But the Rector, you see, liked her, while his wife disapproved of her fundamentally. Pretty ways, forsooth! “She’s a flirt12, James, and I have no patience with Mr. Soames. The Eastward13 position is perfectly14 harmless, of course. Many clergymen adopt it—Lord Victor for one. But it was never done here, as you know very well, until Mr. Soames discovered that he could see the Sunday-school benches that way.”
The Rector shrugged15 with his eyebrows16. “Scandalum magnatum, my dear, and dire17 nonsense at that. Soames is a good fellow with a conscience, and may say his creed18 in my church to whatever wall he finds helpful.”
Mrs. James retorted that a magnet was quite out of place in a church, and set him gently chuckling19. That, as she knew, was final for the day; but she kept her eye steadily20 upon Miss Middleham, and had her small rewards. What was not discoverable could be guessed at by what was. She lighted by chance upon one crowning episode when, on a Sunday afternoon, she found her cousin Tristram declaiming Shelley’s Prometheus under the apple tree in the garden of Mary’s lodging21—not to the apples and birds of the bough22, but to the young person herself, snug23 in an easy chair, her Sunday pleats neatly24 disposed, no ankle showing, to speak of, but—and this did stamp a fatal air of domesticity upon the whole exhibition—but without a hat. This, if you come to think of it, means the worst kind of behaviour, a perverted25 mind. Shelley was an atheist26, and his Prometheus was probably subversive27 of every kind of decency—but that is nothing beside the point of the hat, which might be missed by any man, but by no woman. For consider. If a little nursery governess were to be read to by the cousin of a person of good family—a young man who might be engaged to a peer’s daughter by a nod of the head—one might think little of it, had there been evidence of its being an event. But there had been none—far from that. Mrs. James knew her Misperton Brand very well; events there were hailed by young persons in their best hats. Here, nothing of the kind. On the contrary, there was an every-day air about it which showed that the girl was at home with Tristram, Tristram much at home with the girl. That Tristram should be at ease was nothing; it would have been ridiculous had he not been—a nursery governess! But was it not disastrous28 flippancy—to say no harsher thing—in Mary that she, too, could be at ease; hatless, in a rocking chair; not rocking herself—no, not that! but able to rock at any moment! The enormity was reported, and the Rector said that so long as young women wore their hats in his church he cared nothing what they did with them elsewhere. He threatened to chuckle29, so no more could be said; but to Mrs. James, what had been dark surmise30 before was now garishly31 plain. The girl was——
But all this takes us far from the schoolroom where Miss Middleham was blamelessly expounding32 the Plantagenet Kings of England, or from the shady lime-tree walk where Mr. Germain was rhapsodizing upon yokes33, submissiveness, and young necks resilient.
He met her, as had now become his habit, on the next morning, and the next. The same bewildering, gentle monologues34 were delivered—or he paced by her side without speaking, without constraint35 or any sign that betrayed he was not doing an every-day thing. He was doing a thing which held her spellbound; but shortly afterwards he did another which made her brain spin. He proposed “a little walk” in the course of that afternoon—“Let us say, at six o’clock, if that would be perfectly agreeable to you.” An appointment! It must needs be agreeable; perhaps it was. He called for her at her woodbine-covered lodging, asked for her by name, and stood uncovered in the porch until she appeared; and then they walked by field-ways some couple of miles in the direction of Stockfield Peverel.
Upon this occasion she was invited, if not directed, to talk. It was a little catechism. Mr. Germain asked her of her family and prospects36, and she replied readily enough. There was neither disguise, nor pretence37 about what she had to tell him. She was what Mrs. James would have thought—and did think—frankly canaille. Her father was cashier in the London and Suburban38 Bank at Blackheath, and her mother was alive. This Mary was the second child of a family of six—all girls. Jane—“We call her Jinny”—was the eldest39, and a typewriter in a City office: “We shall never be anything more than we are now, because we aren’t clever, and are quite poor.” Jinny was seven-and-twenty; then came herself, Mary Susan, twenty-four years ago. A hiatus represented two boys who had died in infancy—“they mean more than all of us to Mother”—and then in succession four more girls, the eldest sixteen and “finishing.” “Ready to go out in the world, just as I did.” She knew nothing of her father’s father; but had heard that he had come from the West Country, Gloucestershire, she thought. Her mother’s maiden40 name had been Unthank. Really, that was all—except that she had been much what she was now—a nursery governess—since she was seventeen. “Seven years—yes, a long time; but one gets accustomed to it.” He tried, but could get no more out of her concerning herself; and he remarked upon it that, so surely as she began to talk of her own affairs, she compared them with Jinny’s and allowed them to fade out in Jinny’s favour. He judged that, as a child, she had been overshadowed. Jinny’s beauty, accomplishments41, audacity42 were much upon Mary’s tongue. Jinny knew French, and could sing French songs. She was tall—“a head taller than me”—not engaged to be married, but able to be so whenever she chose. Not easy to please, however. “Father thinks a great deal of Jinny. We are all proud of her. Perhaps you might not admire her style. Everybody looks at her in Blackheath.” Mr. Germain thought to himself that in that case, he should not admire her style.
It is not to be denied that these details had to be digested under protest. They were perfectly innocent, but they did not help the ideal. She was much more attractive when she was fluttered and whirled off her feet, rather breathless, with a good deal of colour, rather scared—as she had been at first. Now, however, she was at ease, tripping by his side, full of the charms of a dashing Jinny at Blackheath—and it came into his mind with a pang43 that, at this rate, she—the ideal, first-seen She—might disappear altogether behind that young lady’s whisking skirts. This he could not afford: his inquiries44 became more personal, and she immediately more coy. There came almost naturally into his attitude towards her an air of patronage45—tender, diffident, very respectful patronage, under which she soon showed him that his interest in her was moving her pleasantly. A man of more experience than he—who had none—would have seen in a moment that the attention of the other sex was indeed her supreme46 interest, the mainspring of her being; would have noticed that every filament47 in her young frame was sensitive to that. A man of gallantry and expertise49 could have played upon her as on a harp50. Mr. Germain could not do this, but his feelings were strongly attracted. So young, so simple, so ardent51 a creature! he said to himself, and—“God be good to all of us!—living, breathing delicately, exquisitely52, daintily indeed before my eyes upon sixty-five pounds a year!”
This fact had truly taken his breath away. Sixty-five pounds a year—mere wages—for the hire of a girl like a flower. “It was a great rise for me,” she had said. “I had never expected to earn more than ￡45—Jinny herself only gets a pound a week, and French is required in her office. But Mr. Nunn said that he would pay me ￡15 more than his usual allowance for governesses because it would not be convenient to have me in the house, and I must therefore pay for a lodging in the village. So I must think myself a very fortunate girl, to have my evenings to myself, and ￡15 a year into the bargain.”
Mr. Germain, reflecting upon the wages of his butler, valet, cook, head-housemaid, head-gardener, head-keeper, head-coachman, felt himself—though he did not know it—knocked off his feet. This comes of mingling53 interests under glamour54. The beglamoured would wiselier postpone55 practical inquiries.
But as it was, his interest in the young girl was quickened by admiration56 and pity to a dangerous height. He more than admired, he respected her. To make so gallant48, so enchanting57 a figure on sixty-five pounds a year! And oh, the scheming and shifts that the effort must involve. His fine lips twitched58, his fine, benevolent59 eyes grew dim; he blinked and raised his brows. Summer lightning seemed to play incessantly60 over his pale face. “My poor child, my poor, brave child!” he murmured to himself: but aloud he said,
“You interest me extremely—I am greatly touched, somewhat moved. Believe me, I value the confidence you have shown me. I do believe I shall not be unworthy of it. I must think—I must take time to consider—a little time, to see whether I cannot—whether I might presume—Sixty-five pounds a year—God bless me, it is astounding61!”
Then, to complete the enchantment62, she looked quickly up at him, gave him a full quiver from those deep homes of wonder, her unsearchable eyes. “It’s wonderful to me,” she said, simply, without any pretence, “that you should interest yourself in me. I cannot understand it.”
He schooled himself to smile, to be the patron again. “What do you find so wonderful in that, my dear?”
“That you should find time—that you should care—take notice—oh, I don’t know how to say it. I’m only a poor girl, you know, a nursery governess and a dunce. I was so terrified when you came into lessons that morning—I couldn’t tell you, really. My knees knocked.”
He felt more at his ease. “That was very foolish of your knees, my dear. I was greatly interested. And pray do not think me inquisitive63: that is not one of my vices64. It is far from my wish to—to patronize one for whom I have so high a respect. Your poverty is as it may be—at any rate, you earn your bread; and in that you are a head and shoulders above myself. And if you are a dunce, which I cannot admit—well, that can be mended, you know. Are we not all dunces? I remember a very wise man saying once that we know nothing until we know that we know nothing. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, I think so. But even then—Oh, no! It is very wonderful, I think.” And then, as he looked down at her smiling, he received again her full-orbed attack, and she said in a low voice, “Thank you for being so kind to me.” He had to turn away his head lest he should betray himself, and wreck65 what was to him a moment of ridiculous happiness. He could not trust himself to speak.
At the turnstile between the smithy and the Rising Sun beershop their ways should have diverged66; but, although he had fallen entirely67 silent, he accompanied her to Orient Cottage, where she lodged68. At the gate he held her hand for a minute while he somewhat breathlessly committed himself. “Let us, if you will be so good, repeat our little walk the day after to-morrow—that is, on Saturday. I leave this place on Monday, and should value another conversation with you. On Saturday you will be free, I think? Shall we then say the morning, at eleven?”
She would not allow him to see her eyes now. She murmured her “Yes—thank you,” and he went on.
“It is very kind of you. I may have something to say—but, be that as it may, to an old fogy of my sort the companionship of a young lady is flattering. I hope I may believe that I have not wearied you, since you are willing to indulge me again.”
“No, indeed, Mr. Germain. I shall be proud to come.” And then he let her hand go, and she slipped through the gate. As she entered her door she looked over her shoulder a shy good-night; he saluted69 her and paced slowly back to the Rectory. Combustible70 matter had been handled; had she been less simple or he more sure, there’s no saying what might not have been ablaze71. As it was he betrayed by no outward sign at all how stirred he was, though he was not very talkative at the dinner-table. The Rectory people dined at the Park. Tristram, it was told, was off again. He had gone to Pau, at a moment’s notice, with young Lord Branleigh.
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1
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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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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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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7
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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8
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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13
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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17
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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19
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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20
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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25
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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26
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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28
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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29
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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30
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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31
garishly
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| adv.鲜艳夺目地，俗不可耐地；华丽地 | |
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32
expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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33
yokes
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| 轭( yoke的名词复数 )； 奴役； 轭形扁担； 上衣抵肩 | |
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34
monologues
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| n.（戏剧）长篇独白( monologue的名词复数 )；滔滔不绝的讲话；独角戏 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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38
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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41
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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42
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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43
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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44
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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45
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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46
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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47
filament
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| n.细丝；长丝；灯丝 | |
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48
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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49
expertise
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| n.专门知识(或技能等)，专长 | |
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50
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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51
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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52
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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53
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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54
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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55
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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56
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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57
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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58
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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59
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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60
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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61
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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63
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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65
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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66
diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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67
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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68
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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69
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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70
combustible
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| a. 易燃的,可燃的; n. 易燃物,可燃物 | |
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71
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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