It was decided at Holloway that Mrs. Roden and Mrs. Vincent were cousins. They were like enough in face and near enough in age to have been sisters; but old Mrs. Demijohn, of No. 10, Paradise Row, had declared that had George been a nephew his aunt would not have wearied in her endeavour to convert him. In such a case there would have been intimacy13 in spite of disapproval14. But a first cousin once removed might be allowed to go to the Mischief15 in his own way. Mrs. Vincent was supposed to be the elder cousin,—perhaps three or four years the elder,—and to have therefore something of an authority, but not much. She was stouter16, too, less careful to hide what grey hairs years might have produced, and showing manifestly by the nature of her bonnets17 and shawls that she despised the vanities of the world. Not but that she was always handsomely dressed, as Mrs. Demijohn was very well aware. Less than a hundred a year could not have clothed Mrs. Vincent, whereas Mrs. Roden, as all the world perceived, did not spend half the money. But who does not know that a lady may repudiate18 vanity in rich silks and cultivate the world in woollen stuffs, or even in calico? Nothing was more certain to Mrs. Demijohn than that Mrs. Vincent was severe, and that Mrs. Roden was soft and gentle. It was assumed also that the two ladies were widows, as no husband or sign of a husband had appeared on the scene. Mrs. Vincent showed manifestly from her deportment, as well as from her title, that she had been a married woman. As to Mrs. Roden, of course, there was no doubt.
In regard to all this the reader may take the settled opinions of Mrs. Demijohn and of Holloway as being nearly true. Riddles19 may be read very accurately20 by those who will give sufficient attention and ample time to the reading of them. They who will devote twelve hours a day to the unravelling21 of acrostics, may discover nearly all the enigmas22 of a weekly newspaper with a separate editor for such difficulties. Mrs. Demijohn had almost arrived at the facts. The two ladies were second cousins. Mrs. Vincent was a widow, was religious, was austere23, was fairly well off, and had quarrelled altogether with her distant relative George of the Post Office. Mrs. Roden, though she went to church, was not so well given to religious observances as her cousin would have her. Hence words had come which Mrs. Roden had borne with equanimity24, but had received without effect. Nevertheless the two women loved each other dearly, and it was a great part of the life of each of them that these weekly visits should be made. There was one great fact, as to which Mrs. Demijohn and Holloway were in the wrong. Mrs. Roden was not a widow.
It was not till the Kingsburys had left London that George told his mother of his engagement. She was well acquainted with his intimacy with Lord Hampstead, and knew that he had been staying at Hendon Hall with the Kingsbury family. There had been no reticence25 between the mother and son as to these people, in regard to whom she had frequently cautioned him that there was danger in such associations with people moving altogether in a different sphere. In answer to this the son had always declared that he did not see the danger. He had not run after Lord Hampstead. Circumstances had thrown them together. They had originally met each other in a small political debating society, and gradually friendship had grown. The lord had sought him, and not he the lord. That, according to his own idea, had been right. Difference in rank, difference in wealth, difference in social regard required as much as that. He, when he had discovered who was the young man whom he had met, stood off somewhat, and allowed the friendship to spring from the other side. He had been slow to accept favour,—even at first to accept hospitality. But whenever the ice had, as he said, been thoroughly26 broken, then he thought that there was no reason why they should not pull each other out of the cold water together. As for danger, what was there to fear? The Marchioness would not like it? Very probably. The Marchioness was not very much to Hampstead, and was nothing at all to him. The Marquis would not really like it. Perhaps not. But in choosing a friend a young man is not supposed to follow altogether his father's likings,—much less need the chosen friend follow them. But the Marquis, as George pointed27 out to his mother, was hardly more like other marquises than the son was like other marquis's sons. There was a Radical28 strain in the family, as was made clear by that tailor who was still sitting for the borough29 of Edgeware. Mrs. Roden, however, though she lived so much alone, seeing hardly anything of the world except as Mrs. Vincent might be supposed to represent the world, had learned that the feelings and political convictions of the Marquis were hardly what they had been before he had married his present wife. "You may be sure, George," she had said, "that like to like is as safe a motto for friendship as it is for love."
"Not a doubt, mother," he replied; "but before you act upon it you must define 'like.' What makes two men like—or a man and a woman?"
"Outside circumstances of the world more than anything else," she answered, boldly.
"I would fancy that the inside circumstances of the mind would have more to do with it." She shook her head at him, pleasantly, softly, and lovingly,—but still with a settled purpose of contradiction. "I have admitted all along," he continued, "that low birth—"
"I have said nothing of low birth!" Here was a point on which there did not exist full confidence between the mother and son, but in regard to which the mother was always attempting to reassure30 the son, while he would assume something against himself which she would not allow to pass without an attempt of faint denial.
"That birth low by comparison," he continued, going on with his sentence, "should not take upon itself as much as may be allowed to nobility by descent is certain. Though the young prince may be superior in his gifts to the young shoeblack, and would best show his princeliness by cultivating the shoeblack, still the shoeblack should wait to be cultivated. The world has created a state of things in which the shoeblack cannot do otherwise without showing an arrogance31 and impudence32 by which he could achieve nothing."
"Which, too, would make him black his shoes very badly."
"No doubt. That will have to come to pass any way, because the nobler employments to which he will be raised by the appreciating prince will cause him to drop his shoes."
"Is Lord Hampstead to cause you to drop the Post Office?"
"Not at all. He is not a prince nor am I a shoeblack. Though we are far apart, we are not so far apart as to make such a change essential to our acquaintance. But I was saying— I don't know what I was saying."
"You were defining what 'like' means. But people always get muddled33 when they attempt definitions," said the mother.
"Though it depends somewhat on externals, it has more to do with internals. That is what I mean. A man and woman might live together with most enduring love, though one had been noble and wealthy and the other poor and a nobody. But a thorough brute34 and a human being of fine conditions can hardly live together and love each other."
"That is true," she said. "That I fear is true."
"I hope it is true."
"It has often to be tried, generally to the great detriment35 of the better nature."
All this, however, had been said before George Roden had spoken a word to Lady Frances, and had referred only to the friendship as it was growing between her son and the young lord.
The young lord had come on various occasions to the house at Holloway, and had there made himself thoroughly pleasant to his friend's mother. Lord Hampstead had a way of making himself pleasant in which he never failed when he chose to exercise it. And he did exercise it almost always,—always, indeed, unless he was driven to be courteously36 disagreeable by opposition37 to his own peculiar opinion. In shooting, fishing, and other occupations not approved of, he would fall into a line of argument, seemingly and indeed truly good-humoured, which was apt, however, to be aggravating38 to his opponent. In this way he would make himself thoroughly odious39 to his stepmother, with whom he had not one sentiment in common. In other respects his manners were invariably sweet, with an assumption of intimacy which was not unbecoming; and thus he had greatly recommended himself to Mrs. Roden. Who does not know the fashion in which the normal young man conducts himself when he is making a morning call? He has come there because he means to be civil. He would not be there unless he wished to make himself popular. He is carrying out some recognized purpose of society. He would fain be agreeable if it were possible. He would enjoy the moment if he could. But it is clearly his conviction that he is bound to get through a certain amount of altogether uninteresting conversation, and then to get himself out of the room with as little awkwardness as may be. Unless there be a pretty girl, and chance favour him with her special companionship, he does not for a moment suppose that any social pleasure is to be enjoyed. That rational amusement can be got out of talking to Mrs. Jones does not enter into his mind. And yet Mrs. Jones is probably a fair specimen40 of that general society in which every one wishes to mingle41. Society is to him generally made up of several parts, each of which is a pain, though the total is deemed to be desirable. The pretty girl episode is no doubt an exception,—though that also has its pains when matter for conversation does not come readily, or when conversation, coming too readily, is rebuked42. The morning call may be regarded as a period of unmitigated agony. Now it has to be asserted on Lord Hampstead's behalf that he could talk with almost any Mrs. Jones freely and pleasantly while he remained, and take his departure without that dislocating struggle which is too common. He would make himself at ease, and discourse43 as though he had known the lady all his life. There is nothing which a woman likes so much as this, and by doing this Lord Hampstead had done much, if not to overcome, at any rate to quiet the sense of danger of which Mrs. Roden had spoken.
But this refers to a time in which nothing was known at Holloway as to Lady Frances. Very little had been said of the family between the mother and son. Of the Marquis George Roden had wished to think well, but had hardly succeeded. Of the stepmother he had never even wished to do so. She had from the first been known to him as a woman thoroughly wedded44 to aristocratic prejudices,—who regarded herself as endowed with certain privileges which made her altogether superior to other human beings. Hampstead himself could not even pretend to respect her. Of her Roden had said very little to his mother, simply speaking of her as the Marchioness, who was in no way related to Hampstead. Of Lady Frances he had simply said that there was a girl there endowed with such a spirit, that of all girls of her class she must surely be the best and noblest. Then his mother had shuddered46 inwardly, thinking that here too there might be possible danger; but she had shrunk from speaking of the special danger even to her son.
"How has the visit gone?" Mrs. Roden asked, when her son had already been some hours in the house. This was after that last visit to Hendon Hall, in which Lady Frances had promised to become his wife.
"Pretty well, taking it altogether."
"I know that something has disappointed you."
"No, indeed, nothing. I have been somewhat abashed47."
"What have they said to you?" she asked.
"Very little but what was kind,—just one word at the last."
"Something, I know, has hurt you," said the mother.
"Lady Kingsbury has made me aware that she dislikes me thoroughly. It is very odd how one person can do that to another almost without a word spoken."
"I told you, George, that there would be danger in going there."
"There would be no danger in that if there were nothing more."
"What more is there then?"
"There would be no danger in that if Lady Kingsbury was simply Hampstead's stepmother."
"What more is she?"
"She is stepmother also to Lady Frances. Oh, mother!"
"George, what has happened?" she asked.
"I have asked Lady Frances to be my wife."
"Your wife?"
"And she has promised."
"Oh, George!"
"Yes, indeed, mother. Now you can perceive that she indeed may be a danger. When I think of the power of tormenting48 her stepdaughter which may rest in her hands I can hardly forgive myself for doing as I have done."
"And the Marquis?" asked the mother.
"I know nothing as yet as to what his feelings may be. I have had no opportunity of speaking to him since the little occurrence took place. A word escaped me, an unthought-of word, which her ladyship overheard, and for which she rebuked me. Then I left the house."
"What word?"
"Just a common word of greeting, a word that would be common among dear friends, but which, coming from me to her, told all the story. I forgot the prefix49 which was due from such a one as I am to such as she is. I can understand with what horror I must henceforward be regarded by Lady Kingsbury."
"What will the Marquis say?"
"I shall be a horror to him also,—an unutterable horror. The idea of contact so vile45 will cure him at once of all his little Radical longings50."
"And Hampstead?"
"Nothing, I think, can cure Hampstead of his convictions;—but even he is not well pleased."
"Has he quarrelled with you?"
"No, not that. He is too noble to quarrel on such offence. He is too noble even to take offence on such a cause. But he refuses to believe that good will come of it. And you, mother?"
"Oh, George, I doubt, I doubt."
"You will not congratulate me?"
"What am I to say? I fear more than I can hope."
"When I tell you that she is noble at all points, noble in heart, noble in beauty, noble in that dignity which a woman should always carry with her, that she is as sweet a creature as God ever created to bless a man with, will you not then congratulate me?"
"I would her birth were other than it is," said the mother.
"I would have her altered in nothing," said the son. "Her birth is the smallest thing about her, but such as she is I would have her altered in nothing."
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1
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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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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valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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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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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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unravelling
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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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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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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