluded thus —
“Individually I think I have some right to count on your honourable12 feeling to hold no communication with my daughter, and not in any way to attract her attention, under the present circumstances. — I am, dear Mr. Alfred Hardie, with many regrets at the pain I fear I am giving you, your sincere friend and well-wisher,
“LUCY DODD.”
Alfred on reading this letter literally13 staggered: but proud and sensitive, as well as loving, he manned himself to hide his wound from Sarah, whose black eyes were bent14 on him in merciless scrutiny15. He said doggedly16, though tremulously, “Very well!” then turned quickly on his heel, and went slowly home. Mrs. Dodd, with well-feigned indifference17, questioned Sarah privately18: the girl’s account of the abrupt19 way in which he had received the missive added to her anxiety. She warned the servants that no one was at home to Mr. Alfred Hardie.
Two days elapsed, and then she received a letter from him. Poor fellow, it was the eleventh. He had written and torn up ten.
“DEAR MRS. DODD — I have gained some victories in my life; but not one without two defeats to begin with; how then can I expect to obtain such a prize as dear Julia without a check or two? You need not fear that I shall intrude20 after your appeal to me as a gentleman: but I am not going to give in because my father has written a hasty letter from Yorkshire. He and I must have many a talk face to face before I consent to be miserable21 for life. Dear Mrs. Dodd, at first receipt of your cruel letter, so kindly22 worded, I was broken-hearted; but now I am myself again: difficulties are made for ladies to yield to, and for men to conquer. Only for pity’s sake do not you be my enemy; do not set her against me for my father’s fault. Think, if you can, how my heart bleeds at closing this letter without one word to her I love better, a thousand times better, than my life — I am, dear Mrs. Dodd, yours sorrowfully, but not despairing,
“ALFRED HARDIE.”
Mrs. Dodd kept this letter to herself. She could not read it quite unmoved, and therefore she felt sure it would disturb her daughter’s heart the more.
Alfred had now a soft but dangerous antagonist23 in Mrs. Dodd. All the mother was in arms to secure her daughter’s happiness, coute qu’il coute! and the surest course seemed to be to detach her affections from Alfred. What hope of a peaceful heart without this? and what real happiness without peace? But, too wise and calm to interfere24 blindly, she watched her daughter day and night, to find whether Love or Pride was the stronger, and this is what she observed —
Julia never mentioned Alfred. She sought occupation eagerly: came oftener than usual for money, saying, it was for “Luxury.” She visited the poor more constantly, taking one of the maids with her, at Mrs. Dodd’s request. She studied Logic25 with Edward. She went to bed rather early, fatigued26, it would appear, by her activity: and she gave the clue to her own conduct one day: “Mamma,” said she, nobody is downright unhappy who is good.”
Mrs. Dodd noticed also a certain wildness and almost violence, with which she threw herself into her occupations, and a worn look about the eyes that told of a hidden conflict. On the whole Mrs. Dodd was hopeful; for she had never imagined the cure would be speedy or easy. To see her child on the right road was much. Only the great healer Time could “medicine her to that sweet peace which once she owned;” and even Time cannot give her back her childhood, thought the mother, with a sigh.
One day came an invitation to an evening party at a house where they always wound up with dancing. Mrs. Dodd was for declining as usual for since that night Julia had shunned27 parties. “Give me the sorrows of the poor and afflicted,” was her cry; “the gaiety of the hollow world jars me more than I can bear.” But now she caught with a sort of eagerness at this invitation. “Accept. They shall not say I am wearing the willow28.”
“My brave girl,” said Mrs. Dodd joyfully29, “I would not press it; but you are right; we owe it to ourselves to outface scandal. Still, let there be no precipitation; we must not undertake beyond our strength.”
“Try me to-night,” said Julia; “you don’t know what I can do. I dare say he is not pining for me.”
She was the life and soul of the party, and, indeed, so feverishly30 brilliant, that Mrs. Dodd said softly to her, “Gently, love; moderate your spirits, or they will deceive our friends as little as they do me.”
Meantime it cost Alfred Hardie a severe struggle to keep altogether aloof31 from Julia. In fact, it was a state of daily self-denial, to which he would never have committed himself, but that he was quite sure he could gradually win his father over. At his age we are apt to count without our antagonist.
Mr. Richard Hardie was “a long-headed man.” He knew the consequence of giving one’s reasons: eternal discussion ending in war. He had taken care not to give any to Mrs. Dodd, and he was as guarded and reserved with Alfred. The young man begged to know the why and the wherefore, and being repulsed32, employed all his art to elicit33 them by surprise, or get at them by inference: but all in vain. Hardie senior was impenetrable; and inquiry34, petulance35, tenderness, logic, were all shattered on him as the waves break on Ailsa Craig.
Thus began dissension, decently conducted at first, between a father indulgent hitherto and an affectionate son.
In this unfortunate collision of two strong and kindred natures, every advantage was at present on the father’s side: age, experience, authority, resolution, hidden and powerful motives36, to which my reader even has no clue as yet; a purpose immutable37 and concealed38. Add to these a colder nature and a far colder affection; for Alfred loved his father dearly.
At last, one day, the impetuous one lost his self-command, and said he was a son, not a slave, and had little respect for Authority when afraid or ashamed to appeal to Reason. Hardie senior turned on him with a gravity and dignity no man could wear more naturally. “Alfred, have I been an unkind father to you all these years?”
“Oh no, father, no; I have said nothing that can be so construed39. And that is the mystery to me; you are acting40 quite out of character.”
“Have I been one of those interfering41, pragmatical fathers who cannot let their children enjoy themselves their own way?”
“No, sir; you have never interfered42, except to pay for anything I wanted.”
“Then make the one return in your power, young man: have a little faith in such a father, and believe that he does not interfere now but for your good, and under a stern necessity; and that when he does interfere for once, and say, ‘This thing shall not be,’ it shall not be-by Heaven!”
Alfred was overpowered by the weight and solemnity of this. Sorrow, vexation, and despondency all rushed into his heart together, and unmanned him for a moment; he buried his face in his hands, and something very like a sob43 burst from his young heart. At this Hardie senior took up the newspaper with imperturbable44 coldness, and wore a slight curl of the lip. All this was hardly genuine, for he was not altogether unmoved; but he was a man of rare self-command, and chose to impress on Alfred that he was no more to be broken or melted than a mere45 rock.
It is always precarious46 to act a part; and this cynicism was rather able than wise: Alfred looked up and watched him keenly as he read the monetary47 article with tranquil48 interest; and then, for the first time in his life, it flashed into the young man’s mind that his father was not a father. “I never knew him till now,” thought he. “This man is [Greek text].”6
6 Without bowels49 of affection.
Thus a gesture, so to speak, sowed the first seed of downright disunion in Richard Hardie’s house — disunion, a fast-growing plant, when men set it in the soil of the passions.
Alfred, unlike Julia, had no panacea50. Had any lips, except perhaps hers, told him that “to be good is to be happy here below,” he would have replied: “Negatur; contradicted by daily experience.” It never occurred to him, therefore, to go out of himself, and sympathise with the sordid51 sorrows of the poor, and their bottomless egotism in contact with the well-to-do. He brooded on his own love, and his own unhappiness, and his own father’s cruelty. His nights were sleepless52 and his days leaden. He tried hard to read for his first class, but for once even ambition failed: it ended in flinging books away in despair. He wandered about dreaming and moping for some change, and bitterly regretting his excessive delicacy, which had tied his own hands and brought him to a stand-still. He lost his colour and what little flesh he had to lose; for such young spirits as this are never plump. In a word, being now strait-jacketed into feminine inactivity, while void of feminine patience, his ardent53 heart was pining and fretting54 itself out. He was in this condition, when one day Peterson, his Oxonian friend, burst in on him open-mouthed with delight, and, as usual with bright spirits of this calibre, did not even notice his friend’s sadness. “Cupid had clapped him on the shoulder,” as Shakespeare hath it; and it was a deal nicer than the bum-bailiff rheumatism55.
“Oh, such a divine creature! Met her twice; you know her by sight; her name is Dodd. But I don’t care; it shall be Peterson; the rose by any other name, &c.” Then followed a rapturous description of the lady’s person, well worth omitting. “And such a jolly girl! brightens them all up wherever she goes; and such a dancer; did the cachouka with a little Spanish bloke Bosanquet has got hold of, and made his black bolus eyes twinkle like midnight cigars: danced it with castanets, and smiles, and such a what d’ye call ’em, my boy, you know; such a ‘go.’”
“You mean such an ‘abandon,’” groaned56 Alfred, turning sick at heart.
“That’s the word. Twice the spirit of Duvernay, and ten times the beauty. But just you hear her sing, that is all; Italian, French, German, English even.”
“Plaintive songs?”
“Oh, whatever they ask for. Make you laugh or make you cry to order; never says no. Just smiles and sits down to the music-box. Only she won’t sing two running: they have to stick a duffer in between. I shall meet her again next week; will you come? Any friend of mine is welcome. Wish me joy, old fellow; I’m a gone coon.”
This news put Alfred in a phrensy of indignation and fear. Julia dancing the cachouka! Julia a jolly girl! Julia singing songs pathetic or merry, whichever were asked for! The heartless one! He called to mind all he had read in the classics, and elsewhere, about the fickleness57 of woman. But this impression did not last long; he recalled Julia’s character, and all the signs of a love tender and true she had given him. He read her by himself, and, lover-like, laid all the blame on another. It was all her cold-blooded mother. “Fool that I have been. I see it all now. She appeals to my delicacy to keep away; then she goes to Julia and says, ‘See, he deserts you at a word from his father. Be proud, be gay! He never loved you; marry another.’ The shallow plotter forgets that whoever she does marry I’ll kill. How many unsuspicious girls have these double-faced mothers deluded58 so? They do it in half the novels, especially in those written by women; and why? because these know the perfidy59 and mendacity of their sex better than we do; they see them nearer, and with their souls undrest. War, Mrs. Dodd! war to the death! From this moment I am alone in the world with her. I have no friend but Alfred Hardie: and my bitterest enemies are my cold-blooded father and her cold-blooded mother.”
The above sentences, of course, were never uttered. But they represent his thoughts accurately60, though in a condensed form, and are, as it were, a miniature of this young heart boiling over.
From that moment he lay in wait for her, and hovered61 about the house day and night, determined62 to appeal to her personally, and undeceive her, and baffle her mother’s treachery. But at this game he was soon detected: Mrs. Dodd lived on the watch now. Julia, dressed to go out, went to the window one afternoon to look at the weather; but retreated somewhat hastily and sat down on the sofa.
“You flutter, darling,” said Mrs. Dodd. “Ah! he is there.”
“Yes.”
“You had better take off your things.”
“Oh, yes. I tremble at the thoughts of meeting him. Mamma, he is changed, sadly changed. Poor, poor Alfred!” She went to her own room and prayed for him. She informed the Omniscient63 that, though much greater and better in other respects than she was, he had not Patience. She prayed, with tears, that he might have Christian64 patience granted Him from on high.
“Heart of stone! she shuns65 me,” said Alfred, outside. He had seen her in her bonnet66.
Mrs. Dodd waited several days to see whether this annoyance67 would not die of itself: waiting was her plan in most things. Finding he was not to be tired out, she sent Sarah out to him with a note carefully sealed.
“Mr. Alfred Hardie — Is it generous to confine my daughter to the house? — Yours regretfully,
LUCY DODD.”
A line came back instantly in pencil.
“Mrs. Dodd — Is all the generosity68 and all the good faith to be on one side? — Yours in despair,
ALFRED HARDIE.”
Mrs. Dodd coloured faintly: the reproach pricked69 her, but did not move her. She sat quietly down that moment, and wrote to a friend in London, to look out for a furnished villa in a healthy part of the suburbs, with immediate70 possession. “Circumstances,” said she, “making it desirable we should leave Barkington immediately, and for some months.”
The Bosanquets gave a large party; Mrs. and Miss Dodd were there. The latter was playing a part in a charade71 to the admiration72 of all present, when in came Mr. Peterson, introducing his friend, Alfred Hardie.
Julia caught the name, and turned a look of alarm on her mother, but went on acting.
Presently she caught sight of him at some distance. He looked very pale, and his glittering eye was fixed73 on her with a sort of stern wonder.
Such a glance from fiery74 eyes, that had always dwelt tenderly on her till then, struck her like a weapon. She stopped short, and turned red and pale by turns. “There, that is nonsense enough,” said she bitterly, and went and sat by Mrs. Dodd. The gentlemen thronged75 round her with compliments, and begged her to sing. She excused herself. Presently she heard an excited voice, towards which she dared not look; it was inquiring whether any lady could sing Aileen Aroon. With every desire to gratify the young millionaire, nobody knew Aileen Aroon, nor had ever heard of it.
“Oh, impossible!” cried Alfred. “Why, it is in praise of Constancy, a virtue76 ladies shine in: at least, they take credit for it.”
“Mamma,” whispered Julia terrified, “get me away, or there will be a scene. He is reckless.”
“Be calm, love,” said Mrs. Dodd, “there shall be none.” She rose and glided77 up to Alfred Hardie, looked coldly in his face; then said with external politeness and veiled contempt, “I will attempt the song, sir, since you desire it.” She waved her hand, and he followed her sulkily to the piano. She sung Aileen Aroon, not with her daughter’s eloquence78, but with a purity and mellowness79 that charmed the room: they had never heard the genius sing it.
As spirits are said to overcome the man at whose behest they rise, so this sweet air, and the gush80 of reminiscence it awakened81, overpowered him who had evoked82 them; Alfred put his Hand unconsciously to his swelling83 heart, cast one look of anguish84 at Julia, and hurried away half choked. Nobody but Julia noticed.
A fellow in a rough great-coat and tattered85 white hat opened the fly door for Mrs. Dodd. As Julia followed her, he kissed her skirt unseen by Mrs. Dodd, but her quick ears caught a heart-breaking sigh. She looked and recognised Alfred in that disguise; the penitent86 fit had succeeded to the angry one. Had Julia observed? To ascertain87 this without speaking of him, Mrs. Dodd waited till they had got some little distance, then quietly put out her hand and rested it for a moment on her daughter’s; the girl was trembling violently “Little wretch88!” came to Mrs. Dodd’s lips, but she did not utter it. They were near home before she spoke89 at all, and then she only said very kindly, “My love, you will not be subjected again to these trials:” a remark intended quietly to cover the last occurrence as well as Alfred’s open persecution90.
They had promised to go out the very next day; but Mrs. Dodd went alone, and made excuses for Miss Dodd. On her return she found Julia sitting up for her, and a letter come from her friend describing a pleasant cottage, now vacant, near Maida Vale. Mrs. Dodd handed the open letter to Julia; she read it without comment.
“We will go up tomorrow and take it for three months. Then the Oxford91 vacation will terminate.”
“Yes, mamma.”
I am now about to relate a circumstance by no means without parallels, but almost impossible to account for; and, as nothing is more common and contemptible92 than inadequate93 solutions, I will offer none at all: but so it was, that Mrs. Dodd awoke in the middle of that very night in a mysterious state of mental tremor94; trouble, veiled in obscurity, seemed to sit heavy on her bosom95. So strong, though vague, was this new and mysterious oppression, that she started up in bed and cried aloud, “David! — Julia! — Oh, what is the matter?” The sound of her own voice dispelled96 the cloud in part, but not entirely97. She lay awhile, and then finding herself quite averse98 to sleep, rose and went to her window, and eyed the weather anxiously. It was a fine night; soft fleecy clouds drifted slowly across a silver moon. The sailor’s wife was reassured99 on her husband’s behalf. Her next desire was to look at Julia sleeping; she had no particular object: it was the instinctive100 impulse of an anxious mother whom something had terrified. She put on her slippers101 and dressing-gown, and, lighting102 a candle at her night-lamp, opened her door softly and stepped into the little corridor. But she had not taken two steps when she was arrested by a mysterious sound.
It came from Julia’s room.
What was it?
Mrs. Dodd glided softly nearer and nearer, all her senses on the stretch.
The sound came again. It was a muffled103 sob.
The stifled105 sound, just audible in the dead stillness of the night, went through and through her who stood there listening aghast. Her bowels yearned106 over her child, and she hurried to the door, but recollected107 herself, and knocked, very gently. “Don’t be alarmed, love; it is only me. May I come in?” She did not wait for the answer, but turned the handle and entered. She found Julia sitting up in bed, looking wildly at her, with cheeks flushed and wet. She sat on the bed and clasped her to her breast in silence: but more than one warm tear ran down upon Julia’s bare neck; the girl felt them drop, and her own gushed108 in a shower.
“Oh, what have I done?” she sobbed109. “Am I to make you wretched too?”
Mrs. Dodd did not immediately reply. She was there to console, and her admirable good sense told her that to do that she must be calmer than her patient; so even while she kissed and wept over Julia, she managed gradually to recover her composure. “Tell me, my child,” said she, “why do you act a part with me? Why brave it out under my eye, and spend the night secretly in tears? Are you still afraid to trust me?”
“Oh no, no; but I thought I was so strong, so proud: I undertook miracles. I soon found my pride was a molehill and my love a mountain. I could not hold out by day if I did not ease my breaking heart at night. How unfortunate! I kept my head under the bed-clothes, too; but you have such ears. I thought I would stifle104 my grief, or else perhaps you would be as wretched as I am: forgive me pray forgive me!”
“On one condition,” said Mrs. Dodd, struggling with the emotion these simple words caused her.
“Anything to be forgiven,” cried Julia, impetuously. “I’ll go to London. I’ll go to Botany Bay. I deserve to be hanged.”
“Then, from this hour, no half-confidences between us. Dear me, you carry in your own bosom a much harsher judge, a much less indulgent friend, than I am. Come! trust me with your heart. Do you love him very much? Does your happiness depend on him?”
At this point-blank question Julia put her head over Mrs. Dodd’s shoulder, not to be seen; and, clasping her tight, murmured scarce above a whisper, “I don’t know how much I love him. When he came in at that party I felt his slave — his unfaithful adoring slave; if he had ordered me to sing Aileen Aroon, I should have obeyed; if he had commanded me to take his hand and leave the room, I think I should have obeyed. His face is always before me as plain as life; it used to come to me bright and loving; now it is pale, and stern, and sad. I was not so wretched till I saw he was pining for me, and thinks me inconstant — oh, mamma, so pale! so shrunk I so reckless! He was sorry for misbehaving that night: he changed clothes with a beggar to kiss my dress, poor thing! poor thing! Who ever loved as he does me! I am dying for him; I am dying.”
“There! there!” said Mrs. Dodd soothingly110. “You have said enough. This must be love. I am on your Alfred’s side from this hour.”
Julia opened her eyes, and was a good deal agitated111 as well as surprised. “Pray do not raise my hopes,” she gasped112. “We are parted for ever. His father refuses. Even you seemed averse; or have I been dreaming?”
“Me, dearest? How can I be averse to anything lawful113 on which I find your heart is really set, and your happiness at stake? Of course I have stopped the actual intercourse114, under existing circumstances; but these circumstances are not unalterable: your only obstacle is Mr. Richard Hardie.”
But what an obstacle!” sighed Julia. “His father! a man of iron! so everybody says; for I have made inquiries115 — oh!” And she was abashed116. She resumed hastily, “And that letter, so cold, so cruel! I feel it was written by one not open to gentle influences. He does not think me worthy117 of his son so accomplished118, so distinguished119 at the very university where our poor Edward — has — you know ——”
“Little simpleton!” said Mrs. Dodd, and kissed her tenderly; “your iron man is the commonest clay, sordid, pliable120; and your stem heroic Brutus is a shopkeeper: he is open to the gentle influences which sway the kindred souls of the men you and I buy our shoes, our tea, our gloves, our fish-kettles of: and these influences I think I command, and am prepared to use them to the utmost.”
Julia lay silent, and wondering what she could mean.
But Mrs. Dodd hesitated now: it pained and revolted her to show her enthusiastic girl the world as it is. She said as much, and added — “I seem to be going to aid all these people to take the bloom from my own child’s innocence122. Heaven help me!”
“Oh, never mind that,” cried Julia in her ardent way; “give me Truth before Error, however pleasing.”
Mrs. Dodd replied only by a sigh: grand general sentiments like that never penetrated123 her mind: they glided off like water from a duck’s back. “We will begin with this mercantile Brutus, then,” said she, with such a curl of the lip. Brutus had rejected her daughter.
“Mr. Richard Hardie was born and bred in a bank; one where no wild thyme blows, my poor enthusiast121, nor cowslips nor the nodding violet grows; but gold and silver chink, and Things are discounted, and men grow rich, slowly but surely, by lawful use of other people’s money. Breathed upon by these ‘gentle influences,’ he was, from his youth, a remarkable124 man — measured by Trade’s standard. At five-and-twenty divine what he did! He saved the bank. You have read of bubbles: the Mississippi Bubble and the South Sea Bubble. Well, in the year 1825, it was not one bubble but a thousand; mines by the score, and in distant lands; companies by the hundred; loans to every nation or tribe; down to Guatemala, Patagonia, and Greece; two hundred new ships were laid on the stocks in one year, for your dear papa told me; in short, a fever of speculation125, and the whole nation raging with it: my dear, Princes, Dukes, Duchesses, Bishops126, Poets, Lawyers, Physicians, were seen struggling with their own footmen for a place in the Exchange: and, at last, good, steady, old Mr. Hardie, Alfred’s grandfather, was drawn127 into the vortex. Now, to excuse him and appreciate the precocious128 Richard, you must try and realise that these bubbles, when they rise, are as alluring129 and reasonable as they are ridiculous and incredible when one looks back on them; even soap bubbles, you know, have rainbow hues130 till they burst: and, indeed, the blind avarice131 of men does but resemble the blind vanity of women: look at our grandmothers’ hoops132, and our mothers’ short waists and monstrous133 heads! Yet in their day what woman did not glory in these insanities134? Well then, Mr. Richard Hardie, at twenty-five, was the one to foresee the end of all these bubbles; he came down from London and brought his people to their senses by sober reason and ‘sound commercial principles’— that means, I believe, ‘get other people’s money, but do not risk your own.’ His superiority was so clear, that his father resigned the helm to him, and, thanks to his ability, the bank weathered the storm, while all the other ones in the town broke or suspended their trade. Now, you know, youth is naturally ardent and speculative135; but Richard Hardie’s was colder and wiser than other people’s old age: and that is one trait. Some years later, in the height of his prosperity — I reveal this only for your comfort, and on your sacred promise as a person of delicacy, never to repeat it to a soul — Richard Hardie was a suitor for my hand.”
“Mamma!”
“Do not ejaculate, sweetest. It discomposes me. ‘Nothing is extraordinary,’ as that good creature Dr. Sampson says. He must have thought it would answer, in one way or another, to have a gentlewoman at the head of his table; and I was not penniless, bien entendu. Failing in this, he found a plain little Thing, with a gloomy temper, and no accomplishments136 nor graces; but her father could settle twenty thousand pounds. He married her directly: and that is a trait. He sold his father’s and grandfather’s house and place of business, in spite of all their associations, and obtained a lease of his present place from my uncle Fountain: it seemed a more money-making situation. A trait. He gives me no reason for rejecting my daughter. Why? because he is not proud of his reasons: this walking Avarice has intelligence: a trait. Now put all this together, and who more transparent137 than the profound Mr. Hardie? He has declined our alliance because he takes for granted we are poor. When I undeceive him on that head he will reopen negotiations138 in a letter — No. 2 of the correspondence; copied by one of his clerks — it will be calm, plausible139, flattering: in short, it will be done like a gentleman: though he is nothing of the kind. And this brings me to what I ought to have begun with: your dear father and I have always lived with our income for our children’s sake; he is bringing home the bulk of our savings140 this very voyage, and it amounts to fourteen thousand pounds.”
“Oh, what an enormous sum!”
“No, dearest, it is not a fortune in itself. But it is a considerable sum to possess, independent of one’s settlement and one’s income. It is loose cash, to speak a la Hardie; that means I can do what I choose with it and of course I choose — to make you happy. How I shall work on what you call Iron and I venture to call Clay must be guided by circumstances. I think of depositing three or four thousand pounds every month with Mr. Hardie; he is our banker, you know. He will most likely open his eyes, and make some move before the whole sum is in his hands. If he does not, I shall perhaps call at his bank, and draw a cheque for fourteen thousand pounds. The wealthiest provincial141 banker does not keep such a sum floating in his shop-tills. His commercial honour, the one semi-chivalrous sentiment in his soul, would be in peril142. He would yield, and with grace: none the less readily that his house and his bank, which have been long heavily mortgaged to our trustees, were made virtually theirs by agreement yesterday (I set this on foot with twelve hours of Mr. Iron’s impertinent letter), and he will say to himself, ‘She can — post me, I think these people call it — this afternoon for not cashing her cheque,, and she can turn me and my bank into the street tomorrow:’ and then, of course, he shall see by my manner the velvet143 paw is offered as well as the claw. He is pretty sure to ask himself which will suit the ledger144 best — this cat’s friendship and her fourteen thousand pounds, or — an insulted mother’s enmity?” And Mrs. Placid’s teeth made a little click just audible in the silent night
“Oh, mamma! my heart is sick. Am I to be bought and sold like this?”
Mrs. Dodd sighed, but said calmly, “You must pay the penalty for loving a parvenu’s son. Come, Julia, no peevishness145, no more romance, no more vacillation146. You have tried Pride and failed pitiably: now I insist on your trying Love! Child, it is the bane of our sex to carry nothing out: from that weakness I will preserve you. And, by-the-bye, we are not going to marry Mr. Richard Hardie, but Mr. Alfred. Now, Mr. Alfred, with all his faults and defects —”
“Mamma! what faults? what defects?”
“— Is a gentleman; thanks to Oxford, and Harrow, and nature. My darling, pray to Heaven night and day for your dear father’s safe return; for on him, and him alone, your happiness depends: as mine does.”
“Mamma!” cried Julia, embracing her, “what do poor girls do who have lost their mother?”
“Look abroad and see,” was the grave reply.
Mrs. Dodd then begged her to go to sleep, like a good child, for her health’s sake; all would be well; and with this was about to return to her own room; but a white hand and arm darted147 out of the bed and caught her. “What! Hope has come to me by night in the form of an angel, and shall I let her go back to her own room? Never! never! never! never! never!” And she patted the bed expressively148, and with the prettiest impatience149.
“Well, let Hope take off her earrings150 first,” suggested Mrs. Dodd.
“No, no, come here directly, earrings and all.”
“No, thank you; or I shall have them wounding you next.”
Mrs. Hope quietly removed her earrings, and the tender pair passed the rest of the night in one another’s arms. The young girl’s tears were dried; and hope revived, and life bloomed again: only, henceforth her longing151 eyes looked out to sea for her father, homeward bound.
Next day, as they were seated together in the drawing-room, Julia came from the window with a rush, and kneeled at Mrs. Dodd’s knees, with bright imploring152 face upturned.
“He is there; and — I am to speak to him? Is that it?”
“Dear, dear, dear mamma!” was the somewhat oblique153 reply.
“Well, then, bring me my things.”
She was ten minutes putting them on: Julia tried to expedite her and retarded154 her. She had her pace, and could not go beyond it.
Now by this time Alfred Hardie was thoroughly155 miserable. Unable to move his father, shunned by Julia, sickened by what he had heard, and indeed seen, of her gaiety and indifference to their separation, stung by jealousy156 and fretted157 by impatience, he was drinking nearly all the bitters of that sweet passion, Love. But as you are aware, he ascribed Julia’s inconstancy, lightness, and cruelty all to Mrs. Dodd. He hated her cordially, and dreaded158 her into the bargain; he played the sentinel about her door all the more because she had asked him not to do it “Always do what your enemy particularly objects to,” said he, applying to his own case the wisdom of a Greek philosopher, one of his teachers.
So, when the gate suddenly opened, and instead of Julia, this very Mrs. Dodd walked towards him, his feelings were anything but enviable. He wished himself away, heartily159, but was too proud to retreat. He stood his ground. She came up to him; a charming smile broke out over her features. “Ah! Mr. Hardie,” said she, “if you have nothing better to do, will you give me a minute?” He assented160 with surprise and an ill grace.
“May I take your arm?”
He offered it with a worse.
She laid her hand lightly on it, and it shuddered161 at her touch. He felt like walking with a velvet tigress.
By some instinct she divined his sentiment, and found her task more difficult than she had thought; she took some steps in silence. At last, as he was no dissembler, he burst out passionately162, “Why are you my enemy?”
“I am not your enemy,” said she quietly.
“Not openly, but all the more dangerous. You keep us apart, you bid her be gay and forget me; you are a cruel, hard-hearted lady.”
“No, I am not, sir,” said Mrs. Dodd simply.
“Oh! I believe you are good and kind to all the rest of the world; but you know you have a heart of iron for me.”
“I am my daughter’s friend, but not your enemy; it is you who are too inexperienced to know how delicate, how difficult, my duties are. It is only since last night I see my way clear; and, look, I come at once to you with friendly intentions. Suppose I were as impetuous as you are? I should, perhaps, be calling you ungrateful.”
He retorted bitterly. “Give me something to be grateful for, and you shall see whether that baseness is in my nature.”
“I have a great mind to put you to the proof,” said she archly. “Let us walk down this lane; then you can be as unjust to me as you think proper, without attracting public attention.”
In the lane she told him quietly she knew the nature of his father’s objections to the alliance he had so much at heart, and they were objections which her husband, on his return, would remove. On this he changed his tone a little, and implored163 her piteously not to deceive him.
“I will not,” said she, “upon my honour. If you are as constant as my daughter is in her esteem for you — notwithstanding her threadbare gaiety worn over loyal regret, and to check a parcel of idle ladies’ tongues — you have nothing to fear from me, and everything to expect. Come, Alfred— may I take that liberty with you? — let us understand one another. We only want that to be friends.”
This was hard to resist and at his age. His lip trembled, he hesitated, but at last gave her his hand. She walked two hours with him, and laid herself out to enlighten, soothe164, and comfort his sore heart His hopes and happiness revived under her magic, as Julia’s had. In the midst of it all, the wise woman quietly made terms. He was not to come to the house but on her invitation, unless indeed he had news of the Agra to communicate; but he might write once a week to her, and enclose a few lines to Julia. On this concession165 he proceeded to mumble166 her white wrist, and call her his best, dearest, loveliest friend; his mother. “Oh, remember,” said he, with a relic167 of distrust, “you are the only mother I can ever hope to have.”
That touched her. Hitherto, he had been to her but a thing her daughter loved.
Her eyes filled. “My poor, warm-hearted, motherless boy,” she said, “pray for my husband’s safe return. For on that your happiness depends, and hers, and mine.”
So now two more bright eyes looked longingly168 seaward for the Agra homeward bound.
收听单词发音 |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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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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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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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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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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32
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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40
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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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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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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50
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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51
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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52
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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53
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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54
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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55
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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56
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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57
fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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58
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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60
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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61
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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62
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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63
omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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64
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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65
shuns
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的第三人称单数 ) | |
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66
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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67
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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68
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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69
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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70
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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71
charade
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| n.用动作等表演文字意义的字谜游戏 | |
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72
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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73
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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74
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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75
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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77
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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78
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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79
mellowness
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| 成熟； 芳醇； 肥沃； 怡然 | |
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80
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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81
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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82
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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83
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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84
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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85
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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86
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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87
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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88
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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89
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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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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91
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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92
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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93
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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94
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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95
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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96
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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98
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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99
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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100
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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101
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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102
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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103
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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104
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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105
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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106
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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109
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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111
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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112
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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113
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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114
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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115
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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116
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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118
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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119
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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120
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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121
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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122
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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123
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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124
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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125
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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126
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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127
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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130
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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131
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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132
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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133
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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134
insanities
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| 精神错乱( insanity的名词复数 )； 精神失常； 精神病； 疯狂 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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136
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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138
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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139
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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140
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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141
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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143
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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144
ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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145
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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146
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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147
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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149
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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150
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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151
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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152
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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153
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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154
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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155
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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156
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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157
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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158
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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159
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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160
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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162
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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163
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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165
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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166
mumble
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| n./v.喃喃而语，咕哝 | |
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167
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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168
longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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