The dining-room of the ancient mansion1 called Mablethorpe House, situated2 in the London suburb of Kensington, is famous among artists and other persons of taste for the carved wood-work, of Italian origin, which covers the walls on three sides. On the fourth side the march of modern improvement has broken in, and has va ried and brightened the scene by means of a conservatory3, forming an entrance to the room through a winter-garden of rare plants and flowers. On your right hand, as you stand fronting the conservatory, the monotony of the paneled wall is relieved by a quaintly4 patterned door of old inlaid wood, leading into the library, and thence, across the great hall, to the other reception-rooms of the house. A corresponding door on the left hand gives access to the billiard-room, to the smoking-room next to it, and to a smaller hall commanding one of the secondary entrances to the building. On the left side also is the ample fireplace, surmounted5 by its marble mantelpiece, carved in the profusely6 and confusedly ornate style of eighty years since. To the educated eye the dining-room, with its modern furniture and conservatory, its ancient walls and doors, and its lofty mantelpiece (neither very old nor very new), presents a startling, almost a revolutionary, mixture of the decorative7 workmanship of widely differing schools. To the ignorant eye the one result produced is an impression of perfect luxury and comfort, united in the friendliest combination, and developed on the largest scale.
The clock has just struck two. The table is spread for luncheon8.
The persons seated at the table are three in number. First, Lady Janet Roy. Second, a young lady who is her reader and companion. Third, a guest staying in the house, who has already appeared in these pages under the name of Horace Holmcroft — attached to the German army as war correspondent of an English newspaper.
Lady Janet Roy needs but little introduction. Everybody with the slightest pretension9 to experience in London society knows Lady Janet Roy.
Who has not heard of her old lace and her priceless rubies10? Who has not admired her commanding figure, her beautifully dressed white hair, her wonderful black eyes, which still preserve their youthful brightness, after first opening on the world seventy years since? Who has not felt the charm of her frank, easily flowing talk, her inexhaustible spirits, her good-humored, gracious sociability11 of manner? Where is the modern hermit12 who is not familiarly acquainted, by hearsay13 at least, with the fantastic novelty and humor of her opinions; with her generous encouragement of rising merit of any sort, in all ranks, high or low; with her charities, which know no distinction between abroad and at home; with her large indulgence, which no ingratitude14 can discourage, and no servility pervert16? Everybody has heard of the popular old lady — the childless widow of a long-forgotten lord. Everybody knows Lady Janet Roy.
But who knows the handsome young woman sitting on her right hand, playing with her luncheon instead of eating it? Nobody really knows her.
She is prettily17 dressed in gray poplin, trimmed with gray velvet18, and set off by a ribbon of deep red tied in a bow at the throat. She is nearly as tall as Lady Janet herself, and possesses a grace and beauty of figure not always seen in women who rise above the medium height. Judging by a certain innate19 grandeur20 in the carriage of her head and in the expression of her large melancholy21 gray eyes, believers in blood and breeding will be apt to guess that this is another noble lady. Alas22! she is nothing but Lady Janet’s companion and reader. Her head, crowned with its lovely light brown hair, bends with a gentle respect when Lady Janet speaks. Her fine firm hand is easily and incessantly23 watchful24 to supply Lady Janet’s slightest wants. The old lady — affectionately familiar with her — speaks to her as she might speak to an adopted child. But the gratitude15 of the beautiful companion has always the same restraint in its acknowledgment of kindness; the smile of the beautiful companion has always the same underlying25 sadness when it responds to Lady Janet’s hearty26 laugh. Is there something wrong here, under the surface? Is she suffering in mind, or suffering in body? What is the matter with her?
The matter with her is secret remorse27. This delicate and beautiful creature pines under the slow torment28 of constant self-reproach.
To the mistress of the house, and to all who inhabit it or enter it, she is known as Grace Roseberry, the orphan29 relative by marriage of Lady Janet Roy. To herself alone she is known as the outcast of the London streets; the inmate30 of the London Refuge; the lost woman who has stolen her way back — after vainly trying to fight her way back — to Home and Name. There she sits in the grim shadow of her own terrible secret, disguised in another person’s identity, and established in another person’s place. Mercy Merrick had only to dare, and to become Grace Roseberry if she pleased. She has dared, and she has been Grace Roseberry for nearly four months past.
At this moment, while Lady Janet is talking to Horace Holmcroft, something that has passed between them has set her thinking of the day when she took the first fatal step which committed her to the fraud.
How marvelously easy of accomplishment31 the act of personation had been! At first sight Lady Janet had yielded to the fascination32 of the noble and interesting face. No need to present the stolen letter; no need to repeat the ready-made story. The old lady had put the letter aside unopened, and had stopped the story at the first words. “Your face is your introduction, my dear; your father can say nothing for you which you have not already said for yourself.” There was the welcome which established her firmly in her false identity at the outset. Thanks to her own experience, and thanks to the “Journal” of events at Rome, questions about her life in Canada and questions about Colonel Roseberry’s illness found her ready with answers which (even if suspicion had existed) would have disarmed33 suspicion on the spot. While the true Grace was slowly and painfully winning her way back to life on her bed in a German hospital, the false Grace was presented to Lady Janet’s friends as the relative by marriage of the Mistress of Mablethorpe House. From that time forward nothing had happened to rouse in her the faintest suspicion that Grace Roseberry was other than a dead-and-buried woman. So far as she now knew — so far as any one now knew — she might live out her life in perfect security (if her conscience would let her), respected, distinguished34, and beloved, in the position which she had usurped35.
She rose abruptly36 from the table. The effort of her life was to shake herself free of the remembrances which haunted her perpetually as they were haunting her now. Her memory was her worst enemy; her one refuge from it was in change of occupation and change of scene.
“May I go into the conservatory, Lady Janet?” she asked.
“Certainly, my dear.”
She bent37 her head to her protectress, looked for a moment with a steady, compassionate38 attention at Horace Holmcroft, and, slowly crossing the room, entered the winter-garden. The eyes of Horace followed her, as long as she was in view, with a curious contradictory39 expression of admiration40 and disapproval41. When she had passed out of sight the admiration vanished, but the disapproval remained. The face of the young man contracted into a frown: he sat silent, with his fork in his hand, playing absently with the fragments on his plate.
“Take some French pie, Horace,” said Lady Janet.
“No, thank you.”
“Some more chicken, then?”
“No more chicken.”
“Will nothing tempt42 you?”
“I will take some more wine, if you will allow me.”
He filled his glass (for the fifth or sixth time) with claret, and emptied it sullenly43 at a draught44. Lady Janet’s bright eyes watched him with sardonic45 attention; Lady Janet’s ready tongue spoke46 out as freely as usual what was passing in her mind at the time.
“The air of Kensington doesn’t seem to suit you, my young friend,” she said. “The longer you have been my guest, the oftener you fill your glass and empty your cigar-case. Those are bad signs in a young man. When you first came here you arrived invalided47 by a wound. In your place, I should not have exposed myself to be shot, with no other object in view than describing a battle in a newspaper. I suppose tastes differ. Are you ill? Does your wound still plague you?”
“Not in the least.”
“Are you out of spirits?”
Horace Holmcroft dropped his fork, rested his elbows on the table, and answered:
“Awfully.”
Even Lady Janet’s large toleration had its limits. It embraced every human offense48 except a breach49 of good manners. She snatched up the nearest weapon of correction at hand — a tablespoon — and rapped her young friend smartly with it on the arm that was nearest to her.
“My table is not the club table,” said the old lady. “Hold up your head. Don’t look at your fork — look at me. I allow nobody to be out of spirits in My house. I consider it to be a reflection on Me. If our quiet life here doesn’t suit you, say so plainly, and find something else to do. There is employment to be had, I suppose — if you choose to apply for it? You needn’t smile. I don’t want to see your teeth — I want an answer.”
Horace admitted, with all needful gravity, that there was employment to be had. The war between France and Germany, he remarked, was still going on: the newspaper had offered to employ him again in the capacity of correspondent.
“Don’t speak of the newspapers and the war!” cried Lady Janet, with a sudden explosion of anger, which was genuine anger this time. “I detest50 the newspapers! I won’t allow the newspapers to enter this house. I lay the whole blame of the blood shed between France and Germany at their door.”
Horace’s eyes opened wide in amazement51. The old lady was evidently in earnest. “What can you possibly mean?” he asked. “Are the newspapers responsible for the war?”
“Entirely responsible,” answered Lady Janet. “Why, you don’t understand the age you live in! Does anybody do anything nowadays (fighting included) without wishing to see it in the newspapers? I subscribe52 to a charity; thou art presented with a testimonial; he preaches a sermon; we suffer a grievance53; you make a discovery; they go to church and get married. And I, thou, he; we, you, they, all want one and the same thing — we want to see it in the papers. Are kings, soldiers, and diplomatists exceptions to the general rule of humanity? Not they! I tell you seriously, if the newspapers of Europe had one and all decided54 not to take the smallest notice in print of the war between France and Germany, it is my firm conviction the war would have come to an end for want of encouragement long since. Let the pen cease to advertise the sword, and I, for one, can see the result. No report — no fighting.”
“Your views have the merit of perfect novelty, ma’am,” said Horace. “Would you object to see them in the newspapers?”
Lady Janet worsted her young friend with his own weapons.
“Don’t I live in the latter part of the nineteenth century?” she asked. “In the newspapers, did you say? In large type, Horace, if you love me!”
Horace changed the subject.
“You blame me for being out of spirits,” he said; “and you seem to think it is because I am tired of my pleasant life at Mablethorpe House. I am not in the least tired, Lady Janet.” He looked toward the conservatory: the frown showed itself on his face once more. “The truth is,” he resumed, “I am not satisfied with Grace Roseberry.”
“What has Grace done?”
“She persists in prolonging our engagement. Nothing will persuade her to fix the day for our marriage.”
It was true! Mercy had been mad enough to listen to him, and to love him. But Mercy was not vile55 enough to marry him under her false character, and in her false name. Between three and four months had elapsed since Horace had been sent home from the war, wounded, and had found the beautiful Englishwoman whom he had befriended in France established at Mablethorpe House. Invited to become Lady Janet’s guest (he had passed his holidays as a school-boy under Lady Janet’s roof)— free to spend the idle time of his convalescence56 from morning to night in Mercy’s society — the impression originally produced on him in a French cottage soon strengthened into love. Before the month was out Horace had declared himself, and had discovered that he spoke to willing ears. From that moment it was only a question of persisting long enough in the resolution to gain his point. The marriage engagement was ratified57 — most reluctantly on the lady’s side — and there the further progress of Horace Holmcroft’s suit came to an end. Try as he might, he failed to persuade his betrothed58 wife to fix the day for the marriage. There were no obstacles in her way. She had no near relations of her own to consult. As a connection of Lady Janet’s by marriage, Horace’s mother and sisters were ready to receive her with all the honors due to a new member of the family. No pecuniary59 considerations made it necessary, in this case, to wait for a favorable time. Horace was an only son; and he had succeeded to his father’s estate with an ample income to support it. On both sides alike there was absolutely nothing to prevent the two young people from being married as soon as the settlements could be drawn60. And yet, to all appearance, here was a long engagement in prospect61, with no better reason than the lady’s incomprehensible perversity62 to explain the delay. “Can you account for Grace’s conduct?” asked Lady Janet. Her manner changed as she put the question. She looked and spoke like a person who was perplexed63 and annoyed.
“I hardly like to own it,” Horace answered, “but I am afraid she has some motive64 for deferring65 our marriage which she cannot confide66 either to you or to me.”
Lady Janet started.
“What makes you think that?” she asked.
“I have once or twice caught her in tears. Every now and then — sometimes when she is talking quite gayly — she suddenly changes color and becomes silent and depressed67. Just now, when she left the table (didn’t you notice it?), she looked at me in the strangest way — almost as if she was sorry for me. What do these things mean?”
Horace’s reply, instead of increasing Lady Janet’s anxiety, seemed to relieve it. He had observed nothing which she had not noticed herself. “You foolish boy!” she said, “the meaning is plain enough. Grace has been out of health for some time past. The doctor recommends change of air. I shall take her away with me.”
“It would be more to the purpose,” Horace rejoined, “if I took her away with me. She might consent, if you would only use your influence. Is it asking too much to ask you to persuade her? My mother and my sisters have written to her, and have produced no effect. Do me the greatest of all kindnesses — speak to her to-day!” He paused, and possessing himself of Lady Janet’s hand, pressed it entreatingly68. “You have always been so good to me,” he said, softly, and pressed it again.
The old lady looked at him. It was impossible to dispute that there were attractions in Horace Holmcroft’s face which made it well worth looking at. Many a woman might have envied him his clear complexion69, his bright blue eyes, and the warm amber70 tint71 in his light Saxon hair. Men — especially men skilled in observing physiognomy — might have noticed in the shape of his forehead and in the line of his upper lip the signs indicative of a moral nature deficient72 in largeness and breadth — of a mind easily accessible to strong prejudices, and obstinate73 in maintaining those prejudices in the face of conviction itself.
To the observation of women these remote defects were too far below the surface to be visible. He charmed the sex in general by his rare personal advantages, and by the graceful74 deference75 of his manner. To Lady Janet he was endeared, not by his own merits only, but by old associations that were connected with him. His father had been one of her many admirers in her young days. Circumstances had parted them. Her marriage to another man had been a childless marriage. In past times, when the boy Horace had come to her from school, she had cherished a secret fancy (too absurd to be communicated to any living creature) that he ought to have been her son, and might have been her son, if she had married his father! She smiled charmingly, old as she was — she yielded as his mother might have yielded — when the young man took her hand and entreated76 her to interest herself in his marriage. “Must I really speak to Grace?” she asked, with a gentleness of tone and manner far from characteristic, on ordinary occasions, of the lady of Mablethorpe House. Horace saw that he had gained his point. He sprang to his feet; his eyes turned eagerly in the direction of the conservatory; his handsome face was radiant with hope. Lady Janet (with her mind full of his father) stole a last look at him, sighed as she thought of the vanished days, and recovered herself.
“Go to the smoking-room,” she said, giving him a push toward the door. “Away with you, and cultivate the favorite vice77 of the nineteenth century.” Horace attempted to express his gratitude. “Go and smoke!” was all she said, pushing him out. “Go and smoke!”
Left by herself, Lady Janet took a turn in the room, and considered a little.
Horace’s discontent was not unreasonable78. There was really no excuse for the delay of which he complained. Whether the young lady had a special motive for hanging back, or whether she was merely fretting79 because she did not know her own mind, it was, in either case, necessary to come to a distinct understanding, sooner or later, on the serious question of the marriage. The difficulty was, how to approach the subject without giving offense. “I don’t understand the young women of the present generation,” thought Lady Janet. “In my time, when we were fond of a man, we were ready to marry him at a moment’s notice. And this is an age of progress! They ought to be readier still.”
Arriving, by her own process of induction80, at this inevitable81 conclusion, she decided to try what her influence could accomplish, and to trust to the inspiration of the moment for exerting it in the right way. “Grace!” she called out, approaching the conservatory door. The tall, lithe82 figure in its gray dress glided83 into view, and stood relieved against the green background of the winter-garden.
“Did your ladyship call me?”
“Yes; I want to speak to you. Come and sit down by me.”
With those words Lady Janet led the way to a sofa, and placed her companion by her side.
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1
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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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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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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8
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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10
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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11
sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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15
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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pervert
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| n.堕落者，反常者；vt.误用，滥用；使人堕落，使入邪路 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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23
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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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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47
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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49
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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50
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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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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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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57
ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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59
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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deferring
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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