“Pardon, caro Signore mio,” she said, “you are surprised to find me here. Very well; I am sorry to incommode the gentlemen, but I have to do my duty. The Signorina is very young, and she has no one to take care of her. The Signori are very good, very excellent, and kind. Ah yes, I know it—never was there such devotion to the poor sick friend; nevertheless, the Signori are but men, senza complimenti, and I am a woman who has been married and had children of my own, and know my duty. Until some proper person comes to take charge of the poor dear young lady, the Signori will pardon me, but I must remain here.”
“Does the Signorina wish it?” asked Colin, with wondering looks, for the idea of another protector for Alice confounded him, he scarcely knew why.
“The Signorina is not much more than a child,” said Sora Antonia, loftily. “Besides, she has not been brought up like an Italian young lady, to know what is proper. Poverina! she does not understand anything about it; but the Signori will excuse me—I know my duty, and that is enough.”
“Oh yes, certainly,” said Colin; “but then, in England, as you say, we have different ideas; and if the Signorina does not wish——”
Here, however, he was interrupted by Lauderdale, who, having{287} tardily11 apprehended12 the purport13 of Sora Antonia’s communication, took it upon himself to make instant response in the best Italian he could muster14. “Avete molto buono, molto buono!” cried Lauderdale, intending to say that she was very kind, and that he highly approved, though a chronic15 confusion in his mind, as to which was which of the auxiliary16 verbs, made his meaning cloudy. “Grazie, Abbiamo contento! Grazie,” he added, with a little excitement and enthusiasm. Though he had used the wrong verb, Sora Antonia graciously comprehended his meaning. She was used to such little eccentricities17 of diction on the part of the Forestieri. She bowed her stately head to him with a look of approbation18; and it would be vain to deny that the sense of having thus expressed himself clearly and eloquently19 in a foreign language conveyed a certain satisfaction to the mind of the philosopher.
“Bravo! The Signore will talk very well if he perseveres,” said Sora Antonia, graciously; “not to say that his Excellency is a man of experience, and perceives the justice of what I but propose. No doubt, it will occupy a great deal of my time, but the other Forestieri have not arrived yet, and how can one expect the Madonna Santissima and the blessed St. Antonio to take so much trouble in one’s concerns if one will not exert one’s self a little for one’s fellow-creatures? As the Signorina has not left her room yet, I will take away the inconvenience[2] for a few minutes. Scusa Signori,” said Sora Antonia, and she went away with stately bearing and firm steps which resounded20 through the house, to take off her veil and put aside her rosary. She had seated herself again in her indoor aspect, with the “Garden of the Soul” in her hand, before Alice came into the room; and, without doubt, she made a striking addition to the party. She was a Frascati woman born, and her costume consequently, was perfect—a costume not so brilliant in any of its details as that scarlet21 jacket of Albano, which is the most generally known of contadina dresses; but not less calculated to do justice to the ample bust22 and stately head of the Roman peasant. The dress itself, the actual gown, in this as in other Italian costumes, was an indifferent matter. The important particulars were the long and delicate apron23 of embroidered24 muslin, the busto made of rich brocade and shaped to the exact Frascati model, and the large, soft, snowy kerchief with embroidered corners, which covered her full shoulders—not to{288} speak of the long heavy gold ear-rings and coral necklace which completed and enriched the dress. She sat apart and contemplated25, if not the “Garden of the Soul,” at least the little pictures in borders of lace-paper which were placed thickly between the leaves, while the melancholy26 meal was eaten at the table—for Sora Antonia had educazione, and had not come to intrude27 upon the privacy of her lodgers28. Alice, for her part, made no remark upon the presence of this new guardian29; she accepted it as she accepted everything else, as a matter of course, without even showing any painful sense of the circumstances which in Sora Antonia’s opinion made this last precaution necessary. Her two companions, the only friends she seemed to have in the world, bore vicariously on her account the pain of such a visible reminder30 that she was here in a false position and had no legitimate31 protector; but Alice had not yet awaked to any such sense on her own behalf. She took her place at the table and tried to swallow a morsel32, and interested herself in the appetite of the others as if she had been their mother. “Try to eat something; it will make you ill if you do not,” poor Alice said, in the abstraction and dead calm of her grief. Her own feeling was that she had been lifted far away from them into an atmosphere of age and distance and a kind of sad superiority; and to minister to some one was the grand condition under which Alice Meredith lived. As to the personal suffering, which was confined to herself, that did not so much matter; she had not been used to much sympathy, and it did not occur to her to look for it. Consequently, the only natural business which remained to her was to take a motherly charge of her two companions, and urge them to eat.
“You are not to mind me,” she said, with an attempt at a smile, after dinner. “This is Sunday, to be sure; but, after to-day, you are just to go on as you used to do, and never mind. Thank you, I should like it better. I shall always be here, you know, when you come back from Rome, or wherever you wish to go. But you must not mind for me.”
Lauderdale and Colin exchanged looks almost without being aware of it. “But you would like—somebody to be sent for—or something done?” said Lauderdale. He was a great deal more confused in having to suggest this than Alice was, who kept looking at him, her eyes dilated33 with weariness and tears, yet soft and clear as the eyes of a child. He could not say to her, in so many words, “It is impossible for you to remain with us.” All he could do was to falter34 and hesitate, and grow confused,{289} under the limpid35, sorrowful look which she bent36 upon him from the distant heaven of her resignation and innocence37. “You would like your friends—somebody to be written to,” said Lauderdale; and then, afraid to have given her pain by the suggestion, went on hurriedly: “I’m old enough to be your father, and no a thought in my mind but to do you service,” he said. “Tell me what you would like best. Colin, thank God! is strong, and has little need of me. I’ll take you home, or do whatever you please; for I’m old enough to be your father, my poor bairn!” said the tender-hearted philosopher, and drew near to her, and put out his hand with an impulse of pitiful and protecting kindness which touched the heart of Alice, and yet filled her with momentary38 surprise. She, on her own side, was roused a little, not to think of herself, but to remember what appeared to her a duty unfulfilled.
“Oh, Mr. Lauderdale, Arthur said I might tell you,” said Alice. “Papa! you heard what he said about papa? I ought to write and tell him what has happened. Perhaps I ought to tell you from the beginning,” she continued, after composing herself a little. “We left home without his consent—indeed, he did not know. For dear Arthur,” said the poor girl, turning her appealing eyes from one to the other, could not approve of his ways. “He did something that Arthur thought was wrong. I cannot tell you about it,” said Alice through her tears; “it did not make so much difference to me. I think I ought to write and tell him, and that Arthur forgave him at the last. Oh, tell me, please, what do you think I should do?”
“If you would like to go home, I’ll take you home,” said Lauderdale. “He did not mean ony harm, poor callant, but he’s left an awfu’ burden on you.”
“Go home!” said Alice, with a slight shudder39. “Do you think I ought—do you think I must? I do not care for myself; but Mrs. Meredith, you know—” she added with a momentary blush; and then the friends began to perceive another unforeseen lion in the way.
“Out of my own head,” said Lauderdale, who took the whole charge of this business on himself, and would not permit Colin to interfere40, “I wrote your father a kind of a letter. If you are able to hear the—the event—which has left us a’ mourning—named in common words, I’ll read you what I have written. Poor bairn, you’re awfu’ young and awfu’ tender to have such affairs in hand! Are you sure you are able to bear it, and can listen to what I have said?{290}”
“Ah, I have borne it,” said poor Alice. “I cannot deceive myself, nor think Arthur is still here. What does it matter then about saying it? Oh, yes, I can bear anything—there is only me to be hurt now, and it doesn’t matter. It was very kind of you to write. I should like to know what you have said.”
Colin, who could do nothing else for her, put forward the arm-chair with the cushions towards the table, and Sora Antonia put down the “Garden of the Soul” and drew a little nearer with her heavy, firm step, which shook the house. She comprehended that something was going on which would tax the Signorina’s strength, and brought her solid, steady succour to be in readiness. The pale little girl turned and smiled upon them both, as she took the chair Colin had brought her. She was herself quite steady in her weakness and grief and loneliness. Sora Antonia was not wanted there; and Colin drew her aside to the window, where she told him all about the fireworks that were to be in the evening, and her hopes that after a while the Signorina would be able to “distract herself” a little and recover her spirits; to which Colin assented41 dutifully, watching from where he stood the pale looks of the friendless young woman—friendless beyond disguise or possible self-deception, with a stepmother whom she blushed to mention reigning43 in her father’s house. Colin’s thoughts were many and tumultuous as he stood behind in the window, watching Alice and listening to Sora Antonia’s description of the fireworks. Was it possible that perhaps his duty to his neighbour required from him the most costly44 of all offerings, the rashest of all possible actions? He stood behind, growing more and more excited in the utter quiet. The thought that had dawned upon him under the ilex-trees came nearer and grew more familiar, and as he looked at it he seemed to recognise all that visible machinery45 of Providence46 bringing about the great event which youth decides upon so easily. While this vision grew before his mind, Alice was wiping off the tears which obliterated47 Lauderdale’s letter even to her patient eyes; for, docile48 and dutiful as she was, it was yet terrible to read in calm distinct words, which put the matter beyond all doubt, the announcement of “what had happened.” This is what Lauderdale had said:—
“Sir,—It is a great grief to me to inform you of an event for which I have no way of knowing whether you are prepared or not. Your son, Arthur Meredith, has been living here for the last three months in declining health, and on Thursday last died{291} in great comfort and constancy of mind. It is not for me, a stranger, to offer vain words of consolation49, but his end was such as any man might be well content to have, and he entered upon his new life joyfully50, without any shadow on his mind. As far as love and friendship could soothe51 the sufferings that were inevitable52, he had both; for his sister never left his bedside, and myself and my friend Colin Campbell were with him constantly, to his satisfaction. His sister remains53 under our care. I who write am no longer a young man, and know what is due to a young creature of her tender years; so that you may satisfy yourself she is safe until such time as you can communicate with me, which I will look for as soon as a reply is practicable, and in the meantime remain,
“Your son’s faithful friend and mourner,
“W. Lauderdale.”
Alice lingered over this letter, reading it, and crying, and whispering to Lauderdale a long time, as Colin thought. She found it easier, somehow, to tell her story fully42 to the elder man. She told him that Mrs. Meredith had “come home suddenly,” which was her gentle version of a sad domestic history,—that nobody had known of her father’s second marriage until the stepmother arrived, without any warning, with a train of children. Alice’s mild words did not give Lauderdale any very lively picture of the dismay of the household at the unlooked-for apparition54, but he understood enough to condemn55 Arthur less severely56 than he had been disposed to do. This sudden catastrophe57 had happened just after the other misery58 of the bank failure, which had ruined so many; and poor Meredith had no alternative between leaving his sister to the tender mercies of an underbred and possibly disreputable stepmother, or bringing her with him when he retired59 to die; and Alice, though she still cried for “poor papa,” recoiled60 a little from the conclusion of Lauderdale’s letter. “I have enough to live upon,” she said, softly, with an appealing glance at her companion. “If you were to say that I was quite safe, would not that be enough?” and it was very hard for Lauderdale to convince her that her father’s judgment61 must be appealed to in such a matter. When she saw he was not to be moved on this point, she sighed and submitted; but it was clearly apparent that as yet, occupied as she was by her grief, the idea that her situation here was embarrassing to her companions or unsuitable for herself had not occurred to Alice. When she retired, under the escort of Sora Antonia,{292} the two friends had a consultation62 over this perplexing matter; and Lauderdale’s sketch—filled in, perhaps, a little from his imagination—of the home she had left, plunged63 Colin into deeper and deeper thought. “No doubt he’ll send some answer,” the philosopher said. “He may not be worthy64 to have the charge of her, but he’s aye her father. It’s hard to ken65 whether it’s better or worse that she should be so unconscious of anything embarrassing in her position; which is a’ the more wonderful, as she’s a real honest woman, and no way intellectual nor exalted66. You and me, Colin,” said Lauderdale, looking up in his young companion’s face, “must take good care that she does not find it out from us.”
“Of course,” said Colin, with involuntary testiness67; “but I do not see what her father has to do with it,” continued the young man. “She cannot possibly return to such a home.”
“Her father is the best judge of that,” said Lauderdale; “she canna remain with you and me.”
And there the conversation dropped—but not the subject. Colin was not in love with Alice; he had, indeed, vague but bright in the clouds before him, an altogether different ideal woman; and his heart was in the career which he again saw opening before him—the life in which he meant to serve God and his country, and which at the present moment would admit of no rashly formed ties. Was it in consequence of these hindrances68 that this new thing loomed69 so large before Colin’s inexperienced eyes? If he had longed for it with youthful passion, he would have put force on himself and restrained his longing70; but the temptation took another shape. It was as if a maiden71 knight72 at the outset of his career had been tempted73 to pass by a helpless creature and leave her wrongs unredressed. The young Bayard could do anything but this.
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1
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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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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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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tardily
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| adv.缓慢 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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auxiliary
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| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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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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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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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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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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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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40
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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41
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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44
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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45
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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46
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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47
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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48
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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49
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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50
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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51
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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52
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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53
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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54
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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55
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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56
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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57
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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58
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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59
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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60
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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61
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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62
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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63
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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64
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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65
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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66
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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67
testiness
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| n.易怒，暴躁 | |
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68
hindrances
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| 阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 )； 障碍物； 受到妨碍的状态 | |
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69
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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70
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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71
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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