At the same time, in the midst of all the seriousness of the position—with all his tender affection for Alice, and reverence16 for her helplessness, and even notwithstanding that inexpressible blank and sense of disappointment in his heart which even his affection could not quite neutralize,—a curious sense of humour, and feeling that the whole matter was a kind of practical joke on a grand scale, intruded17 into Colin’s ideas from time to time, and made him laugh, and then made him furious with himself; for Alice, to be sure, saw no joke in the matter. She was, indeed, altogether wanting in a sense of humour, if even her grief would have permitted her to exercise it, and was sufficiently occupied by the real difficulties of her position, secluding18 herself in Sora Antonia’s apartments, and wavering in an agony of timidity and uncertainty19 over the idea of leaving that kind protector and going somewhere else, even though among strangers, in order to obey the necessary proprieties20. She had not a soul to consult about what she should do except Sora Antonia herself and Lauderdale, neither of whom now thought it necessary to suggest a removal on the part of either of the young people; and though thoughts of going into Rome, and finding somebody who would give her shelter for a week or two till Colin’s arrangements{305} were complete, hovered21 in the mind of Alice, she had no courage to carry out such an idea, being still in her first grief, poor child, although this new excitement had entered into her life.
As for Colin, affairs went much less easily with him when he betook himself to the English clergyman to ask his services. The inquiries22 instituted by this new judge were of a kind altogether unforeseen by the thoughtless young man. To be sure, a mourning sister is not usually married a few weeks after her brother’s death, and the questioner was justified23 in thinking the circumstance strange. Nor was it at all difficult to elicit24 from Colin a story which, viewed by suspicious and ignorant eyes, threw quite a different colour on the business. The young lady was the daughter of Mr. Meredith of Maltby, as the clergyman, who had laid Arthur in his grave, was already aware. She was young, under age, and her father had not been consulted about her proposed marriage; and she was at present entirely25 in the hands and under the influence of this young Scotchman, who, though his manners were considered irreproachable26 by Miss Matty Frankland, who was a critic in manners, still lacked certain particulars in his general demeanour by which the higher class of Englishmen are distinguished27. He took more interest in things in general, and was more transparent28, more expressive29 than he would probably have been had he been entirely Alice’s equal; and he was slightly wanting in calmness and that soft haze30 of impertinence which sets off good breeding—in short, he had not the full ring of the genuine metal; and a man who lived in Rome, and was used to stories of adventurers and interested marriages, not unnaturally31 jumped at the conclusion that Colin (being a Scotchman beside, and consequently the impersonation, save the mark! of money-getting) was bent32 upon securing to himself the poor little girl’s fortune. Before the cross-examination was done Colin began somehow to feel himself a suspicious character; for it is astonishing what an effect there is in that bland33 look of superior penetration34 and air of seeing through a subject, however well aware the person under examination may be that his judge knows nothing about it. Then the investigator35 turned the discussion upon pecuniary36 matters, which after all was the branch of examination for which Colin was least prepared.
“Miss Meredith has some fortune, I presume?” he said. “Is it at her own disposal? for on this, as well as on other matters, it appears to me absolutely necessary that her father should be consulted.”
“I have already told you that her father has been consulted,{306}” said Colin, with a little vexation, “and you have seen the answer to my friend’s letter. I have not the least idea what her fortune is, or if she has any. Yes, I recollect38 she said she had enough to live upon; but it did not occur to me to make any inquiries on the subject,” said the young man; which more than ever confirmed his questioner that this was not a member of the higher class with whom he had to deal.
“And you?” he said. “Your friends are aware, I presume—and your means are sufficient to maintain—”
“I?” said Colin, who with difficulty restrained a smile, “I have not very much; but I am quite able to work for my wife. It seems to me, however, that this examination is more than I bargained for. If Miss Meredith is satisfied on these points, that is surely enough—seeing, unfortunately, that she has no one to stand by her—”
“I beg your pardon,” said the clergyman, “it is the duty of my office to stand by her. I do not see that I can carry out your wishes—certainly not without having a conversation with the young lady. I cannot say that I feel satisfied;—not that I blame you, of course,—but you are a very young man, and your feelings, you know, being involved—however, my wife and myself will see Miss Meredith, and you can call on me again.”
“Very well,” said Colin, getting up; and then, after making a step or two to the door, he returned. “I am anxious to have everything concluded the earliest possible moment,” he said. “Pray do not lose any time. She is very solitary, and has no proper protector,” Colin continued, with an ingenuous39 flush on his face. He looked so young, so honest and earnest, that even experience was shaken for the moment by the sight of Truth. But then it is the business of experience to fence off Truth, and defy the impressions of Nature,—and so the representative of authority, though shaken for a moment, did not give in.
“By the bye, I fear I did not understand you,” he said. “You are not living in the same house? Considering all the circumstances, I cannot think that proper. Either she should find another home, or you should leave the house,—any gentleman would have thought of that,” said the priest severely40, perhaps by way of indemnifying himself for the passing sentiment of kindness which had moved him. Colon’s face grew crimson41 at these words. The idea flashed upon himself for the first time, and filled him with shame and confusion; but the young man had so far attained42 that perfection of good breeding which is only developed by contact with men, that the reproof,{307} which was just, did not irritate him,—a fact which once more made the clergyman waver in his opinion.
“It is very true,” said Colin, confused, yet impulsive43; “though I am ashamed to say I never thought of it before. We have all been so much occupied with poor Arthur. But what you say is perfectly44 just, and I am obliged to you for the suggestion. I shall take rooms in Rome to-night.”
Upon which the two parted with more amity45 than could have been expected; for Colin’s clerical judge was pleased to have his advice taken so readily, as was natural, and began to incline towards the opinion that a young man who did not resent the imputation46 of having failed in a point which “any gentleman would have thought of,” but confessed without hesitation47 that it had not occurred to him, could be nothing less than a gentleman. Notwithstanding, the first step taken by this sensible and experienced man was to write a letter by that day’s post to Mr. Meredith of Maltby, informing him of the application Colin had just made. He knew nothing against the young man, the reverend gentleman was good enough to say,—he was very young and well-looking, and had a good expression, and might be unexceptionable; but still, without her father’s consent, Mr. Meredith might rest assured he would take no steps in the business. When he had written this letter, the clergyman summoned his wife and took the trouble of going out to Frascati to see Alice, which he would not have done had he not been a just and kind man; while at the same time his heart was relenting to Colin, whom the clerical couple met in the street, and who took off his hat when he encountered them, without the least shadow of resentment48. It is so long since all this happened that the name of the clergyman thus temporarily occupying the place of the chaplain at Rome has escaped recollection, and Colin’s historian has no desire to coin names or confuse identities. The gentleman in question was, it is supposed, an English rector taking his holiday. He went out to Frascati, like an honourable49 and just person as he was, to see what the solitary girl was about, thus left to the chances of the world, and found Alice in the great salone in her black dress, under charge of Sora Antonia, who sat with her white handkerchief on her ample shoulders, twirling her spindle, and spinning, along with her thread, many a tale of chequered human existence, for the amusement of her charge; who, however, for the first time in her life, had begun to be unconscious of what was said to her, and to spend her days in strains of reverie all{308} unusual to Alice—mingled dreams and intentions, dim pictures of the life that was to be, and purposes which were to be carried out therein. Sora Antonia’s stories, which required no answer, were very congenial to Alice’s state of mind; and now and then, a word from the narrative50 fell into and gave a new direction to her thoughts.
From all this she woke up with a little start when the English visitors entered, and it was with difficulty she restrained the tears which came in a choking flood when she recognised the clergyman. He had seen Arthur repeatedly during his illness, and had given him the sacrament, and laid him in his grave, and all the associations connected with him were too much for her, although after Arthur’s death the good man had forgotten the poor little mourning sister. When she recovered, however, Alice was much more able to cope with her reverend questioner than Colin had been—perhaps because she was a woman; perhaps because she had more of the ease of society; perhaps because in this matter at least her own feelings were more profound and unmixed than those of her young fiancé. She composed herself with an effort when he told her the object of his visit, recognising the necessity of explanation, and ready to give all that was in her power.
“No; papa does not know,” said Alice, “but it is because he has taken no charge of me—he has left me to myself. I should not have minded so much if you had been of our county, for then you would have understood; but you are a clergyman, and Mrs. ——”
“I am a clergyman’s wife,” the lady said, kindly51; “anything you say will be sacred to me.”
“Ah,” said Alice, with a little impatient sigh; and she could not help looking at the door, and longing52 for Colin, who was coming no more, though she did not know that; for the girl, though she was not clever, had a perception within her, such as never would have come to Colin, that, notwithstanding this solemn assurance, the fact that her visitor was a clergyman’s wife would not prevent her story from oozing53 out into the common current of English talk in Rome;—but, notwithstanding, Alice, whose ideas of her duty to the world were very clear, knew that the story must be told. She went on accordingly very steadily, though with thrills and flushes of colour coming and going—and the chances are that Colin’s ideal woman, could she have been placed in the same position, would not have acquitted54 herself half so well.{309}
“It will be necessary to tell you everything from the beginning, or you will not understand it,” said Alice. “Papa did not do exactly as Arthur thought right in some things; and though I did not think myself a judge, I—I took Arthur’s side; and then Mrs. Meredith came to Maltby suddenly with the children. It was a great surprise to us, for we did not know till that moment that papa had married again. I would rather not say anything about Mrs. Meredith,” said Alice, showing a little agitation55, “but Arthur did not think she was a person whom I could stay with; and, when he had to leave himself he brought me with him. Indeed, I wanted very much to come. I could not bear that he should go away by himself; and I should have died had I been left there with papa, and everything so changed. I wrote after we left, but papa would not answer my letter, nor take any notice of us. I am very sorry, but I cannot help it. That is all. I suppose you heard of Mrs. Meredith’s letter to Mr. Lauderdale. My aunt is in India—so I could not go to her; and all the rest are dead; that is why I have stayed here.”
“It is very sad to think you should be so lonely,” said the clergyman, “and it is a very trying position for one so young. Still there are families in Rome that would have received you; and I think, my dear Miss Meredith—you must not suppose me harsh—it is only your good I am thinking of; I think you should yourself have communicated with your father.”
“I wrote to Aunt Mary,” said Alice. “I told her everything. I thought she would be sure to advise me for the best. But papa would not answer the letter I wrote him after we left home, and he refuses to have anything to do with me in Mr. Lauderdale’s letter. I do not understand what I can do more.”
“But you have not waited to be advised,” said the English priest, whose wife had taken the poor little culprit’s hand, and was whispering to her, “Compose yourself, my dear,” and “We are your friends,” and “Mr. —— only means it for your good,” with other such scraps56 of consolation57. Alice scarcely needed the first exhortation58, having, in a large degree, that steady power of self-control which is one of the most valuable endowments in the world. “You have not waited for your Aunt’s advice,” continued the clergyman. “Indeed, I confess it is very hard to blame you; but still it is a very serious step to take, and one that a young creature like you should not venture upon without the advice of her friends. Mr. Campbell{310} also is very young, and you cannot have known each other very long.”
“All the winter,” said Alice, with a faint colour, for affairs were too serious for ordinary blushing; “at least all the spring, ever since we left England. And it has not been common knowing,” she added, with a deepening flush. “He and Mr. Lauderdale were like brothers to Arthur—they nursed him night and day; they nursed him better than I did,” said the poor sister, bursting forth59 into natural tears. “The people we have known all our lives were never so good to us. He said at the very last that they were to take care of me; and they have taken care of me,” said Alice, among her sobs60, raised for a moment beyond herself by her sense of the chivalrous61 guardianship62 which had surrounded her, “as if I had been a queen.”
“My dear child, lean upon me,” said the lady sitting by; “don’t be afraid of us; don’t mind crying, it will be a relief to you. Mr. —— only means it for your good; he does not intend to vex37 you, dear.”
“Certainly not, certainly not,” said the clergyman, taking a little walk to the window, as men do in perplexity; and then he came back and drew his seat closer, as Alice regained63 the mastery over herself. “My dear young lady, have confidence in me. Am I to understand that it is from gratitude64 you have made up your mind to accept Mr. Campbell? Don’t hesitate. I beg of you to let me know the truth.”
The downcast face of Alice grew crimson suddenly to the hair; and then she lifted her eyes, not to the man who was questioning her, but to the woman who sat beside her. Those eyes were full of indignant complaint and appeal. “Can you, a woman, stand by and see the heart of another woman searched for its secret?” That was the utterance65 of Alice’s look; and she made no further answer, but turned her head partly away, with an offended pride which sat strangely and yet not unbecomingly upon her. The change was so marked that the reverend questioner got up from his chair again almost as confused as Alice, and his wife, instinctively66 replying to the appeal made to her, took the matter into her own hands.
“If you will wait for me below, George, I will join you by-and-by,” said this good woman. “Men must not spy into women’s secrets.” And “I have daughters of my own,” she added softly in Alice’s ear. Let us thank heaven, that, though the number of those be few who are able or disposed to do great things for their fellows, the number is many who are{311} ready to respond to an actual call for sympathy when it is made to them, and to own the universal kindred. It was not an everlasting67 friendship that these two English women, left alone in the bare Italian chamber68, formed for each other. The one who was a mother did not receive the orphan69 permanently70 into her breast, neither did the girl find a parent in her new friend. Yet for the moment nature found relief for itself; they were mother and child, though strangers to each other. The elder woman heard with tears, and sympathy, and comprehension, the other’s interrupted tale, and gave her the kiss which in its way was more precious than a lover’s. “You have done nothing wrong, my poor child,” the pitying woman said, affording an absolution more valuable than any priest’s to the girl’s female soul; and as she spoke71 there passed momentarily through the mind of the visitor a rapid, troubled enumeration72 of the rooms in her “apartment,” which involved the possibility of carrying this friendless creature home with her. But that idea was found impracticable almost as soon as conceived. “I wish I could take you home with me, my dear,” the good woman said, with a sigh; “but our rooms are so small; but I will talk it all over with Mr. ——, and see what can be done; and I should like to know more of Mr. Campbell after all you tell me; he must be a very superior young man. You may be sure we shall be your friends, both your friends, whatever happens. I should just like to say a word to the woman of the house, and tell her to take good care of you, my dear, before I go.”
“Sora Antonia is very kind,” said Alice.
“Yes, my dear, I am sure of it; still she will be all the more attentive73 when she sees you have friends to take care of you,” said the experienced woman; which was all the more kind on her part as her Italian was very limited, and a personal encounter of this description was one which she would have shrunk from in ordinary circumstances. But when she joined her husband it was with a glow of warmth and kindness about her heart, and a consciousness of having comforted the friendless. “If it ever could be right to do such a thing, I almost think it would be in such a case as this,” she said with a woman’s natural leaning to the romantic side; but the clergyman only shook his head. “We must wait, at all events, for an answer from Mr. Meredith,” he said; and the fortnight which ensued was not a cheerful one for Alice.
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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formerly
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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secluding
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| v.使隔开，使隔绝，使隐退( seclude的现在分词 ) | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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justified
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elicit
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entirely
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irreproachable
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distinguished
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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expressive
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haze
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unnaturally
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bent
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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penetration
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investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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pecuniary
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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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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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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61
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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62
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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63
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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66
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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67
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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70
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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71
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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72
enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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73
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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