Ten days after that performance of her private undertaking4 Adela began to sniff5, as it were, a difference in the general air; but as yet she was afraid to exult6. It wasn’t in truth a difference for the better, so that there might be still a great tension. Her father, since the announcement of his intended marriage, had been visibly pleased with himself, but that pleasure now appeared to have undergone a check. She had the impression known to the passengers on a great steamer when, in the middle of the night, they feel the engines stop. As this impression may easily sharpen to the sense that something serious has happened, so the girl asked herself what had actually occurred. She had expected something serious; but it was as if she couldn’t keep still in her cabin—she wanted to go up and see. On the 20th, just before breakfast, her maid brought her a message from her brother. Mr. Godfrey would be obliged if she would speak to him in his room. She went straight up to him, dreading8 to find him ill, broken down on the eve of his formidable week. This was not the case however—he rather seemed already at work, to have been at work since dawn. But he was very white and his eyes had a strange and new expression. Her beautiful young brother looked older; he looked haggard and hard. He met her there as if he had been waiting for her, and he said at once: “Please tell me this, Adela—what was the purpose of your visit the other morning to Mrs. Churchley, the day I met you at her door?”
She stared—she cast about. “The purpose? What’s the matter? Why do you ask?”
“They’ve put it off—they’ve put it off a month.”
“Ah thank God!” said Adela.
“Why the devil do you thank God?” Godfrey asked with a strange impatience9.
She gave a strained intense smile. “You know I think it all wrong.”
“Who told you I interfered11?” she returned with a deep flush.
“You said something—you did something. I knew you had done it when I saw you come out.”
“What I did was my own business.”
“Damn your own business!” cried the young man.
She had never in her life been so spoken to, and in advance, had she been given the choice, would have said that she’d rather die than be so handled by Godfrey. But her spirit was high, and for a moment she was as angry as if she had been cut with a whip. She escaped the blow but felt the insult. “And your business then?” she asked. “I wondered what that was when I saw you.”
He stood a moment longer scowling12 at her; then with the exclamation13 “You’ve made a pretty mess!” he turned away from her and sat down to his books.
They had put it off, as he said; her father was dry and stiff and official about it. “I suppose I had better let you know we’ve thought it best to postpone14 our marriage till the end of the summer—Mrs. Churchley has so many arrangements to make”: he was not more expansive than that. She neither knew nor greatly cared whether she but vainly imagined or correctly observed him to watch her obliquely15 for some measure of her receipt of these words. She flattered herself that, thanks to Godfrey’s forewarning, cruel as the form of it had been, she was able to repress any crude sign of elation2. She had a perfectly16 good conscience, for she could now judge what odious17 elements Mrs. Churchley, whom she had not seen since the morning in Prince’s Gate, had already introduced into their dealings. She gathered without difficulty that her father hadn’t concurred18 in the postponement19, for he was more restless than before, more absent and distinctly irritable20. There was naturally still the question of how much of this condition was to be attributed to his solicitude21 about Godfrey. That young man took occasion to say a horrible thing to his sister: “If I don’t pass it will be your fault.” These were dreadful days for the girl, and she asked herself how she could have borne them if the hovering22 spirit of her mother hadn’t been at her side. Fortunately she always felt it there, sustaining, commending, sanctifying. Suddenly her father announced to her that he wished her to go immediately, with her sisters, down to Brinton, where there was always part of a household and where for a few weeks they would manage well enough. The only explanation he gave of this desire was that he wanted them out of the way. “Out of the way of what?” she queried24, since there were to be for the time no preparations in Seymour Street. She was willing to take it for out of the way of his nerves.
She never needed urging however to go to Brinton, the dearest old house in the world, where the happiest days of her young life had been spent and the silent nearness of her mother always seemed greatest. She was happy again, with Beatrice and Muriel and Miss Flynn, with the air of summer and the haunted rooms and her mother’s garden and the talking oaks and the nightingales. She wrote briefly25 to her father, giving him, as he had requested, an account of things; and he wrote back that since she was so contented—she didn’t recognise having told him that—she had better not return to town at all. The fag-end of the London season would be unimportant to her, and he was getting on very well. He mentioned that Godfrey had passed his tests, but, as she knew, there would be a tiresome26 wait before news of results. The poor chap was going abroad for a month with young Sherard—he had earned a little rest and a little fun. He went abroad without a word to Adela, but in his beautiful little hand he took a chaffing leave of Beatrice. The child showed her sister the letter, of which she was very proud and which contained no message for any one else. This was the worst bitterness of the whole crisis for that somebody—its placing in so strange a light the creature in the world whom, after her mother, she had loved best.
Colonel Chart had said he would “run down” while his children were at Brinton, but they heard no more about it. He only wrote two or three times to Miss Flynn on matters in regard to which Adela was surprised he shouldn’t have communicated with herself. Muriel accomplished27 an upright little letter to Mrs. Churchley—her eldest28 sister neither fostered nor discouraged the performance—to which Mrs. Churchley replied, after a fortnight, in a meagre and, as Adela thought, illiterate29 fashion, making no allusion30 to the approach of any closer tie. Evidently the situation had changed; the question of the marriage was dropped, at any rate for the time. This idea gave our young woman a singular and almost intoxicating31 sense of power; she felt as if she were riding a great wave of confidence. She had decided32 and acted—the greatest could do no more than that. The grand thing was to see one’s results, and what else was she doing? These results were in big rich conspicuous33 lives; the stage was large on which she moved her figures. Such a vision was exciting, and as they had the use of a couple of ponies34 at Brinton she worked off her excitement by a long gallop35. A day or two after this however came news of which the effect was to rekindle36 it. Godfrey had come back, the list had been published, he had passed first. These happy tidings proceeded from the young man himself; he announced them by a telegram to Beatrice, who had never in her life before received such a missive and was proportionately inflated37. Adela reflected that she herself ought to have felt snubbed, but she was too happy. They were free again, they were themselves, the nightmare of the previous weeks was blown away, the unity38 and dignity of her father’s life restored, and, to round off her sense of success, Godfrey had achieved his first step toward high distinction. She wrote him the next day as frankly39 and affectionately as if there had been no estrangement40 between them, and besides telling him how she rejoiced in his triumph begged him in charity to let them know exactly how the case stood with regard to Mrs. Churchley.
Late in the summer afternoon she walked through the park to the village with her letter, posted it and came back. Suddenly, at one of the turns of the avenue, half-way to the house, she saw a young man hover23 there as if awaiting her—a young man who proved to be Godfrey on his pedestrian progress over from the station. He had seen her as he took his short cut, and if he had come down to Brinton it wasn’t apparently41 to avoid her. There was nevertheless none of the joy of his triumph in his face as he came a very few steps to meet her; and although, stiffly enough, he let her kiss him and say “I’m so glad—I’m so glad!” she felt this tolerance42 as not quite the mere43 calm of the rising diplomatist. He turned toward the house with her and walked on a short distance while she uttered the hope that he had come to stay some days.
“Only till to-morrow morning. They’re sending me straight to Madrid. I came down to say good-bye; there’s a fellow bringing my bags.”
“To Madrid? How awfully44 nice! And it’s awfully nice of you to have come,” she said as she passed her hand into his arm.
The movement made him stop, and, stopping, he turned on her in a flash a face of something more than, suspicion—of passionate45 reprobation46. “What I really came for—you might as well know without more delay—is to ask you a question.”
“A question?”—she echoed it with a beating heart.
They stood there under the old trees in the lingering light, and, young and fine and fair as they both were, formed a complete superficial harmony with the peaceful English scene. A near view, however, would have shown that Godfrey Chart hadn’t taken so much trouble only to skim the surface. He looked deep into his sister’s eyes. “What was it you said that morning to Mrs. Churchley?”
She fixed47 them on the ground a moment, but at last met his own again. “If she has told you, why do you ask?”
“She has told me nothing. I’ve seen for myself.”
“What have you seen?”
“She has broken it off. Everything’s over. Father’s in the depths.”
“In the depths?” the girl quavered.
“Did you think it would make him jolly?” he went on.
She had to choose what to say. “He’ll get over it. He’ll he glad.”
“That remains48 to be seen. You interfered, you invented something, you got round her. I insist on knowing what you did.”
Adela felt that if it was a question of obstinacy49 there was something within her she could count on; in spite of which, while she stood looking down again a moment, she said to herself “I could be dumb and dogged if I chose, but I scorn to be.” She wasn’t ashamed of what she had done, but she wanted to be clear. “Are you absolutely certain it’s broken off?”
“He is, and she is; so that’s as good.”
“What reason has she given?”
“None at all—or half a dozen; it’s the same thing. She has changed her mind—she mistook her feelings—she can’t part with her independence. Moreover he has too many children.”
“Did he tell you this?” the girl asked.
“Mrs. Churchley told me. She has gone abroad for a year.”
“And she didn’t tell you what I said to her?”
Godfrey showed an impatience. “Why should I take this trouble if she had?”
“You might have taken it to make me suffer,” said Adela. “That appears to be what you want to do.”
“No, I leave that to you—it’s the good turn you’ve done me!” cried the young man with hot tears in his eyes.
She stared, aghast with the perception that there was some dreadful thing she didn’t know; but he walked on, dropping the question angrily and turning his back to her as if he couldn’t trust himself. She read his disgust in his averted50, face, in the way he squared his shoulders and smote51 the ground with his stick, and she hurried after him and presently overtook him. She kept by him for a moment in silence; then she broke out: “What do you mean? What in the world have I done to you?”
“She would have helped me. She was all ready to help me,” Godfrey portentously52 said.
“Helped you in what?” She wondered what he meant; if he had made debts that he was afraid to confess to his father and—of all horrible things—had been looking to Mrs. Churchley to pay. She turned red with the mere apprehension53 of this and, on the heels of her guess, exulted54 again at having perhaps averted such a shame.
“Can’t you just see I’m in trouble? Where are your eyes, your senses, your sympathy, that you talk so much about? Haven’t you seen these six months that I’ve a curst worry in my life?”
She seized his arm, made him stop, stood looking up at him like a frightened little girl. “What’s the matter, Godfrey?—what is the matter?”
“You’ve gone against me so—I could strangle you!” he growled55. This image added nothing to her dread7; her dread was that he had done some wrong, was stained with some guilt56. She uttered it to him with clasped hands, begging him to tell her the worst; but, still more passionately57, he cut her short with his own cry: “In God’s name, satisfy me! What infernal thing did you do?”
“It wasn’t infernal—it was right. I told her mamma had been wretched,” said Adela.
“Wretched? You told her such a lie?”
“It was the only way, and she believed me.”
“I told her papa had made her so, and that she ought to know it. I told her the question troubled me unspeakably, but that I had made up my mind it was my duty to initiate59 her.” Adela paused, the light of bravado60 in her face, as if, though struck while the words came with the monstrosity of what she had done, she was incapable61 of abating62 a jot63 of it. “I notified her that he had faults and peculiarities64 that made mamma’s life a long worry—a martyrdom that she hid wonderfully from the world, but that we saw and that I had often pitied. I told her what they were, these faults and peculiarities; I put the dots on the i’s. I said it wasn’t fair to let another person marry him without a warning. I warned her; I satisfied my conscience. She could do as she liked. My responsibility was over.”
Godfrey gazed at her; he listened with parted lips, incredulous and appalled65. “You invented such a tissue of falsities and calumnies66, and you talk about your conscience? You stand there in your senses and proclaim your crime?”
“I’d have committed any crime that would have rescued us.”
“You insult and blacken and ruin your own father?” Godfrey kept on.
“Ah I’ll he damned if I won’t tell him!” he rang out.
Adela felt sick at this, but she flamed up to resent the treachery, as it struck her, of such a menace. “I did right—I did right!” she vehemently68 declared “I went down on my knees to pray for guidance, and I saved mamma’s memory from outrage69. But if I hadn’t, if I hadn’t”—she faltered70 an instant—“I’m not worse than you, and I’m not so bad, for you’ve done something that you’re ashamed to tell me.”
He had taken out his watch; he looked at it with quick intensity71, as if not hearing nor heeding72 her. Then, his calculating eyes raised, he fixed her long enough to exclaim with unsurpassable horror and contempt: “You raving73 maniac74!” He turned away from her; he bounded down the avenue in the direction from which they had come, and, while she watched him, strode away, across the grass, toward the short cut to the station.
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收听单词发音
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1
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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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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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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rekindle
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| v.使再振作；再点火 | |
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inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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45
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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reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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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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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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50
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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51
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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52
portentously
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53
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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54
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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57
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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58
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
initiate
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| vt.开始，创始，发动；启蒙，使入门；引入 | |
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60
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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abating
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| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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69
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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70
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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71
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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72
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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73
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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74
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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