Now the very name of Lopez was terrible to the Duke's ears. Anything which recalled the wretch3 and that wretched tragedy to the Duke's mind gave him a stab. The Duchess ought to have felt that any communication between her husband and even the man's widow was to be avoided rather than sought. "Quite out of the question!" said the Duke, drawing himself up.
"Why out of the question?"
"There are a thousand reasons. I could not have it."
"Then I will say nothing more about it. But there is a romance there,—something quite touching4."
"You don't mean that she has—a lover?"
"Well;—yes."
"And she lost her husband only the other day,—lost him in so terrible a manner! If that is so, certainly I do not wish to see her again."
"Ah, that is because you don't know the story."
"I don't wish to know it."
"The man who now wants to marry her knew her long before she had seen Lopez, and had offered to her ever so many times. He is a fine fellow, and you know him."
"I had rather not hear any more about it," said the Duke, walking away.
There was an end to the Duchess's scheme of getting Emily down to Matching,—a scheme which could hardly have been successful even had the Duke not objected to it. But yet the Duchess would not abandon her project of befriending the widow. She had injured Lopez. She had liked what she had seen of Mrs. Lopez. And she was now endeavouring to take Arthur Fletcher by the hand. She called therefore at Manchester Square on the day before she started for Matching, and left a card and a note. This was on the 15th of August, when London was as empty as it ever is. The streets at the West End were deserted5. The houses were shut up. The very sweepers of the crossings seemed to have gone out of town. The public offices were manned by one or two unfortunates each, who consoled themselves by reading novels at their desks. Half the cab-drivers had gone apparently6 to the seaside,—or to bed. The shops were still open, but all the respectable shopkeepers were either in Switzerland or at their marine7 villas8. The travelling world had divided itself into Cookites and Hookites;—those who escaped trouble under the auspices9 of Mr. Cook, and those who boldly combated the extortions of foreign innkeepers and the anti-Anglican tendencies of foreign railway officials "on their own hooks." The Duchess of Omnium was nevertheless in town, and the Duke might still be seen going in at the back entrance of the Treasury10 Chambers11 every day at eleven o'clock. Mr. Warburton thought it very hard, for he, too, could shoot grouse12; but he would have perished rather than have spoken a word.
The Duchess did not ask to see Mrs. Lopez, but left her card and a note. She had not liked, she said, to leave town without calling, though she would not seek to be admitted. She hoped that Mrs. Lopez was recovering her health, and trusted that on her return to town she might be allowed to renew her acquaintance. The note was very simple, and could not be taken as other than friendly. If she had been simply Mrs. Palliser, and her husband had been a junior clerk in the Treasury, such a visit would have been a courtesy; and it was not less so because it was made by the Duchess of Omnium and by the wife of the Prime Minister. But yet among all the poor widow's acquaintances she was the only one who had ventured to call since Lopez had destroyed himself. Mrs. Roby had been told not to come. Lady Eustace had been sternly rejected. Even old Mrs. Fletcher when she had been up in town had, after a very solemn meeting with Mr. Wharton, contented14 herself with sending her love. It had come to pass that the idea of being immured15 was growing to be natural to Emily herself. The longer that it was continued the more did it seem to be impossible to her that she should break from her seclusion16. But yet she was gratified by the note from the Duchess.
"She means to be civil, papa."
"Oh yes;—but there are people whose civility I don't want."
"Certainly. I did not want the civility of that horrid17 Lady Eustace. But I can understand this. She thinks that she did Ferdinand an injury."
"When you begin, my dear,—and I hope it will be soon,—to get back to the world, you will find it more comfortable, I think, to find yourself among your own people."
"I don't want to go back," she said, sobbing18 bitterly.
"But I want you to go back. All who know you want you to go back. Only don't begin at that end."
"You don't suppose, papa, that I wish to go to the Duchess?"
"I wish you to go somewhere. It can't be good for you to remain here. Indeed I shall think it wicked, or at any rate weak, if you continue to seclude19 yourself."
"Where shall I go?" she said, imploringly20.
"To Wharton. I certainly think you ought to go there first."
"If you would go, papa, and leave me here,—just this once. Next year I will go,—if they ask me."
"When I may be dead, for aught that any of us know."
"Do not say that, papa. Of course any one may die."
"I certainly shall not go without you. You may take that as certain. Is it likely that I should leave you alone in August and September in this great gloomy house? If you stay, I shall stay." Now this meant a great deal more than it had meant in former years. Since Lopez had died Mr. Wharton had not once dined at the Eldon. He came home regularly at six o'clock, sat with his daughter an hour before dinner, and then remained with her all the evening. It seemed as though he were determined21 to force her out of her solitude22 by her natural consideration for him. She would implore23 him to go to his club and have his rubber, but he would never give way. No;—he didn't care for the Eldon, and disliked whist. So he said. Till at last he spoke13 more plainly. "You are dull enough here all day, and I will not leave you in the evenings." There was a pertinacious24 tenderness in this which she had not expected from the antecedents of his life. When, therefore, he told her that he would not go into the country without her, she felt herself almost constrained25 to yield.
And she would have yielded at once but for one fear. How could she insure to herself that Arthur Fletcher should not be there? Of course he would be at Longbarns, and how could she prevent his coming over from Longbarns to Wharton? She could hardly bring herself to ask the question of her father. But she felt an insuperable objection to finding herself in Arthur's presence. Of course she loved him. Of course in all the world he was of all the dearest to her. Of course if she could wipe out the past as with a wet towel, if she could put the crape off her mind as well as from her limbs, she would become his wife with the greatest joy. But the very feeling that she loved him was disgraceful to her in her own thoughts. She had allowed his caress26 while Lopez was still her husband,—the husband who had ill-used her and betrayed her, who had sought to drag her down to his own depth of baseness. But now she could not endure to think that that other man should even touch her. It was forbidden to her, she believed, by all the canons of womanhood even to think of love again. There ought to be nothing left for her but crape and weepers. She had done it all by her own obstinacy27, and she could make no compensation either to her family, or to the world, or to her own feelings, but by drinking the cup of her misery28 down to the very dregs. Even to think of joy would in her be a treason. On that occasion she did not yield to her father, conquering him as she had conquered him before by the pleading of her looks rather than of her words.
But a day or two afterwards he came to her with arguments of a very different kind. He at any rate must go to Wharton immediately, in reference to a letter of vital importance which he had received from Sir Alured. The reader may perhaps remember that Sir Alured's heir,—the heir to the title and property,—was a nephew for whom he entertained no affection whatever. This Wharton had been discarded by all the Whartons as a profligate30 drunkard. Some years ago Sir Alured had endeavoured to reclaim31 the man, and had spent perhaps more money than he had been justified32 in doing in the endeavour, seeing that, as present occupier of the property, he was bound to provide for his own daughters, and that at his death every acre must go to this ne'er-do-well. The money had been allowed to flow like water for a twelvemonth, and had done no good whatever. There had then been no hope. The man was strong and likely to live,—and after a while married a wife, some woman that he took from the very streets. This had been his last known achievement, and from that moment not even had his name been mentioned at Wharton. Now there came the tidings of his death. It was said that he had perished in some attempt to cross some glaciers34 in Switzerland;—but by degrees it appeared that the glacier33 itself had been less dangerous than the brandy which he had swallowed whilst on his journey. At any rate he was dead. As to that Sir Alured's letter was certain. And he was equally certain that he had left no son.
These tidings were quite as important to Mr. Wharton as to Sir Alured,—more important to Everett Wharton than to either of them, as he would inherit all after the death of those two old men. At this moment he was away yachting with a friend, and even his address was unknown. Letters for him were to be sent to Oban, and might, or might not, reach him in the course of a month. But in a man of Sir Alured's feelings, this catastrophe35 produced a great change. The heir to his title and property was one whom he was bound to regard with affection and almost with reverence,—if it were only possible for him to do so. With his late heir it had been impossible. But Everett Wharton he had always liked. Everett had not been quite all that his father and uncle had wished. But his faults had been exactly those which would be cured,—or would almost be made virtues,—by the possession of a title and property. Distaste for a profession and aptitude36 for Parliament would become a young man who was heir not only to the Wharton estates, but to half his father's money.
Sir Alured in his letter expressed a hope that Everett might be informed instantly. He would have written himself had he known Everett's address. But he did know that his elder cousin was in town, and he besought37 his elder cousin to come at once,—quite at once,—to Wharton. Emily, he said, would of course accompany her father on such an occasion. Then there were long letters from Mary Wharton, and even from Lady Wharton, to Emily. The Whartons must have been very much moved when Lady Wharton could be induced to write a long letter. The Whartons were very much moved. They were in a state of enthusiasm at these news, amounting almost to fury. It seemed as though they thought that every tenant38 and labourer on the estate, and every tenant and labourer's wife, would be in an abnormal condition and unfit for the duties of life, till they should have seen Everett as heir of the property. Lady Wharton went so far as to tell Emily which bedroom was being prepared for Everett,—a bedroom very different in honour from any by the occupation of which he had as yet been graced. And there were twenty points as to new wills and new deeds as to which the present baronet wanted the immediate29 advice of his cousin. There were a score of things which could now be done which were before impossible. Trees could be cut down, and buildings put up; and a little bit of land sold, and a little bit of land bought;—the doing of all which would give new life to Sir Alured. A life interest in an estate is a much pleasanter thing when the heir is a friend who can be walked about the property, than when he is an enemy who must be kept at arm's length. All these delights could now be Sir Alured's,—if the old heir would give him his counsel and the young one his assistance.
This change in affairs occasioned some flutter also in Manchester Square. It could not make much difference personally to old Mr. Wharton. He was, in fact, as old as the baronet, and did not pay much regard to his own chance of succession. But the position was one which would suit his son admirably, and he was now on good terms with his son. He had convinced himself that Lopez had done all that he could to separate them, and therefore found himself to be more bound to his son than ever. "We must go at once," he said to his daughter, speaking almost as though he had forgotten her misery for the moment.
"I suppose you and Everett ought to be there."
"Heaven knows where Everett is. I ought to be there, and I suppose that on such an occasion as this you will condescend39 to go with me."
"Condescend, papa;—what does that mean?"
"You know I cannot go alone. It is out of the question that I should leave you here."
"Why, papa?"
"And at such a time the family ought to come together. Of course they will take it very much amiss if you refuse. What will Lady Wharton think if you refuse after her writing such a letter as that? It is my duty to tell you that you ought to go. You cannot think that it is right to throw over every friend that you have in the world."
There was a great deal more said in which it almost seemed that the father's tenderness had been worn out. His words were much rougher and more imperious than any that he had yet spoken since his daughter had become a widow, but they were also more efficacious, and therefore probably more salutary. After twenty-four hours of this she found that she was obliged to yield, and a telegram was sent to Wharton,—by no means the first telegram that had been sent since the news had arrived,—saying that Emily would accompany her father. They were to occupy themselves for two days further in preparations for their journey.
These preparations to Emily were so sad as almost to break her heart. She had never as yet packed up her widow's weeds. She had never as yet even contemplated40 the necessity of coming down to dinner in them before other eyes than those of her father and brother. She had as yet made none of those struggles with which widows seek to lessen41 the deformity of their costume. It was incumbent42 on her now to get a ribbon or two less ghastly than those weepers which had, for the last five months, hung about her face and shoulders. And then how should she look if he were to be there? It was not to be expected that the Whartons should seclude themselves because of her grief. This very change in the circumstances of the property would be sure, of itself, to bring the Fletchers to Wharton,—and then how should she look at him, how answer him, if he spoke to her tenderly? It is very hard for a woman to tell a lie to a man when she loves him. She may speak the words. She may be able to assure him that he is indifferent to her. But when a woman really loves a man, as she loved this man, there is a desire to touch him which quivers at her fingers' ends, a longing43 to look at him which she cannot keep out of her eyes, an inclination44 to be near him which affects every motion of her body. She cannot refrain herself from excessive attention to his words. She has a god to worship, and she cannot control her admiration45. Of all this Emily herself felt much,—but felt at the same time that she would never pardon herself if she betrayed her love by a gleam of her eye, by the tone of a word, or the movement of a finger. What,—should she be known to love again after such a mistake as hers, after such a catastrophe?
The evening before they started who should bustle46 into the house but Everett himself. It was then about six o'clock, and he was going to leave London by the night mail. That he should be a little given to bustle on such an occasion may perhaps be forgiven him. He had heard the news down on the Scotch47 coast, and had flown up to London, telegraphing as he did so backwards48 and forwards to Wharton. Of course he felt that the destruction of his cousin among the glaciers,—whether by brandy or ice he did not much care,—had made him for the nonce one of the important people of the world. The young man who would not so feel might be the better philosopher, but one might doubt whether he would be the better young man. He quite agreed with his father that it was his sister's duty to go to Wharton, and he was now in a position to speak with authority as to the duties of members of his family. He could not wait, even for one night, in order that he might travel with them. Sir Alured was impatient. Sir Alured wanted him in Herefordshire. Sir Alured had said that on such an occasion he, the heir, ought to be on the property with the shortest possible delay. His father smiled;—but with an approving smile. Everett therefore started by the night mail, leaving his father and sister to follow him on the morrow.
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1
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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3
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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4
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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5
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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6
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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7
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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8
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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9
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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11
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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12
grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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13
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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14
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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15
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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18
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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seclude
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| vi.使隔离，使孤立，使隐退 | |
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20
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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23
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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24
pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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29
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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30
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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31
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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32
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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34
glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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35
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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36
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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37
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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39
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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40
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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41
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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42
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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43
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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44
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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45
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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46
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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47
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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48
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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