"After all," said I to myself, "even if I don't happen to run up against Ida Van Rensselaer, I shall have taken as pleasant a holiday as I could easily have found in old Europe. Everybody is tired of Switzerland and Italy, so, happy thought, try Saratoga. On the other hand, if Ida keeps her tryst11, I shall have one more shot at her in the shape of a proposal; and then if she really means no, I shall be none the worse off than if I had stayed in England." In which happy-go-lucky and philosophic12 frame of mind I sat watching the crowd in the Broadway after dinner, in utrumque paratus, ready either to marry Ida if she would have me, or to go home again in the autumn, a joyous13 bachelor, if she did not turn up according to her promise. A very cold-blooded attitude that to assume towards the tender passion, no doubt; but after all, why should a sensible man of thirty-five think it necessary to go wild for a year or two like a hobbledehoy, and convert himself into a perambulating statue of[Pg 291] melancholy14, simply because one particular young woman out of the nine hundred million estimated to inhabit this insignificant15 planet has refused to print his individual name upon her visiting cards? Ida would make as good a Mrs. Cyril Payne as any other girl of my acquaintance—no doubt; indeed, I am inclined to say, a vast deal a better one; but there are more women than five in the world, and if you strike an average I dare say most of them are pretty much alike.
As I sat and looked, I could not help noticing the extraordinary magnificence of all the toilettes in the promenade. Nowhere in Europe can you behold16 such a republican dead level of reckless extravagance. Every woman was dressed like a princess, nothing more and nothing less. I began to wonder how poor little Ida, with her simple and tasteful travelling gowns, would feel when she found herself cast in the midst of these gorgeous silks and these costly satin grenadines. Look, for example, at that pair now strolling along from Spring Avenue: a New York exquisite17 in the very coolest of American summer suits, and a New York élégante (their own word, I assure you) in a splendid but graceful18 grey silk dress, gold bracelet19, diamond ear-rings, and every other item in her costume of the finest and costliest20. What would Ida do in a crowd of such women as that?... Why ... gracious heavens! ... can it be?... No, it can't.... Yes, it must.... Well, to be sure, it positively21 is—Ida herself!
My first impulse was to lean over the balcony and call out to her, as I would have called out to a friend whom I chanced to see passing in Magdalen quad22. Not an unnatural23 impulse either, seeing that (in spite of my own prevarications to myself) I had after all really come across the Atlantic on purpose to see her. But on second thoughts it struck me that even Ida might perhaps find such a proceeding24 a trifle unconventional, especially now that she was habited in such passing splendour. Besides, what did it all mean? The only rational answer I could give myself, when[Pg 292] I fairly squared the question, was that Ida must have got suddenly married to a wealthy fellow-countryman, and that the exquisite in the cool suit was in fact none other than her newly-acquired husband. I had thought my philosophy proof against any such small defeats to my calculation: but when it actually came to the point, I began to perceive that I was after all very unphilosophically in love with Ida Van Rensselaer. The merest undergraduate could not have felt a sillier flutter than that which agitated25 both auricles and ventricles of my central vascular26 organ—as a Senior Proctor I must really draw the line at speaking outright27 of my heart. I seized my hat, rushed down the broad staircase, and walked rapidly along Broadway in the direction the pair had taken. But I could see nothing of them, and I returned to Congress Hall in despair.
That night I thought about many things, and slept very little. It came home to me somewhat vividly28 that if Ida was really married I should probably feel more grieved and disappointed than a good pessimist29 philosopher ought ever to feel at the ordinary vexatiousness of the universe. Next morning, however, I rose early, and breakfasted, not without a most unpoetical appetite, on white fish, buckwheat pancakes, and excellent watermelon. After breakfast, refreshed by the meal, I sallied forth30, like a true knight-errant, under the shade of a white cotton sun-umbrella instead of a shield, to search for the lady of my choice. Naturally, I turned my steps first towards the Springs; and at the very second of them all, I luckily came upon Ida and the man in the tweed suit, lounging as before, and drinking the waters lazily.
Ida stepped up as if she had fully7 expected to meet me, extended her daintily-gloved hand with the gold bracelet, and said as unconcernedly as possible, "You have come two days late, Mr. Payne."
"So it seems," I answered. "C'est monsieur votre mari?" And I waved my[Pg 293] hand interrogatively towards the stranger, for I hardly knew how to word the question in English.
"à Dieu ne plaise!" she cried heartily31, in an undertone, and I felt my vascular system once more the theatre of a most unacademical though more pleasing palpitation. "Allow me to introduce you. Mr. Payne of Oxford32; my cousin, Mr. Jefferson Hitchcock."
I charitably inferred that Mr. Hitchcock's early education in modern languages had been unfortunately neglected, or else his companion's energetic mode of denying her supposed conjugal33 relation with him could hardly have appeared flattering to his vanity.
"My cousin has spoken of you to me, sir," said Mr. Hitchcock solemnly. "I understand that you are one of the most distinguished34 luminaries35 of Oxford College, and I am proud to welcome you as such to our country."
I bowed and laughed—I never feel capable of making any other reply than a bow and a laugh to the style of oratory36 peculiar37 to American gentlemen—and then I turned to Ida. She was looking as pretty, as piquante, and as fresh as ever; but what her dress could mean was a complete puzzle to me. As she stood, diamonds and all, a jeweller's assistant couldn't have valued her at a penny less than six hundred pounds. In England such a display in morning dress would have been out of taste; but in Saratoga it seemed to be the height of the fashion.
We walked along towards the Grand union Hotel, where Ida and her cousin were staying, and my astonishment38 grew upon me at every step. However, we had so much to say to one another about everything in general, and Ida was so unaffectedly pleased at my keeping my engagement, made half in joke, that I found no time to unravel39 the mystery. When we reached the great doorway40, Ida took leave of me for the time, but made me[Pg 294] promise to call for her again early the next morning. "Unhappily," she said, "I have to go this afternoon to a most tedious party—a set of Boston people; you know the style; the best European culture, bottled and corked41 as imported, and let out again by driblets with about as much spontaneousness as champagne42 the second day. But I must fulfil my social duties here; no canoeing on the Isis at Saratoga. However, we must see a great deal of you now that you've come; so I expect you to call, and drive me down to the lake at ten o'clock to-morrow."
"Is that proceeding within the expansive limits of American proprieties43?" I asked dubiously44.
"Sir," said Mr. Hitchcock, answering for her, "this is a land of freedom, and every lady can go where she chooses, unmolested by those frivolous45 bonds of conventionality which bind46 the feet of your European women as closely as the cramped47 shoes of the Chinese bind the feet of the celestial48 females."
Ida smiled at me with a peculiar smile, waved her hand graciously, and ran lightly up the stairs. I was left on the piazza49 with Mr. Jefferson Hitchcock. His conversation scarcely struck me as in itself enticing50, but I was anxious to find out the meaning of Ida's sudden accession to wealth, and so I determined51 to make the best of his companionship for half an hour. As a sure high road to the American bosom52 and safe recommendation to the American confidence, I ordered a couple of delectable53 summer beverages54 (Mr. Hitchcock advised an "eye-opener," which proved worthy55 of the commendation he bestowed56 upon it); and we sat down on the piazza in two convenient rocking-chairs, under the shade of the elms, smoking our havanas and sipping57 our iced drink. After a little preliminary talk, I struck out upon the subject of Ida.
"When I met Miss Van Rensselaer at Nice," I said, "she was stopping at[Pg 295] a very quiet little pension. It is quite a different thing living in a palace like this."
"We are a republican nation, sir," answered Mr. Hitchcock, "and we expect to be all treated on the equal level of a sovereign people. The splendour that you in Europe restrict to princes, we in our country lavish58 upon the humblest American citizen. Miss Van Rensselaer's wealth, however, entitles her to mix in the highest circles of even your most polished society."
"Indeed?" I said; "I had no idea that she was wealthy."
"No, sir, probably not. Miss Van Rensselaer is a woman of that striking originality60 only to be met with in our emancipated61 country. She has shaken off the trammels of female servitude, and prefers to travel in all the simplicity62 of a humble59 income. She went to Europe, if I may so speak, incognita, and desired to hide her opulence63 from the prying64 gaze of your aristocracy. She did not wish your penniless peers to buzz about her fortune. But she is in reality one of our richest heiresses. The man who secures that woman as a property, sir, will find himself in possession of an income worth as much as one hundred thousand dollars."
Twenty thousand sterling65 a year! The idea took my breath away, and reduced me once more to a state of helpless incapacity. I couldn't talk much more small-talk to Mr. Hitchcock, so I managed to make some small excuse and returned listlessly to Congress Hall. There, over a luncheon66 of Saddle-Rock oysters67 (you see I never allow my feelings to interfere68 with my appetite), I decided69 that I must give up all idea of Ida Van Rensselaer.
I have no abstract objection to an income of ￡20,000 a year; but I could not consent to take it from any woman, or to endure the chance of her supposing that I had been fortune-hunting. It may be and doubtless is a plebeian70 feeling, which, as Mr. Hitchcock justly hinted, is never shared by the younger sons of our old nobility; but I hate the notion of[Pg 296] living off somebody else's money, especially if that somebody were my own wife. So I came to the reluctant conclusion that I must give up the idea for ever; and as it would not be fair to stop any longer at Saratoga under the circumstances, I made up my mind to start for Niagara on the next day but one, after fulfilling my driving engagement with Ida the following morning.
Punctually at ten o'clock the next day I found myself in a handsome carriage waiting at the doors of the Grand union. Ida came down to meet me splendidly dressed, and looked like a queen as she sat by my side. "We will drive to the lake," she said, as she took her seat, "and you will take me for a row as you did on the Isis at Oxford." So we whirled along comfortably enough over the six miles of splendid avenue leading to the lake; and then we took our places in one of the canopied71 boats which wait for hire at the little quay72.
I rowed out into the middle of the lake, admiring the pretty wooded banks and sandstone cliffs, talking of Saratoga and American society, but keeping to my determination in steering73 clear of all allusions74 to my Oxford proposal. Ida was as charming as ever—more provokingly charming, indeed, than even of old, now that I had decided she could not be mine. But I stood by my resolution like a man. Clearly Ida was surprised at my reticence75; and when I told her that my time in America being limited, I must start almost at once for Niagara, she was obviously astonished. "It is possible to be even too original," she observed shortly. I turned the boat and rowed back toward the shore.
As I had nearly reached the bank, Ida jumped up from her seat, and asked me suddenly to let her pull for a dozen strokes. I changed places and gave her the oars76. To my surprise, she headed the boat around, and pulled once more for the middle of the lake. When we had reached a point at some distance from the shore, she dropped the oars on the thole-pins[Pg 297] (they use no rowlocks on American lake or river craft), and looked for a moment full in my face. Then she said abruptly:—
"If you are really going to leave for Niagara to-morrow, Mr. Payne, hadn't we better finish this bit of business out of hand?"
"I was not aware," I answered, "that we had any business transactions to settle."
"Why," she said, "I mean this matter of proposing."
I gazed back at her as straight as I dared. "Ida," I said, with an attempt at firmness, "I don't mean to propose to you again at all. At least, I didn't mean to when I started this morning. I think I thought I had decided not."
"Then why did you come to Saratoga?" she asked quickly. "You oughtn't to have come if you meant nothing by it."
"When I left England I did mean something," I answered, "but I learned a fact yesterday which has altered my intentions." And then I told her about Mr. Hitchcock's revelations, and the reflections to which they had given rise.
Ida listened patiently to all my faint arguments, for I felt my courage quailing77 under her pretty sympathetic glance, and then she said decisively, "You are quite right and yet quite wrong."
"Explain yourself, O Sphinx," I answered, much relieved by her words.
"Why," she said, "you are quite right to hesitate, quite wrong to decide. I know you don't want my money; I know you don't like it, even: but I ask you to take me in spite of it. Of course that is dreadfully unwomanly and unconventional, and so forth, but it is what I ought to do.... Listen to me, Cyril (may I call you Cyril?). I will tell you why I want you to marry me. Before I went to Europe, I was dissatisfied with all these rich American young men. I hated their wealth, and their[Pg 298] selfishness, and their cheap cynicism, and their trotting horses, and their narrow views, and their monotonous78 tall-talk, all cast in a stereotyped79 American mould, so that whenever I said A, I knew every one of them would answer B.
"I went to Europe and I met your English young men, with their drawls, and their pigeon-shooting, and their shaggy ulsters, and their conventional wit, and their commonplace chaff80, and their utter contempt for women, as though we were all a herd81 of marketable animals from whom they could pick and choose whichever pleased them best, according to their lordly fancy. I would no more give myself up to one of them than I would marry my cousin, Jefferson Hitchcock. But when I met you first at Nice, I saw you were a different sort of person. You could think and act for yourself, and you could appreciate a real living woman who could think and act too. You taught me what Europe was like. I only knew the outside, you showed me how to get within the husk. You made me admire Eza, and Roccabrunna, and Iffley Church. You roused something within me that I never felt before—a wish to be a different being, a longing82 for something more worth living for than diamonds and Saratoga. I know I am not good enough for you: I don't know enough or read enough or feel enough; but I don't want to fall back and sink to the level of New York society. So I have a right to ask you to marry me if you will. I don't want to be a blue; but I want not to feel myself a social doll. You know yourself—I see you know it—that I oughtn't to throw away my chance of making the best of what nature I may have in me. I am only a beginner. I scarcely half understand your world yet. I can't properly admire your Botticellis and your Pinturiccios, I know; but I want to admire, I should like to, and I will try. I want you to take me, because I know you understand me and would help me forward instead of letting me sink[Pg 299] down to the petty interests of this American desert. You liked me at Nice, you did more than like me at Oxford; but I wouldn't take you then, though I longed to say yes, because I wasn't quite sure whether you really meant it. I knew you liked me for myself, not my money, but I left you to come to Saratoga for two things. I wanted to make sure you were in earnest, not to take you at a moment of weakness. I said, 'If he really cares for me, if he thinks I might become worthy of him, he will come and look for me; if not, I must let the dream go.' And then I wanted to know what effect my fortune would have upon you. Now you know my whole reasons. Why should my money stand in our way? Why should we both make ourselves unhappy on account of it? You would have married me if I was poor: what good reason have you for rejecting me only because I am rich? Whatever my money may do for you (and you have enough of your own), it will be nothing to what you can do for me. Will you tell me to go and make myself an animated83 peg84 for hanging jewellery upon, with such a conscious automaton85 as Jefferson Hitchcock to keep me company through life?"
As she finished, flushed, proud, ashamed, but every inch a woman, I caught her hand in mine. The utter meanness and selfishness of my life burst upon me like a thunderbolt. "Oh, Ida," I cried, "how terribly you make me feel my own pettiness and egotism. You are cutting me to the heart like a knife. I cannot marry you; I dare not marry you; I must not marry you. I am not worthy of such a wife as you. How had I ever the audacity86 to ask you? My life has been too narrow and egoistic and self-indulgent to deserve such confidence as yours. I am not good enough for you. I really dare not accept it."
"No," she said, a little more calmly, "I hope we are just good enough for one another, and that is why we ought to marry. And as for the[Pg 300] hundred thousand dollars, perhaps we might manage to be happy in spite of them."
We had drifted into a little bay, under shelter of a high rocky point. I felt a sudden access of insane boldness, and taking both Ida's hands in mine, I ventured to kiss her open forehead. She took the kiss quietly, but with a certain queenly sense of homage87 due. "And now," she said, shaking off my hands and smiling archly, "let us row back toward Saratoga, for you know you have to pack up for Niagara."
"No," I answered, "I may as well put off my visit to the Falls till you can accompany me."
"Very well," said Ida quietly, "and then we shall go back to England and live near Oxford. I don't want you to give up the dear old University. I want you to teach me the way you look at things, and show me how to look at them myself. I'm not going to learn any Latin or Greek or stupid nonsense of that sort; and I'm not going to join the Women's Suffrage88 Association; but I like your English culture, and I should love to live in its midst."
"So you shall, Ida," I answered; "and you shall teach me, too, how to be a little less narrow and self-centred than we Oxford bachelors are apt to become in our foolish isolation89."
So we expect to spend our honeymoon90 at Niagara.
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1
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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bustle
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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effervescing
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| v.冒气泡，起泡沫( effervesce的现在分词 ) | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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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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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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costliest
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| adj.昂贵的( costly的最高级 )；代价高的；引起困难的；造成损失的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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quad
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| n.四方院；四胞胎之一；v.在…填补空铅 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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agitated
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vascular
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| adj.血管的，脉管的 | |
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outright
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vividly
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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forth
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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distinguished
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luminaries
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| n.杰出人物，名人（luminary的复数形式） | |
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oratory
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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doorway
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corked
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| adj.带木塞气味的，塞着瓶塞的v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的过去式 ) | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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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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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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beverages
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| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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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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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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65
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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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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plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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76
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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quailing
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的现在分词 ) | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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80
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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81
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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84
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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85
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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86
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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89
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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