The two guests, Sir Nash Bohun and his son, were departing from Dallory Hall. They had arrived the previous afternoon in time to attend the funeral, had dined and slept there, and were now going again. Their coming had originated with Sir Nash. In his sympathy with the calamity--the particulars of which had been written to him by his nephew, Arthur Bohun--Sir Nash had proposed to show his concern and respect for the North family by coming with his son to attend the funeral. The offer was accepted; albeit1 Mrs. North was not best pleased to receive them. From some cause or other, madam had never been anxious to court intimacy2 with her first husband's brother: when thrown into his society, there was something in her manner that almost seemed to say she did not feel at ease with him.
Neither at dinner last night nor at breakfast this morning had the master of the house been present; the entertainment of the guests had fallen on Richard North as his father's representative. Captain Bohun was of course with them; also the rest of the family, including madam. Madam played her part gracefully3 in black crape elaborately set off with jet. For once in her life she was honest and did not affect to feel the grief for Edmund that she would have felt for a son.
Sitting disconsolately4 before the open window of his parlour was Mr. North. His black clothes looked too large for him, his whole air was that of one who seems to have lost interest in the world. It is astonishing how aged5, as compared with other moments, men will look in their seasons of abandonment. While we battle with our cares, they spare the features in a degree: but in the abandonment of despair, when all around seems dreary6, and we are sick and faint because to fight longer seems impossible, then look at the poor sunken face!
The room was dingy7; it has already been said; rather long but narrow; and it seemed uncared for. Opposite the fireplace stood an old secretaire filled with seeds and papers relating to gardening, and near it was a closet-door. This closet--but it was more a small, dark passage than a closet--had an opposite door opening to the dining-room. But, if the parlour was dingy, the capacious window and the prospect8 on which it looked, brightened it. Stretching out before it, broad and large, was the gay parterre of many-coloured flowers, Mr. North's only delight for years past. In the cultivation9 of these flowers, he had found a refuge from life's daily vexations and petty cares. Heaven is merciful, and some counterbalancing interest to long-continued sorrow is often supplied to us.
Mr. North sat looking at his flowers. He had been sitting there for the past hour, buried in reflections that were not pleasant, and the morning was getting on. He thought of his embarrassments10: those applications for money from madam, that he strove to hide from his well-beloved son Richard, and that made the terror of his life. They were apt to come upon him at the most unexpected times, in season and out of season; it seemed to him that he was never free from them; could never be sure at any moment she would not come down upon him the next. For the past few days the house had been, so to say, sacred from these carping concerns; even she had respected the sorrow in it; but with this morning, the return to everyday life, business and the world resumed its sway. Mr. North was looked upon as a man perfectly12 at his ease in money matters; "rolling in wealth," people would say, as they talked of the handsome portion his two daughters might expect on their wedding-day. Local debts, the liabilities of ordinary life, were kept punctually paid; Richard saw to that; and perhaps no one in the whole outer world, excepting Mrs. Gass, suspected the truth and the embarrassment11. Mr. North thought of his other son, he who had gone from his view for ever; but the edge of grief was wearing off, though he was as eager as ever to discover the anonymous13 writer.
But there is a limit to all things--I don't know what would become of some of us if there were not--and the mind cannot dwell for ever upon its own bitterness. Unhappy topics, as if in very weariness, gradually drifted away from Mr. North's mind, and were replaced by thoughts of his flowers. How could it be otherwise, when their scent14 came floating to him through the broad open window in delicious perfume. The colours charmed the eye, the aroma15 took captive the senses. Spring flowers, all; and simple ones. Further on, beyond the trees that bounded the grounds, a fine view was obtained of the open country over Dallory Ham. Hills and dales, woods and sunny plains, with here and there a gleam of glistening16 water, lay under the distant horizon. Mr. North looked not at the landscape, which was a familiar book to him, but at his flowers.
The spring had been continuously cold and wet, retarding17 the appearance of these early flowers to a very late period. For the past week or two the weather had been lovely, and the flowers seemed to have sprung up all at once. A little later the tulip beds would be in bloom. A rare collection; a show for the world to flock to. Later on still, the roses would be out, and many thought they were the best show of all. And so the year went on, the flowers replacing each other in their loveliness.
Sadness sat on them to-day: for we see things, you know, in accordance with our own mood, not as they actually are. Mr. North rose with a sigh and stood at the open window. Only that very day week, about this time in the morning, his eldest18 son had stood there with him side by side. For this was the eighth of May. "Poor fellow!" sighed the father, as he thought of this.
Some one went sauntering down the path that led round from the front of the house, and disappeared beyond the trees; a short, slight young man. Mr. North recognized his son Sidney; madam's son as well as his own; and he gave a sigh almost as profound as the one he had given to the lost Edmund. Sidney North was dreadfully dissipated, and had already caused a great deal of trouble. It was suspected--and with truth--that some of madam's superfluous19 money went to this son. She had brought him up badly, fostering his vanity, indulging him in everything. By the very way in which he walked now--his head moodily20 lowered, his gait slouching, his hands thrust into his pockets, Mr. North judged him to be in some dilemma21. He had not wished him to be summoned home to the funeral; no, though the dead had stood to him as half-brother; but madam took her own way and wrote for him. "He'll be a thorn in her side if he lives," thought the father, his reflections unconsciously going out to that future time when he himself should be no more.
The door opened, and Richard came in. Mr. North stepped back from the window at which he had been standing22.
"Sir Nash and his son are going, sir. You will see them first, will you not?"
"Going already! Why--I declare it is past eleven! Bless me! I hope I have not been rude, Dick? Where are my boots?"
The boots were at hand, ready for him. He put them on, and hid his slippers23 out of sight in the closet. What with his present grief, and his disinclination for society, or, as he called it, company, that for some time had been growing upon him, Mr. North had held aloof24 from his guests. But he was one of the last men to show incivility, and it suddenly struck him that perhaps he had been guilty of it.
"Dick, I suppose I ought to have been at the breakfast-table?"
"Not at all, my dear father; not at all. Your remaining in privacy is perfectly natural, and I am sure Sir Nash feels it to be so. Don't disturb yourself: they will come to you here."
Almost as he spoke25 they entered, Captain-Bohun with them. Sir Nash was a very fine man with a proud face, that put you in mind at once of Arthur Bohun's, and of the calmest, pleasantest, most courteous26 manners possible. His son was not in the least like him; a studious, sickly man, his health delicate, his dark hair scanty27. James Bohun's time was divided between close classical reading and philanthropic pursuits. He strove to have what he called a mission in life: and to make it one that might do him some service in the next world.
"I am so very sorry! I had no idea you would be going so soon: I ought to have been with you before this," began Mr. North in a flutter.
But the baronet laid his hands upon him kindly28, and calmed the storm. "My good friend, you have done everything that is right and hospitable29. I would have stayed a few hours longer with you, but James has to be in London this afternoon to keep an engagement."
"It is an engagement that I cannot well put off," interposed James Bohun in his small voice that always sounded too weak for a man. "I would not have made it, had I known what was to intervene."
"He has to preside at a public missionary30 meeting," explained Sir Nash. "It seems to me that he has something or other of the kind on hand every day in the year. I tell him that he is wearing himself out."
"Not every day in the year," spoke the son, taking the words literally31. "This is the month for such meetings, you know, Sir Nash."
"You do not look strong," observed Mr. North, studying James Bohun.
"Not in appearance perhaps, but I'm wiry, Mr. North: and we wiry fellows last the longest. What sweet flowers," added Mr. Bohun, stepping to the window. "I could not dress myself this morning for looking at them. I longed to open the window."
"And why did you not?" sensibly asked Mr. North.
"I can't do with the early morning air, sir. I don't accustom32 myself to it.
"A bit of a valetudinarian," remarked Sir Nash.
"Not at all, father," answered the son. "It is as well to be cautious."
"I sleep with my window open, James, summer and winter. But we all have our different tastes and fancies. And now, my good friend," added the baronet, taking the hands of Mr. North, "when will you come and see me? A change may do you good."
"Thank you; not just yet. Thank you all the same, Sir Nash; but later--perhaps," was Mr. North's answer. He knew that the kindness was meant, the invitation sincere; and of late he had grown to feel grateful for any shown to him. Nevertheless he thought he should never accept this.
"I will not receive you in that hot, bustling33 London: it is becoming a penance34 to myself to stay there. You shall come to my place in Kent, and be as quiet as you please. You've never seen Peveril: it cannot boast the charming flowers that you show here, but it is worth seeing. Promise to come."
"If I can. Later. Thank you, Sir Nash; and I beg you and Mr. Bohun to pardon me for all my seeming discourtesy. It has not been meant so."
"No, no."
They walked through the hall to the door, where Mr. North's carriage waited. The large shut-up carriage. Some dim idea was pervading35 those concerned that to drive to the station in an open dog-cart would be hardly the right thing for these mourners after the recent funeral.
Sir Nash and his son stepped in, followed by Captain Bohun and Richard North, who would accompany them to the station. As Mr. North turned indoors again after watching the carriage away, he ran against his daughter Matilda, resplendent in glittering black silk and jet.
"They have invited you to visit them, have they not, papa?"
"They have invited me--yes. But I shall be none the nearer going there, Matilda."
"Then I wish you would, for I want to go," she returned, speaking imperiously. "Uncle Nash asked me. He asked mamma, and said would I accompany her: and I should like to go. Do you hear, papa? I should like to go."
It was all very well for Miss Matilda North to say "Uncle Nash." Sir Nash was no relation to her whatever: but that he was a baronet, she might have remembered it.
"You and your mamma can go," said Mr. North with animation36, as the seductive vision of the house, relieved of madam's presence for an indefinite period, rose mentally before him.
"But mamma says she shall not go."
"Oh, does she?" he cried, his spirits and the vision sinking together. "She'll change her mind perhaps, Matilda. I can't do anything in it, you know."
As if to avoid further colloquy37, he passed on to his parlour and shut the door sharply. Matilda North turned into the dining-room, her handsome black silk train following her, her discontented look preceding her. Just then Mrs. North came downstairs, a coquettish, fascinating sort of black lace hood38 upon her head, one she was in the habit of wearing in the grounds. Matilda North heard the rustle39 of the robes, and looked out again.
"Are you going to walk, mamma?"
"I am. Have you anything to say against it?"
"It would be all the same if I had," was the pert answer. Not very often did Matilda North gratuitously40 retort upon her mother; but she was in an ill humour: the guests had gone away much sooner than she had wished or expected, and madam had vexed41 her.
"That lace hood is not mourning," resumed Miss Matilda North, defiantly42 viewing madam from top to toe.
Madam turned the hood and the haughty43 face it encircled on her presuming daughter. The look was enough in itself; and what she might have said was interrupted by the approach of Bessy.
"Have you any particular orders to give this morning, madam?" Bessy asked of her stepmother--whom she as often called madam as mamma, the latter word never meeting with fond response from Mrs. North to her.
"If I have I'll give them later," imperiously replied madam, sweeping44 out at the hall-door.
"What has angered her now?" thought Bessy. "I hope and trust it is nothing connected with papa. He has enough trouble without having to bear ill-temper."
Bessy North was housekeeper45. And a troublesome time she had of it! Between madam's capricious orders, issued at all sorts of inconvenient46 hours, and the natural resentment47 of the servants, a less meek48 and patient spirit would have been worried beyond endurance. Bessy made herself the scape-goat; labouring, both by substantial help and by soothing49 words, to keep peace in the household. None knew how much Bessy did, or the care that was upon her. Miss Matilda North had never soiled her fingers in her life, never done more than ring the bell, and issue her imperious orders after the fashion of madam, her mother. The two half-sisters were a perfect contrast. Certainly they presented such outwardly, as witness this morning: the one not unlike a peacock, her ornamented50 head thrown up, her extended train trailing, and her odds51 and ends of jet gleaming; the other a meek little woman in a black gown of some soft material with some quiet crape upon it, and her smooth hair banded back--for she wore it plain to-day.
On her way to the kitchens, Bessy halted at her father's sitting-room52, and opened the door quietly. Mr. North was standing against the window-frame, half inside the room half out of it.
"Can I do anything for you, papa?"
"There's nothing to be done for me, child. What time do we dine to-day, Bessy?" he asked, after a pause.
"I suppose at six. Mrs. North has not given orders to the contrary."
"Very well. I'll have my luncheon53 in here, child."
"To be sure. Dear papa, you are not looking well," she added, advancing to him.
"No? Looks don't matter much, Bessy, when folk get to be as old as I am. A thought comes over me at odd moments--that it is good to grow ugly, and yellow, and wrinkled. It makes us wish to become young and fair and pleasant to the sight again: and we can only do that through immortality54. Through immortality, child."
Mr. North lifted his hand, the fingers of which had always now a trembling sort of movement in them, to his shrivelled face, as he repeated the concluding words, passing it twice over the weak, scanty brown hair that time and care had left him. Bessy kissed him fondly, and quitted the room with a sigh, one sad thought running through her mind.
"How sadly papa is breaking!"
Mrs. North swept down the broad gravel-walk leading from the entrance, until she came to a path on the left, which led to the covered portion of the grounds: where the trees in places grew so thick and close that shade might be had at midday. This part of the grounds was near the dark portion of the Dallory highway, already mentioned (where Jelly had surprised her mistress and Oliver Rane in the moonlight the past night), only the boundary hedges being between them. It was a sweet spot, affording retirement55 from the world and shelter from the fierce rays of the sun. Madam was fond of frequenting this spot: and all the more so because sundry56 loop-holes gave her the opportunity of peering out beyond. She could see all who passed to and from the Hall, without being herself seen. One high enclosed wall was especially liked by her; concealed57 within its shade, quietly resting on one of its rustic58 seats, she could hear as well as see. Before she had quite gained this walk, however, her son Sidney crossed her path. A young man of twenty now, undersized, insufferably vain, fast, and conceited59. His face might be called a pretty face: his auburn curls were arranged after the models in a hairdresser's window; his very blue unmeaning eyes had no true look in them. Sidney North as like neither father nor mother: like no one but his own contemptible60 self; madam looked upon him as next door to an angel; he was her well-beloved. There can be no blindness equal to that of a doting61 mother.
"My dear, I thought you had gone with them to the station," she said.
"Didn't ask me to go; Dick and Arthur made room for themselves, not for me," responded Sidney, taking his pipe from his mouth to speak, and his voice was as consequential62 as his mother's.
A frown crossed madam's face. Dick and Arthur were rather in the habit of putting Sidney in the shade, and she hated them for it. Arthur was her own son, but she had never regarded him with any sort of affection.
"I'm going back this afternoon, mamma."
"This afternoon! No, my boy; I can't part with you to-day."
"Must," laconically63 responded Sidney, puffing64 away at his pipe. And madam had come to learn that it was of no use saying he was to stay if he wanted to go. "How much tin can you let me have?"
"How much do you want?"
"As much as you can give me."
His demands for money seemed to be as insatiable as madam knew her husband found hers. The fact was beginning to give her some concern. Only two weeks ago she had despatched him all she could afford: and now here he was, asking again. A slight frown crossed her brow.
"Sidney, you spend too much."
"Must do as others do," responded Sidney.
"But, my sweet boy, I can't let you have it. You don't know the trouble it causes."
"Trouble!--with those rich North Works to draw upon!" cried Sidney. "The governor must be putting by mines of wealth."
"I don't think he is, Sidney. He always pleads poverty; says we drain him. I suppose it's true."
"Flam! All old paters cry that. Look at Dick--the loads of gold he must be netting. He gets his equal share, they say; goes thirds with the other two."
"Who says it?"
"A fellow told me so yesterday. It's an awful shame that Dick should be a millionaire, and I obliged to beg for every paltry65 coin I want! There's not so many years between us."
"Dick has his footing at the works, you see," observed madam. "Let him! I wouldn't have you degrade yourself to it for the world. He's fit for nothing but work; has been brought up to it; and we can spend."
"Just so," complacently66 returned the young man. "And you must shell out liberally for me this afternoon, mamma."
Without further ceremony of adieu or apology, Mr. Sidney North sauntered away. Madam proceeded to her favourite shaded walk, where she kept her eyes looking out on all sides for intruders, friends or enemies. On this occasion she had the satisfaction of being gratified.
Her arms folded over the black lace shawl she wore, its hood gathered on her head, altogether very much after the fashion of a Spanish mantilla, and her train with its crape and jet falling in stately folds behind her, madam had been pacing this retreat for the best part of an hour, when she caught sight, through the interstices of the leaves, of two ladies slowly approaching. The one she recognized at once as Mrs. Cumberland; the other she did not recognize at all. "What a lovely face!" was her involuntary thought.
A young, fair, lovely face. The face of Ellen Adair.
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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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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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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retarding
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| 使减速( retard的现在分词 )； 妨碍； 阻止； 推迟 | |
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eldest
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superfluous
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moodily
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dilemma
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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slippers
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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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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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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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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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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missionary
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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bustling
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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hood
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rustle
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gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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52
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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53
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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54
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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55
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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56
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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57
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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58
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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59
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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60
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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61
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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62
consequential
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| adj.作为结果的，间接的；重要的 | |
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63
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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64
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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65
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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66
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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