"I am glad it is settled," she said, in a low, impressive tone. "You will take good care of her, I know, and make her happy."
"With the best energies of my heart and life," was his earnest answer. "Dear Mrs. Cleeve, I can never sufficiently1 thank you."
The voices penetrated2 to a dressing-chamber at the end of the short passage, the door of which was ajar. A lady in travelling attire3 peeped out. It was Miss Blake, who had just arrived from England somewhat unexpectedly. Karl passed out at the front door. Miss Blake's eyes, wide open with astonishment4, followed him.
"Surely that was Captain Andinnian!" she exclaimed, advancing towards the dining-room.
"Captain Andinnian that used to be, Theresa," replied Colonel Cleeve. "He is Sir Karl Andinnian now."
"Yes, yes; but one is apt to forget new titles," was her impatient rejoinder. "I heard he was staying in Paris. What should bring him in this house? Is he allowed to call at it."
"For the future he will be. He is to have Lucy. Mrs. Cleve will tell you about it," concluded the Colonel. "I must write my letters."
Mrs. Cleeve was smiling meaningly. Theresa Blake, utterly5 puzzled, looked from one to the other. "Have Lucy!" she cried. "Have her for what?"
"Why, to be his wife," said Mrs. Cleeve. "Could you not have guessed, Theresa?"
"To--be--his--wife!" echoed Miss Blake. "Karl Andinnian's wife! No, no; it cannot be."
"But it is, Theresa. It has been settled to-day. Sir Karl has now gone out from his first interview with her. Why, my dear, I quite believe that if we had not brought it about, Lucy would have died. They are all the world to each other."
Miss Blake went back to her room with her shock of agony. From white to scarlet6, from scarlet to white, changed her face, as she sat down to take in the full sense of the news, and what it inflicted7 on her. A cry went up aloud to Heaven for pity, as she realized the extreme depth of her desolation.
This second blow was to Miss Blake nearly, if not quite, as cruel as the first had been. It stunned8 her. The hope that Karl Andinnian would return to her had been dwelt on and cherished as the weeks had gone on, until it became as a certainty in her inmost heart. Of course, his accession to wealth and honours augmented9 the desirability of a union with him, though it could not augment10 her love. She had encouraged the secret passion within her; she had indulged in sweet dreams of the future; she had rashly cherished an assurance that she should, sooner or later, become Sir Karl's wife. To find that he was indeed to have Lucy was truly terrible.
Miss Blake had undergone disappointment on another score. The new modes of worship in Mr. Blake's church, together with the Reverend Guy Cattacomb, had collapsed12. Matters had gone on swimmingly until the month of December. Close upon Christmas the rector came home: it should, perhaps, be mentioned that his old curate had died. Mr. Blake was hardly fit to return to his duties; but the reports made to him of the state of things in his church (they had been withheld13 during his want of strength), brought him back in grief and shame. His first act was to dismiss the Rev11. Guy Cattacomb: his second to sweep away innovations and restore the service to what it used to be. Miss Blake angrily resented this but she was unable to hinder it. Her occupation in Winchester was gone; she was for the present grown tired of the place, and considered whither her steps should be next directed. She had a standing15 invitation to visit the Cleeves, and felt inclined to do so; for she loved the gay Parisian capital with all her heart. Chance threw her in the way of Captain Lamprey. She heard from him that Sir Karl Andinnian was in Paris; and it need not be stated that the information caused the veering16 scale to go down with a run. Without writing to apprise17 Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve, she started. And, in the first few minutes of her arrival at their house, she was gratified by the sight of Karl; and heard at the same time the startling tidings that destroyed her hopes for ever.
It was like a fate. Comme un sort, as Mademoiselle Aglaé might have phrased it. Only a few months before, when Miss Blake got home to Winchester from Paris, her heart leaping and bounding with its love for Karl Andinnian, and with the prospect18 of again meeting him, she had been struck into stone at finding that his love was Lucy's; so now, hastening to Paris from Winchester with somewhat of the same kind of feelings, and believing he had bade adieu to Lucy for ever, she found that the aspect of matters had altered, and Lucy was to be the wife of his bosom19. Miss Blake's state of mind under this shock was not an enviable one. And--whereas she had hitherto vented20 her silent anger on Lucy, woman fashion, she now turned it on Karl. What right, she asked herself, forgetting the injustice21 of the question, what right had he to go seeking Lucy in Paris, when she had been so unequivocally denied to him for ever? It was a worse blow to her than the first had been.
Waiting until the trace of some of the anguish22 had passed from her white face, until she had arranged her hair and changed her travelling dress, and regained23 composure of manner, she went into the presence of Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve. They were yet in the dining-room, talking of Lucy's future prospects24; getting, in fact, with every word more and more reconciled to them.
"The alliance will be an everlasting25 disgrace to you," quietly spoke26 Miss Blake. "It will degrade Lucy."
"I do not see it, Theresa," said the Colonel. "I do not think any sensible people will see it in that light. And consider Lucy's state of health! Something had to be sacrificed to that. This may, and I believe will, restore her; otherwise she would have died. The love they bear for each other is marvellous--quite out of the common."
Theresa bit her pale lips to get a little colour in them. "A min whose brother was tried and condemned27 for wilful28 murder, and who died a convict striving to escape from his lawful29 fetters30! He is no proper match for Lucy Cleeve."
"The man is dead, Theresa. His crimes and mistakes have died with him. Had he lived, the convict, we would have followed Lucy to the grave rather than allowed one of the Andinnian family to enter ours."
Theresa played with a tremendously big wooden cross of black wood, that she wore appended to a long necklace of black beads--the whole thing most incongruously unbecoming, and certainly not in the best of taste in any point of view. That she looked pale, vexed31, disturbed, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve saw: and they set it down in their honest and simple hearts to her anxiety for Lucy.
"Against Sir Karl Andinnian nothing can be urged, Theresa: and his brother, as I say, is dead," pursued the Colonel. "In himself he is everything that can be desired: a sweet-tempered, honourable32 gentleman. He is a baronet of the realm now, you know; and his proposed settlement on Lucy is good."
"I don't call him rich," doggedly33 returned Miss Blake. "Compare him with some baronets."
"And compare him, on the other hand, with others! His income averages about seven thousand a-year, I believe. Out of that he will accord his mother a good portion while she lives. Compare that with my income, Theresa--as we are on the subject of comparisons; I cannot count anything like two thousand."
"Are you sure that he is worthy34 of Lucy in other ways?" resumed Miss Blake, her tone unpleasantly significant. "I have heard tales of him."
"What tales?"
"Words dropped from the officers at Winchester. To the effect that he is wild."
"I can hardly believe that he is," said the Colonel, uneasily, after a pause. "I should dislike to give Lucy to any man of that kind."
"Oh, well, it may not be true," returned Miss Blake, her suggestive conscience reminding her that she was saying more than she ought: or, rather, giving a colouring to it that she was not altogether justified35 in. "You know little Dennet. More than a year ago--it was before I went abroad--he was talking at the rectory one day about the officers generally, hinting that they were unsteady. I said--of course it was an absurd thing for me to say--that I felt sure Mr. Andinnian was steady: and Dennet rejoined, in a laughing kind of way, that Andinnian was as wild as the rest. That's the truth," concluded Miss Blake, honestly, in obedience36 to her conscience.
Not very much, you will think; but Colonel Cleeve did not like the doubt it implied; and he resolved to set it at rest, if questioning could do it. That same evening, when Karl arrived to dinner, as invited, the Colonel caused him to be shown into a little apartment, that was as much a boot-closet as anything else: but they were cramped37 for room in the Avenue D'Antin. Colonel Cleeve was standing by the fire. He and Karl were very much alike in one particular--that of unsophistication. In his direct, non-reticent manner, he mentioned the hint he had received, giving as nearly as possible the words Theresa had given.
"Is it true, or is it not, Sir Karl?"
"It is not true: at least, in the sense that I fear you may have been putting upon it," was the reply: and Karl Andinnian's truthful38 eyes went straight out to the Colonel's. "When I was with the regiment39 I did some foolish things, sir, as the others did, especially when I first joined: a young fellow planted down in the midst of careless men can hardly avoid it, however true his own habits and principles may be. But I soon drew in. When my father lay on his dying bed, he gave me some wise counsel, Colonel Cleeve."
"Did you follow it?"
"If I did not quite always, I at any rate mostly tried to. Had I been by inclination40 one of the wildest of men, events would have surely sobered me. My acquaintance with Lucy, the love for her that grew up in my heart, would have served to keep me steady; and since then there has been that most dreadful blow and its attendant sorrow. But I was not wild by inclination: quite the contrary. On my word, Colonel Cleeve, I have not gone into the reckless vice14 and folly41 that some men go into; no, not even in my days of youth and carelessness. I can truly say that I have never in my life done a wrong thing but I
have been bitterly ashamed of it afterwards, whatever its nature;
and--and--have asked forgiveness of God."
His voice died away with the last hesitating sentence. That he was asserting the truth as before Heaven, Colonel Cleeve saw, and judged him rightly. He took Karl's hands in his: he felt that he was one amid a thousand.
"God keep you, for a true man and a Christian42!" he whispered. "I could not desire one more worthy than you for my daughter."
When they reached the drawing-room, Lucy was there: Lucy, who had not joined in the late dinner for some time past. She wore pink silk; she had a transient colour in her face, and her sweet brown eyes lighted up at sight of Karl. As he bent43 low to speak to her, Theresa Blake covered her brow, as though she had a pain there.
"Madame est servie."
Sir Karl advanced to Mrs. Cleeve, as in duty bound. She put him from her with a smile. "I am going on by myself, Karl. Lucy needs support, and you must give it her. The Colonel has to bring Miss Blake."
And as Karl took her, nothing loth, under his arm, and gave her the support tenderly, Miss Lucy blushed the rosiest44 blush that had been seen in her face for many a month. Mademoiselle Aglaé, superintending the arrangement of the round table, had taken care that their seats should be side by side. Theresa's fascinated eyes, opposite, looked at them more than there was any need for.
"Lucy has got a prize," whispered the Colonel to her, as she sat on his right hand. "A prize if ever there was one. I have been talking to him about that matter, Theresa, and he comes out nobly. And--do you see how changed Lucy is, only in this one day? how well and happy she looks? Just think! it was only this time last night that his note was brought in."
Miss Blake did see. Saw a great deal more than was agreeable; the unmistakable signs of mutual45 love amidst the rest. Her own feelings were changing: and she almost felt that she was not far off hating her heart's cherished idol46, Karl Andinnian, with a jealous and bitter and angry hatred47. But she must wait for that. Love does not change to hate so quickly.
It was decided48 that the marriage should take place without delay; at least, with as little delay as Lucy's health should allow. Perhaps in February. Day by day, she grew better: appetite returned, spirits returned, the longing49 to get well returned: all three very essential elements in the case. At a week or two's end Lucy was so much stronger that the time was finally fixed50 for February, and Sir Karl wrote to tell Plunkett and Plunkett to prepare the deeds of settlement. He also wrote to his mother--which he had somewhat held back from doing: for instinct told him the news would terribly pain her; that she would accuse him of being insensible to the recent loss of his brother. And he found that he had judged correctly; for Mrs. Andinnian did not vouchsafe51 him any answer.
It grieved him much: but he did not dare to write again. It must be remembered that the relations between Karl and his mother were quite exceptional ones. She had kept him at a distance all his life, had repressed his instincts of affection; in short, had held him in complete subjection. If she chose not to accord him an answer, Karl knew that he should only make matters worse by writing to ask why she would not.
"He has forgotten his ill-fated brother: he casts not a thought to my dreadful sorrow; he is hasting with this indecent haste to hear the sound of his own gay wedding bells!" As surely as though he had heard her speak the complaints, did Karl picture to himself the manner of them. In good truth, he would no have preferred to marry so soon himself; but it was right that private feelings should give way to Lucy. They were in a hurry to get her to a warmer place; and it
was deemed better that Karl should go with her as her husband than
as her lover. In the latter case, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve must have gone--and he, the Colonel, wanted to be in England to attend to some matters of business. Sir Karl and his wife were to stay away for a year; perhaps more; the doctors thought it might be well for Lucy. Karl was only too glad to acquiesce52: for the arrangement, as he candidly53 avowed54, would leave him at liberty to allow his mother a year's undisturbed possession of Foxwood. And so the month of January came to an end, Lucy gaining ground regularly and quickly. As to Miss Blake, she stayed where she was, hardening her heart more and more against Karl Andinnian.
On the 6th of February Sir Karl went to London. The marriage was to take place in Paris on the 12th. He had various matters to transact55, especially with his lawyers. The deeds of settlement on Lucy, previously56 despatched to Paris by Plunkett and Plunkett, had been already signed. When in London Karl wrote a short note to his mother, saying he was in town, and should run down to Foxwood to see her. In her reply, received by return of post, she begged he would not go down to Foxwood, as it might "only upset her"--if, the words ran, she might so far presume to deny his entrance to his own house.
It was rather a queer letter. Karl thought so as he studied it. By one of the sentences in it, it almost seemed as though Mrs. Andinnian were not aware of his projected marriage. The longer he reflected, the more desirable did it appear to him that he should see her. So he wrote again, craving57 pardon for disobeying her, but saying he must come down.
About six-o'clock in the evening he reached Foxwood. It was the last day of his stay; on the following one he must depart for Paris. A servant-maid admitted him, and Hewitt came out of the dining-room. The man's face wore a look of surprise.
"I suppose my mother is expecting me, Hewitt."
"I think not, Sir Karl. I took a telegram to the station this morning, sir, to stop your coming," he added in a confidential58 tone, as he opened the door to announce his master.
Mrs. Andinnian was dining in solitary59 state in the solitary
dining-room. She let fall her knife and fork, and rose up with an angry glare. Her dress was of the deepest mourning, all crape. Save the widow's cap, she had not put on mourning so deep for her husband as she wore for her ill-fated son.
"How did you dare to come, after my prohibitory telegram, Karl?" she exclaimed, imperiously.
"I have had no telegram from you, mother," was his reply. "None whatever."
"One was sent to you this morning."
"I missed it, then. I have been about London all day, and did not return to the hotel before coming here."
He had been standing close to her with his hand extended. She looked fixedly60 at him for a few moments, and then allowed her hand to meet his.
"It cannot be helped, now; but I am not well enough to entertain visitors," she remarked. "Hewitt, Sir Karl will take some dinner."
"You surely do not look on me as a visitor," he said, smiling, and taking the chair at table that Hewitt placed. But, for all the smile, there was pain at his heart. "My stay will be a very short one, mother," he added, "for I must be away long before dawn to-morrow morning."
"The shorter the better," answered Mrs. Andinnian. And Sir Karl could not help feeling that it was scarcely the thing to say to a man coming to his own house.
He observed that only Hewitt was waiting at table: that no one else was called to bring in things required by the fact of his unexpected intrusion. Hewitt had to go backwards61 and forwards. During one of these absences Karl asked his mother why she should have objected to his coming.
"You have been told," she answered. "I am not in a state to bear the least excitement or to see any one. No visitor whatever is welcomed at Foxwood. My troubles are great, Karl."
"I wish I could lighten them for you, mother."
"You only increase them. But not willingly, I am sure, Karl. No fault lies with you."
It was the kindest thing she had said to him. As they went on talking, Karl became more and more convinced, from chance expressions, that she was in ignorance of his engagement and approaching marriage. When Hewitt had finally left them together after dinner, Karl told her of it. It turned out that Mrs. Andinnian had never received the letter from Paris: though where the fault lay, Karl could not divine. He remembered that he had given it to the waiter of the H?tel Montaigne to post--a man he had always found to be very exact. Whether he had neglected it, or whether the loss lay at the door of the post itself, the fact was the same--it had never reached Mrs. Andinnian.
She started violently when Karl told her. He noticed it particularly, because she was in general so cold and calm a woman. After staring at Karl for a minute or two she turned her gaze to the fire and sat in silence, listening to him.
"Married!" she exclaimed, when he had stopped. "Married!--and your brother scarcely cold in his dishonoured62 grave! It must not be, Karl."
Karl explained to her why it must be. Lucy's health required a more genial63 climate, and he had to take her to one without delay. When respect for the dead and consideration for the living clash, it was right and just that the former should give way, he observed. Mrs. Andinnian did not interrupt him; and he went on to state the arrangements he had completed as to Lucy's settlement. He then intimated, in the most delicate words he could use, that their proposed prolonged residence abroad would afford his mother at present undisturbed possession of Foxwood; and he mentioned the income (a very liberal one) he had secured to her for life.
She never answered a word. She made no comment whatever, good or bad; but sat gazing into the fire as before. Karl thought she was hopelessly offended with him.
He said that he had a letter to write. Mrs. Andinnian gave a dash at the bell and ordered Hewitt to place ink and paper before Sir Karl. When tea came in she spoke a few words--asking whether he would take sugar and such like--but, that excepted, maintained her silence. Afterwards, she sat at the fire again in her arm-chair; buried in disturbed thought; and then she rose to pace the room with uncertain steps, like one who is racked by anxious perplexity. At first Karl felt both annoyed and vexed, for he thought she was making more of the matter than she need have done; but soon he began to doubt whether she had not some trouble upon her apart from him and his concerns. A word, that unwittingly escaped her, confirmed him in this.
"Mother," he said, "you seem to be in great distress64 of your own: for I cannot believe that any proceedings65 of mine would thus disturb you."
"I am, Karl. I am."
"Will you not let me share it, then?--and, if possible, soothe66 it? You will find me a true son."
Mrs. Andinnian came back to her seat and replied calmly. "If you could help me in any way, Karl, you should hear it. But you cannot--you cannot, that I can see. Man is born to trouble, you know, as the sparks fly upwards67."
"I thought that I had offended you: at least, pained you by my coming marriage. It grieved me very much."
"My trouble is my own," she answered.
Karl could not imagine what it could be. He tried to think of various causes--just as we all do in a similar case--and rejected them again. She had always been a strangely independent, secretive woman: and such women, given to act with the daring independence of man, but possessing not man's freedom of power, may at times drift into troubled seas. Karl greatly feared it must be something of this kind. Debt? Well, he did not think it could be debt. He had never known of any outlets68 of expense: and surely, if this were so, his mother would apply to him to release her. But, still the idea kept coming back again: for he felt sure she had not given the true reason for wishing to keep him away from Foxwood, and he could not think of any other trouble. Sunk in these thoughts, he happened to raise his glance and caught his mother's sharp eyes inquisitively69 fixed on him.
"What are you deliberating upon, Karl?"
"I was wondering what your care could be."
"Better not wonder. You could not help me. Had my brave Adam been alive, I might have told him. He was daring, Karl; you are not."
"Not daring, mother? I? I think I am sufficiently so. At any rate, I could be as daring as the best in your interests."
"Perhaps you might. But it would not serve me, you see. And
sympathy--the sympathy that my poor lost Adam gave me--I have never from you sought or wished for."
She was plain at any rate. Karl felt the stab, just as he had felt many other of her stabs during his life. Mrs. Andinnian shook off her secret thoughts with a kind of shiver; and, to banish70 them, began talking with Karl of ordinary things.
"What has become of Ann Hopley?" he enquired71. "She was much attached to you: I thought perhaps you might have kept her on."
"Ann Hopley?--oh, the servant I had at Weymouth. No, I did not keep her on, Karl. She had a husband, you know."
At ten o'clock Mrs. Andinnian wished him goodnight and good-bye, and retired72. Karl sat on, thinking and wondering. He was sorry she did not place confidence in him, and so give him a chance of helping73 her: but she never had, and he supposed she never would. At times--and this was one--it had almost seemed to Karl as though she could not be his mother.
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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attire
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astonishment
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utterly
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scarlet
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inflicted
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stunned
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Augmented
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augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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rev
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collapsed
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withheld
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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standing
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veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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apprise
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prospect
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bosom
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vented
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injustice
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anguish
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regained
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prospects
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everlasting
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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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condemned
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wilful
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lawful
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fetters
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vexed
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honourable
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doggedly
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worthy
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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rosiest
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| adj.玫瑰色的( rosy的最高级 )；愉快的；乐观的；一切都称心如意 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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outlets
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| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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