And this brought him to other reflections. Might it not be possible utterly12 to break up that establishment of his in Southampton Buildings, so that he would be forced by the necessity of things to live at his home,—at some home which he would share with the girls? He knew himself well enough to be sure that while those chambers14 remained in his possession, as long as that bedroom and bed were at his command, he could not extricate15 himself from the dilemma16. Day after day the temptation was too great for him. And he hated the villa. There was nothing there that he could do. He had no books at the villa; and,—so he averred,—there was something in the air of Fulham which prevented him from reading books when he brought them there. No! He must break altogether fresh ground, and set up a new establishment. One thing was clear; he could not now do this before Mary Bonner's arrival, and therefore there was nothing to create any special urgency. He had hoped that his girls would marry, so that he might be left to live alone in his chambers,—waited upon by old Stemm,—without sin on his part; but he was beginning to discover that girls do not always get married out of the way in their first bloom. And now he was taking to himself another girl! He must, he knew, give over all hope of escape in that direction. He was very uneasy; and when quite late at night,—or rather, early in the morning,—he took himself to bed, his slumbers18 were not refreshing19. The truth was that no air suited him for sleeping except the air of Southampton Buildings.
The packet from St. Thomas was to be in the harbour at eight o'clock the next morning,—telegrams from Cape17 Clear, The Lizard20, Eddystone Lighthouse, and where not, having made all that as certain as sun-rising. At eight o'clock he was down on the quay21, and there was the travelling city of the Royal Atlantic Steam Mail Packet Company at that moment being warped22 into the harbour. The ship as he walked along the jetty was so near to him that he could plainly see the faces of the passengers on deck,—men and women, girls and children, all dressed up to meet their friends on shore, crowding the sides of the vessel23 in their eagerness to be among the first to get on shore. He anxiously scanned the faces of the ladies that he might guess which was to be the lady that was to be to him almost the same as a daughter. He saw not one as to whom he could say that he had a hope. Some there were in the crowd, some three or four, as to whom he acknowledged that he had a fear. At last he remembered that his girl would necessarily be in deep mourning. He saw two young women in black;—but there was nothing to prepossess him about either of them. One of them was insignificant24 and very plain. The other was fat and untidy. They neither of them looked like ladies. What if fate should have sent to him as a daughter,—as a companion for his girls,—that fat, untidy, ill-bred looking young woman! As it happened, the ill-bred looking young woman whom he feared, was a cook who had married a ship-steward, had gone out among the islands with her husband, had found that the speculation25 did not answer, and was now returning in the hope of earning her bread in her old vocation26. Of this woman Sir Thomas Underwood was in great dread27.
But at last he was on board, and whispered his question to the purser. Miss Bonner! Oh, yes; Miss Bonner was on board. Was he Sir Thomas Underwood, Miss Bonner's uncle? The purser evidently knew all about it, and there was something in his tone which seemed to assure Sir Thomas that the fat, untidy woman and his niece could not be one and the same person. The purser had just raised his cap to Sir Thomas, and had turned towards the cabin-stairs to go in search of the lady herself; but he was stopped immediately by Miss Bonner herself. The purser did his task very well,—said some slightest word to introduce the uncle and the niece together, and then vanished. Sir Thomas blushed, shuffled28 with his feet, and put out both his hands. He was shy, astonished, and frightened,—and did not know what to say. The girl came up to him, took his hand in hers, holding it for a moment, and then kissed it. "I did not think you would come yourself," she said.
"Of course I have come myself. My girls are at home, and will receive you to-night." She said nothing further then, but again raised his hand and kissed it.
It is hardly too much to say that Sir Thomas Underwood was in a tremble as he gazed upon his niece. Had she been on the deck as he walked along the quay, and had he noted29 her, he would not have dared to think that such a girl as that was coming to his house. He declared to himself at once that she was the most lovely young woman he had ever seen. She was tall and somewhat large, with fair hair, of which now but very little could be seen, with dark eyes, and perfect eyebrows30, and a face which, either for colour or lines of beauty, might have been taken as a model for any female saint or martyr31. There was a perfection of symmetry about it,—and an assertion of intelligence combined with the loveliness which almost frightened her uncle. For there was something there, also, beyond intelligence and loveliness. We have heard of "an eye to threaten and command." Sir Thomas did not at this moment tell himself that Mary Bonner had such an eye, but he did involuntarily and unconsciously acknowledge to himself that over such a young lady as this whom he now saw before him, it would be very difficult for him to exercise parental32 control. He had heard that she was nineteen, but it certainly seemed to him that she was older than his own daughters. As to Clary, there could be no question between the two girls as to which of them would exercise authority over the other,—not by force of age,—but by dint33 of character, will, and fitness. And this Mary Bonner, who now shone before him as a goddess almost, a young woman to whom no ordinary man would speak without that kind of trepidation34 which goddesses do inflict35 on ordinary men, had proposed to herself,—to go out as a governess! Indeed, at this very moment such, probably, was her own idea. As yet she had received no reply to the letter she had written other than that which was now conveyed by her uncle's presence.
A few questions were asked as to the voyage. No;—she had not been at all ill. "I have almost feared," she said, "to reach England, thinking I should be so desolate36." "We will not let you be desolate," said Sir Thomas, brightening up a little under the graciousness of the goddess's demeanour. "My girls are looking forward to your coming with the greatest delight." Then she asked some question as to her cousins, and Sir Thomas thought that there was majesty37 even in her voice. It was low, soft, and musical; but yet, even in that as in her eye, there was something that indicated a power of command.
He had no servant with him to assist in looking after her luggage. Old Stemm was the only man in his employment, and he could hardly have brought Stemm down to Southampton on such an errand. But he soon found that everybody about the ship was ready to wait upon Miss Bonner. Even the captain came to take a special farewell of her, and the second officer seemed to have nothing to do but to look after her. The doctor was at her elbow to the last;—and all her boxes and trunks seemed to extricate themselves from the general mass with a readiness which is certainly not experienced by ordinary passengers. There are certain favours in life which are very charming,—but very unjust to others, and which we may perhaps lump under the name of priority of service. Money will hardly buy it. When money does buy it, there is no injustice38. When priority of service is had, like a coach-and-four, by the man who can afford to pay for it, industry, which is the source of wealth, receives its fitting reward. Rank will often procure39 it; most unjustly,—as we, who have no rank, feel sometimes with great soreness. Position other than that of rank, official position or commercial position, will secure it in certain cases. A railway train is stopped at a wrong place for a railway director, or a post-office manager gets his letters taken after time. These, too, are grievances40. But priority of service is perhaps more readily accorded to feminine beauty, and especially to unprotected feminine beauty, than to any other form of claim. Whether or no this is ever felt as a grievance41, ladies who are not beautiful may perhaps be able to say. There flits across our memory at the present moment some reminiscence of angry glances at the too speedy attendance given by custom-house officers to pretty women. But this priority of service is, we think, if not deserved, at least so natural, as to take it out of the catalogue of evils of which complaint should be made. One might complain with as much avail that men will fall in love with pretty girls instead of with those who are ugly! On the present occasion Sir Thomas was well contented42. He was out of the ship, and through the Custom House, and at the railway station, and back at the inn before the struggling mass of passengers had found out whether their longed-for boxes had or had not come with them in the ship. And then Miss Bonner took it all,—not arrogantly43, as though it were her due; but just as the grass takes rain or the flowers sunshine. These good things came to her from heaven, and no doubt she was thankful. But they came to her so customarily, as does a man's dinner to him, or his bed, that she could not manifest surprise at what was done for her.
Even the captain came to take a special farewell of her …
Even the captain came to take a special farewell of her …
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Sir Thomas hardly spoke44 to her except about her journey and her luggage till they were down together in the sitting-room45 at the inn. Then he communicated to her his proposal as to her future life. It was right, he thought, that she should know at once what he intended. Two hours ago, before he had seen her, he had thought of telling her simply where she was to live, and of saying that he would find a home for her. Now he found it expedient46 to place the matter in a different light. He would offer her the shelter of his roof as though she were a queen who might choose among her various palaces. "Mary," he said, "we hope that you will stay with us altogether."
"To live with you,—do you mean?"
"Certainly to live with us."
"I have no right to expect such an offer as that."
"But every right to accept it, my dear, when it is made. That is if it suits you."
"I had not dreamed of that. I thought that perhaps you would let me come to you for a few weeks,—till I should know what to do."
"You shall come and be one of us altogether, my dear, if you think that you will like it. My girls have no nearer relative than you. And we are not so barbarous as to turn our backs on a new-found cousin." She again kissed his hand, and then turned away from him and wept. "You feel it all strange now," he said, "but I hope we shall be able to make you comfortable."
"I have been so lonely," she sobbed47 out amidst her tears.
He had not dared to say a word to her about her father, whose death had taken place not yet three months since. Of his late brother-in-law he had known little or nothing, except that the General had been a man who always found it difficult to make both ends meet, and who had troubled him frequently, not exactly for loans, but in regard to money arrangements which had been disagreeable to him. Whether General Bonner had or had not been an affectionate father he had never heard. There are men who, in Sir Thomas's position, would have known all about such a niece after a few hours' acquaintance; but our lawyer was not such a man. Though the girl seemed to him to be everything that was charming, he did not dare to question her; and when they arrived at the station in London, no word had as yet been said about the General.
As they were having the luggage piled on the top of a cab, the fat cook passed along the platform. "I hope you are more comfortable now, Mrs. Woods," said Mary Bonner, with a smile as sweet as May, while she gave her hand to the woman.
"Thank'ee, Miss; I'm better; but it's only a moil of trouble, one thing as well as t'other." Mrs. Woods was evidently very melancholy48 at the contemplation of her prospects49.
"I hope you'll find yourself comfortable now." Then she whispered to Sir Thomas;—"She is a poor young woman whose husband has ill used her, and she lost her only child, and has now come here to earn her bread. She isn't nice looking, but she is so good!" Sir Thomas did not dare to tell Mary Bonner that he had already noticed Mrs. Wood, and that he had conceived the idea that Mrs. Wood was the niece of whom he had come in search.
They made the journey at once to Fulham in the cab, and Sir Thomas found it to be very long. He was proud of his new niece, but he did not know what to say to her. And he felt that she, though he was sure that she was clever, gave him no encouragement to speak. It was all very well while, with her beautiful eyes full of tears, she had gone through the ceremony of kissing his hand in token of her respect and gratitude;—but that had been done often enough, and could not very well be repeated in the cab. So they sat silent, and he was rejoiced when he saw those offensive words, Popham Villa, on the posts of his gateway50. "We have only a humble51 little house, my dear," he said, as they turned in. She looked at him and smiled. "I believe you West Indians generally are lodged52 very sumptuously53."
"Papa had a large straggling place up in the hills, but it was anything but sumptuous54. I do love the idea of an English home, where things are neat and nice. Oh, dear;—how lovely! That is the River Thames;—isn't it? How very beautiful!" Then the two girls were at the door of the cab, and the newcomer was enveloped55 in the embraces of her cousins.
Sir Thomas, as he walked along the banks of the river while the young ladies prepared each other for dinner, reflected that he had never in his life done such a day's work before as he had just accomplished56. When he had married a wife, that indeed had been a great piece of business; but it had been done slowly,—for he had been engaged four years,—and he had of course been much younger at that period. Now he had brought into his family a new inmate57 who would force him in his old age to change all his habits of life. He did not think that he would dare to neglect Mary Bonner, and to stay in London while she lived at the villa. He was almost sorry that he had ever heard of Mary Bonner, in spite of her beauty, and although he had as yet been able to find in her no cause of complaint. She was ladylike and quiet;—but yet he was afraid of her. When she came down into the drawing-room with her hand clasped in that of Clarissa, he was still more afraid of her. She was dressed all in black, with the utmost simplicity,—with nothing on her by way of ornament58 beyond a few large black beads59; but yet she seemed to him to be splendid. There was a grace of motion about her that was almost majestic60. Clary was very pretty,—very pretty, indeed; but Clary was just the girl that an old gentleman likes to fetch him his slippers61 and give him his tea. Sir Thomas felt that, old as he was, it would certainly be his business to give Mary Bonner her tea.
The two girls contrived62 to say a few words to their father that night before they joined Mary amidst her trunks in her bedroom. "Papa, isn't she lovely?" said Clarissa.
"She certainly is a very handsome young woman."
"And not a bit like what I expected," continued Clary. "Of course I knew she was good-looking. I had always heard that. But I thought that she would have been a sort of West Indian girl, dark, and lazy, and selfish. Ralph was saying that is what they are out there."
"I don't suppose that Ralph knows anything about it," said Sir Thomas. "And what do you say of your new cousin, Patience?"
"I think I shall love her dearly. She is so gentle and sweet."
"But she is not at all what you expected?" demanded Clarissa.
"I hardly know what I expected," replied the prudent63 Patience. "But certainly I did not expect anything so lovely as she is. Of course, we can't know her yet; but as far as one can judge, I think I shall like her."
"But she is so magnificently beautiful!" said the energetic Clarissa.
"I think she is," said Sir Thomas. "And I quite admit that it is a kind of beauty to surprise one. It did surprise me. Had not one of you better go up-stairs to her?" Then both the girls bounded off to assist their cousin in her chamber13.
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1
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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annexing
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| 并吞( annex的现在分词 )； 兼并； 强占； 并吞（国家、地区等） | |
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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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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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15
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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18
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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23
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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28
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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41
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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42
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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43
arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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44
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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45
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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46
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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47
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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50
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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51
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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52
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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53
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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62
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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