ONE afternoon old Miss Dulane entered her drawing-room; ready to receive visitors, dressed in splendor1, and exhibiting every outward appearance of a defiant2 frame of mind.
Just as a saucy3 bronze nymph on the mantelpiece struck the quarter to three on an elegant clock under her arm, a visitor was announced—“Mrs. Newsham.”
Miss Dulane wore her own undisguised gray hair, dressed in perfect harmony with her time of life. Without an attempt at concealment5, she submitted to be too short and too stout6. Her appearance (if it had only been made to speak) would have said, in effect: “I am an old woman, and I scorn to disguise it.”
Mrs. Newsham, tall and elegant, painted and dyed, acted on the opposite principle in dressing7, which confesses nothing. On exhibition before the world, this lady’s disguise asserted that she had reached her thirtieth year on her last birthday. Her husband was discreetly8 silent, and Father Time was discreetly silent: they both knew that her last birthday had happened thirty years since.
“Shall we talk of the weather and the news, my dear? Or shall we come to the object of your visit at once?” So Miss Dulane opened the interview.
“Your tone and manner, my good friend, are no doubt provoked by the report in the newspaper of this morning. In justice to you, I refuse to believe the report.” So Mrs. Newsham adopted her friend’s suggestion.
“You kindness is thrown away, Elizabeth. The report is true.”
“Matilda, you shock me!”
“Why?”
“At your age!”
“If he doesn’t object to my age, what does it matter to you?”
“Don’t speak of that man!”
“Why not?”
“He is young enough to be your son; and he is marrying you—impudently, undisguisedly marrying you—for your money!”
“And I am marrying him—impudently, undisguisedly marrying him—for his rank.”
“You needn’t remind me, Matilda, that you are the daughter of a tailor.”
“In a week or two more, Elizabeth, I shall remind you that I am the wife of a nobleman’s son.”
“A younger son; don’t forget that.”
“A younger son, as you say. He finds the social position, and I find the money—half a million at my own sole disposal. My future husband is a good fellow in his way, and his future wife is another good fellow in her way. To look at your grim face, one would suppose there were no such things in the world as marriages of convenience.”
“Not at your time of life. I tell you plainly, your marriage will be a public scandal.”
“That doesn’t frighten us,” Miss Dulane remarked. “We are resigned to every ill-natured thing that our friends can say of us. In course of time, the next nine days’ wonder will claim public attention, and we shall be forgotten. I shall be none the less on that account Lady Howel Beaucourt. And my husband will be happy in the enjoyment9 of every expensive taste which a poor man call gratify, for the first time in his life. Have you any more objections to make? Don’t hesitate to speak plainly.”
“I have a question to ask, my dear.”
“Charmed, I am sure, to answer it—if I can.”
“Am I right in supposing that Lord Howel Beaucourt is about half your age?”
“Yes, dear; my future husband is as nearly as possible half as old as I am.”
Mrs. Newsham’s uneasy virtue10 shuddered11. “What a profanation12 of marriage!” she exclaimed.
“Nothing of the sort,” her friend pronounced positively13. “Marriage, by the law of England (as my lawyer tells me), is nothing but a contract. Who ever heard of profaning14 a contract?”
“Call it what you please, Matilda. Do you expect to live a happy life, at your age, with a young man for your husband?”
“A happy life,” Miss Dulane repeated, “because it will be an innocent life.” She laid a certain emphasis on the last word but one.
Mrs. Newsham resented the emphasis, and rose to go. Her last words were the bitterest words that she had spoken yet.
“You have secured such a truly remarkable15 husband, my dear, that I am emboldened16 to ask a great favor. Will you give me his lordship’s photograph?”
“No,” said Miss Dulane, “I won’t give you his lordship’s photograph.”
“What is your objection, Matilda?”
“A very serious objection, Elizabeth. You are not pure enough in mind to be worthy17 of my husband’s photograph.”
With that reply the first of the remonstrances18 assumed hostile proportions, and came to an untimely end.
II.
THE second remonstrance19 was reserved for a happier fate. It took its rise in a conversation between two men who were old and true friends. In other words, it led to no quarreling.
The elder man was one of those admirable human beings who are cordial, gentle, and good-tempered, without any conscious exercise of their own virtues20. He was generally known in the world about him by a fond and familiar use of his Christian21 name. To call him “Sir Richard” in these pages (except in the character of one of his servants) would be simply ridiculous. When he lent his money, his horses, his house, and (sometimes, after unlucky friends had dropped to the lowest social depths) even his clothes, this general benefactor22 was known, in the best society and the worst society alike, as “Dick.” He filled the hundred mouths of Rumor23 with his nickname, in the days when there was an opera in London, as the proprietor24 of the “Beauty-box.” The ladies who occupied the box were all invited under the same circumstances. They enjoyed operatic music; but their husbands and fathers were not rich enough to be able to gratify that expensive taste. Dick’s carriage called for them, and took them home again; and the beauties all agreed (if he ever married) that Mrs. Dick would be the most enviable woman on the face of the civilized25 earth. Even the false reports, which declared that he was privately26 married already, and on bad terms with his wife, slandered27 him cordially under the popular name. And his intimate companions, when they alluded28 among each other to a romance in his life which would remain a hidden romance to the end of his days, forgot that the occasion justified29 a serious and severe use of his surname, and blamed him affectionately as “poor dear Dick.”
The hour was midnight; and the friends, whom the most hospitable30 of men delighted to assemble round his dinner-table, had taken their leave with the exception of one guest specially31 detained by the host, who led him back to the dining-room.
“You were angry with our friends,” Dick began, “when they asked you about that report of your marriage. You won’t be angry with Me. Are you really going to be the old maid’s husband?”
This plain question received a plain reply: “Yes, I am.”
Dick took the young lord’s hand. Simply and seriously, he said: “Accept my congratulations.”
Howel Beaucourt started as if he had received a blow instead of a compliment.
“There isn’t another man or woman in the whole circle of my acquaintance,” he declared, “who would have congratulated me on marrying Miss Dulane. I believe you would make allowances for me if I had committed murder.”
“I hope I should,” Dick answered gravely. “When a man is my friend—murder or marriage—I take it for granted that he has a reason for what he does. Wait a minute. You mustn’t give me more credit than I deserve. I don’t agree with you. If I were a marrying man myself, I shouldn’t pick an old maid—I should prefer a young one. That’s a matter of taste. You are not like me. You always have a definite object in view. I may not know what the object is. Never mind! I wish you joy all the same.”
Beaucourt was not unworthy of the friendship he had inspired. “I should be ungrateful indeed,” he said, “if I didn’t tell you what my object is. You know that I am poor?”
“The only poor friend of mine,” Dick remarked, “who has never borrowed money of me.”
Beaucourt went on without noticing this. “I have three expensive tastes,” he said. “I want to get into Parliament; I want to have a yacht; I want to collect pictures. Add, if you like, the selfish luxury of helping32 poverty and wretchedness, and hearing my conscience tell me what an excellent man I am. I can’t do all this on five hundred a year—but I can do it on forty times five hundred a year. Moral: marry Miss Dulane.”
Listening attentively33 until the other had done, Dick showed a sardonic34 side to his character never yet discovered in Beaucourt’s experience of him.
“I suppose you have made the necessary arrangements,” he said. “When the old lady releases you, she will leave consolation35 behind her in her will.”
“That’s the first ill-natured thing I ever heard you say, Dick. When the old lady dies, my sense of honor takes fright, and turns its back on her will. It’s a condition on my side, that every farthing of her money shall be left to her relations.”
“Don’t you call yourself one of them?”
“What a question! Am I her relation because the laws of society force a mock marriage on us? How can I make use of her money unless I am her husband? and how can she make use of my title unless she is my wife? As long as she lives I stand honestly by my side of the bargain. But when she dies the transaction is at an end, and the surviving partner returns to his five hundred a year.”
Dick exhibited another surprising side to his character. The most compliant36 of men now became as obstinate37 as the proverbial mule38.
“All very well,” he said, “but it doesn’t explain why—if you must sell yourself—you have sold yourself to an old lady. There are plenty of young ones and pretty ones with fortunes to tempt4 you. It seems odd that you haven’t tried your luck with one of them.”
“No, Dick. It would have been odd, and worse than odd, if I had tried my luck with a young woman.”
“I don’t see that.”
“You shall see it directly. If I marry an old woman for her money, I have no occasion to be a hypocrite; we both know that our marriage is a mere39 matter of form. But if I make a young woman my wife because I want her money, and if that young woman happens to be worth a straw, I must deceive her and disgrace myself by shamming40 love. That, my boy, you may depend upon it, I will never do.”
Dick’s face suddenly brightened with a mingled41 expression of relief and triumph.
“Ha! my mercenary friend,” he burst out, “there’s something mixed up in this business which is worthier42 of you than anything I have heard yet. Stop! I’m going to be clever for the first time in my life. A man who talks of love as you do, must have felt love himself. Where is the young one and the pretty one? And what has she done, poor dear, to be deserted43 for an old woman? Good God! how you look at me! I have hurt your feelings—I have been a greater fool than ever—I am more ashamed of myself than words can say!”
Beaucourt stopped him there, gently and firmly.
“You have made a very natural mistake,” he said. “There was a young lady. She has refused me—absolutely refused me. There is no more love in my life. It’s a dark life and an empty life for the rest of my days. I must see what money can do for me next. When I have thoroughly44 hardened my heart I may not feel my misfortune as I feel it now. Pity me or despise me. In either case let us say goodnight.”
He went out into the hall and took his hat. Dick went out into the hall and took his hat.
“Have your own way,” he answered, “I mean to have mine—I’ll go home with you.”
The man was simply irresistible45. Beaucourt sat down resignedly on the nearest of the hall chairs. Dick asked him to return to the dining-room. “No,” he said; “it’s not worth while. What I can tell you may be told in two minutes.” Dick submitted, and took the next of the hall chairs. In that inappropriate place the young lord’s unpremeditated confession46 was forced out of him, by no more formidable exercise of power than the kindness of his friend.
“When you hear where I met with her,” he began, “you will most likely not want to hear any more. I saw her, for the first time, on the stage of a music hall.”
He looked at Dick. Perfectly47 quiet and perfectly impenetrable, Dick only said, “Go on.” Beaucourt continued in these words:
“She was singing Arne’s delicious setting of Ariel’s song in the ‘Tempest,’ with a taste and feeling completely thrown away on the greater part of the audience. That she was beautiful—in my eyes at least—I needn’t say. That she had descended48 to a sphere unworthy of her and new to her, nobody could doubt. Her modest dress, her refinement49 of manner, seemed rather to puzzle than to please most of the people present; they applauded her, but not very warmly, when she retired50. I obtained an introduction through her music-master, who happened to be acquainted professionally with some relatives of mine. He told me that she was a young widow; and he assured me that the calamity51 through which her family had lost their place in the world had brought no sort of disgrace on them. If I wanted to know more, he referred me to the lady herself. I found her very reserved. A long time passed before I could win her confidence—and a longer time still before I ventured to confess the feeling with which she had inspired me. You know the rest.”
“You mean, of course, that you offered her marriage?”
“Certainly.”
“And she refused you on account of your position in life.”
“No. I had foreseen that obstacle, and had followed the example of the adventurous52 nobleman in the old story. Like him, I assumed a name, and presented myself as belonging to her own respectable middle class of life. You are too old a friend to suspect me of vanity if I tell you that she had no objection to me, and no suspicion that I had approached her (personally speaking) under a disguise.”
“What motive53 could she possibly have had for refusing you?” Dick asked.
“A motive associated with her dead husband,” Beaucourt answered. “He had married her—mind, innocently married her—while his first wife was living. The woman was an inveterate54 drunkard; they had been separated for years. Her death had been publicly reported in the newspapers, among the persons killed in a railway accident abroad. When she claimed her unhappy husband he was in delicate health. The shock killed him. His widow—I can’t, and won’t, speak of her misfortune as if it was her fault—knew of no living friends who were in a position to help her. Not a great artist with a wonderful voice, she could still trust to her musical accomplishments55 to provide for the necessities of life. Plead as I might with her to forget the past, I always got the same reply: ‘If I was base enough to let myself be tempted56 by the happy future that you offer, I should deserve the unmerited disgrace which has fallen on me. Marry a woman whose reputation will bear inquiry57, and forget me.’ I was mad enough to press my suit once too often. When I visited her on the next day she was gone. Every effort to trace her has failed. Lost, my friend—irretrievably lost to me!”
He offered his hand and said good-night. Dick held him back on the doorstep.
“Break off your mad engagement to Miss Dulane,” he said. “Be a man, Howel; wait and hope! You are throwing away your life when happiness is within your reach, if you will only be patient. That poor young creature is worthy of you. Lost? Nonsense! In this narrow little world people are never hopelessly lost till they are dead and underground. Help me to recognize her by a description, and tell me her name. I’ll find her; I’ll persuade her to come back to you—and, mark my words, you will live to bless the day when you followed my advice.”
This well-meant remonstrance was completely thrown away. Beaucourt’s despair was deaf to every entreaty58 that Dick had addressed to him. “Thank you with all my heart,” he said. “You don’t know her as I do. She is one of the very few women who mean No when they say No. Useless, Dick—useless!”
Those were the last words he said to his friend in the character of a single man.
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1
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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4
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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5
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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7
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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8
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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9
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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11
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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12
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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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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14
profaning
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| v.不敬( profane的现在分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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15
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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16
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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18
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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19
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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20
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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21
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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27
slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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30
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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32
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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34
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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35
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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compliant
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| adj.服从的，顺从的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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shamming
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| 假装，冒充( sham的现在分词 ) | |
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41
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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42
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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43
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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44
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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45
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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46
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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47
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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48
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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49
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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50
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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51
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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52
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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53
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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54
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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55
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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56
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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57
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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58
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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