He had found a farm down in Norfolk, near to Swaffham, which he could take for twelve months, with the option of purchase at the expiration15 of that time, and thither16 he betook himself. There were about four hundred acres, and the place was within his means. He did not think it likely that Mary Bonner would choose to come and live upon a Norfolk farm; and yet what other work in life was there for which he was fit? Early in January he went down to Beamingham Hall, as the place was called, and there we will leave him for the present, consoling himself with oil-cake, and endeavouring to take a pride in a long row of stall-fed cattle.
At this time the two brothers were living at Newton Priory. Ralph the heir had bought some of his uncle's horses, and had commenced hunting with the hounds around him; though he had not as yet withdrawn17 his stud from the Moonbeam. He was not altogether at his ease, as he had before the end of February received three or four letters from Neefit, all of them dictated18 by Waddle19, in which his conduct was painted not in the most flattering colours. Neefit's money had been repaid, but Neefit would not understand that the young heir's obligations to him had by any means been acquitted20 by that very ordinary process. He had risked his money when payment was very doubtful, and now he intended to have something beyond cash in return for all that he had done. "There are debts of honour which a real gentleman feels himself more bound to pay than any bills," Waddle had written. And to such dogmatic teachings as these Neefit would always add something out of his own head. "There ain't nobody who shan't know all about it, unless you're on the square again." Ralph had written one reply since he had been at Newton, in which he explained at some length that it was impossible that he should renew his addresses to a young lady who had twice rejected them, and who had assured him that she did not love him. He professed21 the greatest respect for Miss Neefit, a respect which had, if possible, been heightened by her behaviour in this matter,—but it must now be understood that the whole affair was at an end. Neefit would not understand this, but Neefit's further letters, which had not been unfrequent, were left unanswered. Ralph had now told the whole story to his brother, and had written his one reply from Newton in conformity22 with his brother's advice. After that they both thought that no further rejoinder could be of any service.
The parsonage was for the time deserted23, Gregory having for the present consented to share his brother's house. In spite of that little thorn in the flesh which Neefit was, Ralph was able to enjoy his life very thoroughly24. He went on with all the improvements about the place which the Squire had commenced, and was active in making acquaintance with every one who lived upon his land. He was not without good instincts, and understood thoroughly that respectability had many more attractions than a character for evil living. He was, too, easily amenable25 to influence from those around him; and under Gregory's auspices26, was constant at his parish church. He told himself at once that he had many duties to perform, and he attempted to perform them. He did not ask Lieutenant27 Cox or Captain Fooks to the Priory, and quite prepared himself for the character of Henry V. in miniature, as he walked about his park, and rode about his farms, and talked with the wealthier farmers on hunting mornings. He had a full conception of his own dignity, and some not altogether inaccurate28 idea of the manner in which it would become him to sustain it. He was, perhaps, a little too self-conscious, and over-inclined to suppose that people were regarding his conduct because he was Newton of Newton;—Newton of Newton with no blot on his shield, by right of his birth, and subject to no man's reproach.
He had failed grievously in one matter on which he had set his heart; but as to that he was, as the reader knows, resolved to try again. He had declared his passion to the other Ralph, but his rival had not made the confidence mutual29. But hitherto he had said nothing on the subject to his brother. He had put it by, as it were, out of his mind for awhile, resolving that it should not trouble him immediately, in the middle of his new joys. It was a thing that would keep,—a thing, at any rate, that need not overshadow him night and morning. When Neefit continued to disturb him with threats of publicity30 in regard to Polly's wrongs, he did tell himself that in no way could he so effectually quiet Mr. Neefit as by marrying somebody else, and that he would, at some very early date, have recourse to this measure; but, in the meantime, he would enjoy himself without letting his unrequited passion lie too heavily as a burden on his heart. So he eat and drank, and rode and prayed, and sat with his brother magistrates31 on the bench, and never ceased to think of his good fortune, in that he had escaped from the troubles of his youth, unscathed and undegraded.
Then there came a further letter from Mr. Neefit, from which there arose some increase of confidence among the brothers. There was nothing special in this letter. These letters, indeed, were very like to each other, and, as had now come to be observed, were always received on a Tuesday morning. It was manifest to them that Neefit spent the leisure hours of his Sundays in meditating32 upon the hardness of his position; and that, as every Monday morning came, he caused a new letter to be written. On this particular Tuesday, Ralph had left home before the post had come, and did not get the breeches-maker's epistle till his return from hunting. He chucked it across the table to Gregory when he came down to dinner, and the parson read it. There was no new attack in it; and as the servant was in the room, nothing was then said about it. But after dinner the subject was discussed.
"I wish I knew how to stop the fellow's mouth," said the elder brother.
"I think I should get Carey to see him," suggested Gregory. "He would understand a lawyer when he was told that nothing could come of it but trouble to himself and his daughter."
"She has no hand in it, you know."
"But it must injure her."
"One would think so. But she is a girl whom nothing can injure. You can't imagine how good and how great she is;—great in her way, that is. She is as steady as a rock; and nobody who knows her will ever imagine her to be a party to her father's folly33. She may pick and choose a husband any day she pleases. And the men about her won't mind this kind of thing as we should. No doubt all their friends joke him about it, but no one will think of blaming Polly."
"It can't do her any good," said Gregory.
"It cannot do her any harm. She has a strength of her own that even her father can't lessen34."
"All the same, I wish there were an end of it."
"So do I, for my own sake," said Ralph. As he spoke12 he filled his glass, and passed the bottle, and then was silent for a few moments. "Neefit did help me," he continued, "and I don't want to speak against him; but he is the most pig-headed old fool that ever existed. Nothing will stop him but Polly's marriage, or mine."
"I suppose you will marry soon now. You ought to be married," said Gregory, in a melancholy35 tone, in which was told something of the disappointment of his own passion.
"Well;—yes. I believe I might as well tell you a little secret, Greg."
"I suppose I can guess it," said Gregory, with still a deeper sound of woe36.
"I don't think you can. It is quite possible you may, however. You know Mary Bonner;—don't you?"
The cloud upon the parson's brow was at once lightened. "No," said he. "I have heard of her, of course."
"You have never seen Mary Bonner?"
"I have not been up in town since she came. What should take me up? And if I were there, I doubt whether I should go out to Fulham. What is the use of going?" But still, though he spoke thus, there was something less of melancholy in his voice than when he had first spoken. Ralph did not immediately go on with his story, and his brother now asked a question. "But what of Mary Bonner? Is she to be the future mistress of the Priory?"
"God only knows."
"But you mean to ask her?"
"I have asked her."
"And you are engaged?"
"By no means. I wish I were. You haven't seen her, but I suppose you have heard of her?"
"Ralph spoke of her,—and told me that she was very lovely."
"Upon my word, I don't think that even in a picture I ever saw anything approaching to her beauty. You've seen that thing at Dresden. She is more like that than anything I know. She seems almost too grand for a fellow to speak to, and yet she looks as if she didn't know it. I don't think she does know it." Gregory said not a word, but looked at his brother, listening. "But, by George there's a dignity about her, a sort of self-possession, a kind of noli me tangere, you understand, which makes a man almost afraid to come near her. She hasn't sixpence in the world."
"That needn't signify to you now."
"Not in the least. I only just mention it to explain. And her father was nobody in particular,—some old general who used to wear a cocked hat and keep the niggers down out in one of the colonies. She herself talked of coming home here to be a governess;—by Jove! yes, a governess. Well, to look at her, you'd think she was born a countess in her own right."
"Is she so proud?"
"No;—it's not that. I don't know what it is. It's the way her head is put on. Upon my word, to see her turn her neck is the grandest thing in the world. I never saw anything like it. I don't know that she's proud by nature,—though she has got a dash of that too. Don't you know there are some horses show their breeding at a glance? I don't suppose they feel it themselves; but there it is on them, like the Hall-mark on silver. I don't know whether you can understand a man being proud of his wife."
"Indeed I can."
"I don't mean of her personal qualities, but of the outside get up. Some men are proud of their wives' clothes, or their jewels, or their false hair. With Mary nothing of that sort could have any effect; but to see her step, or move her head, or lift her arm, is enough to make a man feel,—feel,—feel that she beats every other woman in the world by chalks."
"And she is to be mistress here?"
"Indeed she should,—to-morrow, if she'd come."
"You did ask her?"
"Yes,—I asked her."
"And what did she say?"
"Nothing that I cared to hear. She had just been told all this accursed story about Polly Neefit. I'll never forgive Sir Thomas,—never." The reader will be pleased to remember that Sir Thomas did not mention Miss Neefit's name, or any of the circumstances of the Neefit contract, to his niece.
"He could hardly have wished to set her against you."
"I don't know; but he must have told her. She threw it in my teeth that I ought to marry Polly."
"Then she did not accept you?"
"By George! no;—anything but that. She is one of those women who, as I fancy, never take a man at the first offer. It isn't that they mean to shilly and shally and make a fuss, but there's a sort of majesty37 about them which instinctively38 declines to yield itself. Unconsciously they feel something like offence at the suggestion that a man should think enough of himself to ask for such a possession. They come to it, after a time."
"And she will come to it, after a time?"
"I didn't mean to say that. I don't intend, however, to give it up." Ralph paused in his story, considering whether he would tell his brother what Mary had confessed to him as to her affection for some one else, but he resolved, at last, that he would say nothing of that. He had himself put less of confidence in that assertion than he did in her rebuke39 with reference to the other young woman to whom she chose to consider that he owed himself. It was his nature to think rather of what absolutely concerned himself, than of what related simply to her. "I shan't give her up. That's all I can say," he continued. "I'm not the sort of fellow to give things up readily." It did occur to Gregory at that moment that his brother had not shown much self-confidence on that question of giving up the property. "I'm pretty constant when I've set my mind on a thing. I'm not going to let any woman break my heart for me, but I shall stick to it."
He was not going to let any woman break his heart for him! Gregory, as he heard this, knew that his brother regarded him as a man whose heart was broken, and he could not help asking himself whether or not it was good for a man that he should be able to suffer as he suffered, because a woman was fair and yet not fair for him. That his own heart was broken,—broken after the fashion of which his brother was speaking,—he was driven to confess to himself. It was not that he should die, or that his existence would be one long continued hour of misery40 to him. He could eat and drink, and do his duty and enjoy his life. And yet his heart was broken. He could not piece it so that it should be fit for any other woman. He could not teach himself not to long for that one woman who would not love him. The romance of his life had formed itself there, and there it must remain. In all his solitary41 walks it was of her that he still thought. Of all the bright castles in the air which he still continued to build, she was ever the mistress. And yet he knew that she would never make him happy. He had absolutely resolved that he would not torment42 her by another request. But he gave himself no praise for his constancy, looking on himself as being somewhat weak in that he could not overcome his longing43. When Ralph declared that he would not break his heart, but that, nevertheless, he would stick to the girl, Gregory envied him, not doubting of his success, and believing that it was to men of this calibre that success in love is generally given. "I hope with all my heart that you may win her," he said.
"I must run my chance like another. There's no 'Veni, vidi, vici,' about it, I can tell you; nor is it likely that there should be with such a girl as Mary Bonner. Fill your glass, old fellow. We needn't sit mumchance because we're thinking of our loves."
"I had thought,—" began Gregory very slowly.
"What did you think?"
"I had thought once that you were thinking of—Clarissa."
"What put that into your head?"
"If you had I should never have said a word, nor fancied any wrong. Of course she'll marry some one. And I don't know why I should ever wish that it should not be you."
"But what made you think of it?"
"Well; I did. It was just a word that Patience said in one of her letters."
"What sort of word?" asked Ralph, with much interest.
"It was nothing, you know. I just misunderstood her. When one is always thinking of a thing everything turns itself that way. I got it into my head that she meant to hint to me that as you and Clary were fond of each other, I ought to forget it all. I made up my mind that I would;—but it is so much easier to make up one's mind than to do it." There came a tear in each eye as he spoke, and he turned his face towards the fire that his brother might not see them. And there they remained hot and oppressive, because he would not raise his hand to rub them away.
"I wonder what it was she said," asked Ralph.
"Oh, nothing. Don't you know how a fellow has fancies?"
"There wasn't anything in it," said Ralph.
"Oh;—of course not."
"Patience might have imagined it," said Ralph. "That's just like such a sister as Patience."
"She's the best woman that ever lived," said Gregory.
"As good as gold," said Ralph. "I don't think, however, I shall very soon forgive Sir Thomas."
"I don't mind saying now that I am glad it is so," said Gregory; "though as regards Clary that seems to be cruel. But I don't think I could have come much here had she become your wife."
"Nothing shall ever separate us, Greg."
"I hope not;—but I don't know whether I could have done it. I almost think that I oughtn't to live where I should see her; and I did fear it at one time."
"She'll come to the parsonage yet, old fellow, if you'll stick to her," said Ralph.
"Never," said Gregory. Then that conversation was over.
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1
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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3
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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5
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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6
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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7
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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8
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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9
coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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10
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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11
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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12
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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13
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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14
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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15
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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16
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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17
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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18
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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19
waddle
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| vi.摇摆地走；n.摇摆的走路(样子) | |
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20
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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21
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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22
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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23
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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24
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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25
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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26
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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27
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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28
inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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29
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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30
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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31
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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32
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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33
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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34
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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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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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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37
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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38
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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39
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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40
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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41
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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42
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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43
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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