Three days after his return, when he was sitting in his offices thinking perhaps more of Alice Dugdale than of the whole British Cavalry6, a soldier who was in waiting brought a card to him. Sir Walter Wanless had come to call upon him. If he were disengaged Sir Walter would be glad to see him. He was not at all anxious to see Sir Walter; but there was no alternative, and Sir Walter was shown into the room.
In explaining the purport7 of Sir Walter’s visit we must go back for a few minutes to Brook Park. When Sir Walter came down to breakfast on the morning after the festivities he was surprised to hear that Major Rossiter had taken his departure. There sat young Burmeston. He at any rate was safe. And there sat young Cobble, who by Sophia’s aid had managed to get himself accommodated for the night, and all the other young people, including the five Wanless girls. The father, though not observant, could see that Georgiana was very glum8. Lady Wanless herself affected9 a good-humour which hardly deceived him, and certainly did not deceive anyone else. “He was obliged to be off this morning, because{393} of his duties,” said Lady Wanless. “He told me that it was to be so, but I did not like to say anything about it yesterday.” Georgiana turned up her nose, as much as to say that the going and coming of Major Rossiter was not a matter of much importance to any one there, and, least of all, to her. Except the father, there was not a person in the room who was not aware that Lady Wanless had missed her fish.
But she herself was not quite sure even yet that she had failed altogether. She was a woman who hated failure, and who seldom failed. She was brave of heart too, and able to fight a losing battle to the last. She was very angry with the Major, who she well knew was endeavouring to escape from her toils10. But he would not on that account be the less useful as a son-in-law;—nor on that account was she the more willing to allow him to escape. With five daughters without fortunes it behoved her as a mother to be persistent11. She would not give it up, but must turn the matter well in her mind before she took further steps. She feared that a simple invitation could hardly bring the Major back to Brook Park. Then there came the letter from the Major which did not make the matter easier.
“My dear,” she said to her husband, sitting down opposite to him in his room, “that Major Rossiter isn’t behaving quite as he ought to do.”
“I’m not a bit surprised,” said the Baronet angrily. “I never knew anybody from Wadham behave well.”
“He’s quite a gentleman, if you mean that,” said{394} Lady Wanless; “and he’s sure to do very well in the world; and poor Georgiana is really fond of him,—which doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“Has he said anything to make her fond of him? I suppose she has gone and made a fool of herself,—like Maria.”
“Not at all. He has said a great deal to her;—much more than he ought to have done, if he meant nothing. But the truth is, young men nowadays never know their own minds unless there is somebody to keep them up to the mark. You must go and see him.”
“I!” said the afflicted12 father.
“Of course, my dear. A few judicious13 words in such a case may do so much. I would not ask Walter to go,”—Walter was the eldest14 son, who was with his regiment,—“because it might lead to quarrelling. I would not have anything of that kind, if only for the dear girl’s sake. But what you would say would be known to nobody; and it might have the desired effect. Of course you will be very quiet,—and very serious also. Nobody could do it better than you will. There can be no doubt that he has trifled with the dear girl’s affections. Why else has he been with her whenever he has been here? It was so visible on Wednesday that everybody was congratulating me. Old Lady Deepbell asked whether the day was fixed15. I treated him quite as though it were settled. Young men do so often get these sudden starts of doubt. Then, sometimes, just a word afterwards will put it all right.” In{395} this way the Baronet was made to understand that he must go and see the Major.
He postponed16 the unwelcome task till his wife at last drove him out of the house. “My dear,” she said, “will you let your child die broken-hearted for want of a word?” When it was put to him in that way he found himself obliged to go, though, to tell the truth, he could not find any sign of heart-breaking sorrow about his child. He was not allowed to speak to Georgiana herself, his wife telling him that the poor child would be unable to bear it.
Sir Walter, when he was shown into the Major’s room, felt himself to be very ill able to conduct the business in hand, and to the Major himself the moment was one of considerable trouble. He had thought it possible that he might receive an answer to his letter, a reply that might be indignant, or piteous, admonitory, or simply abusive, as the case might be,—one which might too probably require a further correspondence; but it had never occurred to him that Sir Walter would come in person. But here he was,—in the room,—by no means with that pretended air of geniality17 with which he had last received the Major down at Brook Park. The greeting, however, between the gentlemen was courteous18 if not cordial, and then Sir Walter began his task. “We were quite surprised you should have left us so early that morning.”
“I had told Lady Wanless.”
“Yes; I know. Nevertheless we were surprised. Now, Major Rossiter, what do you mean to do about,—{396}about,—about this young lady?” The Major sat silent. He could not pretend to be ignorant what young lady was intended after the letter which he had himself written to Lady Wanless. “This, you know, is a very painful kind of thing, Major Rossiter.”
“Very painful indeed, Sir Walter.”
“When I remembered that I had been at Christchurch and your excellent father at Wadham both at the same time, I thought that I might trust you in my house without the slightest fear.”
“I make bold to say, Sir Walter, that you were quite justified19 in that expectation, whether it was founded on your having been at Christchurch or on my position and character in the world.” He knew that the scene would be easier to him if he could work himself up to a little indignation on his own part.
“And yet I am told,—I am told——”
“What are you told, Sir Walter?”
“There can, I think, be no doubt that you have—in point of fact, paid attention to my daughter.” Sir Walter was a gentleman, and felt that the task imposed upon him grated against his better feelings.
“If you mean that I have taken steps to win her affections, you have been wrongly informed.”
“That’s what I do mean. Were you not received just now at Brook Park as,—as paying attention to her?”
“I hope not.”
“You hope not, Major Rossiter?”
“I hope no such mistake was made. It certainly was not made by me. I felt myself much flattered by{397} being received at your house. I wrote the other day a line or two to Lady Wanless and thought I had explained all this.”
Sir Walter opened his eyes when he heard, for the first time, of the letter, but was sharp enough not to exhibit his ignorance at the moment. “I don’t know about explaining,” he said. “There are some things which can’t be so very well explained. My wife assures me that that poor girl has been deceived,—cruelly deceived. Now I put it to you, Major Rossiter, what ought you as a gentleman to do?”
“Really, Sir Walter, you are not entitled to ask me any such question.”
“Not on behalf of my own child?”
“I cannot go into the matter from that view of the case. I can only declare that I have said nothing and done nothing for which I can blame myself. I cannot understand how there should have been such a mistake; but it did not, at any rate, arise with me.”
Then the Baronet sat dumb. He had been specially20 instructed not to give up the interview till he had obtained some sign of weakness from the enemy. If he could only induce the enemy to promise another visit to Brook Park that would be much. If he could obtain some expression of liking21 or admiration22 for the young lady that would be something. If he could induce the Major to allude23 to delay as being necessary, farther operations would be founded on that base. But nothing had been obtained. “It’s the most,—the most,—the most astonishing thing I ever heard,” he said at last.{398}
“I do not know that I can say anything further.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said the Baronet. “Come down and see Lady Wanless. The women understand these things much better than we do. Come down and talk it over with Lady Wanless. She won’t propose anything that isn’t proper.” In answer to this the Major shook his head. “You won’t?”
“It would do no good, Sir Walter. It would be painful to me, and must, I should say, be distressing24 to the young lady.”
“Then you won’t do anything!”
“There is nothing to be done.”
“Upon my word, I never heard such a thing in all my life, Major Rossiter. You come down to my house; and then,—then,—then you won’t,—you won’t come again! To be sure he was at Wadham; but I did think your father’s son would have behaved better.” Then he picked up his hat from the floor and shuffled25 out of the room without another word.
Tidings that Sir Walter had been up to London and had called upon Major Rossiter made their way into Beetham and reached the ears of the Dugdales,—but not correct tidings as to the nature of the conversation. “I wonder when it will be,” said Mrs. Dugdale to Alice. “As he has been up to town I suppose it’ll be settled soon.”
“The sooner the better for all parties,” said Alice cheerily. “When a man and a woman have agreed together, I can’t see why they shouldn’t at once walk off to the church arm in arm.{399}”
“The lawyers have so much to do.”
“Bother the lawyers! The parson ought to do all that is necessary, and the sooner the better. Then there would not be such paraphernalia26 of presents and gowns and eatings and drinkings, all of which is got up for the good of the tradesmen. If I were to be married, I should like to slip out round the corner, just as though I were going to get an extra loaf of bread from Mrs. Bakewell.”
“That wouldn’t do for my lady at Brook Park.”
“I suppose not.”
“Nor yet for the Major.”
Then Alice shook her head and sighed, and took herself out to walk alone for a few minutes among the lanes. How could it be that he should be so different from that which she had taken him to be! It was now September, and she could remember an early evening in May, when the leaves were beginning to be full, and they were walking together with the spring air fresh around them, just where she was now creeping alone with the more perfect and less fresh beauty of the autumn around her. How different a person he seemed to her to be now from that which he had seemed to be then;—not different because he did not love her, but different because he was not fit to be loved! “Alice,” he had then said, “you and I are alike in this, that simple, serviceable things are dear to both of us.” The words had meant so much to her that she had never forgotten them. Was she simple and serviceable, so that she might be dear to him? She had been sure{400} then that he was simple, and that he was serviceable, so that she could love him. It was thus that she had spoken of him to herself, thinking herself to be sure of his character. And now, before the summer was over, he was engaged to marry such a one as Georgiana Wanless and to become the hero of a fashionable wedding!
But she took pride to herself as she walked alone that she had already overcome the bitterness of the malady27 which, for a day or two, had been so heavy that she had feared for herself that it would oppress her. For a day or two after that farewell at the gate she had with a rigid28 purpose tied herself to every duty,—even to the duty of looking pleasant in her father’s eyes, of joining in the children’s games, of sharing the gossip of her stepmother. But this she had done with an agony that nearly crushed her. Now she had won her way through it, and could see her path before her. She had not cured altogether that wound in her heart; but she had assured herself that she could live on without further interference from the wound.
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1
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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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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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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14
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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15
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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16
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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19
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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21
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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23
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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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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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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27
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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28
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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