All well-dressed St. Ogg’s and its neighborhood were there; and it would have been worth while to come even from a distance, to see the fine old hall, with its open roof and carved oaken rafters, and great oaken folding-doors, and light shed down from a height on the many-colored show beneath; a very quaint11 place, with broad faded stripes painted on the walls, and here and there a show of heraldic animals of a bristly, long-snouted character, the cherished emblems12 of a noble family once the seigniors of this now civic13 hall. A grand arch, cut in the upper wall at one end, surmounted14 an oaken orchestra, with an open room behind it, where hothouse plants and stalls for refreshments16 were disposed; an agreeable resort for gentlemen disposed to loiter, and yet to exchange the occasional crush down below for a more commodious17 point of view. In fact, the perfect fitness of this ancient building for an admirable modern purpose, that made charity truly elegant, and led through vanity up to the supply of a deficit18, was so striking that hardly a person entered the room without exchanging the remark more than once. Near the great arch over the orchestra was the stone oriel with painted glass, which was one of the venerable inconsistencies of the old hall; and it was close by this that Lucy had her stall, for the convenience of certain large plain articles which she had taken charge of for Mrs. Kenn. Maggie had begged to sit at the open end of the stall, and to have the sale of these articles rather than of bead-mats and other elaborate products of which she had but a dim understanding. But it soon appeared that the gentlemen’s dressing-gowns, which were among her commodities, were objects of such general attention and inquiry20, and excited so troublesome a curiosity as to their lining21 and comparative merits, together with a determination to test them by trying on, as to make her post a very conspicuous22 one. The ladies who had commodities of their own to sell, and did not want dressing-gowns, saw at once the frivolity23 and bad taste of this masculine preference for goods which any tailor could furnish; and it is possible that the emphatic24 notice of various kinds which was drawn25 toward Miss Tulliver on this public occasion, threw a very strong and unmistakable light on her subsequent conduct in many minds then present. Not that anger, on account of spurned26 beauty can dwell in the celestial27 breasts of charitable ladies, but rather that the errors of persons who have once been much admired necessarily take a deeper tinge28 from the mere29 force of contrast; and also, that to-day Maggie’s conspicuous position, for the first time, made evident certain characteristics which were subsequently felt to have an explanatory bearing. There was something rather bold in Miss Tulliver’s direct gaze, and something undefinably coarse in the style of her beauty, which placed her, in the opinion of all feminine judges, far below her cousin Miss Deane; for the ladies of St. Ogg’s had now completely ceded30 to Lucy their hypothetic claims on the admiration31 of Mr. Stephen Guest.
As for dear little Lucy herself, her late benevolent32 triumph about the Mill, and all the affectionate projects she was cherishing for Maggie and Philip, helped to give her the highest spirits to-day, and she felt nothing but pleasure in the evidence of Maggie’s attractiveness. It is true, she was looking very charming herself, and Stephen was paying her the utmost attention on this public occasion; jealously buying up the articles he had seen under her fingers in the process of making, and gayly helping33 her to cajole the male customers into the purchase of the most effeminate futilities. He chose to lay aside his hat and wear a scarlet34 fez of her embroidering35; but by superficial observers this was necessarily liable to be interpreted less as a compliment to Lucy than as a mark of coxcombry36. “Guest is a great coxcomb,” young Torry observed; “but then he is a privileged person in St. Ogg’s — he carries all before him; if another fellow did such things, everybody would say he made a fool of himself.”
And Stephen purchased absolutely nothing from Maggie, until Lucy said, in rather a vexed37 undertone —
“See, now; all the things of Maggie’s knitting will be gone, and you will not have bought one. There are those deliciously soft warm things for the wrists — do buy them.”
“Oh no,” said Stephen, “they must be intended for imaginative persons, who can chill themselves on this warm day by thinking of the frosty Caucasus. Stern reason is my forte38, you know. You must get Philip to buy those. By the way, why doesn’t he come?”
“He never likes going where there are many people, though I enjoined39 him to come. He said he would buy up any of my goods that the rest of the world rejected. But now, do go and buy something of Maggie.”
“No, no; see, she has got a customer; there is old Wakem himself just coming up.”
Lucy’s eyes turned with anxious interest toward Maggie to see how she went through this first interview, since a sadly memorable40 time, with a man toward whom she must have so strange a mixture of feelings; but she was pleased to notice that Wakem had tact41 enough to enter at once into talk about the bazaar wares42, and appear interested in purchasing, smiling now and then kindly43 at Maggie, and not calling on her to speak much, as if he observed that she was rather pale and tremulous.
“Why, Wakem is making himself particularly amiable44 to your cousin,” said Stephen, in an undertone to Lucy; “is it pure magnanimity? You talked of a family quarrel.”
“Oh, that will soon be quite healed, I hope,” said Lucy, becoming a little indiscreet in her satisfaction, and speaking with an air of significance. But Stephen did not appear to notice this, and as some lady-purchasers came up, he lounged on toward Maggie’s end, handling trifles and standing19 aloof45 until Wakem, who had taken out his purse, had finished his t transactions.
“My son came with me,” he overheard Wakem saying, “but he has vanished into some other part of the building, and has left all these charitable gallantries to me. I hope you’ll reproach him for his shabby conduct.”
She returned his smile and bow without speaking, and he turned away, only then observing Stephen and nodding to him. Maggie, conscious that Stephen was still there, busied herself with counting money, and avoided looking up. She had been well pleased that he had devoted46 himself to Lucy to-day, and had not come near her. They had begun the morning with an indifferent salutation, and both had rejoiced in being aloof from each other, like a patient who has actually done without his opium47, in spite of former failures in resolution. And during the last few days they had even been making up their minds to failures, looking to the outward events that must soon come to separate them, as a reason for dispensing48 with self-conquest in detail.
Stephen moved step by step as if he were being unwillingly49 dragged, until he had got round the open end of the stall, and was half hidden by a screen of draperies. Maggie went on counting her money till she suddenly heard a deep gentle voice saying, “Aren’t you very tried? Do let me bring you something — some fruit or jelly, mayn’t I?”
The unexpected tones shook her like a sudden accidental vibration50 of a harp51 close by her.
“Oh no, thank you,” she said faintly, and only half looking up for an instant.
“You look so pale,” Stephen insisted, in a more entreating52 tone. “I’m sure you’re exhausted53. I must disobey you, and bring something.”
“No, indeed, I couldn’t take it.”
“Are you angry with me? What have I done? Do look at me.”
“Pray, go away,” said Maggie, looking at him helplessly, her eyes glancing immediately from him to the opposite corner of the orchestra, which was half hidden by the folds of the old faded green curtain. Maggie had no sooner uttered this entreaty54 than she was wretched at the admission it implied; but Stephen turned away at once, and following her upward glance, he saw Philip Wakem sealed in the half-hidden corner, so that he could command little more than that angle of the hall in which Maggie sat. An entirely55 new though occurred to Stephen, and linking itself with what he had observed of Wakem’s manner, and with Lucy’s reply to his observation, it convinced him that there had been some former relation between Philip and Maggie beyond that childish one of which he had heard. More than one impulse made him immediately leave the hall and go upstairs to the refreshment15-room, where, walking up to Philip, he sat down behind him, and put his hand on his shoulder.
“Are you studying for a portrait, Phil,” he said, “or for a sketch56 of that oriel window? By George, it makes a capital bit from this dark corner, with the curtain just marking it off.”
“I have been studying expression,” said Philip, curtly57.
“What! Miss Tulliver’s? It’s rather of the savage-moody order to-day, I think — something of the fallen princess serving behind a counter. Her cousin sent me to her with a civil offer to get her some refreshment, but I have been snubbed, as usual. There’s natural antipathy58 between us, I suppose; I have seldom the honor to please her.”
“What a hypocrite you are!” said Philip, flushing angrily.
“What! because experience must have told me that I’m universally pleasing? I admit the law, but there’s some disturbing force here.”
“I am going,” said Philip, rising abruptly59.
“So am I— to get a breath of fresh air; this place gets oppressive. I think I have done suit and service long enough.”
The two friends walked downstairs together without speaking. Philip turned through the outer door into the court-yard; but Stephen, saying, “Oh, by the by, I must call in here,” went on along the passage to one of the rooms at the other end of the building, which were appropriated to the town library. He had the room all to himself, and a man requires nothing less than this when he wants to dash his cap on the table, throw himself astride a chair, and stare at a high brick wall with a frown which would not have been beneath the occasion if he had been slaying61 “the giant Python.” The conduct that issues from a moral conflict has often so close a resemblance to vice60 that the distinction escapes all outward judgments62 founded on a mere comparison of actions. It is clear to you, I hope, that Stephen was not a hypocrite — capable of deliberate doubleness for a selfish end; and yet his fluctuations63 between the indulgence of a feeling and the systematic64 concealment65 of it might have made a good case in support of Philip’s accusation66.
Meanwhile, Maggie sat at her stall cold and trembling, with that painful sensation in the eyes which comes from resolutely67 repressed tears. Was her life to be always like this — always bringing some new source of inward strife68? She heard confusedly the busy, indifferent voices around her, and wished her mind could flow into that easy babbling69 current. It was at this moment that Dr. Kenn, who had quite lately come into the hall, and was now walking down the middle with his hands behind him, taking a general view, fixed70 his eyes on Maggie for the first time, and was struck with the expression of pain on her beautiful face. She was sitting quite still, for the stream of customers had lessened71 at this late hour in the afternoon; the gentlemen had chiefly chosen the middle of the day, and Maggie’s stall was looking rather bare. This, with her absent, pained expression, finished the contrast between her and her companions, who were all bright, eager, and busy. He was strongly arrested. Her face had naturally drawn his attention as a new and striking one at church, and he had been introduced to her during a short call on business at Mr. Deane’s, but he had never spoken more than three words to her. He walked toward her now, and Maggie, perceiving some one approaching, roused herself to look up and be prepared to speak. She felt a childlike, instinctive72 relief from the sense of uneasiness in this exertion73, when she saw it was Dr. Kenn’s face that was looking at her; that plain, middle-aged74 face, with a grave, penetrating75 kindness in it, seeming to tell of a human being who had reached a firm, safe strand76, but was looking with helpful pity toward the strugglers still tossed by the waves, had an effect on Maggie at this moment which was afterward77 remembered by her as if it had been a promise. The middle-aged, who have lived through their strongest emotions, but are yet in the time when memory is still half passionate78 and not merely contemplative, should surely be a sort of natural priesthood, whom life has disciplined and consecrated79 to be the refuge and rescue of early stumblers and victims of self-despair. Most of us, at some moment in our young lives, would have welcomed a priest of that natural order in any sort of canonicals or uncanonicals, but had to scramble80 upward into all the difficulties of nineteen entirely without such aid, as Maggie did.
“You find your office rather a fatiguing81 one, I fear, Miss Tulliver,” said Dr. Kenn.
“It is, rather,” said Maggie, simply, not being accustomed to simpler amiable denials of obvious facts.
“But I can tell Mrs. Kenn that you have disposed of her goods very quickly,” he added; “she will be very much obliged to you.”
“Oh, I have done nothing; the gentlemen came very fast to buy the dressing-gowns and embroidered82 waistcoats, but I think any of the other ladies would have sold more; I didn’t know what to say about them.”
Dr. Kenn smiled. “I hope I’m going to have you as a permanent parishioner now, Miss Tulliver; am I? You have been at a distance from us hitherto.”
“I have been a teacher in a school, and I’m going into another situation of the same kind very soon.”
“Ah? I was hoping you would remain among your friends, who are all in this neighborhood, I believe.”
“Oh, I must go,” said Maggie, earnestly, looking at Dr. Kenn with an expression of reliance, as if she had told him her history in those three words. It was one of those moments of implicit6 revelation which will sometimes happen even between people who meet quite transiently — on a mile’s journey, perhaps, or when resting by the wayside. There is always this possibility of a word or look from a stranger to keep alive the sense of human brotherhood83.
Dr. Kenn’s ear and eye took in all the signs that this brief confidence of Maggie’s was charged with meaning.
“I understand,” he said; “you feel it right to go. But that will not prevent our meeting again, I hope; it will not prevent my knowing you better, if I can be of any service to you.”
He put out his hand and pressed hers kindly before he turned away.
“She has some trouble or other at heart,” he thought. “Poor child! she looks as if she might turn out to be one of
‘The souls by nature pitched too high,
By suffering plunged84 too low.’
“There’s something wonderfully honest in those beautiful eyes.”
It may be surprising that Maggie, among whose many imperfections an excessive delight in admiration and acknowledged supremacy85 were not absent now, any more than when she was instructing the gypsies with a view toward achieving a royal position among them, was not more elated on a day when she had had the tribute of so many looks and smiles, together with that satisfactory consciousness which had necessarily come from being taken before Lucy’s chevalglass, and made to look at the full length of her tall beauty, crowned by the night of her massy hair. Maggie had smiled at herself then, and for the moment had forgotten everything in the sense of her own beauty. If that state of mind could have lasted, her choice would have been to have Stephen Guest at her feet, offering her a life filled with all luxuries, with daily incense86 of adoration87 near and distant, and with all possibilities of culture at her command. But there were things in her stronger than vanity — passion and affection, and long, deep memories of early discipline and effort, of early claims on her love and pity; and the stream of vanity was soon swept along and mingled88 imperceptibly with that wider current which was at its highest force today, under the double urgency of the events and inward impulses brought by the last week.
Philip had not spoken to her himself about the removal of obstacles between them on his father’s side — he shrank from that; but he had told everything to Lucy, with the hope that Maggie, being informed through her, might give him some encouraging sign that their being brought thus much nearer to each other was a happiness to her. The rush of conflicting feelings was too great for Maggie to say much when Lucy, with a face breathing playful joy, like one of Correggio’s cherubs89, poured forth90 her triumphant91 revelation; and Lucy could hardly be surprised that she could do little more than cry with gladness at the thought of her father’s wish being fulfilled, and of Tom’s getting the Mill again in reward for all his hard striving. The details of preparation for the bazaar had then come to usurp92 Lucy’s attention for the next few days, and nothing had been said by the cousins on subjects that were likely to rouse deeper feelings. Philip had been to the house more than once, but Maggie had had no private conversation with him, and thus she had been left to fight her inward battle without interference.
But when the bazaar was fairly ended, and the cousins were alone again, resting together at home, Lucy said —
“You must give up going to stay with your aunt Moss93 the day after to-morrow, Maggie; write a note to her, and tell her you have put it off at my request, and I’ll send the man with it. She won’t be displeased94; you’ll have plenty of time to go by-and-by; and I don’t want you to go out of the way just now.”
“Yes, indeed I must go, dear; I can’t put it off. I wouldn’t leave aunt Gritty out for the world. And I shall have very little time, for I’m going away to a new situation on the 25th of June.”
“Maggie!” said Lucy, almost white with astonishment95.
“I didn’t tell you, dear,” said Maggie, making a great effort to command herself, “because you’ve been so busy. But some time ago I wrote to our old governess, Miss Firniss, to ask her to let me know if she met with any situation that I could fill, and the other day I had a letter from her telling me that I could take three orphan96 pupils of hers to the coast during the holidays, and then make trial of a situation with her as teacher. I wrote yesterday to accept the offer.”
Lucy felt so hurt that for some moments she was unable to speak.
“Maggie,” she said at last, “how could you be so unkind to me — not to tell me — to take such a step — and now!” She hesitated a little, and then added, “And Philip? I thought everything was going to be so happy. Oh, Maggie, what is the reason? Give it up; let me write. There is nothing now to keep you and Philip apart.”
“Yes,” said Maggie, faintly. “There is Tom’s feeling. He said I must give him up if I married Philip. And I know he will not change — at least not for a long while — unless something happened to soften97 him.”
“But I will talk to him; he’s coming back this week. And this good news about the Mill will soften him. And I’ll talk to him about Philip. Tom’s always very compliant98 to me; I don’t think he’s so obstinate99.”
“But I must go,” said Maggie, in a distressed100 voice. “I must leave some time to pack. Don’t press me to stay, dear Lucy.”
Lucy was silent for two or three minutes, looking away and ruminating101. At length she knelt down by her cousin, and looking up in her face with anxious seriousness, said —
“Maggie, is it that you don’t love Philip well enough to marry him? Tell me — trust me.”
Maggie held Lucy’s hands tightly in silence a little while. Her own hands were quite cold. But when she spoke, her voice was quite clear and distinct.
“Yes, Lucy, I would choose to marry him. I think it would be the best and highest lot for me — to make his life happy. He loved me first. No one else could be quite what he is to me. But I can’t divide myself from my brother for life. I must go away, and wait. Pray don’t speak to me again about it.”
Lucy obeyed in pain and wonder. The next word she said was —
“Well, dear Maggie, at least you will go to the dance at Park House to-morrow, and have some music and brightness, before you go to pay these dull dutiful visits. Ah! here come aunty and the tea.”
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1
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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10
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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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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ceded
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| v.让给，割让，放弃( cede的过去式 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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coxcombry
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| n.（男子的）虚浮，浮夸，爱打扮 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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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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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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48
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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50
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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51
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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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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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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usurp
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| vt.篡夺，霸占；vi.篡位 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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compliant
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| adj.服从的，顺从的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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