When he saw her, with inky fingers and ruffled16 hair, copying out his crabbed17 manuscript, he would thank her for her selfsacrifice. But Felicia would look up fervently18 and shake her head.
“You can’t tell what a blessed relief it is, Mr. Chetwynd.”
So the old man accepted her services gratefully; though, if the truth were known, the trained man of letters, who was accustomed to do everything himself with minute care, was sorely put to it at times as to how to occupy his fair secretary—especially as she, with the conscientiousness20 of her sex, insisted on scrupulously21 filling up every moment of the time she devoted22 to his service.
But Katherine smiled sadly and comprehendingly at Felicia’s ingenuous23 strategical movement.
“It seems rather a pity you never thought of it before,” she said, one day, kindly24. “Regular occupation is a great blessing25; it prevents one from growing lackadaisical26.”
“Yes,” replied Felicia, falling in with her tone; “I am afraid I was beginning to get into evil ways.”
With the advent27 of summer, there was much bustle28 in the pension, bringing relations into greater harmony. The chatter29 of millinery filled the air. Ladies ran up against each other in shops, rendered mutual advice, and grew excited over the arrival of each other’s parcels.
“One touch of chiffon makes the whole world kin,” said Katherine, who looked upon matters with a satirical, yet kindly eye.
She was drawn30 perforce into the movement, being consulted on all sides as to matching of shades and the suitability of hats. She bought outright31 an entire wardrobe for Miss Bunter, who begged her to go shopping with her, and then sat helpless by the counter, fingering mountains of materials. Even Frau Schultz was softened32. But she was the only one who did not consult Katherine. She took Felicia into her confidence, and exhibited, among other seasonable vestments, a blood-coloured blouse, covered with mauve spots as large as two-franc pieces, which she pronounced to be very genteel. Every one had something new to wear for the summer. Mme. Popea scattered33 scraps34 of stuff about her room, in a kind of libationary joy. The little dressmaker, bristling35 with pins, haunted the landings, when not within the little cabinet assigned to her, from outside whose door could be unceasingly heard the sharp tearing of materials and the droning buzz of the sewing-machine.
Summer changes took place in the pension itself. The storey above, which was let unfurnished during the winter, was incorporated, as usual, into the general establishment. There was a week of cleaning, during which the house was given over to men in soft straw hats and blue blouses. And then a week of straightening, when new curtains were put up, and floors rewaxed, and dingy36 coverings removed from chairs and sofas, which burst out resplendent in bright green velvet37. The latter proceedings38 were superintended by an agile39 young man in alpaca sleeves and green baize apron40. It was the summer waiter, who had emerged from the mysterious limbo41 where summer waiters hibernate42, and was resuming his duties, apparently43 at the point he had left them at the end of the previous season. Mme. Boccard and he conversed44 at vast distances, which was trying to those who did not see how the welfare of the pension was being thereby45 furthered. In her quiet moments, the good lady was busy sending out prospectuses47 and answering replies to advertisements and applications. She went about smiling perspiringly at the prospect46 of a successful season.
The first new guests to arrive were M. le Commandant Porniclion and his wife. He was a stout-hearted old Gascon, a veteran of Solferino and Gravelotte, who talked in a great voice and with alarming gestures of blood and battles, and obeyed his little brown wife like a lamb. His friend, Colonel Cazet, was coming with his wife later on. For some years they had been regular summer boarders of Mme. Boccard. The next arrival was a middle-aged49 man, called Skeogh, who had commercial business in Geneva. At the first he caused disappointment through adding up figures in a little black book at meal times. But Frau Schultz found him a most superior person, after listening to a confidential account of the jute market, in which commodity she seemed to have been vaguely50 interested at one period of her life. Whereupon she talked to him about Lottchen, and he put away the black book.
“Quelle Sirène!” cried Mme. Popea, in wicked exultation51.
The next to come was Raine Chetwynd. The old man went to the rail way-station in the morning to meet him, and bore him back in triumph.
“Oh, Raine, my dear, dear boy,” he said, watching him consuming the coffee and petit pain he had ordered up to his room, “you can’t tell how I have longed to see you again.”
“Well, you shall not exile yourself any longer,” said Raine, heartily52. “I am going to carry you back to Oxford53. The place is a howling wilderness54 without you. If I could remember the names of all who sent appealing messages to you, it would be a list as long as Leporello’s. And you mustn’t live away from me again, dad.”
“No,” replied the old man; “but you see I couldn’t have done this work as well in Oxford, could I?”
“It’s a noble work,” said Raine, with the scholar’s instinct.
“Yes,” replied the old man with a sigh; “it wanted doing, it wanted doing. And I think I have done it very well.”
“I must overhaul55 your scrip, while I am here. Let me have a look at it.”
“Don’t bother about it yet, my boy. Finish your coffee. Let me ring for some more. You must be tired after your long journey.”
“Tired?” laughed Raine. “Oh dear no, and I can go on quite well till breakfast. I only want to see what kind of stuff you have been doing since I have been away.”
The professor went to his drawer and pulled out the manuscript, his heart glowing at Raine’s loving interest in his work—a never-failing source of pride and comfort.
“Here it is, nearly finished.”
Raine took the scrip from him and turned over the pages, with a running commentary on the scope within which the subject was treated. At last he uttered an exclamation56 of surprise, laid the book on his knee and looked up at his father.
“Hullo! what is all this?”
The old man peeped over his shoulder.
“That is my secretary’s writing,” he explained; “Miss Graves, you remember her, don’t you?”
“Of course; but—”
“Well, she will insist upon it, Raine; she comes in for a couple of hours a day. It pleases her, really, and I can’t help it.”
“What a dear little soul she must be,” said Raine.
“Ah! she is, my boy; every day she seems to wind a fresh thread round my heart. We shall have to take her back to Oxford with us, eh, Raine?”
He laughed softly, took up the manuscript and put it tenderly away again in the drawer, while Raine lit his pipe. The latter did not suspect the hint that his father had meant to convey, but he took advantage of the short pause that followed to change the conversation.
It was Mme. Boccard’s arrangement that Raine should take Katherine’s place next to his father, and thus have her as his neighbour. It would disappoint M. le Professeur if he were separated from his petite amie, Miss Graves, and she was sure that Mrs. Stapleton would not mind.
“Make any arrangement you please,” Katherine had replied, with some demureness57.
Whereupon Mme. Boccard thanked her, and wished that everybody was as gentle and easy to deal with, and Katherine had smiled inwardly, at the same time despising herself a little for doing so, as is the way with women.
As for Felicia, the disposition58 of seats caused her painful embarrassment59. She dared not look at Katherine, lest she should read the welcome in her eyes; she dared not look at Raine, lest the trouble in her own should betray her. She kept them downcast, listening to Raine’s voice with a burning cheek and beating heart. Only when the meal was over, and the old man detained her in conversation by the window, and Raine came up to them, did she summon up courage to meet his glance fully19.
“So the professor has caught you in his dusty web, Miss Graves,” he said, smiling. “You were very sweet to let yourself be caught.”
“Oh! I walked in of my own accord, I assure you,” replied Felicia, “and you have no idea what trouble I had. He wants to dismiss me at the present moment. Do plead for me, Mr. Chetwynd. Of course, I know I should be in the way in the professor’s room now—oh! yes, I should, that is quite settled—but I want him to give me something to do by myself.”
“I will try my best for you, Miss Graves,” said Raine; “but you don’t know what an unnatural60, hard-hearted—”
“Oh, Mr. Chetwynd!” said Felicia.
“Well, my dear,” said the old man, “you must have your way. It was only for your own sake I suggested it. I am always so afraid of making you weary—and it is very, very dry stuff—but your help is invaluable61, my dear. It will be the same as usual, then. Only I think I shall cut down the time to half, as I, too, am going to be lazy now.”
“Now you will see what real laziness is, Miss Graves,” said Raine. “Do you know my father’s idea of leisure?—what remains62 of a day after nine hours’ work. Seven he calls laziness; six is abject63 sloth64.”
“Ah! not now, Raine,” said the old man, “not now.”
He turned to go. The two younger people’s eyes met, both touched by the same thing—the pathos65 of old age that sounded in the old man’s words.
“How you must love him!” said Felicia, in a low voice.
“I do,” replied Raine, earnestly; “and it makes me happy to see that he has not been unloved during my absence. I feel more about what you have done for him than I can say.”
He smiled, involuntarily put out his hand, and pressed hers that she gave him. Then they parted, he to follow his father, she to go to her room serener66 and happier than she had been for many days, and to weave a wondrous67 web out of a few gracious words, a smile, and a pressure of the hand. If it were possible—if it were only possible! There would be no shame then—or only just that of it to raise joy with a leaven68 of tremulousness.
Meanwhile Raine sat in his father’s room, and continued the interrupted gossip. But towards three o’clock the old man’s eyes grew heavy, as he leaned his head back in the armchair. He struggled to keep them open for Raine’s sake, but at last the latter rose with a smile.
“Why, you are sleepy, dad!”
“Yes,” murmured the old man, apologetically. “It’s a new habit I have contracted—I must break myself of it gradually. I suppose I am getting old, Raine. You won’t think it unkind of me will you? Just forty winks69, Raine.”
“Have your nap out comfortably,” said the young man.
He fetched a footstool, arranged a cushion with singular tenderness behind the old man, and left him to his sleep. Then he went out for a stroll through the town.
It was a hot, sunny day. At the end of the street, the gate of the Jardin Anglais stood invitingly70 open. Raine entered, and came upon the enclosed portion of the Quai that forms the promenade71, pleasant with its line of shady seats under the trees on one side, and the far-stretching lake on the Other. He paused for awhile, and leant over the balustrade to light a cigarette and to admire the view—the cloudless sky, the deep blue water flecked with white sails, the imposing72 mass of the hotels on the Quai du Mont Blanc, the busy life on the bridge, beneath which the Rhone flows out of the lake. He drew in a long breath. Somehow it was more exhilarating than his college gardens. The place was not crowded, as the tourist season had not yet set in. But the usual number of nurses and children scattered themselves promiscuously73 along the path, and filled the air with shrill74 voices. Raine, continuing his stroll, had not gone many steps when he perceived, far ahead, a lady start from her seat and run to pick up a child that had fallen down. On advancing farther, he saw that it was Mrs. Stapleton, who had got the child on her knees and was tenderly wiping the little gravel48-scratched hands, while the nurse, who had come up, stood by phlegmatic75.
It was a pretty sight, instinct with feminine charm, and struck gratefully on the man’s senses. Katherine looked very fresh and delicate in her sprigged lilac blouse, plain serge skirt, and simple black straw hat, and the attitude in which she bent76 down to the chubby77, tearful face under the white sun-bonnet was very graceful78 and womanly. She kissed the child and handed it to its nurse as Raine came up. She greeted him with a smile.
“Quite a catastrophe—but she will forget all about it in half an hour. It must be delightful79 to be a child.”
“If all hurts are so promptly80 and tenderly healed, I should think it must be,” said Raine.
“Thank you,” she said, with an upward glance; “that is a pretty compliment.” Raine bowed, laughed his acknowledgments, and with a word of request, sat down by her side.
“Is this a haunt of yours?” he asked.
“Yes, I suppose it is. It is so near the pension—and I love the open air.”
“So do I. That is another point of contact. We discovered a good many, if you remember, at Christmas. What have you been doing since then?”
“Forgetting a good many old lessons, and trying to teach myself a few new ones. Or, if you like, making bricks without straw—trying to live a life without incidents.”
“Which less epigrammatically means that you have had a dull, cheerless time. I am sorry. You have been here all the winter and spring?”
“Yes. Where else should I have been?”
“In a happier place,” said Raine. “You don’t seem made to lead this monotonous81 existence.”
“Oh! I suppose I am, since I am leading it. Human beings, like water, find their own level. The Pension Boccard seems to be mine.”
“You smile, as if you liked it,”, he said, rather puzzled.
“Would you have me cry to you?”
“Perhaps not on the day of my coming, but afterwards, I wish you would.”
She flashed a glance at him, the lightning reconnoitre of woman ever on the defensive82. But the sight of his strong, frank face and kind eyes reassured83 her. She was silent for a moment, dreaming a vivid day-dream. She was taking him at his word, crying with her face on his shoulder and his arm around her. It was infinite comfort. But she quickly roused herself.
“Don’t you know your Burton? A kind man once pointed84 it out to me—‘As much pity is to be taken of a woman weeping, as of a goose going barefoot.’ It was the same that told me a woman cried to hide her feelings.”
“That kind of epigram can be made like match-boxes at twopence farthing a gross,” said Raine, impatiently. “You have only to dress up an old adage85 with a mask of spite.”
“You haven’t changed,” she said with a smile. “You are just the same as when you left.”
“More so,” he said, enigmatically. “Much more so. Then I thought it would do you good to cry. Now I wish you would. I suppose it seems odd I should say this to you. You must forgive me.”
“But why should I cry when I have no trouble?” she asked, disregarding his apology. “Besides, I don’t go about bewailing my lot in life. Do you think I am unhappy?”
“Yes,” he replied, bluntly, “I do. I’ll tell you what made me first think so. It was at the theatre at Christmas, when we saw ‘Denise.’ I was watching your face in repose86.”
“It is a painful play,” she said, quietly, but her lip quivered a little, and a faint flush came into her cheek. “Besides, I was very happy that evening.”
He was sitting sideways on the bench, watching her with some earnestness. She was drawing scrawls87 on the gravel with the point of her parasol. Both started when they heard a harsh voice addressing them.
“Ach! You are here. Is it not a beautiful afternoon?”
It was Frau Schultz who spoke88. Felicia was by her side. Raine rose to his feet, took off his hat, and uttered a pleasant commonplace of greeting. But Frau Schultz put her hand on Felicia’s arm and moved away.
“We will not detain you. I am going to the dentist, and Miss Graves is accompanying me.”
So Raine lifted his hat again and resumed his seat.
“That is rough on Miss Graves,” he said, watching their retiring figures and noting the contrast between the girl’s slim waist and the elder woman’s broad, red and mauve spotted89 back. “But she is a sweet-natüred girl. Isn’t she?”
“Yes,” assented90 Katherine. “He will be a happy man who wins her.”
“You are right there,” he replied in his downright way, unconscious of the questioning pain that lay behind the woman’s calm grey eyes. “Few people, I should think, could know her without loving her. Life is touching91 to see the relations between herself and my father.”
“You will see a great deal of her, for that reason.”
“I hope so,” he said, brightly.
Again Katherine kept down the question that struggled to leap into her eyes. There was a short silence, during which she turned idly over the leaves of the book that was in her lap. It was “Diana of the Crossways.”
“A noble book,” he said, glancing at the title. “But I never quite understand how Diana sold the secret.”
“No?” said Katherine, “I think I can tell you.”
And so she gave him of her womans knowledge of her sex, and the time passed pleasantly, till she judged it prudent92 to bid him farewell.
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1
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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10
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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lackadaisical
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| adj.无精打采的，无兴趣的；adv.无精打采地，不决断地 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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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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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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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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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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hibernate
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| v.冬眠，蛰伏 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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prospectuses
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| n.章程，简章，简介( prospectus的名词复数 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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53
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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54
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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55
overhaul
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| v./n.大修，仔细检查 | |
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56
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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57
demureness
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| n.demure（拘谨的，端庄的）的变形 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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serener
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的比较级形式 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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promiscuously
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| adv.杂乱地，混杂地 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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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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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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scrawls
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| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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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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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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