Patience could see that her sister was not unhappy when she came in from her walk,—was not moody,—was not heart-broken. And yet it had seemed to her, before the walk began, while they were sauntering about Mrs. Brownlow's garden, that Ralph had devoted13 himself entirely14 to the new cousin, and that Clarissa had been miserable15. Surely if he had spoken during the walk,—if he had renewed his protestations of love, if he were now regarded by Clary as her accepted lover, Clary would not keep all this as a secret! It could not be that Clary should have surrendered herself to a lover, and that their father was to be allowed to remain in ignorance that it was so! And yet how could it be otherwise if Clary was happy now,—Clary who had acknowledged that she loved this man, and had now been leaning on his arm for an hour beneath the moonlight? But Patience said not a word. She could not bring herself to speak when speech might pain her sister.
When they had been some half hour in bed, there stole a whisper across the darkness of the chamber17 from one couch to the other; "Patty, are you asleep?" Patience declared that she was wide awake. "Then I'll come to you,"—and Clary's naked feet pattered across the room. "I've just something to say, and I'll say it better here." Patience made glad way for the intruder, and knew that now she would hear it all. "Patty, it is better to wait."
"What do you mean, dear?"
"I mean this. I think he does like me; I'm almost sure he does."
"He said nothing to-night?"
"He said a great deal,—of course; but nothing about that;—nothing about that exactly."
"Oh, Clary, I'm afraid of him."
"What is the good of fear? The evil is, dear, I think he likes me, but it may so well be that he cannot speak out. He is in debt, and all that;—and he must wait."
"But that is so terrible. What will you do?"
"I will wait too. I have thought about it, and have determined18. What's the good of loving a man if one won't go through something for him? I do love him,—with all my heart. I pray God I may never have a husband, if I cannot be his wife." Patience shuddered19 in her sister's embrace, as these bold words were spoken with energy. "I tell you, Patty, just as I tell myself, because you love me so dearly."
"I do love you;—oh, I do love you."
"I do not think it can be unmaidenly to tell the truth to you and to myself. How can I help telling it to myself? There it is. I feel that I could kiss the very ground on which he stands. He is my hero, my Paladin, my heart, my soul. I have given myself to him for everything. How can I help myself?"
"But, Clary,—you should repress this, not encourage it."
"It won't be repressed,—not in my own heart. But I will never, never, never let him know that it has been so,—till he is all my own. There may be a day when,—oh,—I shall tell him everything; how wretched I was when he did not speak to me;—how broken-hearted when I heard his voice with Mary; how fluttered, and half-happy, and half-wretched when I found that I was to have that long walk with him;—and then how I determined to wait. I will tell him all,—perhaps,—some day. Good-night, dear, dear Patty. I could not sleep without letting you know everything." Then she sprang out from her sister's arms, and pattered back across the room to her own bed. In two minutes Clarissa was asleep, but Patience lay long awake, and before she slept her pillow was damp with her tears.
In the course of the following week Ralph was again at the villa. Sir Thomas, as a matter of course, was away, but the three girls were at home; and, as it happened, Miss Spooner had also come over to take her tea with her friends. The hour that he spent there was passed half indoors and half out, and certainly Ralph's attentions were chiefly paid to Miss Bonner. Miss Bonner herself, however, was so discreet20 in her demeanour, that no one could have suggested that any approach had been made to flirtation21. To tell the truth, Mary, who had received no confidence from her cousin,—and who was a girl slow to excite or give a confidence,—had seen some sign, or heard some word which had created on her mind a suspicion of the truth. It was not that she thought that Clary's heart was irrecoverably given to the young man, but that there seemed to be just something with which it might be as well that she herself should not interfere22. She was there on sufferance,—dependent on her uncle's charity for her daily bread, let her uncle say what he might to the contrary. As yet she hardly knew her cousins, and was quite sure that she was not known by them. She heard that Ralph Newton was a man of fashion, and the heir to a large fortune. She knew herself to be utterly23 destitute24,—but she knew herself to be possessed25 of great beauty. In her bosom26, doubtless, there was an ambition to win by her beauty, from some man whom she could love, those good things of which she was so destitute. She did not lack ambition, and had her high hopes, grounded on the knowledge of her own charms. Her beauty, and a certain sufficiency of intellect,—of the extent of which she was in a remarkable27 degree herself aware,—were the gifts with which she had been endowed. But she knew when she might use them honestly and when she ought to refrain from using them. Ralph had looked at her as men do look who wish to be allowed to love. All this to her was much more clearly intelligible28 than to Clarissa, who was two years her senior. Though she had seen Ralph but thrice, she already felt that she might have him on his knees before her, if she cared so to place him. But there was that suspicion of something which had gone before, and a feeling that honour and gratitude,—perhaps, also, self-interest,—called upon her to be cold in her manner to Ralph Newton. She had purposely avoided his companionship in their walk home from Mrs. Brownlow's house; and now, as they wandered about the lawn and shrubberies of Popham Villa, she took care not to be with him out of earshot of the others. In all of which there was ten times more of womanly cleverness,—or cunning, shall we say,—than had yet come to the possession of Clarissa Underwood.
Cunning she was;—but she did not deserve that the objectionable epithet30 should be applied31 to her. The circumstances of her life had made her cunning. She had been the mistress of her father's house since her fifteenth year, and for two years of her life had had a succession of admirers at her feet. Her father had eaten and drunk and laughed, and had joked with his child's lovers about his child. It had been through no merit of his that she had held her own among them all without soiling either her name or her inner self. Captains in West Indian regiments32, and lieutenants33 from Queen's ships lying at Spanish Point, had been her admirers. Proposals to marry are as ready on the tongues of such men, out in the tropics, as offers to hand a shawl or carry a parasol. They are soft-hearted, bold to face the world, and very confident in circumstances. Then, too, they are ignorant of any other way to progress with a flirtation which is all-engrossing. In warm latitudes34 it is so natural to make an offer after the fifth dance. It is the way of the people in those latitudes, and seems to lead to no harm. Men and women do marry on small incomes; but they do not starve, and the world goes on wagging. Mary Bonner, however, whose father's rank had, at least, been higher than that of her adorers, and who knew that great gifts had been given to her, had held herself aloof35 from all this, and had early resolved to bide36 her time. She was still biding37 her time,—with patience sufficient to enable her to resist the glances of Ralph Newton.
Clarissa Underwood behaved very well on this evening. She gave a merry glance at her sister, and devoted herself to Miss Spooner. Mary was so wise and so prudent38 that there was no cause for any great agony. As far as Clary could see, Ralph had quite as much to say to Patience as to Mary. For herself she had resolved that she would wait. Her manner to him was very pretty,—almost the manner of a sister to a brother. And then she stayed resolutely39 with Miss Spooner, while Ralph was certainly tempting40 Mary down by the river-side. It did not last long. He was soon gone, and Miss Spooner had soon followed him.
"He is very amusing," Mary said, as soon as they were alone.
"Very amusing," said Patience.
"And uncommonly41 good-looking. Isn't he considered a very handsome man here?"
"Yes;—I suppose he is," said Patience. "I don't know that I ever thought much about that."
"Of course he is," said Clarissa. "Nobody can doubt about it. There are some people as to whom it is as absurd not to admit that they are handsome as it would be to say that a fine picture is not beautiful. Ralph is one such person,—and of course I know another."
Mary would not seem to take the allusion42, even by a smile. "I always thought Gregory much nicer looking," said Patience.
"That must be because you are in love with him," said Clarissa.
"There is a speaking brightness, an eloquence43, in his eyes; and a softness of feeling in the expression of his face, which is above all beauty," continued Patience, with energy.
"Here's poetry," said Clarissa. "Eloquence, and softness, and eyes, and feeling, and expressive44 and speaking brightness! You'd better say at once that he's a god."
"I wish I knew him," said Mary Bonner.
"You'll know him before long, I don't doubt. And when you do, you'll know one of the best fellows in the world. I'll admit as much as that; but I will not admit that he can be compared to his brother in regard to good looks." In all which poor Clarissa, who had nothing to console her but her resolve to wait with courage, bore herself well and gallantly45.
Soon after this there arrived at Popham Villa the note from Gregory Newton. As it happened, Sir Thomas was at home on that morning, and heard the tidings. "If young Mr. Newton does come, get him to dine, and I will take care to be at home," said Sir Thomas. Patience suggested that Ralph,—their own Ralph,—should be asked to meet him; but to this Sir Thomas would not accede46. "It is not our business to make up a family quarrel," he said. "I have had old Mr. Newton with me once or twice lately, and I find that the quarrel still exists as strong as ever. I asked him to dine here, but he refused. His son chooses to come. I shall be glad to see him."
Gregory's letter had not been shown to Sir Thomas, but it was, of course, shown to Clarissa. "How could I help it?" said she. From which it may be presumed that Patience had looked as though Gregory had been hardly treated. "One doesn't know how it is, or why it comes, or what it is;—or why it doesn't come. I couldn't have taken Gregory Newton for my husband."
"And yet he had all things to recommend him."
"I wish he had asked you, Patty!"
"Don't say that, dear, because there is in it something that annoys me. I don't think of myself in such matters, but I do hope to see you the happy wife of some happy man."
"I hope you will, with all my heart," said Clary, standing47 up,—"of one man, of one special, dearest, best, and brightest of all men. Oh dear! And yet I know it will never be, and I wonder at myself that I have been bold enough to tell you." And Patience, also, wondered at her sister's boldness.
Ralph Newton,—Ralph from the Priory,—did come down to the villa, and did accept the invitation to dinner which was given to him. The event was so important that Patience found it necessary to go up to London to tell her father. Mary went with her, desirous to see something of the mysteries of Southampton Buildings, while Clarissa remained at home,—waiting. After the usual skirmishes with Stemm, who began by swearing that his master was not at home, they made their way into Sir Thomas's library. "Dear, dear, dear; this is a very awkward place to bring your cousin to," he said, frowning. Mary would have retreated at once had it not been that Patience held her ground so boldly. "Why shouldn't she come, papa? And I had to see you. Mr. Newton is to dine with us to-morrow." To-morrow was a Saturday, and Sir Thomas became seriously displeased48. Why had a Saturday been chosen? Saturday was the most awkward day in the world for the giving and receiving of dinners. It was in vain that Patience explained to him that Saturday was the only day on which Mr. Newton could come, that Sir Thomas had given his express authority for the dinner, and that no bar had been raised against Saturday. "You ought to have known," said Sir Thomas. Nevertheless, he allowed them to leave the chamber with the understanding that he would preside at his own table on the following day. "Why is it that Saturday is so distasteful to him?" Mary asked as they walked across Lincoln's Inn Fields together.
Patience was silent for awhile, not knowing how to answer the question, or how to leave it unanswered. But at last she preferred to make some reply. "He does not like going to our church, I think."
"But you like it."
"Yes;—and I wish papa did. But he doesn't." Then there was a pause. "Of course it must strike you as very odd, the way in which we live."
"I hope it is not I who drive my uncle away."
"Not in the least, Mary. Since mamma's death he has fallen into this habit, and he has got so to love solitude49, that he is never happy but when alone. We ought to be grateful to him because it shows that he trusts us;—but it would be much nicer if he would come home."
"He is so different from my father."
"He was always with you."
"Well;—yes; that is, I could be always with him,—almost always. He was so fond of society that he would never be alone. We had a great rambling50 house, always full of people. If he could see people pleasant and laughing, that was all that he wanted. It is hard to say what is best."
"Papa is as good to us as ever he can be."
"So was my papa good to me,—in his way; but, oh dear, the people that used to come there! Poor papa! He used to say that hospitality was his chief duty. I sometimes used to think that the world would be much pleasanter and better if there was no such thing as hospitality;—if people always eat and drank alone, and lived as uncle does, in his chambers51. There would not be so much money wasted, at any rate."
"Papa never wastes any money," said Patience,—"though there never was a more generous man."
Ralph Newton,—Ralph of the Priory,—came to dinner, and Miss Spooner was asked to meet him. It might have been supposed that a party so composed would not have been very bright, but the party at the villa went off very satisfactorily. Ralph made himself popular with everybody. He became very popular with Sir Thomas by the frank and easy way in which he spoke16 of the family difficulties at Newton. "I wish my namesake knew my father," he said, when he was alone with the lawyer after dinner. He never spoke of either of these Newtons as his cousins, though to Gregory, whom he knew well and loved dearly, he would declare that from him he felt entitled to exact all the dues of cousinship.
"It would be desirable," said Sir Thomas.
"I never give it up. You know my father, I dare say. He thought his brother interfered52 with him, and I suppose he did. But a more affectionate or generous man never lived. He is quite as fond of Gregory as he is of me, and would do anything on earth that Gregory told him. He is rebuilding the chancel of the church just because Gregory wishes it. Some day I hope they may be reconciled."
"It is hard to get over money difficulties," said Sir Thomas.
"I don't see why there should be money difficulties," said Ralph. "As far as I am concerned there need be none."
"Ralph Newton has made money difficulties," said Sir Thomas. "If he had been careful with his own fortune there would have been no question as to the property between him and your father."
"I can understand that;—and I can understand also my father's anxiety, though I do not share it. It would be better that my namesake should have the estate. I can see into these matters quite well enough to know that were it to be mine there would occur exactly that which my father wishes to avoid. I should be the owner of Newton Priory, and people would call me Mr. Newton. But I shouldn't be Newton of Newton. It had better go to Ralph. I should live elsewhere, and people would not notice me then."
Sir Thomas, as he looked up at the young man, leaning back in his arm-chair and holding his glass half full of wine in his hand, could not but tell himself that the greater was the pity. This off-shoot of the Newton stock, who declared of himself that he never could be Newton of Newton, was a fine, manly29 fellow to look at,—not handsome as was Ralph the heir, not marked by that singular mixture of gentleness, intelligence, and sweetness which was written, not only on the countenance53, but in the demeanour and very step of Gregory; but he was a bigger man than either of them, with a broad chest, and a square brow, and was not without that bright gleam of the Newton blue eye, which characterised all the family. And there was so much of the man in him;—whereas, in manhood, Ralph the heir had certainly been deficient54. "Ralph must lie on the bed that he has made," said Sir Thomas. "And you, of course, will accept the good things that come in your way. As far as I can see at present it will be best for Ralph that your father should redeem55 from him a portion, at least, of the property. The girls are waiting for us to go out, and perhaps you will like a cigar on the lawn."
It was clear to every one there to see that this other Newton greatly admired the West Indian cousin. And Mary, with this newcomer, seemed to talk on easier terms than she had ever done before since she had been at Fulham. She smiled, and listened, and was gracious, and made those pleasant little half-affected sallies which girls do make to men when they know that they are admired, and are satisfied that it should be so. All the story had been told to her, and it might be that the poor orphan56 felt that she was better fitted to associate with the almost nameless one than with the true heir of the family. Mr. Newton, when he got up to leave them, asked permission to come again, and left them all with a pleasant air of intimacy. Two boats had passed them, racing11 on the river, almost close to the edge of their lawn, and Newton had offered to bet with Mary as to which would first reach the bridge. "I wish you had taken my wager57, Miss Bonner," he said, "because then I should have been bound to come back at once to pay you." "That's all very well, Mr. Newton," said Mary, "but I have heard of gentlemen who are never seen again when they lose." "Mr. Newton is unlike that, I'm sure," said Clary; "but I hope he'll come again at any rate." Newton promised that he would, and was fully2 determined to keep his promise when he made it.
"Wouldn't it be delightful58 if they were to fall in love with each other and make a match of it?" said Clary to her sister.
"I don't like to plot and plan such things," said Patience.
"I don't like to scheme, but I don't see any harm in planning. He is ever so nice,—isn't he?"
"I thought him very pleasant."
"Such an open-spoken, manly, free sort of fellow. And he'll be very well off, you know."
"I don't know;—but I dare say he will," said Patience.
"Oh yes, you do. Poor Ralph, our Ralph, is a spendthrift, and I shouldn't wonder if this one were to have the property after all. And then his father is very rich. I know that because Gregory told me. Dear me! wouldn't it be odd if we were all three to become Mrs. Newtons?"
"Clary, what did I tell you?"
"Well; I won't. But it would be odd,—and so nice, at least I think so. Well;—I dare say I ought not to say it. But then I can't help thinking it,—and surely I may tell you what I think."
"I would think it as little as I could, dear."
"Ah, that's very well. A girl can be a hypocrite if she pleases, and perhaps she ought. Of course I shall be a hypocrite to all the world except you. I tell you what it is, Patty;—you make me tell you everything, and say that of course you and I are to tell everything,—and then you scold me. Don't you want me to tell you everything?"
"Indeed I do;—and I won't scold you. Dear Clary, do I scold you? Wouldn't I give one of my eyes to make you happy?"
"That's quite a different thing," said Clarissa.
Three days afterwards Mr. Ralph Newton;—it is hoped that the reader may understand the attempts which are made to designate the two young men;—Mr. Ralph Newton appeared again at Popham Villa. He came in almost with the gait of an old friend, and brought some fern leaves, which he had already procured59 from Hampshire, in compliance60 with a promise which he had made to Patience Underwood. "That's what we call the hart's tongue," said he, "though I fancy they give them all different names in different places."
"It's the same plant as ours, Mr. Newton,—only yours is larger."
"It's the ugliest of all the ferns," said Clary.
"Even that's a compliment," said Newton. "It's no use transplanting them in this weather, but I'll send you a basket in October. You should come down to Newton and see our ferns. We think we're very pretty, but because we're so near, nobody comes to see us." Then he fell a-talking with Mary Bonner, and stayed at the villa nearly all the afternoon. For a moment or two he was alone with Clarissa, and at once expressed his admiration61. "I don't think I ever saw such perfect beauty as your cousin's," he said.
"She is handsome."
"And then she is so fair, whereas everybody expects to see dark eyes and black hair come from the West Indies."
"But Mary wasn't born there."
"That doesn't matter. The mind doesn't travel back as far as that. A negro should be black, and an American thin, and a French woman should have her hair dragged up by the roots, and a German should be broad-faced, and a Scotchman red-haired,—and a West Indian beauty should be dark and languishing62."
"I'll tell her you say so, and perhaps she'll have herself altered."
"Whatever you do, don't let her be altered," said Mr. Newton. "She can't be changed for the better."
"I am quite sure he is over head and ears in love," said Clarissa to Patience that evening.
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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disapprove
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intimacy
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obstinate
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arrogance
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primrose
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racing
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transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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devoted
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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miserable
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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chamber
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determined
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shuddered
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discreet
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flirtation
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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utterly
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destitute
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possessed
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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remarkable
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intelligible
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manly
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epithet
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applied
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regiments
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lieutenants
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latitudes
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aloof
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bide
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biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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prudent
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resolutely
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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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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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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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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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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51
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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52
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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59
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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62
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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