"My dear Mr. Payne,
"I am coming to Oxford, as you advised me. I shall arrive to-morrow by the 10.15 a.m. train, and mean to stop at the Randolph. I hope you will kindly6 show me all the lions.
"Yours very sincerely,
"Ida Van Rensselaer."
It was dated Tuesday, and this was Wednesday morning. I hadn't opened my letters before seeing last night's charges at nine o'clock; and it was now just ten. In a moment the full terror of the situation flashed upon[Pg 279] me. She had started; she was already almost here; there was no possibility of telegraphing to stop her; before I could do anything, she would have arrived, have taken rooms at the Randolph, and have come round in her queer American manner to call upon me. There was not a moment to be lost. I must rush down to the station and meet her—in full academicals, velvet7 sleeves and all, for a Proctor must never be seen in the morning in mufti. If there had been half an hour more, I could have driven round by the Parks and called for my sister Annie, who was married to the Rev8. Theophilus Sheepshanks, Professor of Comparative Osteology, and who might have helped me out of the scrape. But as things stood, I was compelled to burst down the High just as I was, hail a hansom opposite Queen's, and drive furiously to the station in bare time to meet the 10.15 train. At all hazards, Ida Van Rensselaer must not go to the Randolph, and must be carried off to Annie's, whether she would or not. On the way down I had time to arrange my plan of action; and before I reached the station, I thought I saw my way dimly out of the awful scrape which this mad Yankee girl had so inconsiderately got me into.
I had met Ida Van Rensselaer the winter before at Nice. We stopped together at a pension on the Promenade9 des Anglais; and as I was away from Oxford—for even a Proctor must unbend sometimes—and as she was a pleasant, lively young person with remarkably10 fine eyes, travelling by herself, I had taken the trouble to instruct her in European scenery and European art. She had a fancy for being original, so I took her to see Eza, and Roccabrunna, and St. Pons, and all the other queer picturesque11 little places in the Nice district which no American had ever dreamt of going to see before: and when Ida went on to Florence, I happened—quite accidentally, of course—to turn up at the very same pension three days later, where I gave her further lessons in the art of admiring the early[Pg 280] medi?val masters and the other treasures of Giotto's city. I was a bit of a collector myself, and in my rooms at Magdalen I flatter myself that I have got the only one genuine Botticelli in a private collection in England. In spite of her untamed American savagery12, Ida had a certain taste for these things, and evidently my lessons gave her the first glimpse she had ever had of that real interior Europe whose culture she had not previously13 suspected. It is pleasant to teach a pretty pupil, and in the impulse of a weak moment—it was in a gondola14 at Venice—I even told her that she should not leave for America without having seen Oxford. Of course I fancied that she would bring a chaperon. Now she had taken me at my word, but she had come alone. I had brought it all upon myself, undoubtedly15; though how the dickens I was ever to get out of it I could not imagine.
As I reached the station, the 10.15 was just coming in. I cast a wild glance right and left, and saw at least a dozen undergraduates, without cap or gown, loitering on the platform in obvious disregard of university law. But I felt far too guilty to proctorize them, and I was terribly conscious that all their eyes were fixed16 upon me, as I moved up and down the carriages looking for my American friend. She caught my eye in a moment, peering out of a second-class window—she had told me that she was not well off—and I thought I should have sunk in the ground when she jumped lightly out, seized my hand warmly, and cried out quite audibly, in her pretty faintly American voice, "My dear Mr. Payne, I am so glad you've come to meet me. Will you see after my baggage—no, luggage you call it in England, don't you?—and get it sent up to the Randolph, please, at once?"
Was ever Proctor so tried on this earth? But I made an effort to smile it off. "My sister is so sorry she could not come to meet you, Miss Van[Pg 281] Rensselaer," I said in my loudest voice, for I saw all those twelve sinister17 undergraduates watching afar off with eager curiosity; "but she has sent me down to carry you off in her stead, and she begs you won't think of going to the Randolph, but will come and make her house your home as long as you stay in Oxford." I flattered myself that the twelve odious18 young men, who were now forming a sort of irregular circle around us, would be completely crushed by that masterly stroke: though what on earth Annie would say at being saddled with this Yankee girl for a week I hardly dared to fancy. For Annie was a Professor's wife: and the dignity of a Professor's wife is almost as serious a matter as that of a Senior Proctor himself.
Imagine my horror, then, when Ida answered, with her frank smile and sunny voice, "Your sister! I didn't know you had a sister. And anyhow, I haven't come to see your sister, but yourself. And I'd better go to the Randolph straight, I'm sure, because I shall feel more at home there. You can come round and see me whenever you like, there; and I mean you to show me all Oxford, now I've come here, that's certain."
I glanced furtively20 at the open-eared undergraduates, and felt that the game was really up. I could never face them again. I must resign everything, take orders, and fly to a country rectory. At least, I thought so on the spur of the moment.
But something must clearly be done. I couldn't stand and argue out the case with Ida before those twelve young fiends, now reinforced by a group of porters; and I determined21 to act strategically—that is to say, tell a white lie. "You can go to the Randolph, of course, if you wish, Miss Van Rensselaer," I said; "will you come and show me which is your luggage? Here, you, sir," to one of the porters,—a little angrily, I fear,—"come and get this lady's boxes, will you?"
In a minute I had secured the boxes, and went out for a cab. There was[Pg 282] nothing left but a single hansom. Demoralized as I was, I took it, and put Ida inside. "Drive to Lechlade Villa22, the Parks," I whispered to the cabby—that was Annie's address—and I jumped in beside my torturer. As we drove up by the Corn-market, I could see the porters and scouts23 of Balliol and John's all looking eagerly out at the unwonted sight of a Senior Proctor in full academicals, driving through the streets of Oxford in a hansom cab, with a lady by his side. As for Ida, she remained happily unconscious, though I blamed her none the less for it. In her native wilds I knew that such vagaries24 were permitted by the rules of society; but she ought surely to have known that in Europe they were not admissible.
"Now, Miss Van Rensselaer," I said as we turned the corner of Carfax, "I am taking you to my sister's. Excuse my frankness if I tell you that, according to English, and especially to Oxford etiquette25, it would never do for you to go to an hotel. People's sense of decorum would be scandalized if they learnt that a lady had come alone to visit the Senior Proctor, and was stopping at the Randolph. Don't you see yourself how very odd it looks?"
"Well, no," said Ida promptly26; "I think you are a dreadfully suspicious people: you seem always to credit everybody with the worst motives27. In America, we think people mean no harm, and don't look after them so sharply as you do. But I really can't go to your sister's. I don't know her, and I haven't been invited. Does she know I'm coming?"
"Well, I can't say she does," I answered hesitatingly. "You see, your letter only reached me half an hour ago, and I had no time to see her before I went to meet you."
"Then I certainly won't go, Mr. Payne, that's certain."
"But my dear Miss Van Rensselaer——"
"Not the slightest use, I assure you. I can't go to a house where[Pg 283] they don't even know I'm coming. Driver, will you go to the Randolph Hotel, please?"
I sank back paralyzed and unmanned. This girl was one too many for me. "Miss Van Rensselaer," I cried, in a last despairing fit, "do you know that as Senior Proctor of the University I have the power to order you away from Oxford; and that if I told them at the Randolph not to take you in, they wouldn't dare to do it?"
"Well really, Mr. Payne, I dare say you have some extraordinary medi?val customs here, but you can hardly mean to send me away again by main force. I shall go to the Randolph."
And she went. I had to draw up solemnly at the door, to accompany her to the office, and to see her safely provided with a couple of rooms before I could get away hastily to the Ancient House of Convocation, where public business was being delayed by my absence. As I hurried through the Schools Quadrangle, I felt like a convicted malefactor28 going to face his judges, and self-condemned by his very face.
That afternoon, as soon as I had gulped29 down a choking lunch, I bolted down to the Parks and saw Annie. At first I thought it was a hopeless task to convince her that Ida Van Rensselaer's conduct was, from an American point of view, nothing extraordinary. She persisted in declaring that such goings-on were not respectable, and that I was bound, as an officer of the University, to remove the young woman at once from the eight-mile radius30 over which my jurisdiction31 extended. I pleaded in vain that ladies in America always travelled alone, and that nobody thought anything of it. Annie pertinently32 remarked that that would be excellent logic33 in New York, but that it was quite un-Aristotelian in Oxford. "When your American friends come to Rome," she said coldly—as though I were in the habit of importing Yankee girls wholesale—"they must do as Rome does." But when I at last pointed34 out[Pg 284] that Ida, as an American citizen, could appeal to her minister if I attempted to turn her out, and that we might find ourselves the centre of an international quarrel—possibly even a casus belli—she finally yielded with a struggle. "For the sake of respectability," she said solemnly, "I'll go and call on this girl with you; but remember, Cyril, I shall never undertake to help you out of such a disgraceful scrape a second time." I sneaked35 out into the garden to wait for her, and felt that the burden of a Proctorship was really more than I could endure.
We called duly upon Ida, that very hour, and Ida certainly behaved herself remarkably well. She was so charmingly frank and pretty, she apologized so simply to Annie for her ignorance of English etiquette, and she was so obviously guileless and innocent-hearted in all her talk, that even Annie herself—who is, I must confess, a typical don's wife—was gradually mollified. To my great surprise, Annie even asked her to dinner en famille the same evening, and suggested that I should make an arrangement with the Junior Proctor to take my work, and join the party. I consented, not without serious misgivings36; but I felt that if Ida was really going to stop a week, it would be well to put the best face upon it, and to show her up in company with Annie as often as possible. That might just conceivably take the edge off the keen blade of University scandal.
To cut a long story short, Ida did stop her week, and I got through it very creditably after all. Annie behaved like a brick, as soon as the first chill was over; for though she is married to a professor of dry bones (Comparative Osteology sounds very well, but means no more than that, when you come to think of it), she is a woman at heart in spite of it all. Ida had the most winning, charming, confiding37 manner; and she was so pleased with Oxford, with the colleges, the libraries, the gardens, the river, the boats, the medi?val air, the whole place, that she quite gained Annie over to her side. Nay38, my sister even discovered[Pg 285] incidentally that Ida had a little fortune of her own, amounting to some ￡300 a year, which, though it doesn't count for much in America, would be a neat little sum to a man like myself, in England; and she shrewdly observed, in her sensible business-like manner, that it would quite make up for the possible loss of my Magdalen fellowship. I am not exactly what you call a marrying man—at least, I know I had never got married before; but as the week wore on, and I continued boating, flirting39, and acting40 showman to Ida, Annie of course always assisting for propriety's sake, I began to feel that the Proctor was being conquered by the man. I fell most seriously and undoubtedly in love. Ida admired my rooms, was charmed with the pretty view from my windows over Magdalen Bridge and the beautiful gardens, and criticized my Botticelli with real sympathy. I was interested in her; she was so fresh, so real, and so genuinely delighted with the new world which opened before her. It was almost her first glimpse of the true interior Europe, and she was fascinated with it, as all better American minds invariably are when they feel the charm of its contrast with their own hurrying, bustling41, mushroom world. The week passed easily and pleasantly enough; and when it was drawing to an end, I had half made up my mind to propose to Ida Van Rensselaer.
The day before she was to leave she told us she would not go out in the afternoon; so I determined to stroll down the river to Iffley by myself in a "tub dingey"—a small boat with room in it for two, if occasion demands. When I reached the Iffley Lock, imagine my horror at seeing Ida in the middle of the stream, quietly engaged in paddling herself down the river in a canoe. I ran my dingey close beside her, drove her remorselessly against the bank, and handed her out on to the meadow, before she could imagine what I was driving at.
"Now, Miss Van Rensselaer," I said sternly, "this will never do. By[Pg 286] herculean efforts Annie and I have got over this week without serious scandal; and at the last moment you endeavour to wreck42 our plans by canoeing down the open river by yourself before the eyes of the whole University. Everybody will talk about the Senior Proctor's visitor having been seen indecorously paddling about in broad daylight in a boat of her own."
"I didn't know there was any harm in it," said Ida penitently43; for she was beginning to understand the real seriousness of University etiquette.
"Well," I answered, "it can't be helped now. You must get into my boat at once—I'll send one of Salter's men down to fetch your canoe—and we must row straight back to Oxford immediately."
She obeyed me mechanically, and I began to pull away for very life. "There's nothing for it now," I said pensively44, "except to propose to you. I half meant to do it before, and now I've quite made up my mind. Will you have me?"
Ida looked at me without surprise, but with a little pleasure in her face. "What nonsense!" she said quietly. "I knew you were going to propose to me this afternoon, and so I came out alone to keep out of your way. You haven't had time to make up your mind properly yet."
As I looked at her beautiful calm face and lovely eyes I forgot everything. In a moment, I was over head and ears in love again, and conscious of nothing else. "Ida," I cried, looking at her steadily45, "Ida!"
"Now, please stop," said Ida, before I could get any further. "I know exactly what you're going to say. You're going to say, 'Ida, I love you.' Don't desecrate46 the verb to love by draggling it more than it has already been draggled through all the grammars of every European language. I've conjugated47 to love, myself, in English, French, German, and Italian; and you've conjugated it in Latin and Greek, and[Pg 287] for aught I know in Anglo-Saxon and Coptic and Assyrian as well; so now let's have done with it for ever, and conjugate48 some other verb more worthy49 the attention of two rational and original human beings. Can't you strike out a line for yourself?"
"You're quite mistaken," I answered curtly50, for I wasn't going to be browbeaten51 in that way; "I meant to say nothing of the sort. What I did mean to say—and I'll trouble you to listen to it attentively—was just this. You seem to me about as well suited to my abstract requirements as any other young woman I have ever met: and if you're inclined to take me, we might possibly arrange an engagement."
"What a funny man you are!" she went on innocently. "You don't propose at all en règle. I've had twelve men propose to me separately in a boat in America, and you make up the baker's dozen: but all the others leaned forward lackadaisically52, dropped the oars53 when they were beginning to get serious, and looked at me sentimentally54; while you go on rowing all the time as if there was nothing unusual in it."
"Probably," I suggested, "your twelve American admirers attached more importance to the ceremony than I do. But you haven't answered my question yet."
"Let me ask you one instead," she said, more seriously. "Do you think I'm at all the kind of person for a Senior Proctor's wife? You say I suit your abstract requirements, but one can't get married in the abstract, you know. Viewed concretely, don't you fancy I'm about the most unsuitable helpmate you could possibly light upon?"
"The profound consciousness of that indubitable fact," I replied carelessly, "has made me struggle in a hopeless sort of way against the irresistible55 impulse to propose to you ever since I saw you first. But I suppose Senior Proctors are much the same as other men. They fly like moths56 about the candle, and can't overcome the temptation of singeing[Pg 288] their wings."
"If I had any notion of accepting you," said Ida reflectively, "I should at least have the consolation57 of knowing that you didn't make anything by your bargain; for my fifteen hundred dollars would just amount to the three hundred a year which you would have to give up with your fellowship."
"Quite so," I answered; "I see you come of a business-like nation; and I, as former bursar of my college, am a man of business myself. So I have no reason for concealing58 from you the fact that I have a private income of about four hundred a year, besides University appointments worth five hundred more, which would not go with the fellowship."
"Do you really think me sordid59 enough to care for such considerations?"
"If I did, I wouldn't have taken the trouble to tell you them. I merely mentioned the facts for their general interest, and not as bearing on the question in hand."
"Well, then, Mr. Payne, you shall have my answer.—No."
"Is it final?"
"Is anything human final, except one's twenty-ninth birthday? I choose it to be final for the present, and 'the subject then dropped,' as the papers say about debates in Congress. Let us have done now with this troublesome verb altogether, and conjugate our return to Oxford instead. See what bunches of fritillaries again! I never saw anything prettier, except the orange-lilies in New Hampshire. If you like, you may come to America next season. You would enjoy our woodlands."
"Where shall I find you?"
"At Saratoga."
"When?"
"Any day from July the first."
"Good," I said, after a moment's reflection. "If I stick to my fancy for[Pg 289] flying into the candle, you will see me there. If I change my mind, it won't matter much to either of us."
So we paddled back to Oxford, talking all the way of indifferent subjects, of England and our English villages, and enjoying the peaceful greenness of the trees and banks. It was half-past six when we got to Salter's barge60, and I walked with Ida as far as the Randolph. Then I returned to college, feeling very much like an undetected sheep-stealer, and had a furtive19 sort of dinner served up in my own room. Next morning, I confess it was with a sigh of relief that Annie and I saw Ida Van Rensselaer start from the station en route for Liverpool. It was quite a fortnight before I could face my own bulldogs unabashed, and I bowed with a wan61 and guilty smile upon my face whenever any one of those twelve undergraduates capped me in the High till the end of term. I believe they never missed an opportunity of meeting me if they saw a chance open. I was glad indeed when long vacation came to ease me of my office and my troubles.
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1
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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conciseness
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| n.简洁，简短 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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6
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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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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savagery
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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etiquette
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promptly
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motives
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malefactor
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gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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radius
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jurisdiction
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pertinently
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logic
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pointed
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sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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misgivings
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confiding
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nay
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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bustling
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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penitently
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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desecrate
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| v.供俗用，亵渎，污辱 | |
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conjugated
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| adj.共轭的，成对的v.列出（动词的）变化形式( conjugate的过去式和过去分词 )；结合，联合，熔化 | |
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conjugate
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| vt.使成对，使结合；adj.共轭的，成对的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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51
browbeaten
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| v.（以言辞或表情）威逼，恫吓( browbeat的过去分词 ) | |
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52
lackadaisically
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| adv.无精打采地，不决断地，不热心地 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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55
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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56
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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57
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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58
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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59
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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60
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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61
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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