“Oh, no—yes. I have had some disturbing news, but nothing to take any notice of. I will tell you afterwards,” Mrs. Nugent said. Lucy too hung upon her, eager to know what was the matter. “Only some blunders{117}—about my affairs,” she had replied, “which I can set right.”
“Oh, if that is all!” Lucy had cried, running off to salute9 some other new-comers and carrying Tiny in her train. “Affairs” meant business to Lucy, and business, so far as she was aware, touched only the outside, and could have nothing to do with any one’s happiness. Besides, her mind was in a turmoil10 for the moment with that strange story of Mrs. Bertram which her mother had just told her by way of precaution, filtered from Ralph. “Mr. Bertram is married, it appears; but he and his wife don’t get on,” was what Mr. Wradisley had said. Lucy’s imagination had, as we are aware, been busy about Bertram, and she was startled by this strange and sudden conclusion to her self-inquiry whether by any chance he might be the Ideal man.
It was thus that Mrs. Nugent had been suddenly left without even the protection of her child, and though she had managed for some time to hide herself, as she supposed (though his watchful11 gaze in reality followed{118} her everywhere), from her host amid the crowd of other people assembled, there came the inevitable12 moment when she could keep herself from him no longer. He came up to her while the people who surrounded dispersed13 to examine his collection or to go in for tea.
“But I have seen your collection, Mr. Wradisley,” she said; “you were so kind as to show me everything.”
“It is not my collection,” he said; “it is—a flower I want to show you. The new orchid14—the new—Let me take you into the conservatory15. I must,” he said, in a lower tone. “You must be merciful and let me speak to you.”
“Mr. Wradisley,” she cried, almost under her breath, “do not, for pity’s sake, say any more.”
“I must,” he said, impetuously. “I must know.” And then he added in his usual tone, “Stevenson is very proud of it. It is a very rare kind, you know, and the finest specimen16, he says.{119}”
“Oh, what is that, Mr. Wradisley?—an orchid? May I come too?” said another guest, without discrimination.
“Certainly,” he said; “but all in its order. Simmons comes first, Stevenson afterwards. You have not seen my Etruscan collection.” Mrs. Nugent was aware that he had caught a floating ribbon of the light cloak she carried on her arm, and held it fast while he directed with his usual grave propriety17 the other lady by her side. “Now,” he said, looking up to her. If it was the only thing that could be done, then perhaps it was better that it should be done at once. He led her through the lines of gleaming glass, the fruit, and the flowers, for Wradisbury was famous for its vineries and its conservatories—meeting a few wanderers by the way, whom it was difficult to prevent from following—till at last they got to the inner sanctuary18 of all, where a great fantastic blossom, a flower, but counterfeiting19 something that was not a flower, blazed aloft in the ruddy afternoon light, which of itself could never have produced that unnatural20 tropical blossom. Neither the man nor the woman looked at the orchid.{120} She said to him eagerly before he could speak: “This is all dreadful to me. You ought to let me go. You ought to be satisfied with my word. Should I speak as I have done if I had not meant it? Mr. Wradisley, for God’s sake, accept what I have already said to you and let me go.”
“No,” he said. She stood beside the flower, her brown beauty shining against the long leaves and strong stem of the beautiful monster, and he planted himself in front of her as if to prevent her escape. “You think I am tyrannical,” he said; “so I am. You are shocked and startled by what I have said to you. It is because I understand that that I am so pressing, so arbitrary now. Mrs. Nugent, you can’t bear that a man should speak to you of love. You think that love only comes once, that your heart should be buried with your husband; that is folly21, it is fancy, it is prejudice, it is not a real feeling. That is why I force you almost to hear me. Pause a moment, and hear me.”
“Not a moment, not a moment!” she cried.{121} “It is more than that. Take my word for it, and let me go and say no more.”
“A widow,” he said, “you make up an idea to yourself that it’s something sacred. You are never to love, never to think of any one again. But all that is fiction—don’t interrupt me—it is mere22 fiction. You are living, and he is dead.”
“You force me,” she cried, “to betray myself. You force me—to tell you my secrets. You have no right to force my secret from me. Mr. Wradisley, every word you say to me is an offense23. It is my own fault; but a man ought surely to be generous and take a woman’s word without compelling her in self defense—”
“I know by heart all that you can say in self-defense,” he cried, vehemently24, “and you ought to be told that these are all fictions—sentimentalisms—never to be weighed against a true affection—a man’s love—and home and protection—both for yourself and your child.”
The young woman’s high spirit was aroused. “I will have no more of this,” she{122} said. “I am quite able to protect myself and my child. Let me go—I will go, Mr. Wradisley. I do not call this love. I call it persecution25. Not a word more.”
Mr. Wradisley was more astonished than words could say. He fell back, and allowed her to pass. He had thought, with a high hand, in the exercise of that superior position and judgment26 which everybody allowed him, to bring her to reason. Was it possible that she was not to be brought to reason? “I think,” he said, “Mrs. Nugent, that when you are calm and consider everything at your leisure you will feel—that I am justified27.”
“You can never be justified in assuming that you know—another person’s position and feelings; which you don’t, and can’t know.”
“I argue from the general,” said Mr. Wradisley, with an air almost of meekness28, “and when you think—when you take time to consider—”
“No time would make any difference,” she said, quickly; and then, for she was now free{123} and going back again toward the lawn, her heart smote29 her. “Don’t bear me any malice,” she said. “I respect you very much; any woman might be proud—of your love”—her face gave a little twitch30, whether toward laughing or crying it was difficult to tell—“but I couldn’t have given you mine in any circumstances, not if I had been—entirely free.”
“Which you are—from everything but false sentiment,” he said, doggedly31.
But what did it matter?—he was following her out, her face was turned from him, her ears were deaf to his impressive words, as her eyes were turned from his looks, which were more impressive still. Mr. Wradisley had failed, and it was the first time for many years that he had done so; he had even forgotten that such a thing was possible. When they came, thus walking solemnly one behind the other, to the outer house where some of the other guests were lingering, Mrs. Nugent stopped to speak to some of them, to describe the new orchid. “It is the most uncanny thing I ever saw,” she said. And then{124} Lady Dulham, the great lady of that side of the county, the person whom he most disliked, appealed to Mr. Wradisley to show her too the new wonder. It was perhaps on the whole the best way he could have got out of this false position. He offered the old lady his arm with a deeply wounded, hotly offended heart.
Mrs. Nugent lingered a little with the others in the great relief and ease of mind which, though it was only momentary32, was great. She had not after all been obliged to reveal any of her secrets, whatever they might be. If he had been less peremptory33, more reasonable, she would have been obliged to explain to him; and that she had very little mind to do. After the first relief, however, she began to feel what a blow had been struck at her temporary comfort in this place by so untoward34 an accident. His mother and sister were her chief friends; they had received her so generously, so kindly35, with such confidence. Her secret was no guilty one, but still it had made her uncomfortable, it had been the subject of various annoyances36; but{125} none of these kind people had asked her any questions; they had received her for herself, never doubting. And now it seemed that she had only appeared among them to do harm. She was a pretty and attractive young woman, and not altogether unaware37 that people liked her on that account; but yet she never had been one of those women with whom everybody is acquainted, in novels, at least, before whom every man falls down. She had had her share, but she had not been persecuted38 by inopportune lovers. And she had not entertained any alarm in respect to Mr. Wradisley. She hoped now that his pride would help him through it, and that nobody would be the wiser; but still she could not continue here under the very wing of the family after so humiliating its head, either meeting him, or compelling him to avoid her. She went on turning over this question in her mind, pausing to talk to this one and that one, to do her duty to Mrs. Wradisley still by amusing and occupying her guests, putting on her smiles as if they bad been ribbons to conceal39 some little spot{126} or rent beneath. Indeed, it was no rent. She had not been very long at Wradisbury. It would be no dreadful business to go away. She was neither without friends nor protectors, and London was always a ready and natural refuge, where it would be so simple to go. But this fiasco, as she called it to herself, vexed40 her. She wanted to get away as soon as possible, to think it over at leisure, to find Tiny, who no doubt was hanging on Lucy Wradisley’s skirts somewhere, or else playing with the other children, and to steal home as soon as there was any pretext41 for departure. She felt that she would prefer not to meet his mother’s eye.
She was beginning to get very impatient of waiting when at last she caught sight of Tiny being set down on the ground from somebody’s shoulders. She did not pay any attention for the moment to the man. Tiny had so many friends; for the child was not shy; she had no objection to trust herself to any one who pleased her, though it was not every one who had this advantage and pleased Tiny. The mother saw at once that Tiny{127}’s best frock had suffered, and a momentary alarm about the pond, which was one of her favorite panics, seized her. But the child was evidently quite right, which settled that question. She went to meet Tiny with a word of playful reproof42 for her disheveled condition on her lips. The child and her guardian43 were coming round a clump44 of trees which hid them for a moment, and toward which Mrs. Nugent turned her steps. She heard the small voice running on in its usual little sing-song of monologue45.
“Have zoo dot a little girl? Have zoo dot a little girl?”
What an odd question for Tiny to ask! The child must really be trained to be a little more like other children, not to push her little inquiries46 so far, not to ask questions. Mrs. Nugent could not help smiling a little at the sound of her small daughter’s voice, especially as there was no reply made to it. The man had a big beard, that was all she had observed of him; perhaps it was the other son, the brother Raaf, the adventurer,{128} or perhaps prodigal47, who had newly come home.
These were her thoughts as she turned round the great bole of that big tree of which the Wradisleys were so proud. Bertram was coming on the other side, half smiling, too, at Tiny’s little song; while she, spying some children in the distance, swayed backward from his hold to call to them, and then detaching herself from his hand altogether, ran back a few paces to show them her treasures. His face half averted48 for a moment looking after her thus, gave Mrs. Nugent one breath of preparation, but none to him, who turned round again half conscious of some one coming to meet him, with still that half smile and the tender expression in his eyes. He stood still, he wavered for a moment as if, strong man as he was, he would have fallen.
“My God—Nelly!” he cried.
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1
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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5
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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6
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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7
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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15
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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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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19
counterfeiting
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| n.伪造v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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20
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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31
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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32
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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34
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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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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36
annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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37
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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38
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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39
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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40
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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41
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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42
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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43
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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44
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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45
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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46
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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47
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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48
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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