The Paradise of Fools, to few unknown.
Having been taught to take all the chances and changes of life with a well-bred calmness of demeanour, Jack1 Meredith turned the teaching against the instructor2. He pursued the course of his social duties without appearing to devote so much as a thought to the quarrel which had taken place in the conservatory3. His smile was as ready as ever, his sight as keen where an elderly lady looked hungry, his laughter as near the surface as society demands. It is probable that Sir John suffered more, though he betrayed nothing. Youth has the upper hand in these cases, for life is a larger thing when we are young. As we get on in years, our eggs, to use a homely4 simile5, have a way of accumulating into one basket.
At eleven o'clock the next morning Sir John Meredith's valet intimated to his master that Mr. Meredith was waiting in the breakfast-room. Sir John was in the midst of his toilet—a complicated affair, which, like other works of art, would not bear contemplation when incomplete.
“Tell him,” said the uncompromising old gentleman, “that I will come down when I am ready.”
He made a more careful toilet than usual, and finally came down in a gay tweed suit, of which the general effect was distinctly heightened by a pair of white gaiters. He was upright, trim, and perfectly6 determined7. Jack noted8 that his clothes looked a little emptier than usual—that was all.
“Well,” said the father, “I suppose we both made fools of ourselves last night.”
“I have not yet seen you do that,” replied the son, laying aside the morning paper which he had been reading.
Sir John smiled grimly. He hoped that Jack was right.
“Well,” he added, “let us call it a difference of opinion.”
“Yes.”
Jack Meredith rose, without haste. This, like the interview of the previous night, was conducted upon strictly12 high-bred and gentlemanly lines.
“And I to mine,” he said. “That is why I took the liberty of calling at this early hour. I thought that perhaps we might effect some sort of a compromise.”
“It is very good of you to make the proposal.” Sir John kept his fingers away from his lips by an obvious exercise of self-control. “I am not partial to compromises: they savour of commerce.”
Jack gave a queer, curt13 nod, and moved towards the door. Sir John extended his unsteady hand and rang the bell.
“Good-morning,” he said.
“Graves,” he added, to the servant who stood in the doorway14, “when you have closed the door behind Mr. Meredith, bring up breakfast, if you please.”
On the doorstep Jack Meredith looked at his watch. He had an appointment with Millicent Chyne at half-past eleven—an hour when Lady Cantourne might reasonably be expected to be absent at the weekly meeting of a society which, under the guise15 and nomenclature of friendship, busied itself in making servant girls discontented with their situations.
It was only eleven o'clock. Jack turned to the left, out of the quiet but fashionable street, and a few steps took him to Piccadilly. He went into the first jeweller's shop he saw, and bought a plain diamond ring. Then he walked on to keep his appointment with his affianced wife.
Miss Millicent Chyne was waiting for him with that mixture of maidenly16 feelings of which the discreet17 novelist only details a selection. It is not customary to dwell upon thoughts of vague regret at the approaching withdrawal19 of a universal admiration20—at the future necessity for discreet and humdrum21 behaviour quite devoid22 of the excitement that lurks23 in a double meaning. Let it, therefore, be ours to note the outward signs of a very natural emotion. Miss Chyne noted them herself with care, and not without a few deft24 touches to hair and dress. When Jack Meredith entered the room she was standing25 near the window, holding back the curtain with one hand and watching, half shyly, for his advent26.
What struck her at once was his gravity; and he must have seen the droop27 in her eyes, for he immediately assumed the pleasant, half-reckless smile which the world of London society had learnt to associate with his name.
He played the lover rather well, with that finish and absence of self-consciousness which only comes from sincerity28; and when Miss Chyne found opportunity to look at him a second time she was fully29 convinced that she loved him. She was, perhaps, carried off her feet a little—metaphorically speaking, of course—by his evident sincerity. At that moment she would have done anything that he had asked her. The pleasures of society, the social amenities30 of aristocratic life, seemed to have vanished suddenly into thin air, and only love was left. She had always known that Jack Meredith was superior in a thousand ways to all her admirers. More gentlemanly, more truthful31, honester, nobler, more worthy32 of love. Beyond that, he was cleverer, despite a certain laziness of disposition—more brilliant and more amusing. He had always been to a great extent the chosen one; and yet it was with a certain surprise and sense of unreality that she found what she had drifted into. She saw the diamond ring, and looked upon it with the beautiful emotions aroused by those small stones in the female breast; but she did not seem to recognise her own finger within the golden hoop33.
It was at this moment—while she dwelt in this new unreal world—that he elected to tell her of his quarrel with his father. And when one walks through a maze34 of unrealities nothing seems to come amiss or to cause surprise. He detailed35 the very words they had used, and to Millicent Chyne it did not sound like a real quarrel such as might affect two lives to their very end. It was not important. It did not come into her life; for at that moment she did not know what her life was.
“And so,” said Jack Meredith, finishing his story, “we have begun badly—as badly as the most romantic might desire.”
“Yes, theoretically it is consoling. But I am sorry, Jack, very sorry. I hate quarrelling with anybody.”
“So do I. I haven't time as a rule. But the old gentleman is so easy to quarrel with, he takes all the trouble.”
“Jack,” she said, with pretty determination, “you must go and say you are sorry. Go now! I wish I could go with you.”
But Meredith did not move. He was smiling at her in evident admiration. She looked very pretty with that determined little pout36 of the lips, and perhaps she knew it. Moreover, he did not seem to attach so much importance to the thought as to the result—to the mind as to the lips.
“Ah!” he said, “you do not know the old gentleman. That is not our way of doing things. We are not expansive.”
His face was grave again, and she noticed it with a sudden throb37 of misgiving38. She did not want to begin taking life seriously so soon. It was like going back to school in the middle of the holidays.
“But it will be all right in a day or two, will it not? It is not serious,” she said.
“I am afraid it is serious, Millicent.”
He took her hand with a gravity which made matters worse.
“What a pity!” she exclaimed; and somehow both the words and the speaker rang shallow. She did not seem to grasp the situation, which was perhaps beyond her reach. But she did the next best thing. She looked puzzled, pretty, and helpless.
“What is to be done, Jack?” she said, laying her two hands on his breast and looking up pleadingly.
There was something in the man's clear-cut face—something beyond aristocratic repose—as he looked down into her eyes—something which Sir John Meredith might perhaps have liked to see there. To all men comes, soon or late, the moment wherein their lives are suddenly thrust into their own hands to shape or spoil, to make or mar18. It seemed that where a clever man had failed, this light-hearted girl was about to succeed. Two small clinging hands on Jack Meredith's breast had apparently39 wrought40 more than all Sir John's care and foresight41. At last the light of energy gleamed in Jack Meredith's lazy eyes. At last he faced the “initiative,” and seemed in no wise abashed42.
“There are two things,” he answered; “a small choice.”
“Yes.”
“The first and the simplest,” he went on in the tone of voice which she had never quite fathomed—half cynical43, half amused—“is to pretend that last night—never was.”
He waited for her verdict.
“We will not do that,” she replied softly; “we will take the other alternative, whatever it is.”
“The other is generally supposed to be very difficult,” he said. “It means—waiting.”
“Oh,” she answered cheerfully, “there is no hurry. I do not want to be married yet.”
“Waiting perhaps for years,” he added—and he saw her face drop.
“Why?”
“Because I am dependent on my father for everything. We could not marry without his consent.”
A peculiar45, hard look crept into her eyes, and in some subtle way it made her look older. After a little pause she said:
“But we can surely get that—between us?”
“I propose doing without it.”
She looked up—past him—out of the window. All the youthfulness seemed to have left her face, but he did not appear to see that.
“How can you do so?”
“Well, I can work. I suppose I must be good for something—a bountiful Providence46 must surely have seen to that. The difficulty is to find out what it intends me for. We are not called in the night nowadays to a special mission—we have to find it out for ourselves.”
“Do you know what I should like you to be?” she said, with a bright smile and one of those sudden descents into shallowness which he appeared to like.
“What?”
“A politician.”
“Then I shall be a politician,” he answered, with loverlike promptness.
“That would be very nice,” she said; and the castles she at once began to build were not entirely47 aerial in their structure.
This was not a new idea. They had talked of politics before as a possible career for himself. They had moved in a circle where politics and politicians held a first place—a circle removed above the glamour48 of art, and wherein Bohemianism was not reckoned an attraction. She knew that behind his listlessness of manner he possessed49 a certain steady energy, perfect self-command, and that combination of self-confidence and indifference50 which usually attains51 success in the world. She was ambitious not only for herself but for him, and she was shrewd enough to know that the only safe outlet52 for a woman's ambition is the channel of a husband's career.
“But,” he said, “it will mean waiting.”
He paused, and then the worldly wisdom which he had learnt from his father—that worldly wisdom which is sometimes called cynicism—prompted him to lay the matter before her in its worst light.
“It will mean waiting for a couple of years at least. And for you it will mean the dulness of a long engagement, and the anomalous53 position of an engaged girl without her rightful protector. It will mean that your position in society will be quite different—that half the world will pity you, while the other half thinks you—well, a fool for your pains.”
“I don't care,” she answered.
“Of course,” he went on, “I must go away. That is the only way to get on in politics in these days. I must go away and get a speciality. I must know more about some country than any other man; and when I come back I must keep that country ever before the eye of the intelligent British workman who reads the halfpenny evening paper. That is fame—those are politics.”
She laughed. There seemed to be no fear of her taking life too seriously yet. And, truth to tell, he did not appear to wish her to do so.
“But you must not go very far,” she said sweetly.
“Africa.”
“Africa? That does not sound interesting.”
“It is interesting: moreover, it is the coming country. I may be able to make money out there, and money is a necessity at present.”
“I do not like it, Jack,” she said in a foreboding voice. “When do you go?”
“At once—in fact, I came to say good-bye. It is better to do these things very promptly—to disappear before the onlookers54 have quite understood what is happening. When they begin to understand they begin to interfere55. They cannot help it. I will write to Lady Cantourne if you like.”
“No, I will tell her.”
So he bade her good-bye, and those things that lovers say were duly said; but they are not for us to chronicle. Such words are better left to be remembered or forgotten as time and circumstance and result may decree. For one may never tell what words will do when they are laid within the years like the little morsel56 of leaven57 that leaveneth the whole.
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1
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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2
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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3
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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6
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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9
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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13
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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18
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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19
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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23
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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24
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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25
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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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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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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30
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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33
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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38
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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40
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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41
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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42
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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44
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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45
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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47
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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48
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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49
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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50
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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51
attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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52
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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53
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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54
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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55
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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56
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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