"Will he be there?" Clary said to her sister.
"I hope not, Clarissa."
"Why do you hope not? We are not to quarrel; are we, Patty?"
"No;—we need not quarrel. But I am afraid of him. He is not good enough, Clary, for you to be unhappy about him. And I fear,—I fear, he is—"
"Is what, Patty? Do speak it out. There is nothing I hate so much as a mystery."
"I fear he is not genuine;—what people call honest. He would say things without quite meaning what he says."
"I don't think it. I am sure he is not like that. I may have been a fool—" Then she stopped herself, remembering the whole scene on the lawn. Alas;—there had been no misunderstanding him. The crime had been forgiven; but the crime had been a great fact. Since that she had seen him only once, and then he had been so cold! But yet as he left her he had not been quite cold. Surely that pressure of her hand had meant something;—had meant something after that great crime! But why did he not come to her; or why,—which would have been so far, far better,—did he not go to her papa and tell everything to him? Now, however, there was the chance that she would see him at Bolsover House. That Mrs. Brownlow would ask him was quite a matter of course.
The great event of the evening was to be the introduction of Mrs. Brownlow to the new cousin. They were to drink tea out in the old-fashioned garden behind the house, from which Mrs. Brownlow could retreat into her own room at the first touch of a breath of air. The day was one of which the world at large would declare that there was no breath of air, morning, noon, or night. There was to be quite a party. That was evident from the first to our young ladies, who knew the ways of the house, and who saw that the maids were very smart, and that an extra young woman had been brought in; but they were the first to come,—as was proper.
"My dear Mary," said the old woman to her new guest, "I am glad to see you. I knew your mother and loved her well. I hope you will be happy, my dear." Mrs. Brownlow was a very little old woman, very pretty, very grey, very nicely dressed, and just a little deaf. Mary Bonner kissed her, and murmured some word of thanks. The old woman stood for a few seconds, looking at the beauty,—astounded like the rest of the world. "Somebody told me she was good-looking," Mrs. Brownlow said to Patience;—"but I did not expect to see her like that."
"Is she not lovely?"
"She is a miracle, my dear! I hope she won't steal all the nice young men away from you and your sister, eh? Yes;—yes. What does Mr. Newton say to her?" Patience, however, knew that she need not answer all the questions which Mrs. Brownlow asked, and she left this question unanswered.
Two or three elderly ladies came in, and four or five young ladies, and an old gentleman who sat close to Mrs. Brownlow and squeezed her hand very often, and a middle-aged7 gentleman who was exceedingly funny, and two young gentlemen who carried the tea and cakes about, but did not talk much. Such were the guests, and the young ladies, who no doubt were accustomed to Mrs. Brownlow's parties, took it all as it was intended, and were not discontented. There was one young lady, however, who longed to ask a question, but durst not. Had Ralph Newton promised that he would come? Clary was sitting between the old gentleman who seemed to be so fond of Mrs. Brownlow's hand and her cousin Mary. She said not a word,—nor, indeed, was there much talking among the guests in general. The merry, middle-aged gentleman did the talking, combining with it a good deal of exhilarating laughter at his own wit. The ladies sat round, and sipped9 their tea and smiled. That middle-aged gentleman certainly earned his mild refreshment;—for the party without him must have been very dull. Then there came a breath of air,—or, as Mrs. Brownlow called it, a keen north wind; and the old lady retreated into the house. "Don't let me take anybody else in,—only I can't stand a wind like that." The old gentleman accompanied her, and then the elderly ladies. The young ladies came next, and the man of wit, with the silent young gentlemen, followed, laden10 with scarfs, parasols, fans, and stray teacups. "I don't think we used to have such cold winds in July," said Mrs. Brownlow. The old gentleman pressed her hand once more, and whispered into her ear that there had certainly been a great change.
Suddenly Ralph Newton was among them. Clarissa had not heard him announced, and to her it seemed as though he had come down from the heavens,—as would have befitted his godship. He was a great favourite with Mrs. Brownlow, who, having heard that he was heir to a very large property, thought that his extravagance became him. According to her views it was his duty to spend a good deal of money, and his duty also to marry Clarissa Underwood. As he was as yet unmarried to any one else, she hardly doubted that he would do his duty. She was a sanguine11 old lady, who always believed that things would go right. She bustled12 and fussed on the present occasion with the very evident intention of getting a seat for him next to Clarissa; but Clarissa was as active in avoiding such an arrangement, and Ralph soon found himself placed between Mary Bonner and a very deaf old lady, who was always present at Mrs. Brownlow's tea-parties. "I suppose this has all been got up in your honour," he said to Mary. She smiled, and shook her head. "Oh, but it has. I know the dear old lady's ways so well! She would never allow a new Underwood to be at the villa for a month without having a tea-party to consecrate13 the event."
"Isn't she charming, Mr. Newton;—and so pretty?"
"No end of charming, and awfully14 pretty. Why are we all in here instead of out in the garden?"
"Mrs. Brownlow thought that it was cold."
"With the thermometer at 80°! What do you think, who ought to know what hot weather means? Are you chilly15?"
"Not in the least. We West Indians never find this climate cold the first year. Next year I don't doubt that I shall be full of rheumatism16 all over, and begging to be taken back to the islands."
Clarissa watched them from over the way as though every word spoken between them had been a treason to herself. And yet she had almost been rude to old Mrs. Brownlow in the manner in which she had placed herself on one side of the circle when the old lady had begged her to sit on the other. Certainly, had she heard all that was said between her lover and her cousin, there was nothing in the words to offend her. She did not hear them; but she could see that Ralph looked into Mary's beautiful face, and that Mary smiled in a demure17, silent, self-assured way which was already becoming odious18 to Clarissa. Clarissa herself, when Ralph looked into her face, would blush and turn away, and feel herself unable to bear the gaze of the god.
In a few minutes there came to be a sudden move, and all the young people trooped back into the garden. It was Ralph Newton who did it, and nobody quite understood how it was done. "Certainly, my dears; certainly," said the old lady. "I dare say the moon is very beautiful. Yes; I see Mr. Ralph. You are not going to take me out, I can tell you. The moon is all very well, but I like to see it through the window. Don't mind me. Mr. Truepeny will stay with me." Mr. Truepeny, who was turned eighty, put out his hand and patted Mrs. Brownlow's arm, and assured her that he wanted nothing better than to stay with her for ever. The witty19 gentleman did not like the move, because it had been brought about by a newcomer, who had, as it were, taken the wind out of his sails. He lingered awhile, hoping to have weight enough to control the multitude;—in which he failed, and at last made one of the followers20. And Clarissa lingered also, because Ralph had been the first to stir. Ralph had gone out with Mary Bonner, and therefore Clarissa had held back. So it came to pass that she found herself walking round the garden with the witty, exhilarating, middle-aged gentleman,—whom, for the present at least, she most cordially hated. "I am not quite sure that our dear old friend isn't right," said the witty man, whose name was Poojean;—"a chair to sit down upon, and a wall or two around one, and a few little knick-nacks about,—carpets and tables and those sort of things,—are comfortable at times."
"I wonder you should leave them then," said Clarissa.
"Can there be a wonder that I leave them with such temptation as this," said the gallant21 Poojean. Clarissa hated him worse than ever, and would not look at him, or even make the faintest sign that she heard him. The voice of Ralph Newton through the trees struck her ears; and yet the voice wasn't loud,—as it would not be if it were addressed with tenderness to Mary. And there was she bound by some indissoluble knot to,—Mr. Poojean. "That Mr. Newton is a friend of yours?" asked Mr. Poojean.
"Yes;—a friend of ours," said Clarissa.
"Then I will express my intense admiration22 for his wit, general character, and personal appearance. Had he been a stranger to you, I should, of course, have insinuated23 an opinion that he was a fool, a coxcomb24, and the very plainest young man I had ever seen. That is the way of the world,—isn't it, Miss Underwood?"
"I don't know," said Clarissa.
"Oh, yes,—you do. That's the way we all go on. As he is your friend, I can't dare to begin to abuse him till after the third time round the garden."
"I beg, then, that there may be only two turns," said Clarissa. But she did not know how to stop, or to get rid of her abominable25 companion.
"If I mustn't abuse him after three turns, he must be a favourite," said the persevering26 Poojean. "I suppose he is a favourite. By-the-bye, what a lovely girl that is with whom your favourite was,—shall I say flirting27?"
"That lady is my cousin, Mr. Poojean."
"I didn't say that she was flirting, mind. I wouldn't hint such a thing of any young lady, let her be anybody's cousin. Young ladies never flirt28. But young men do sometimes;—don't they? After all, it is the best fun going;—isn't it?"
"I don't know," said Clarissa. By this time they had got round to the steps leading from the garden to the house. "I think I'll go in, Mr. Poojean." She did go in, and Mr. Poojean was left looking at the moon all alone, as though he had separated himself from all mirth and society for that melancholy29 but pleasing occupation. He stood there gazing upwards30 with his thumbs beneath his waistcoat. "Grand,—is it not?" he said to the first couple that passed him.
"Awfully grand, and beautifully soft, and all the rest of it," said Ralph, as he went on with Mary Bonner by his side.
"That fellow has got no touch of poetry in him!" said Poojean to himself. In the meantime Clarissa, pausing a moment as she entered through the open window, heard Ralph's cheery voice. How well she knew its tones! And she still paused, with ears erect31, striving to catch some word from her cousin's mouth. But Mary's words, if they were words spoken by her, were too low and soft to be caught. "Oh,—if she should turn out to be sly!" Clarissa said to herself. Was it true that Ralph had been flirting with her,—as that odious man had said? And why, why, why had Ralph not come to her, if he really loved her, as he had twice told her that he did? Of course she had not thrown herself into his arms when old Mrs. Brownlow made that foolish fuss. But still he might have come to her. He might have waited for her in the garden. He might have saved her from the "odious vulgarity" of that "abominable old wretch32." For in such language did Clarissa describe to herself the exertions33 to amuse her which had been made by her late companion. But had the Sydney Smith of the day been talking to her, he would have been dull, or the Count D'Orsay of the day, he would have been vulgar, while the sound of Ralph Newton's voice, as he walked with another girl, was reaching her ears. And then, before she had seated herself in Mrs. Brownlow's drawing-room, another idea had struck her. Could it be that Ralph did not come to her because she had told him that she would never forgive him for that crime? Was it possible that his own shame was so great that he was afraid of her? If so, could she not let him know that he was,—well, forgiven? Poor Clarissa! In the meantime the voices still came to her from the garden, and she still thought that she could distinguish Ralph's low murmurings.
It may be feared that Ralph had no such deep sense of his fault as that suggested. He did remember well enough,—had reflected more than once or twice,—on those words which he had spoken to Clary. Having spoken them he had felt his crime to be their not unnatural34 accompaniment. At that moment, when he was on the lawn at Fulham, he had thought that it would be very sweet to devote himself to dear Clary,—that Clary was the best and prettiest girl he knew, that, in short, it might be well for him to love her and cherish her and make her his wife. Had not Patience come upon the scene, and disturbed them, he would probably then and there have offered to her his hand and heart. But Patience had come upon the scene, and the offer had not been, as he thought, made. Since all that, which had passed ages ago,—weeks and weeks ago,—there had fallen upon him the prosaic35 romance of Polly Neefit. He had actually gone down to Hendon to offer himself as a husband to the breeches-maker's daughter. It is true he had hitherto escaped in that quarter also,—or, at any rate, had not as yet committed himself. But the train of incidents and thoughts which had induced him to think seriously of marrying Polly, had made him aware that he could not propose marriage to Sir Thomas Underwood's daughter. From such delight as that he found, on calm reflection, that he had debarred himself by the folly36 of his past life. It was well that Patience had come upon the scene.
Such being the state of affairs with him, that little episode with Clary being at an end,—or rather, as he thought, never having quite come to a beginning,—and his little arrangement as to Polly Neefit being in abeyance37, he was free to amuse himself with this newcomer. Miss Bonner was certainly the most lovely girl he had ever seen. He could imagine no beauty to exceed hers. He knew well enough that her loveliness could be nothing to him;—but a woman's beauty is in one sense as free as the air in all Christian38 countries. It is a light shed for the delight, not of one, but of many. There could be no reason why he should not be among the admirers of Miss Bonner. "I expect, you know, to be admitted quite on the terms of an old friend," he said. "I shall call you Mary, and all that kind of thing."
"I don't see your claim," said Miss Bonner.
"Oh yes, you do,—and must allow it. I was almost a sort of son of Sir Thomas's,—till he turned me off when I came of age. And Patience and Clarissa are just the same as sisters to me."
"You are not even a cousin, Mr. Newton."
"No;—I'm not a cousin. It's more like a foster-brother, you know. Of course I shan't call you Mary if you tell me not. How is it to be?"
"Just for the present I'll be Miss Bonner."
"For a week or so?"
"Say for a couple of years, and then we'll see how it is."
"You'll be some lucky's fellow's wife long before that. Do you like living at Fulham?"
"Very much. How should I not like it? They are so kind to me. And you know, when I first resolved to come home, I thought I should have to go out as a governess,—or, perhaps, as a nursery-maid, if they didn't think me clever enough to teach. I did not expect my uncle to be so good to me. I had never seen him, you know. Is it not odd that my uncle is so little at home?"
"It is odd. He is writing a book, you see, and he finds that the air of Fulham doesn't suit his brains."
"Oh, Mr. Newton!"
"And he likes to be quite alone. There isn't a better fellow going than your uncle. I am sure I ought to say so. But he isn't just what I should call,—sociable."
"I think him almost perfection;—but I do wish he was more at home for their sakes. We'll go in now, Mr. Newton. Patience has gone in, and I haven't seen Clarissa for ever so long."
Soon after this the guests began to go away. Mr. Truepeny gave Mrs. Brownlow's hand the last squeeze, and Mr. Poojean remarked that all terrestrial joys must have an end. "Not but that such hours as these," said he, "have about them a dash of the celestial39 which almost gives them a claim to eternity40." "Horrible fool!" said Clarissa to her sister, who was standing6 close to her.
"Mrs. Brownlow would, perhaps, prefer going to bed," said Ralph. Then every one was gone except the Underwoods and Ralph Newton. The girls had on their hats and shawls, and all was prepared for their departure;—but there was some difficulty about the fly. The Fulham fly which had brought them, and which always took them everywhere, had hitherto omitted to return for them. It was ordered for half-past ten, and now it was eleven. "Are you sure he was told?" said Clary. Patience had told him herself,—twice. "Then he must be tipsy again," said Clary. Mrs. Brownlow bade them to sit still and wait; but when the fly did not arrive by half-past eleven, it was necessary that something should be done. There were omnibuses on the road, but they might probably be full. "It is only two miles,—let us walk," said Clary; and so it was decided1.
Ralph insisted on walking with them till he should meet an omnibus or a cab to take him back to London. Patience did her best to save him from such labour, protesting that they would want no such escort. But he would not be gainsayed, and would go with them at least a part of the way. Of course he did not leave them till they had reached the gate of Popham Villa. But when they were starting there arose a difficulty as to the order in which they would marshal themselves;—a difficulty as to which not a word could be spoken, but which was not the less a difficulty. Clarissa hung back. Ralph had spoken hardly a word to her all the evening. It had better continue so. She was sure that he could not care for her. But she thought that she would be better contented8 that he should walk with Patience than with Mary Bonner. But Mary took the matter into her own hands, and started off boldly with Patience. Patience hardly approved, but there would be nothing so bad as seeming to disapprove41. Clary's heart was in her mouth as she found her arm within his. He had contrived42 that it should be so, and she could not refuse. Her mind was changed again now, and once more she wished that she could let him know that the crime was forgiven.
"I am so glad to have a word with you at last," he said. "How do you get on with the new cousin?"
"Very well;—and how have you got on with her?"
"You must ask her that. She is very beautiful,—what I call wonderfully beautiful."
"Indeed she is," said Clary, withdrawing almost altogether the weight of her hand from his arm.
"And clever, too,—very clever; but—"
"But what?" asked Clary, and the softest, gentlest half-ounce of pressure was restored.
"Well;—nothing. I like her uncommonly;—but is she not quite,—quite,—quite—"
"She is quite everything that she ought to be, Ralph."
"I'm sure of that;—an angel, you know, and all the rest of it. But angels are cold, you know. I don't know that I ever admired a girl so much in my life." The pressure was again lessened,—all but annihilated43. "But, somehow, I should never dream of falling in love with your cousin."
"Perhaps you may do so without dreaming," said Clary, as unconsciously she gave back the weight to her hand.
"No;—I know very well the sort of girl that makes me spoony." This was not very encouraging to poor Clary, but still she presumed that he meant to imply that she herself was a girl of the sort that so acted upon him. And the conversation went on in this way throughout the walk. There was not much encouragement to her, and certainly she did not say a word to him that could make him feel that she wanted encouragement. But still he had been with her, and she had been happy; and when they parted at the gate, and he again pressed her hand, she thought that things had gone well. "He must know that I have forgiven him now!" she said to herself.
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1
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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2
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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3
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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4
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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7
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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9
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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11
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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13
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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14
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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15
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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16
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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17
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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20
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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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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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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31
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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32
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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33
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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34
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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35
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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36
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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37
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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38
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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40
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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41
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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42
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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43
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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