Captain Wybrow was silent. He felt out of humour, wearied, annoyed. There come moments when one almost determines never again to oppose anything but dead silence to an angry woman. ‘Now then, confound it,’ he said to himself, ‘I’m going to be battered2 on the other flank.’ He looked resolutely3 at the horizon, with something more like a frown on his face than Beatrice had ever seen there.
After a pause of two or three minutes, she continued in a still haughtier4 tone, ‘I suppose you are aware, Captain Wybrow, that I expect an explanation of what I have just seen.’
‘I have no explanation, my dear Beatrice,’ he answered at last, making a strong effort over himself, ‘except what I have already given you. I hoped you would never recur5 to the subject.’
‘Your explanation, however, is very far from satisfactory. I can only say that the airs Miss Sarti thinks herself entitled to put on towards you, are quite incompatible6 with your position as regards me. And her behaviour to me is most insulting. I shall certainly not stay in the house under such circumstances, and mamma must state the reasons to Sir Christopher.’
‘Beatrice,’ said Captain Wybrow, his irritation7 giving way to alarm, ‘I beseech8 you to be patient, and exercise your good feelings in this affair. It is very painful, I know, but I am sure you would be grieved to injure poor Caterina — to bring down my uncle’s anger upon her. Consider what a poor little dependent thing she is.’
‘It is very adroit9 of you to make these evasions10, but do not suppose that they deceive me. Miss Sarti would never dare to behave to you as she does, if you had not flirted11 with her, or made love to her. I suppose she considers your engagement to me a breach12 of faith to her. I am much obliged to you, certainly, for making me Miss Sarti’s rival. You have told me a falsehood, Captain Wybrow.’
‘Beatrice, I solemnly declare to you that Caterina is nothing more to me than a girl I naturally feel kindly13 to — as a favourite of my uncle’s, and a nice little thing enough. I should be glad to see her married to Gilfil tomorrow; that’s a good proof that I’m not in love with her, I should think. As to the past, I may have shown her little attentions, which she has exaggerated and misinterpreted. What man is not liable to that sort of thing?’
‘But what can she found her behaviour on? What had she been saying to you this morning to make her tremble and turn pale in that way?’
‘O, I don’t know. I just said something about her behaving peevishly14. With that Italian blood of hers, there’s no knowing how she may take what one says. She’s a fierce little thing, though she seems so quiet generally.’
‘But she ought to be made to know how unbecoming and indelicate her conduct is. For my part, I wonder Lady Cheverel has not noticed her short answers and the airs she puts on.’
‘Let me beg of you, Beatrice, not to hint anything of the kind to Lady Cheverel. You must have observed how strict my aunt is. It never enters her head that a girl can be in love with a man who has not made her an offer.’
‘Well, I shall let Miss Sarti know myself that I have observed her conduct. It will be only a charity to her.’
‘Nay, dear, that will be doing nothing but harm. Caterina’s temper is peculiar15. The best thing you can do will be to leave her to herself as much as possible. It will all wear off. I’ve no doubt she’ll be married to Gilfil before long. Girls’ fancies are easily diverted from one object to another. By jove, what a rate my heart is galloping16 at! These confounded palpitations get worse instead of better.’
Thus ended the conversation, so far as it concerned Caterina, not without leaving a distinct resolution in Captain Wybrow’s mind — a resolution carried into effect the next day, when he was in the library with Sir Christopher for the purpose of discussing some arrangements about the approaching marriage.
‘By the by,’ he said carelessly, when the business came to a pause, and he was sauntering round the room with his hands in his coat-pockets, surveying the backs of the books that lined the walls, ‘when is the wedding between Gilfil and Caterina to come off, sir? I’ve a fellow-feeling for a poor devil so many fathoms17 deep in love as Maynard. Why shouldn’t their marriage happen as soon as ours? I suppose he has come to an understanding with Tina?’
‘Why,’ said Sir Christopher, ‘I did think of letting the thing be until old Crichley died; he can’t hold out very long, poor fellow; and then Maynard might have entered into matrimony and the rectory both at once. But, after all, that really is no good reason for waiting. There is no need for them to leave the Manor18 when they are married. The little monkey is quite old enough. It would be pretty to see her a matron, with a baby about the size of a kitten in her arms.’
‘I think that system of waiting is always bad. And if I can further any settlement you would like to make on Caterina, I shall be delighted to carry out your wishes.’
‘My dear boy, that’s very good of you; but Maynard will have enough; and from what I know of him — and I know him well — I think he would rather provide for Caterina himself. However, now you have put this matter into my head, I begin to blame myself for not having thought of it before. I’ve been so wrapt up in Beatrice and you, you rascal19, that I had really forgotten poor Maynard. And he’s older than you — it’s high time he was settled in life as a family man.’
Sir Christopher paused, took snuff in a meditative20 manner, and presently said, more to himself than to Anthony, who was humming a tune21 at the far end of the room, ‘Yes, yes. It will be a capital plan to finish off all our family business at once.’
Riding out with Miss Assher the same morning, Captain Wybrow mentioned to her incidentally, that Sir Christopher was anxious to bring about the wedding between Gilfil and Caterina as soon as possible, and that he, for his part, should do all he could to further the affair. It would be the best thing in the world for Tina, in whose welfare he was really interested.
With Sir Christopher there was never any long interval22 between purpose and execution. He made up his mind promptly23, and he acted promptly. On rising from luncheon24, he said to Mr. Gilfil, ‘Come with me into the library, Maynard. I want to have a word with you.’
‘Maynard, my boy,’ he began, as soon as they were seated, tapping his snuff-box, and looking radiant at the idea of the unexpected pleasure he was about to give, ‘why shouldn’t we have two happy couples instead of one, before the autumn is over, eh?’
‘Eh?’ he repeated, after a moment’s pause, lengthening25 out the monosyllable, taking a slow pinch, and looking up at Maynard with a sly smile.
‘I’m not quite sure that I understand you, sir,’ answered Mr. Gilfil, who felt annoyed at the consciousness that he was turning pale.
‘Not understand me, you rogue26? You know very well whose happiness lies nearest to my heart after Anthony’s. You know you let me into your secrets long ago, so there’s no confession27 to make. Tina’s quite old enough to be a grave little wife now; and though the Rectory’s not ready for you, that’s no matter. My lady and I shall feel all the more comfortable for having you with us. We should miss our little singing-bird if we lost her all at once.’
Mr. Gilfil felt himself in a painfully difficult position. He dreaded29 that Sir Christopher should surmise30 or discover the true state of Caterina’s feelings, and yet he was obliged to make those feelings the ground of his reply.
‘My dear sir,’ he at last said with some effort, ‘you will not suppose that I am not alive to your goodness — that I am not grateful for your fatherly interest in my happiness; but I fear that Caterina’s feelings towards me are not such as to warrant the hope that she would accept a proposal of marriage from me.’
‘Have you ever asked her?’
‘No, sir. But we often know these things too well without asking.’
‘Pooh, pooh! the little monkey must love you. Why, you were her first playfellow; and I remember she used to cry if you cut your finger. Besides, she has always silently admitted that you were her lover. You know I have always spoken of you to her in that light. I took it for granted you had settled the business between yourselves; so did Anthony. Anthony thinks she’s in love with you, and he has young eyes, which are apt enough to see clearly in these matters. He was talking to me about it this morning, and pleased me very much by the friendly interest he showed in you and Tina.’
The blood — more than was wanted — rushed back to Mr. Gilfil’s face; he set his teeth and clenched31 his hands in the effort to repress a burst of indignation. Sir Christopher noticed the flush, but thought it indicated the fluctuation32 of hope and fear about Caterina. He went on:—‘You’re too modest by half, Maynard. A fellow who can take a five-barred gate as you can, ought not to be so faint-hearted. If you can’t speak to her yourself, leave me to talk to her.’
‘Sir Christopher,’ said poor Maynard earnestly, ‘I shall really feel it the greatest kindness you can possibly show me not to mention this subject to Caterina at present. I think such a proposal, made prematurely33, might only alienate34 her from me.’
Sir Christopher was getting a little displeased35 at this contradiction. His tone became a little sharper as he said, ‘Have you any grounds to state for this opinion, beyond your general notion that Tina is not enough in love with you?’
‘I can state none beyond my own very strong impression that she does not love me well enough to marry me.’
‘Then I think that ground is worth nothing at all. I am tolerably correct in my judgement of people; and if I am not very much deceived in Tina, she looks forward to nothing else but to your being her husband. Leave me to manage the matter as I think best. You may rely on me that I shall do no harm to your cause, Maynard.’
Mr. Gilfil, afraid to say more, yet wretched in the prospect36 of what might result from Sir Christopher’s determination, quitted the library in a state of mingled37 indignation against Captain Wybrow, and distress38 for himself and Caterina. What would she think of him? She might suppose that he had instigated39 or sanctioned Sir Christopher’s proceeding40. He should perhaps not have an opportunity of speaking to her on the subject in time; he would write her a note, and carry it up to her room after the dressing-bell had rung. No; that would agitate41 her, and unfit her for appearing at dinner, and passing the evening calmly. He would defer42 it till bed-time. After prayers, he contrived43 to lead her back to the drawing-room, and to put a letter in her hand. She carried it up to her own room, wondering, and there read —
‘Dear Caterina, Do not suspect for a moment that anything Sir Christopher may say to you about our marriage has been prompted by me. I have done all I dare do to dissuade44 him from urging the subject, and have only been prevented from speaking more strongly by the dread28 of provoking questions which I could not answer without causing you fresh misery45. I write this, both to prepare you for anything Sir Christopher may say, and to assure you — but I hope you already believe it — that your feelings are sacred to me. I would rather part with the dearest hope of my life than be the means of adding to your trouble.
‘It is Captain Wybrow who has prompted Sir Christopher to take up the subject at this moment. I tell you this, to save you from hearing it suddenly when you are with Sir Christopher. You see now what sort of stuff that dastard’s heart is made of. Trust in me always, dearest Caterina, as — whatever may come — your faithful friend and brother,
‘Maynard Gilfil.’
Caterina was at first too terribly stung by the words about Captain Wybrow to think of the difficulty which threatened her — to think either of what Sir Christopher would say to her, or of what she could say in reply. Bitter sense of injury, fierce resentment46, left no room for fear. With the poisoned garment upon him, the victim writhes47 under the torture — he has no thought of the coming death.
Anthony could do this! — Of this there could be no explanation but the coolest contempt for her feelings, the basest sacrifice of all the consideration and tenderness he owed her to the ease of his position with Miss Assher. No. It was worse than that: it was deliberate, gratuitous48 cruelty. He wanted to show her how he despised her; he wanted to make her feel her folly49 in having ever believed that he loved her.
The last crystal drops of trust and tenderness, she thought, were dried up; all was parched50, fiery51 hatred52. Now she need no longer check her resentment by the fear of doing him an injustice53: he had trifled with her, as Maynard had said; he had been reckless of her; and now he was base and cruel. She had cause enough for her bitterness and anger; they were not so wicked as they had seemed to her.
As these thoughts were hurrying after each other like so many sharp throbs54 of fevered pain, she shed no tear. She paced restlessly to and fro, as her habit was — her hands clenched, her eyes gleaming fiercely and wandering uneasily, as if in search of something on which she might throw herself like a tigress.
‘If I could speak to him,’ she whispered, ‘and tell him I hate him, I despise him, I loathe55 him!’
Suddenly, as if a new thought had struck her, she drew a key from her pocket, and, unlocking an inlaid desk where she stored up her keepsakes, took from it a small miniature. It was in a very slight gold frame, with a ring to it, as if intended to be worn on a chain; and under the glass at the back were two locks of hair, one dark and the other auburn, arranged in a fantastic knot. It was Anthony’s secret present to her a year ago a copy he had had made specially56 for her. For the last month she had not taken it from its hiding-place: there was no need to heighten the vividness of the past. But now she clutched it fiercely, and dashed it across the room against the bare hearth-stone.
Will she crush it under her feet, and grind it under her high-heeled shoe, till every trace of those false cruel features is gone? Ah, no! She rushed across the room; but when she saw the little treasure she had cherished so fondly, so often smothered57 with kisses, so often laid under her pillow, and remembered with the first return of consciousness in the morning — when she saw this one visible relic58 of the too happy past lying with the glass shivered, the hair fallen out, the thin ivory cracked, there was a revulsion of the overstrained feeling: relenting came, and she burst into tears.
Look at her stooping down to gather up her treasure, searching for the hair and replacing it, and then mournfully examining the crack that disfigures the once-loved image. Alas59! there is no glass now to guard either the hair or the portrait; but see how carefully she wraps delicate paper round it, and locks it up again in its old place. Poor child! God send the relenting may always come before the worst irrevocable deed!
This action had quieted her, and she sat down to read Maynard’s letter again. She read it two or three times without seeming to take in the sense; her apprehension60 was dulled by the passion of the last hour, and she found it difficult to call up the ideas suggested by the words. At last she began to have a distinct conception of the impending61 interview with Sir Christopher. The idea of displeasing62 the Baronet, of whom every one at the Manor stood in awe63, frightened her so much that she thought it would be impossible to resist his wish. He believed that she loved Maynard; he had always spoken as if he were quite sure of it. How could she tell him he was deceived — and what if he were to ask her whether she loved anybody else? To have Sir Christopher looking angrily at her, was more than she could bear, even in imagination. He had always been so good to her! Then she began to think of the pain she might give him, and the more selfish distress of fear gave way to the distress of affection. Unselfish tears began to flow, and sorrowful gratitude64 to Sir Christopher helped to awaken65 her sensibility to Mr. Gilfil’s tenderness and generosity66.
‘Dear, good Maynard! — what a poor return I make him! If I could but have loved him instead — but I can never love or care for anything again. My heart is broken.’
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1
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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3
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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haughtier
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的比较级形式 | |
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5
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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6
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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7
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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8
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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13
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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14
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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16
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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17
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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18
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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21
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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25
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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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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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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30
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fluctuation
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| n.(物价的)波动，涨落；周期性变动；脉动 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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alienate
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| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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41
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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42
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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44
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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45
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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47
writhes
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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49
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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50
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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51
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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52
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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53
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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54
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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55
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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56
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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57
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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58
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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59
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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60
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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61
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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62
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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63
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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64
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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65
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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66
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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