When he was quite alone, the familiar friend of Miles Challoner's father gave way to the feelings with which this revelation had filled him. This, then, was the explanation of the instinctive5 aversion he had felt towards Gilbert Lloyd--fate had brought him in contact with the man whose story he alone of living men knew, and under circumstances which might have terrible import. The one hope of his dead friend--that the brothers might never meet had been defeated; the fear which had troubled him in his later days had been fulfilled. If Miles Challoner's impression concerning this man should be correct--if indeed he was or intended to become a suitor to Gertrude, a fresh complication of an extremely dangerous nature--knowing what he knew, he could well appreciate that danger might arise. The skeleton was wearing flesh again, and stalking very close by the old man now. Hitherto only the strong sympathy which had united him with Miles Challoner and his father--his friendship for the latter had been one of the strongest and deepest feelings of a life which had, on the whole, been superficial--made the fate of the outcast son and brother a subject of any interest to Lord Sandilands. He might have turned up at any time, and this unfortunate meeting and recognition between the brothers have taken place, and beyond the unpleasantness of the occurrence, and the necessity he should have recognised for impressing upon Miles as stringently6 as possible the importance of observing his father's prohibition7, he would not have felt himself personally concerned. But Gertrude! the girl whom he had come to love with such true fatherly feeling and solicitude--the girl who had brought into his superficial life such mingled8 feelings of pain and pleasure--what if she were about to be involved in this family mystery and misery9? Very seldom in the course of his existence had Lord Sandilands experienced such acute pain, such a sensation of helpless terror, as this supposition inspired. Supposing that Miles Challoner was right in the dread10 which Gilbert Lloyd's manner with regard to Gertrude had awakened11 in him,--and the eyes of a lover not sure of his own position, and anxiously on the lookout12 for possible rivals, were likely to be more acute and more accurate than those of an old gentleman much out of practice in the subtleties13 of the tender passion, and without the spur to his perceptions of suspicion,--supposing he was really in love with Gertrude, and that by any horrible chance Gertrude should prefer him to Miles! Very unpleasant physical symptoms of disturbance14 manifested themselves after Lord Sandilands had fully15 taken this terrible hypothesis into consideration, and for a time the old gentleman felt that whether it was gout or apoplexy which was about to claim him for its own was a mere16 question of detail. He had lived so long without requiring to test the strength of his nerves, without having any very strong or urgent demand made upon him for the exercise of his feelings, that anything of the kind now decidedly disagreed with him, and he went to bed in a rueful state of mind, and a shaky condition of body. The night brought him calmness and counsel, and the symptoms of illness passed off sufficiently18 for him to resolve on keeping the engagement he had made with Miles for the following day. "The sooner his mind is at ease, the sooner will mine be, on his account and my own." Thus ran Lord Sandilands' thoughts as he lay awake, listening against his will to the splash of the sea, and inclined to blame its monotonous19 murmur20 for the nervousness which had him in its grip. "I suppose it's not the right thing for me to help Miles to marry Gertrude--my old friend would not have liked the notion of his son and heir's marrying my natural daughter; but what can I do? The young fellow is not like other men of his age and position; in fact, he isn't, strictly21 speaking, I suppose, a 'young' fellow at all. If he were, and resembled the young men of the day a little more, I fancy he never would have thought of marrying her. And then there's an awful blot22 upon the Challoners, too--and she is such a charming girl, no tongue has ever dared to wag against her. Suppose I did not encourage it, that I set myself against it, what could I do? I have literally23 no right in Miles's case, and none that I can acknowledge in Gertrude's, and I should only make them both dislike me, without preventing the marriage in the least. I wish--because of what poor old Mark would have thought--that they had never met; but I can't go beyond that--no, I can't. But if she cares for that wretch24, good heavens! what shall I do?" The old man put his shrunken hands up to his bald temples, and twisted his head about on his pillow, and groaned25 in his solitude26 and perplexity. "Must I threaten him with exposure, and so drive him out of the country? or must I tell her the truth about herself, and ask her to believe, on the faith of my unexplained assertion, that the man is one whom she must never think of marrying?"
The position was one of indisputable difficulty; the "pleasant vice"--that long-ago story of a dead woman, deceived indeed, but with no extraordinary cruelty, a story which had not troubled Lord Sandilands' conscience very much--had manufactured itself finally into a whip of stout27 dimensions and stinging quality, and he was getting a very sufficient taste of it just now.
Miles must try his luck. That was the only conclusion which could be immediately reached. If he could sleep a little, he might feel all right in the morning, and be able to accompany him to Hardriggs. If he were not well enough, Miles mast go all the same. If the young man should feel surprise and curiosity at finding his old friend so impatient, it could not be helped; it must pass as a vagary28 of an old man's. But Miles would not remark anything; the vagary was sufficiently cognate29 to his own humour and his own purposes to pass unnoticed.
When Lord Sandilands and Miles Challoner arrived at Hardriggs on the following day, a close observer would have discerned that they were both under a strong impression of some kind. Lord Sandilands was not feeling well by any means, but he had assured Miles the drive would do him good, and he had found his indisposition so far useful, that it explained and excused his being very silent on the way. Neither was Miles much inclined to talk. He was of an earnest nature, never at any time voluble, and when under the influence of strong feeling silence was congenial to him. He well understood that the revelation he had made to Lord Sandilands on the preceding day had produced a startling and disagreeable effect; and having perceived plainly, beyond the possibility of doubt, that the secret which he so earnestly desired to know was in Lord Sandilands' possession, and was of a darker and direr nature than he had ever guessed at, but was, at the same time, quite as securely beyond his reach as ever, he made up his mind to let the subject drop. Unless this man had cut him out, or was likely to cut him out with Grace Lambert, he had no power to harm him. The truth was, Miles Challoner was very sincerely and heartily31 in love, and he had as little power, as inclination32 to occupy his thoughts for long at a time with anyone but Grace, with any speculation33 but his chance of success with her. Luckily, Sir Giles and Lady Belwether were the least observant of human beings. Sir Giles was stupid to an extent which is not to be realised except by those who understand the bucolic34 gentry35 of our favoured land, and Lady Belwether was--though superior, as we have seen, to her baronet in intelligence, and distinguished36 by a taste for music--very shortsighted. Close observers were therefore not "on hand," when Lord Sandilands and Miles arrived at Hardriggs. Sir Giles was contemplating37 the turnips38 at a distant point of his "pretty little place;" Miss Lambert had gone out into the garden, or the lime-walk, the servants said, some time before; and Lady Belwether and Mrs. Bloxam were in the morning-room.
Lord Sandilands did not lose much time in arranging the situation as he wished it to be arranged, so far as Miles was concerned--his consummate39 ease of manner, which Miles admired to the point of envy, rendered any little disposition30 of affairs of that kind a very simple proceeding40 to him. Miles was despatched in search of Sir Giles, Mrs. Bloxam was begged on no account to interfere41 with Miss Lambert's saunter in the garden--they might join her presently, perhaps--and Lady Belwether was engaged in a discussion upon the comparative merits of "our" native composers, within a space of time whose brevity would have been surprising to anyone unacquainted with the rapid action of a fixed42 purpose combined with good manners. Mrs. Bloxam had directed one searching glance at Lord Sandilands on his entrance, and, as she withdrew her eyes, she said to herself, "Something has happened. He wants to speak to me; but I had rather he did not, so he sha'n't." And strange to say, though he made a protracted43 visit to Hardriggs that day, Lord Sandilands did not succeed in getting an opportunity of speaking a word to Mrs. Bloxam. This annoyed him a good deal. "Confound the woman!" he said to himself; "either Mrs. Bloxam is too stupid to see that I want to speak to her, or Lady Belwether is too clever to leave off talking!" In his capacity of gooseberry-picker, Lord Sandilands was led on this occasion into anything but pleasant pastures.
The shortest way to the turnips, just then occupying the mind and demanding the presence of Sir Giles Belwether, fortunately lay through the garden, otherwise Miles Challoner might not have profited so readily and unsuspected by the strategy of his clever old friend. Through a side-gate of the garden the lime-walk was to be gained, and as Miles closed that gate behind him he caught sight of Grace Lambert. She was walking slowly along in the shadow of the trees, her head bent44 down in a thoughtful attitude. Miles went quickly towards her, and she looked up and recognised him with a slight start and a vivid blush; in fact, with the kind of recognition which takes place when the person who intrudes45 upon a reverie happens to be its subject. Gertrude had been thinking of Miles--she thought of him very often now; and the interview which had taken place between herself and Lord Ticehurst had made her think of him more seriously than ever. She loved him. She did not deny the truth, or palter with it, or fail to recognise its consequences. She had mistaken pleased and excited fancy and flattered vanity for love once, but this was nothing of the kind. She knew this was true love, because she thought of him, not of herself; because she did not hope, but feared he loved her. How would she have listened to such an avowal46 from Miles's lips as that which, made by Lord Ticehurst, had produced mere contempt, and a desire to get rid of it and him as quickly as possible? Gertrude had accepted her position in such perfect good faith, that its difficulties never presented themselves in a practical form at all; and she pondered this matter now in her heart, as if she were really the free unmarried girl she seemed to the world. If he should come to her and tell her a love-tale, what should she say to him? She had asked herself the question many times and had not found the answer, when, raising her eyes at the sound of steps, she met those of Miles Challoner, and saw in them what he had come to say.
There was manifest embarrassment47 on both sides, and each was distinctly conscious of its cause. Why could they not meet to-day as they had met so often before? Why were the ordinary commonplaces so hard to think of and so incoherently said? Gertrude was the first to recover her composure. She asked Miles if Lord Sandilands had come with him, and on his saying he had, and was then in the house, she turned in that direction, and said something about going in to see him. But Miles checked her steps by standing48 still.
"Don't go into the house," he said; "he does not expect you. Let us walk this way; let me speak to you." She glanced at him, and silently complied. She knew it all now, and she began to feel what it was that she must say, and what it would cost her to say it. She felt his eyes upon her, and the delicate colour faded away from her face.
Neither she nor Miles Challoner could have told afterwards, or even exactly recalled in their thoughts, the words then spoken between them. He told her how he had loved her from the first--he who had never loved before--and how fear and hope had alternated in his heart until now, when hope was the stronger, and he had determined50 to tell her how all his happiness, all his life, was in her hands. He spoke49 with the frank manliness51 of his nature, and Gertrude's heart thrilled as she listened to him with intense pain, with keen delight. At least he loved her well and worthily52; nothing could deprive her of that exquisite53 knowledge. She would, she must, put away the wine of life offered to her parched54 lips, but she knew its sweetness, had seen the splendour and the sparkle of it.
A thousand thoughts, innumerable emotions, crowded upon her, as she listened to the words of Miles; but when he prayed her to speak and let him know his fate, prayed her with eagerness and passion, but with hope that was almost confidence, then she put them all down with her strong will, and addressed herself to her task. She drew the hand which he had taken away from his hold, and told him in one short sentence that she could not give him the answer he desired.
"You cannot, Grace? You refuse me!" he said hoarsely55. "You tell me, then, that I have deceived myself?"
"No," she said, "I do not. Let us sit here awhile"--she seated herself on a bench under a lime-tree as she spoke--"and let me speak frankly56 and freely to you, as you deserve."
Miles obeyed her with bewilderment. What was she going to say? She would not marry him, and yet he had not deceived himself! She was deadly pale, and he might have heard the beating of her heart; but she was quite firm, and she turned her steady eyes upon him unfalteringly.
"There is only one thing you can say to me," he said, "if you persevere57 in forbidding me to hope--that is, to send me out of your sight for ever."
"Perhaps," was her reply; "but listen. I have said you don't deceive yourself, and I mean it. I know you love me; I know what perfect sincerity58 there is in you--hush! let me speak--and I--I do love you--you have not mistaken me, I have not misled you."
"Then what does anything else matter?" said Miles, and he caught her hands and kissed them unresisted, unrebuked. "With that assurance, Grace, surely you will not refuse me?"
"I must," she answered. "Have patience with me. I will tell you why. It is for your own sake."
"My own sake!" he exclaimed passionately59; "you deprive me of all hope and happiness for my own sake! I shall need patience indeed to understand that."
"It is true, nevertheless. I could not many you, Miles Challoner, without doing you a great injury; and I love you too well, much more and better than myself, to do that. Take that assurance, and believe that nothing can shake my determination. My fate is decided17, my way of life is quite fixed. I shall never be your wife, never, never, never!"--his face was hidden in his hands, he did not see the suffering which broke all control and showed itself plainly in her every feature--"but I shall never love you less, or anyone but you." The low distinct tones of her voice thrilled him with a horrid60 sense of hopelessness. She spoke as one who had taken an irrevocable resolution.
"What do you mean?" he said. "You must tell me more than this. What do you mean by doing me an injury? I protest I have not the faintest notion of your meaning. It cannot be--" He hesitated, and she took up his words.
"Because you are a gentleman of old name and a responsible position in society, and I am a singer, an actress a woman with no name and no station, you would say. Yes, it is precisely61 for this cause, which you think impossible. I know you don't regard any of these things, but the world does; and the man I love shall never be censured62 by the world for me."
How well it was, she thought, how fortunate, that such a real genuine difficulty did exist; that she could give some explanation which he might be induced to receive.
"Then you would make me wretched for the sake of the world, even if what you say of my position and your own were true? And it is not. Is your genius nothing? Is your fame nothing? I speak now as reasonably as yourself; not as a man who holds you peerless, far removed above all the world, but as one discussing a question open to argument. What am I in comparison to the men who would be proud to offer you rank and wealth? What have I to give you that others could not give a thousandfold?"
"You give me all I value, all I care for," she said; "but I must not take it. You must not, you shall not, deceive yourself. My genius, as you call it, my fame, are real things in their way and in their sphere, but they are not of any account in yours. Ask your friend Lord Sandilands; he is a kind friend to me also, and a man who knows the world thoroughly63; and he will tell you I am right."
"No, he won't!" said Miles triumphantly64, "No, he won't! He will tell you, on the contrary, that you are quite wrong; he will tell you that he knows I love you, and have dared to hope, to believe that you love me. He will tell you that I have told him what is my dearest hope, and that he shares it; and more, Grace, more than that, he will tell you that he came here with me to-day on purpose that I might learn my fate, and be no longer in suspense65; and that he is on duty at this moment, keeping the old ladies in talk, just to give me this precious opportunity. Now, where are all your arguments? where are my wise friends? where is this terrible world to whom we are to be sacrificed? You have nothing more to say, Grace; your 'never, never, never!' cannot hurt me any more."
For one brief moment he triumphed. For one moment his arm was around her, and his lips, were pressed to hers. But the next she had started from his embrace, and stood pale and breathless before him.
"Is this really true?" she said; "does Lord Sandilands approve?" She asked him only to gain a moment's time for thought; she was terribly disconcerted by this complication, it increased her difficulties immensely. But Miles saw in the question only a symptom of yielding, only a proof of his victory.
"Yes; yes," he said eagerly, "it is true; it is indeed! He is the only real friend I have in the world; the only man whose opinion I care for, and he is on my side. Now, Grace, you must yield; you cannot refuse me."
She stood for a moment motionless and silent. Then her nerves; generally so strong, so completely under control, gave way. The violence of the struggle, the intensity66 of the pain she was suffering, that overwhelming remembrance of the past, the agonising sense of what might have been, but was now quite impossible, the feebleness of the only weapon which she could venture to use in this battle in which her own heart was her adversary,--all these overcame her, and she sunk upon the bench in a helpless agony of tears.
Terrified by her distress67; Miles Challoner knelt before her, and implored68 her to explain the cause of this sudden grief. But all his prayers were vain. She wept convulsively for many minutes and was literally unable to speak. When at last she conquered the passion of tears, she felt and looked so very ill that he became alarmed on a fresh score.
"You are ill," he said; "shall I go for Mrs. Bloxam? Shall I take you to the house?"
She made a sign with her hand that he should not speak, then leaned her head against the bench, and closed her eyes. He stood by, awkward and silent, watching her. After a little while she sat up, and said faintly:
"Will you leave me? Go away from me for the present--I am ill; but it is only from agitation69. Let me be alone for a while; you shall see me again when I am able."
"Of course I will leave you, if you wish it," said Miles, with all the timidity and embarrassment of a man in the presence of feminine weakness and suffering; "but I am afraid you are not fit to be left alone."
"I am indeed," she urged, and her face grew whiter as she spoke; "I shall recover myself, if I am left alone. Don't fear for me. Go to the house, and do not say you have seen me. Go by the lime-walk into the avenue; I will go by the garden. No one will see me; and if I can get to my room and lie down for a little, I shall be quite well. Pray, pray go."
She put her hands before her face, and Miles saw a quick shudder70 pass over her from head to foot. He was afraid to go, afraid to stay; at length he obeyed her, and took the way towards the house which she had indicated, feeling bewildered and alarmed.
When Miles Challoner re?ntered the drawing-room at Hardriggs he found Lord Sandilands still there, held in durance by Lady Belwether and Mrs. Bloxam. Lord Sandilands had found his hostess immovable, and no other afternoon callers had had the kindness to come and partially71 release him. Mrs. Bloxam kept her eyes and her fingers steadily72 and unremittingly engaged with her fancy-work, and Lady Belwether persisted in discoursing73 on music and religion. With his accustomed philosophy Lord Sandilands accepted the situation, consoling himself by the reflection that a day or two could not make any difference in what he had to say to Mrs. Bloxam, and that the chief object of his present exertions74 had at least been secured, for he entertained a satisfactory conviction that Miles and Gertrude had met "somewhere about." Miles returned too soon, in one sense, for the old gentleman's wishes; he would rather have found him utterly75 oblivious76 of time; in that case, and if no consideration of anybody's convenience had occurred to Miles, Lord Sandilands would have felt confidence in the prospering77 of the suit. But Miles came in looking as little like a successful and happy lover as he could look, and Lord Sandilands perceived in an instant that things had gone wrong. He did not give Miles time to speak before he rose, and saying, "You have clear ideas of time, Miles; we ought to be back before now.--Business, Lady Belwether, business--you don't understand its claims, happily for you.--Goodbye, Mrs. Bloxam; tell Miss Lambert I am sorry not to have seen her;" he got himself and his melancholy78, and indeed frightened-looking, companion out of the room and out of the house.
"Now tell me all about it," said Lord Sandilands to Miles when they were in the carriage; "what has happened? You have seen her, of course?"
"Yes," said Miles ruefully, and then with much embarrassment he told Lord Sandilands what had occurred.
The narrative79 perplexed80 and distressed81 the listener. He understood Gertrude's feelings up to a certain point, but no farther; he could not understand why Miles's representations of his advocacy of his suit had had no effect in moderating her apprehensions82 of the world's view of such a marriage. He could say little or nothing to console Miles, but he told him he did not regard Miss Lambert's decision as final, or the nervous attack which had so alarmed him as of any import.
"I will see her, and have it out with her," said Lord Sandilands to himself; "and if it is necessary for her happiness's sake and that of Miles, I will tell her the truth."
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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stringently
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| adv.严格地，严厉地 | |
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prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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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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mere
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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sufficiently
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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murmur
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strictly
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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groaned
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solitude
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vagary
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| n.妄想，不可测之事，异想天开 | |
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cognate
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| adj.同类的，同源的，同族的；n.同家族的人，同源词 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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speculation
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bucolic
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gentry
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distinguished
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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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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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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intrudes
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的第三人称单数 )；把…强加于 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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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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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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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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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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