章节正文
jealous of each other's eyes! Why is that lean doctor so slow--
cadaverous man with hollow jaw and sunken eye, ill beseeming
the richness of his mother church! Ah, why so slow, thou
meagre doctor? See how the archdeacon, speechless in his
agony, deposits on the board his cards, and looks to heaven or
to the ceiling for support. Hark, how he sighs, as with thumbs
in his waistcoat pocket he seems to signify that the end of such
torment is not yet even nigh at hand! Vain is the hope, if
hope there be, to disturb that meagre doctor. With care
precise he places every card, weighs well the value of each
mighty ace, each guarded king, and comfort-giving queen;
speculates on knave and ten, counts all his suits, and sets his
price upon the whole. At length a card is led, and quick three
others fall upon the board. The little doctor leads again, while
with lustrous eye his partner absorbs the trick. Now thrice has
this been done--thrice has constant fortune favoured the brace
of prebendaries, ere the archdeacon rouses himself to the
battle; but at the fourth assault he pins to the earth a prostrate
king, laying low his crown and sceptre, bushy beard, and
lowering brow, with a poor deuce.
'As David did Goliath,' says the archdeacon, pushing over
the four cards to his partner. And then a trump is led, then
another trump; then a king--and then an ace--and then a
long ten, which brings down from the meagre doctor his only
remaining tower of strength--his cherished queen of trumps.
'What, no second club?' says the archdeacon to his partner.
'Only one club,' mutters from his inmost stomach the pursy
rector, who sits there red-faced, silent, impervious, careful, a
safe but not a brilliant ally.
But the archdeacon cares not for many clubs, or for none.
He dashes out his remaining cards with a speed most annoying
to his antagonists, pushes over to them some four cards as their
allotted portion, shoves the remainder across the table to the
red-faced rector; calls out 'two by cards and two by honours,
and the odd trick last time,' marks a treble under the candle-
stick, and has dealt round the second pack before the meagre
doctor has calculated his losses.
And so went off the warden's party, and men and women
arranging shawls and shoes declared how pleasant it had been;
and Mrs Goodenough, the red-faced rector's wife, pressing the
warden's hand, declared she had never enjoyed herself better;
which showed how little pleasure she allowed herself in this
world, as she had sat the whole evening through in the same
chair without occupation, not speaking, and unspoken to.
And Matilda Johnson, when she allowed young Dickson of the
bank to fasten her cloak round her neck, thought that two
hundred pounds a year and a little cottage would really do for
happiness; besides, he was sure to be manager some day.
And Apollo, folding his flute into his pocket, felt that he had
acquitted himself with honour; and the archdeacon pleasantly
jingled his gains; but the meagre doctor went off without
much audible speech, muttering ever and anon as he went,
'three and thirty points!' 'three and thirty points!'
And so they all were gone, and Mr Harding was left alone
with his daughter.
What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold
need not be told. It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that
neither the historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by
their heroes or heroines, or how would three volumes or
twenty suffice! In the present case so little of this sort have
I overheard, that I live in hopes of finishing my work within
300 pages, and of completing that pleasant task--a novel in
one volume; but something had passed between them, and as
the warden blew out the wax candles, and put his instrument
into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by the
empty fire-place, determined to speak to her father, but
irresolute as to what she would say.
'Well, Eleanor,' said he, 'are you for bed?'
'Yes,' said she, moving, 'I suppose so; but papa--Mr Bold
was not here tonight; do you know why not?'
'He was asked; I wrote to him myself,' said the warden.
'But do you know why he did not come, papa?'
'Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it's no use guessing at
such things, my dear. What makes you look so earnest
about it?'
'Oh, papa, do tell me,' she exclaimed, throwing her arms
round him, and looking into his face; 'what is it he is going
to do? What is it all about? Is there any--any--any--' she
didn't well know what word to use--'any danger?'
'Danger, my dear, what sort of danger?'
'Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of--
Oh, papa, why haven't you told me of all this before?'
Mr Harding was not the man to judge harshly of anyone,
much less of the daughter whom he now loved better than any
living creature; but still he did judge her wrongly at this
moment. He knew that she loved John Bold; he fully sympathised
in her affection; day after day he thought more of the matter,
and, with the tender care of a loving father, tried to arrange in
his own mind how matters might be so managed that his daughter's
heart should not be made the sacrifice to the dispute which was
likely to exist between him and Bold. Now, when she spoke to him
for the first time on the subject, it was natural that he should
think more of her than of himself, and that he should imagine
that her own cares, and not his, were troubling her.
He stood silent before her awhile, as she gazed up into his
face, and then kissing her forehead he placed her on the sofa.
'Tell me, Nelly,' he said (he only called her Nelly in his
kindest, softest, sweetest moods, and yet all his moods were
kind and sweet), 'tell me, Nelly, do you like Mr Bold--much?'
She was quite taken aback by the question. I will not say
that she had forgotten herself, and her own love in thinking
about John Bold, and while conversing with Mary: she certainly
had not done so. She had been sick at heart to think that a man
of whom she could not but own to herself that she loved him, of
whose regard she had been so proud, that such a man should turn
against her father to ruin him. She had felt her vanity hurt,
that his affection for her had not kept him from such a course;
had he really cared for her, he would not have risked her love
by such an outrage. But her main fear had been for her father,
and when she spoke of danger, it was of danger to him and not
to herself.
She was taken aback by the question altogether: 'Do I like
him, papa?'
'Yes, Nelly, do you like him? Why shouldn't you like him?
but that's a poor word--do you love him?' She sat still in his
arms without answering him. She certainly had not prepared
herself for an avowal of affection, intending, as she had done,
to abuse John Bold herself, and to hear her father do so also.
'Come, my love,' said he, 'let us make a clean breast of it: do
you tell me what concerns yourself, and I will tell you what
concerns me and the hospital.'
And then, without waiting for an answer, he described to
her, as he best could, the accusation that was made about
Hiram's will; the claims which the old men put forward;
what he considered the strength and what the weakness of his
own position; the course which Bold had taken, and that
which he presumed he was about to take; and then by
degrees, without further question, he presumed on the fact of
Eleanor's love, and spoke of that love as a feeling which he
could in no way disapprove: he apologised for Bold, excused
what he was doing; nay, praised him for his energy and
intentions; made much of his good qualities, and harped on
none of his foibles; then, reminding his daughter how late it
was, and comforting her with much assurance which he hardly
felt himself, he sent her to her room, with flowing eyes and a
full heart.
When Mr Harding met his daughter at breakfast the next
morning, there was no further discussion on the matter, nor
was the subject mentioned between them for some days. Soon
after the party Mary Bold called at the hospital, but there were
various persons in the drawing-room at the time, and she
therefore said nothing about her brother. On the day following,
John Bold met Miss Harding in one of the quiet, sombre,
shaded walks of the close. He was most anxious to see her, but
unwilling to call at the warden's house, and had in truth
waylaid her in her private haunts.
'My sister tells me,' said he, abruptly hurrying on with his
premeditated speech, 'my sister tells me that you had a delightful
party the other evening. I was so sorry I could not be there.'
'We were all sorry,' said Eleanor, with dignified composure.
'I believe, Miss Harding, you understand why, at this
moment--' And Bold hesitated, muttered, stopped, commenced his
explanation again, and again broke down.
Eleanor would not help him in the least.
'I think my sister explained to you, Miss Harding?'
'Pray don't apologise, Mr Bold; my father will, I am sure,
always be glad to see you, if you like to come to the house now
as formerly; nothing has occurred to alter his feelings: of
your own views you are, of course, the best judge.'
'Your father is all that is kind and generous; he always was
so; but you, Miss Harding, yourself--I hope you will not
judge me harshly, because--'
'Mr Bold,' said she, 'you may be sure of one thing; I shall
always judge my father to be right, and those who oppose him
I shall judge to be wrong. If those who do not know him
oppose him, I shall have charity enough to believe that they
are wrong, through error of judgment; but should I see him
attacked by those who ought to know him, and to love him,
and revere him, of such I shall be constrained to form a
different opinion.' And then curtseying low she sailed on,
leaving her lover in anything but a happy state of mind.
CHAPTER VII
'The Jupiter'
Though Eleanor Harding rode off from John Bold on a high horse,
it must not be supposed that her heart was so elate as her
demeanour. In the first place, she had a natural repugnance to
losing her lover; and in the next, she was not quite So sure that
she was in the right as she pretended to be. Her father had told
her, and that now repeatedly, that Bold was doing nothing unjust
or ungenerous; and why then should she rebuke him, and throw him
off, when she felt herself so ill able to bear his loss?--but
such is human nature, and young-lady-nature especially. As she
walked off from him beneath the shady elms of the close, her
look, her tone, every motion and gesture of her body, belied her
heart; she would have given the world to have taken him by the
hand, to have reasoned with him, persuaded him, cajoled him,
coaxed him out of his project; to have overcome him with all her
female artillery, and to have redeemed her father at the cost of
herself; but pride would not let her do this, and she left him
without a look of love or a word of kindness.
Had Bold been judging of another lover and of another
lady, he might have understood all this as well as we do; but
in matters of love men do not see clearly in their own affairs.
They say that faint heart never won fair lady; and it is
amazing to me how fair ladies are won, so faint are often men's
hearts! Were it not for the kindness of their nature, that
seeing the weakness of our courage they will occasionally
descend from their impregnable fortresses, and themselves aid
us in effecting their own defeat, too often would they escape
unconquered if not unscathed, and free of body if not of heart.
Poor Bold crept off quite crestfallen; he felt that as regarded
cadaverous man with hollow jaw and sunken eye, ill beseeming
the richness of his mother church! Ah, why so slow, thou
meagre doctor? See how the archdeacon, speechless in his
agony, deposits on the board his cards, and looks to heaven or
to the ceiling for support. Hark, how he sighs, as with thumbs
in his waistcoat pocket he seems to signify that the end of such
torment is not yet even nigh at hand! Vain is the hope, if
hope there be, to disturb that meagre doctor. With care
precise he places every card, weighs well the value of each
mighty ace, each guarded king, and comfort-giving queen;
speculates on knave and ten, counts all his suits, and sets his
price upon the whole. At length a card is led, and quick three
others fall upon the board. The little doctor leads again, while
with lustrous eye his partner absorbs the trick. Now thrice has
this been done--thrice has constant fortune favoured the brace
of prebendaries, ere the archdeacon rouses himself to the
battle; but at the fourth assault he pins to the earth a prostrate
king, laying low his crown and sceptre, bushy beard, and
lowering brow, with a poor deuce.
'As David did Goliath,' says the archdeacon, pushing over
the four cards to his partner. And then a trump is led, then
another trump; then a king--and then an ace--and then a
long ten, which brings down from the meagre doctor his only
remaining tower of strength--his cherished queen of trumps.
'What, no second club?' says the archdeacon to his partner.
'Only one club,' mutters from his inmost stomach the pursy
rector, who sits there red-faced, silent, impervious, careful, a
safe but not a brilliant ally.
But the archdeacon cares not for many clubs, or for none.
He dashes out his remaining cards with a speed most annoying
to his antagonists, pushes over to them some four cards as their
allotted portion, shoves the remainder across the table to the
red-faced rector; calls out 'two by cards and two by honours,
and the odd trick last time,' marks a treble under the candle-
stick, and has dealt round the second pack before the meagre
doctor has calculated his losses.
And so went off the warden's party, and men and women
arranging shawls and shoes declared how pleasant it had been;
and Mrs Goodenough, the red-faced rector's wife, pressing the
warden's hand, declared she had never enjoyed herself better;
which showed how little pleasure she allowed herself in this
world, as she had sat the whole evening through in the same
chair without occupation, not speaking, and unspoken to.
And Matilda Johnson, when she allowed young Dickson of the
bank to fasten her cloak round her neck, thought that two
hundred pounds a year and a little cottage would really do for
happiness; besides, he was sure to be manager some day.
And Apollo, folding his flute into his pocket, felt that he had
acquitted himself with honour; and the archdeacon pleasantly
jingled his gains; but the meagre doctor went off without
much audible speech, muttering ever and anon as he went,
'three and thirty points!' 'three and thirty points!'
And so they all were gone, and Mr Harding was left alone
with his daughter.
What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold
need not be told. It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that
neither the historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by
their heroes or heroines, or how would three volumes or
twenty suffice! In the present case so little of this sort have
I overheard, that I live in hopes of finishing my work within
300 pages, and of completing that pleasant task--a novel in
one volume; but something had passed between them, and as
the warden blew out the wax candles, and put his instrument
into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by the
empty fire-place, determined to speak to her father, but
irresolute as to what she would say.
'Well, Eleanor,' said he, 'are you for bed?'
'Yes,' said she, moving, 'I suppose so; but papa--Mr Bold
was not here tonight; do you know why not?'
'He was asked; I wrote to him myself,' said the warden.
'But do you know why he did not come, papa?'
'Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it's no use guessing at
such things, my dear. What makes you look so earnest
about it?'
'Oh, papa, do tell me,' she exclaimed, throwing her arms
round him, and looking into his face; 'what is it he is going
to do? What is it all about? Is there any--any--any--' she
didn't well know what word to use--'any danger?'
'Danger, my dear, what sort of danger?'
'Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of--
Oh, papa, why haven't you told me of all this before?'
Mr Harding was not the man to judge harshly of anyone,
much less of the daughter whom he now loved better than any
living creature; but still he did judge her wrongly at this
moment. He knew that she loved John Bold; he fully sympathised
in her affection; day after day he thought more of the matter,
and, with the tender care of a loving father, tried to arrange in
his own mind how matters might be so managed that his daughter's
heart should not be made the sacrifice to the dispute which was
likely to exist between him and Bold. Now, when she spoke to him
for the first time on the subject, it was natural that he should
think more of her than of himself, and that he should imagine
that her own cares, and not his, were troubling her.
He stood silent before her awhile, as she gazed up into his
face, and then kissing her forehead he placed her on the sofa.
'Tell me, Nelly,' he said (he only called her Nelly in his
kindest, softest, sweetest moods, and yet all his moods were
kind and sweet), 'tell me, Nelly, do you like Mr Bold--much?'
She was quite taken aback by the question. I will not say
that she had forgotten herself, and her own love in thinking
about John Bold, and while conversing with Mary: she certainly
had not done so. She had been sick at heart to think that a man
of whom she could not but own to herself that she loved him, of
whose regard she had been so proud, that such a man should turn
against her father to ruin him. She had felt her vanity hurt,
that his affection for her had not kept him from such a course;
had he really cared for her, he would not have risked her love
by such an outrage. But her main fear had been for her father,
and when she spoke of danger, it was of danger to him and not
to herself.
She was taken aback by the question altogether: 'Do I like
him, papa?'
'Yes, Nelly, do you like him? Why shouldn't you like him?
but that's a poor word--do you love him?' She sat still in his
arms without answering him. She certainly had not prepared
herself for an avowal of affection, intending, as she had done,
to abuse John Bold herself, and to hear her father do so also.
'Come, my love,' said he, 'let us make a clean breast of it: do
you tell me what concerns yourself, and I will tell you what
concerns me and the hospital.'
And then, without waiting for an answer, he described to
her, as he best could, the accusation that was made about
Hiram's will; the claims which the old men put forward;
what he considered the strength and what the weakness of his
own position; the course which Bold had taken, and that
which he presumed he was about to take; and then by
degrees, without further question, he presumed on the fact of
Eleanor's love, and spoke of that love as a feeling which he
could in no way disapprove: he apologised for Bold, excused
what he was doing; nay, praised him for his energy and
intentions; made much of his good qualities, and harped on
none of his foibles; then, reminding his daughter how late it
was, and comforting her with much assurance which he hardly
felt himself, he sent her to her room, with flowing eyes and a
full heart.
When Mr Harding met his daughter at breakfast the next
morning, there was no further discussion on the matter, nor
was the subject mentioned between them for some days. Soon
after the party Mary Bold called at the hospital, but there were
various persons in the drawing-room at the time, and she
therefore said nothing about her brother. On the day following,
John Bold met Miss Harding in one of the quiet, sombre,
shaded walks of the close. He was most anxious to see her, but
unwilling to call at the warden's house, and had in truth
waylaid her in her private haunts.
'My sister tells me,' said he, abruptly hurrying on with his
premeditated speech, 'my sister tells me that you had a delightful
party the other evening. I was so sorry I could not be there.'
'We were all sorry,' said Eleanor, with dignified composure.
'I believe, Miss Harding, you understand why, at this
moment--' And Bold hesitated, muttered, stopped, commenced his
explanation again, and again broke down.
Eleanor would not help him in the least.
'I think my sister explained to you, Miss Harding?'
'Pray don't apologise, Mr Bold; my father will, I am sure,
always be glad to see you, if you like to come to the house now
as formerly; nothing has occurred to alter his feelings: of
your own views you are, of course, the best judge.'
'Your father is all that is kind and generous; he always was
so; but you, Miss Harding, yourself--I hope you will not
judge me harshly, because--'
'Mr Bold,' said she, 'you may be sure of one thing; I shall
always judge my father to be right, and those who oppose him
I shall judge to be wrong. If those who do not know him
oppose him, I shall have charity enough to believe that they
are wrong, through error of judgment; but should I see him
attacked by those who ought to know him, and to love him,
and revere him, of such I shall be constrained to form a
different opinion.' And then curtseying low she sailed on,
leaving her lover in anything but a happy state of mind.
CHAPTER VII
'The Jupiter'
Though Eleanor Harding rode off from John Bold on a high horse,
it must not be supposed that her heart was so elate as her
demeanour. In the first place, she had a natural repugnance to
losing her lover; and in the next, she was not quite So sure that
she was in the right as she pretended to be. Her father had told
her, and that now repeatedly, that Bold was doing nothing unjust
or ungenerous; and why then should she rebuke him, and throw him
off, when she felt herself so ill able to bear his loss?--but
such is human nature, and young-lady-nature especially. As she
walked off from him beneath the shady elms of the close, her
look, her tone, every motion and gesture of her body, belied her
heart; she would have given the world to have taken him by the
hand, to have reasoned with him, persuaded him, cajoled him,
coaxed him out of his project; to have overcome him with all her
female artillery, and to have redeemed her father at the cost of
herself; but pride would not let her do this, and she left him
without a look of love or a word of kindness.
Had Bold been judging of another lover and of another
lady, he might have understood all this as well as we do; but
in matters of love men do not see clearly in their own affairs.
They say that faint heart never won fair lady; and it is
amazing to me how fair ladies are won, so faint are often men's
hearts! Were it not for the kindness of their nature, that
seeing the weakness of our courage they will occasionally
descend from their impregnable fortresses, and themselves aid
us in effecting their own defeat, too often would they escape
unconquered if not unscathed, and free of body if not of heart.
Poor Bold crept off quite crestfallen; he felt that as regarded
- jealous [´dʒeləs]
a.妒忌的 (初中英语单词) - disturb [di´stə:b] vt.扰乱；使不安；打乱 (初中英语单词)
- partner [´pɑ:tnə] n.伙伴 v.同....合作 (初中英语单词)
- constant [´kɔnstənt] a.坚定的；坚贞的 (初中英语单词)
- assault [ə´sɔ:lt] vt.袭击；殴打 n.攻击 (初中英语单词)
- stomach [´stʌmək] n.胃；胃口，食欲 (初中英语单词)
- brilliant [´briliənt] a.灿烂的；杰出的 (初中英语单词)
- portion [´pɔ:ʃən] n.嫁妆；命运 vt.分配 (初中英语单词)
- occupation [,ɔkju´peiʃən] a.职业的；军事占领的 (初中英语单词)
- fasten [´fɑ:sən] v.扎牢；闩住；钉牢 (初中英语单词)
- cottage [´kɔtidʒ] n.村舍；小屋；小别墅 (初中英语单词)
- manager [´mænidʒə] n.经理；管理人；干事 (初中英语单词)
- apollo [ə´pɔləu] n.阿波罗 (初中英语单词)
- novelist [´nɔvəlist] n.小说家 (初中英语单词)
- volume [´vɔlju:m, ´vɑljəm] n.卷；书籍；体积；容量 (初中英语单词)
- affection [ə´fekʃən] n.友爱；慈爱 (初中英语单词)
- dispute [di´spju:t] v.&n.争论，辩论；争吵 (初中英语单词)
- awhile [ə´wail] ad.少顷；片刻 (初中英语单词)
- forehead [´fɔrid] n.额，前部 (初中英语单词)
- vanity [´væniti] n.虚荣；自负；空虚 (初中英语单词)
- altogether [,ɔ:ltə´geðə] ad.完全；总而言之 (初中英语单词)
- waiting [´weitiŋ] n.等候；伺候 (初中英语单词)
- weakness [´wi:knis] n.虚弱；弱点，缺点 (初中英语单词)
- energy [´enədʒi] n.活力，精力；能力 (初中英语单词)
- discussion [di´skʌʃən] n.讨论；辩论 (初中英语单词)
- anxious [´æŋkʃəs] a.担忧的；渴望的 (初中英语单词)
- abruptly [ə´brʌptli] ad.突然地；粗鲁地 (初中英语单词)
- formerly [´fɔ:məli] ad.从前，以前 (初中英语单词)
- generous [´dʒenərəs] a.慷慨的；丰盛的 (初中英语单词)
- supposed [sə´pəuzd] a.想象的；假定的 (初中英语单词)
- gesture [´dʒestʃə] n.手势 v.打手势 (初中英语单词)
- project [prə´dʒekt, ´prɔdʒekt] v.设计；投掷 n.计划 (初中英语单词)
- overcome [,əuvə´kʌm] vt.战胜，克服 (初中英语单词)
- sunken [´sʌŋkən] sink的过去分词 (高中英语单词)
- signify [´signifai] vt.表示 vi.有重要性 (高中英语单词)
- remainder [ri´meində] n.剩余物；残余部分 (高中英语单词)
- historian [his´tɔ:riən] n.历史学家 (高中英语单词)
- thoughtful [´θɔ:tfəl] a.深思的；体贴的 (高中英语单词)
- loving [´lʌviŋ] a.爱的，有爱情的 (高中英语单词)
- outrage [´aut,reidʒ] n.残暴 vt.虐待；伤害 (高中英语单词)
- assurance [ə´ʃuərəns] n.保证；自信；信任 (高中英语单词)
- dignified [´dignifaid] a.尊贵的 (高中英语单词)
- charity [´tʃæriti] n.施舍；慈悲；博爱 (高中英语单词)
- rebuke [ri´bju:k] vt.&n.指责；训斥 (高中英语单词)
- motion [´məuʃən] n.手势 vt.打手势 (高中英语单词)
- artillery [ɑ:´tiləri] n.炮兵部队 (高中英语单词)
- speechless [´spi:tʃləs] a.说不出话的 (英语四级单词)
- thrice [θrais] ad.三倍地；三次 (英语四级单词)
- favoured [´feivəd] a.有利的，喜爱的 (英语四级单词)
- audible [´ɔ:dibəl] a.听得见的 (英语四级单词)
- warden [´wɔ:dn] n.看守人；监护人 (英语四级单词)
- accusation [ækju:´zeiʃən] n.谴责；告发 (英语四级单词)
- disapprove [,disə´pru:v] v.不赞成；指责 (英语四级单词)
- repeatedly [ri´pi:tidli] ad.反复地；再三地 (英语四级单词)
- richness [´ritʃnis] n.富饶；富裕；华美 (英语六级单词)
- waistcoat [´weskət, ´weiskəut] n.背心，马甲 (英语六级单词)
- rector [´rektə] n.校长；主任；负责人 (英语六级单词)
- treble [´trebəl] a.&n.三倍(重)的 (英语六级单词)
- speaking [´spi:kiŋ] n.说话 a.发言的 (英语六级单词)
- harshly [´hɑ:ʃli] ad.粗糙地，冷酷地 (英语六级单词)
- revere [ri´viə] vt.尊敬；敬畏 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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