“What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?”
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
SIR RALPH did not go to Mrs. Archer1’s the next day. Nor for several days after that. How he got through them he could not have told; though probably none of those about him saw in him any change, or traces of disturbance2 of any kind. He heard Florence, speaking to his mother, mention that Captain Berwick had returned, and he fancied there was a hidden meaning in her tone as she said it. But yet it did not somehow interest him. It seemed already a long time ago since that afternoon on the terrace; and he was so utterly3 absorbed and engrossed4 by his own feelings just at this time that outward things did not readily come home to him. He felt as if it were already all over. The same moment which revealed the depth of his love for Marion had burnt into him the conviction that she was lost to him. He knew that his staying away for three days, from the house which had of late become an almost daily resort to him, could not but be observed and commented upon; but he did not care. Just now he was suffering too newly and acutely, to be very sensitive to lesser5 annoyances6, and it seemed a matter of small consequence that his behaviour should appear inconsistent or eccentric.
As it happened however, his conduct was not discussed or in any way commented upon by Mrs. Archer and her young friend. Cissy had been ill for two or three days; so ill as to be unable to leave her room, and though all Marion’s time, out of school hours, had been spent in nursing her, they had neither of them felt inclined for much conversation.
Ralph heard of the poor little woman’s illness quite accidentally.
At luncheon8 on the third day since his memorable9 visit, Sybil asked if she might go round by the market in her walk, to buy some fresh flowers.
“It’s too late for fresh flowers to-day,” said Miss Vyse.
And “What do you want them for?” asked Lady Severn.
“For the little boy’s mamma, Grandmamma,” answered Sybil, “she has been ill for two days, and Miss Freer said she was going to get up this afternoon, and she wanted to get some flowers to make the drawing-room pretty, but she hadn’t time to go round by the market.”
“And so she left orders with you to do so!” said Lady Severn, sarcastically10, “Really, I must say Miss Freer’s ideas of what is fitting and becoming are peculiar11, to say the least. To think of my granddaughters being sent all over the town to execute her commissions!”
“Oh, Grandmamma,” exclaimed Sybil, on the point of bursting into tears, “it wasn’t that way at all.”
“No, indeed,” added Lofty, coming to the rescue; “it was Sybil herself thought of it, and I said I would ask, but she said she would, because when we looked at our money, I had only my gold Napoleon and no little money. And she had two half-francs. So we fixed12 she should be the one to buy them.”
“You are very rude to interrupt in that way, Charlotte,” said her grandmother severely13, “both you and Sybil are by no means changed for the better lately in your manners.” At which Lotty looked resentful, but far from penitent14.
“If you both get up early to-morrow I’ll take you to the market myself before breakfast,” said Ralph, “then the flowers are sure to be fresh.”
This proposal was received with delight by both children, who scampered15 off to consult the equally amiable17 sister of Thérèse as to the best means of ensuring their waking by sunrise.
Then Ralph roused himself and set out for a solitary18 walk. He went first in the direction of Mrs. Archer’s house, intending to enquire19 at the door if she were better, without going in. But as he entered the street in which it was situated20, he met Charlie and Thérèse, from whom he obtained the information that Madame was much better, so much better that Mademoiselle was going to let her get up this afternoon.
Sir Ralph expressed his gratification at the good news.
“Be sure you tell your mamma, Charlie,” said he, “that I was coming to ask for her, when I met you. And give her my very kind regards, and say I hope she will soon be quite well.”
“I’ll remember,” said Charlie, “werry kind regards, and hopes she’ll soon be well. And what am I so say to Madymuzelle, that’s May, you know? What am I to say to her? Best love, that’s prettier than kind regards. I always send my best love.”
“Do you?” said Ralph, “but you see you’re a little chap. Best love isn’t half so pretty when people are big.”
As he drew near Mrs. Archer’s house he saw a gentleman come out of it, and walk on in front of him. It was Captain Berwick. He had only been leaving some books at the door, which his sister had sent to amuse the invalid22, but this, of course, Ralph could not know; and, though he thought he had suffered in these two days all that was possible to endure, he found that the sight of his successful rival’s quitting the house after enjoying, in all probability, a tête-à-tête with Marion, added a fresh pang23 to all he had already undergone.
Frank had not seen him, and he might easily have escaped his notice, but a strange impulse urged him forward. He walked rapidly, and overtook him just as he reached the corner of the street. The young man looked surprised, but responded cordially enough to his greeting.
“So you’re back again at Altes,” said Ralph, for want of anything better to say.
Frank did not deny the fact.
“Yes,” he replied; “the day before yesterday I turned up again. You’ve been away too, I hear?”
“Oh dear, yes; for ever so long. I left before you did. Indeed, I did not know till my return that you had not been here all the time.”
“We seem wonderfully interested in each other’s movements,” observed Frank, as they walked on, with rather an awkward laugh. He evidently, for some reason or other, did not feel particularly comfortable in his present society.
Ralph did not reply, and for a minute or two there was silence. Suddenly the same uncontrollable impulse again seized him, and he did not resist it.
“It’s absurd,” he thought, “going on in this way. It will be a ghastly satisfaction to hear it confirmed by his own lips.”
He turned to Frank.
“Excuse me, Berwick, if I am premature—I have certainly not yet heard it formally announced—but—I am right, am I not, in congratulating you?”
Frank looked confused and exceedingly surprised. A cloud of not small annoyance7 began to creep up over his handsome face.
“You must excuse me, Severn, but I haven’t the remotest idea what you are talking about. ‘Congratulate me.’ On what, pray?”
It was intensely disagreeable for Ralph. The last man on earth to pry24 into, or gossip about his neighbours’ affairs; who, indeed, carried to such an extreme his sensitive horror of intrusion, his shy avoidance of all matters of personal interest, that, in a general way, his nearest friend might have lost a fortune or gained a wife without his appearing to have heard of the event. He would have given worlds to have made some half apology, to have shuffled25 out of it with some muttered words of “must have been a mistake,” or “only a piece of the usual Altes gossip, which Captain Berwick must excuse.”
But he was determined26 to have done with it and drove himself on remorselessly.
“On your marriage,” he said quietly, “or, rather, I should say on your engagement to be married.”
“To whom?” asked Frank, in a constrained27 voice.
“To Miss Freer,” replied Ralph.
“And who told you?” asked Frank again.
“No one in particular,” answered Ralph, beginning to chafe28 under all this cross-questioning; “I heard it in several quarters, and you may be sure I felt no doubt of the truth of the report, or I certainly would not have motioned any young lady’s name, as I have just now done.”
He spoke29 stiffly. He could not understand Frank’s behaviour. But his bewilderment changed to utter astonishment30, when suddenly Captain Berwick turned round upon him.
“ ‘No one in particular;’ you say Sir Ralph Severn, told you this piece of News. Then perhaps you will be so good as till this friend of yours ‘no one in particular,’ that he or she will do better in future to refrain in the first place from believing, and in the second place from circulating, such idle and mischievous31 tales, for which there is no foundation whatever in fact. As to whether this piece of advice may not with peculiar propriety33 be extended to yourself, I leave you to judge.”
So saying he bowed stiffly, his face flushed with excitement and indignation, and turning sharply in an opposite direction, left Ralph to pursue his walk alone.
The whole interview had passed so rapidly that Ralph felt thoroughly34 confused. Frank had left him no time to reply to his extraordinary outburst, and indeed, had he done so, Ralph would hardly have known what to say. He did not feel angry, and would have been ready enough to apologise for however unintentionally, hurt or annoyed his hot-blooded companion: though really it was difficult to see in what way he had done so! As he walked on slowly his thoughts began gradually to emerge from their bewilderment, and to take the only form by which it appeared to him that the riddle35 could be explained.
Frank was ashamed of himself! He had gone too far with Miss Freer, and at the last had dishonourably withdrawn36. No wonder the mention of this report put him in a passion. No wonder indeed. Ralph ground his teeth, as for one passing moment he wished he were Marion’s brother. This explained it all. Her altered looks, her variable spirits, her painful agitation37 at the mention if Captain Berwick’s return. Poor little governess! This then was the price she had to pay for her womanly self-denial and honest independence of spirit. (For Ralph had gathered from Cissy’s remarks that during her stay at Altes there had been no positive necessity for Marion’s exertions39, but that she had “too great a notion of independence.”) It must have been that mother and sisters of his! Looking down upon her because she was a daily governess. Looking down on her.
“Oh,” thought Ralph to himself, “if only I could set ever thing at defiance40 and brave the future, even now I feel as if I should like to snatch her away from all those horrid41 people and devote my life to making her happy. But,” and with the ‘but’ his mood changed, “she doesn’t care for me. Oh, Frank Berwick, what a weak, contemptible42 fool you are! For he did care for her—I am sure of that.”
But hardly had his reflections reached this point when they were interrupted. Hasty steps behind him which his absorption had prevented his hearing as they drew nearer, and in another moment there stood Frank Berwick beside him. His face still flushed, but more now from eagerness than annoyance, and with a look of resolution about it too.
“Severn,” he began abruptly43, “I behaved like a fool just now; but I was most intensely annoyed, as you will understand when you hear what I have got to say. I want to tell you something. It’s rather a queer thing to do, I know, but it seems to me we have all been playing at cross purposes, and I shall feel better satisfied if I tell you. There is not another man living, I don’t think, that I would trust, as I am going to let you see I trust you.”
He stopped, rather awkwardly, for Ralph had not by glance or gesture encouraged him to proceed. Now, however, he could hardly avoid saying something.
“If I can be of use to you, Captain Berwick,” he said, coldly, “I shall be glad to do what I can. But, remember a stranger can seldom do much good by meddling44 among relations, if that, as I suspect, is what you want of me.”
Frank smiled.
“I see what you’re driving at,” he said, “and that confirms me in resolving to set you right; for my own sake, if for no other. You think, Severn, I see plainly, that my very evident admiration—to use no stronger word—for the young lady you mentioned a short time ago, would—nay, should— have resulted in what you rather rashly congratulated me upon just now, had it not been for some backwardness on my part. Fear of my people’s opposition45, or some such obstacle. You are quite mistaken. I am in no way dependent on my parents. I have a good appointment in India and need consult no one as to whom I marry. Nor, indeed, would my people have opposed me in this. Of that I am quite sure. Did it never strike you, Severn, that there might be another way of accounting46 for the present state of affairs, which you evidently don’t think satisfactory? You have been blaming me; suppose you find I am more to be pitied than blamed. It’s not a pleasant thing to tell, Severn, but this is the actual state of the case. I did offer myself and all that I had in the world to Miss Freer, most distinctly and unmistakeably. It certainly was not much to offer, but such as it was it was most honestly laid before her, to take or leave. And she chose the latter.”
“The latter?” repeated Ralph, as if he hardly understood what Frank was saying.
“Yes, the latter. In plain English, Severn, she wouldn’t have me. Refused me out-and-out. Decidedly, unmistakeably, but all the same, she did it in such a way that, though rejecting me as a lover, she kept me as a friend. And that’s a feat48 few women can perform. Her friend, indeed. She has none truer.”
“It does honour not only to her, Berwick,” said Ralph, warmly, “but still more to you. But when did all this happen?” he asked eagerly, adding in the same breath, “forgive me. I have no right to ask such questions.”
“You are perfectly49 welcome to the whole story,” said Frank, too much in earnest to stand on much ceremony; “in fact, that you should hear the whole story was my object in telling you any. When did it happen? Oh, ages ago! I thought I had begun to get over it a little, till you touched the tender place just now. It was on the night of the second ball. You remember? The day before you went away.”
Did he not remember?
“But now comes the part of the whole I most want to tell you,” went on Frank; “and yet the hardest to, even hint, to you. I fervently50 hope I am not doing wrong, but I am sure I can trust you, Severn. Just now when I lost my temper, it was not merely mortification51 and all that sort of thing; it was indignation against you.”
“Don’t you see? But of course you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t require me to tell you. I was furious at you, very much in the same way that you were furious at me. I declare, Severn,” he broke out, half smiling, but impatiently, seeing that the look of bewilderment did not in the least clear from Ralph’s face. “I declare you are very dense53. I know you’re very learned and clever, but I must say you are uncommonly54 stupid too. Don’t you see?” he repeated. “You were indignant with me, thinking I had been trifling55 with the best and sweetest girl in the world. Well, I was angry because I thought the very same thing of you.”
The light began to break on Ralph, but very faintly as yet.
“I understand you to some extent,” he said; “but surely I, so much older and graver than you—surely Altes gossip might leave me alone.”
“That it won’t,” said Frank;” but it isn’t Altes gossip I am talking about. To speak plainly, Severn, for you drive me to it. When Severn she, you know who, refused me, it did not require much penetration56 to discover she had the best of reasons. She is no coquette, and she is very young. Only one thing had blinded her to my feelings towards her, otherwise she would never have found it in her gentle heart to let them go so far unchecked. And this thing was her own devotion to another. Don’t you see it now, Severn? No wonder I blamed you. You, the luckiest man on earth! For I knew she was not the sort of girl to have given her affection unsought. And that night, when you came to tell her you were leaving Altes, in that sudden, cruel way, I could have done I don’t know what to you, Severn. Till to-day, I never doubted you knew it. You see you went there pretty often, and that, for you, said a good deal. Altogether, no one but yourself could have made me believe you were so blind. If I have been mistaken, Severn, in believing that you cared for her, for heaven’s sake do not misuse57 what I have confided58 to you, by amusing yourself at her expense. Though, after all, I cannot quite believe I have been mistaken he added anxiously.
“You deserve my secret, Berwick,” said Ralph, in a voice that was husky in spite of his efforts. “You are a good fellow, and I see your motive59. You shall have my secret. You were not mistaken. There now, remember that, however strange my after conduct may seem to you. I shall, whatever I may be forced to do, think more of her happiness than of my own. Goodbye, for the present and thank you,” he said, earnestly, as they shook hands hastily, and separated.
Frank sailed for India three days after.
Before he went, however, he took pity on the ill-requited devotion of Dora Bailey; pro-posed to her, and was of course, accepted. Poor Frank! He was not altogether of the stuff of which heroes of romance are made, though one deed of his life had, at least according to the world’s standard in such matters, somewhat savoured of the heroic. He made one stipulation60, however, with the enraptured61 Dora: she was to tell no one of the engagement for two months to come; at the end of which time he promised to write to her father, whose consent he did not anticipate much difficulty in obtaining, and to make arrangements for her joining him in India, under suitable escort. It was rather hard upon Dora, but she was too much in awe62 of him, and too grateful for his immense condescension63 to dream of opposing him, though she thought to herself, “How very nice it would have been to announce my engagement before every one leaves Altes for the summer. Particularly to that Miss Freer, who has done her best to lure64 him away from me.”
She would have had no objection to being married on the spot and setting off with him then and there, which, considering it would have involved the going without a trousseau and all its delightful65 attendants, proves that she was very deeply in love!
“She’s not a bad little thing in her way,” said Frank to himself, “though rather too much of a goose. And certainly a long way better than anything I could have picked up in India. So, on the whole, it’s the best thing I can do, for I couldn’t stand much more of that horrible bachelor life out there.”
But as for marrying her on the spot! No, he was not quite ready for that. Other things as yet were too fresh; though after a time, and a few mouths of unsatisfactory, lonely life in India, he, being domestic in his tastes, hoped to be able to work up to a moderate amount of love for the silly, affectionate baby.
“She’s pretty, and any way I know she cares for me, which is always something. And I’m not likely ever to have a hotter chance, if as good.”
And when the time came to say goodbye, he really felt more sorry to part with her than he could have believed possible; and he whispered to her that the period of separation should not be a long one, if it was in his power to shorten it.
When Frank left him, Ralph still walked on. Mechanically, for he was quite unaware66 what direction he was following, or how far he had gone. His whole being was shaken to its centre. He could see clearly along no line of thought. All was confusion. What had he done? What should he do? Duty and inclination67, prudence68 and generosity69, warred against each other. Worse than this, one duty took up arms against another, and which to consider victorious70 he could not decide. All his past convictions as to what was right and wise for him, firm and sound as he had thought them, were suddenly uprooted71 and thrown in his face, by the new claims, not merely on his inclination, but on his honour, which Frank’s communication had revealed to him. His was one of those morbidly72 conscientious73 natures which persist in always erecting74 barriers between the right and the pleasant. Often, no doubt, barriers are planted there already by higher hands than ours, in which case, all we can do is to submit, and make the best of the thorny75 road. But Ralph and others like him could not feel content with. He could hardly believe that duty sometimes wears an attractive form; that sometimes it is meet and lawful76 for us to gather the roses blooming by the way, and to saunter for awhile on the suit and inviting77 pastures, there to refresh our weary, travel-sore feet.
Had he not known and felt how entirely78 and intensely he cared for Marion, he could, in one way, have decided47 more easily, he said to himself; though in so thinking he erred79. For had he cared for her less, he could have offered her nothing meet for her acceptance! Of one like him, the fullest, deepest love would alone be worthy80 of the name at all. But the thought of winning her was so unspeakably tempting81 that he doubted himself:
“It is all abominable82 selfishness,” he said to himself, “I have no right to think of it. No man has less right to dream of marriage than I. In all probability I should only be dragging her into a life of struggling anxiety. Far worse to bear than her present dependence38; for then she might have others to care for, and for whom she would kill herself with anxiety. She is that sort of woman, I know. If I want a wife I should choose a not over sensitive, managing young woman—from which all the same Heaven preserve me!—one who would be good at living on next to nothing, for to all appearances that is about what I should have to offer her.”
All most reasonable and true, if such indeed were his circumstances.
“But,” whispered a mischievous little voice, “supposing it true that this poor Marion loves you—loves you as you love her—have you any right to condemn83 her too, to the suffering you yourself, for your manhood, find hard enough to bear?”
“And then the battle all began over again, with small prospect84 of being quickly or satisfactorily concluded. But there came an interruption. This walk was indeed to be an eventful one to Sir Ralph.
He was hastening on, walking faster than usual, as was his habit when agitated85 or perplexed86; when, turning sharply a corner of the road, he came suddenly upon Mr. Price, sauntering along, an open book in his hand, of which he read a little from time to time. How peaceful and at rest he looked! The picture of a calm, emotionless student, undisturbed by the passions and anxieties by which ordinary mortals are tossed and torn. True, so far, for now in his autumn his life was even and colourless enough; but it had not always been so. There were furrows87 his brow, deep lines round the sensitive mouth, which told that he too had fought his battles, had loved and sorrowed like his fellows!
“Sir Ralph!” he exclaimed, with a bright look of pleasure, “how delighted I am to have met you. Out on a solitary ramble88 like myself. Have you any objection to my joining you? What a lovely day, is it not? Not nearly so oppressively hot as it has been. But which way are you going?”
“Any way you like,” said Ralph, “it’s quite the same to me. I am merely taking a constitutional, as you see,” with a forced laugh.
“Well then,” said the tutor, on whose quick ears neither the tone nor the laugh fell disregarded, “since you have no choice, suppose we cross the road and return to Altes by that lane opposite. It’s not much of a round. Three to four miles will bring us home, and it’s pleasanter than the dusty highway.”
“Thank you,” replied Ralph, “that will do very well.”
And they walked on for some little time in silence. Suddenly Ralph remembered himself.
“I am afraid, Mr. Price, you won’t find me very good company to-day. I am thoroughly out of sorts, mentally, that is to say. I am wretchedly unhappy because I can’t see my way before me. I want to do right, and I cannot find out which way before me it lies. I couldn’t say as much as this to anyone else, but I know of old how I can trust you. And I don’t want you to think my queer behaviour arise from any other cause.”
“There is no queer behaviour in your treating me as an old friend, my dear boy,” answered Mr. Price. “Do just as you are inclined. If you don’t wish to talk, keep silence. It is a pleasure to me to have a quiet hour with you, whether you talk or not. But at the same time, my dear Sir Ralph, I am an older man by many years than you, and my life has not been all smooth sailing. It is just possible I might be able to suggest something—advise you even, being so much older,” he added apologetically, “if you should think fit to take me into your confidence as to your present perplexity.”
Ralph made no answer. Mr. Price looked penitent.
“I trust you don’t think me officious or presumptuous,” he began. “Believe me, Sir Ralph—”
“Do one thing to please me, Mr. Price,” said his ci-devant pupil, “forget all about that ‘Sir.’ Let me be plain Ralph again for a while, to you at least. It will make it easier for me to confess all my sins to you, as if I were a lad again.”
Mr. Price smiled at his fancy.
“If you have any sins to confess, my dear Ralph,” he said, “it will not be like old times. I shall never have another like you—no, never,” he added affectionately.
“Perhaps you won’t call it a sin,” replied Ralph; “if not, so much the better. All the same, for me, if not a sin, it was a piece of inexcusable folly89. You would never guess what I have done, Mr. Price.”
“Should I not?” asked he drily. “Are you quite sure of that?”
“Quite sure,” answered Ralph, “no one would believe it of me. This is what I have done, Mr. Price. I have fallen in love like any unfledged boy; or rather not like that at all, for that would be a passing affair, which, to my sorrow and my joy in one, mine is not. It is very sober earnest with me, Mr. Price. It is indeed. The whole of everything is changed to me, and what to do, how to act, I cannot for the life of me decide.”
“And the young lady?” put in Mr. Price.
“Yes, the young lady. That’s the worst of it, the worst and the best. I am horribly afraid, horribly afraid—and yet, at the bottom of my selfish heart intensely, unspeakably delighted to think so,—afraid I say, that she, my poor dear child, has been no wiser than I. Is it possible, Mr. Price, do you think it possible, that any sweet, lovely girl could care for me? Ugly, stupid and unattractive as I am. I can hardly believe it. And yet—”
It was rather difficult for Mr. Price to help laughing at Ralph’s most original way of making his confession90. But in pity to his unmistakable earnestness, he controlled himself, and said gravely,—
“Yes, Ralph, I do think it possible, very possible, that such a girl as you describe may care for you as you deserve to be cared for. And if I am right in what I suppose, I think you a wise and fortunate man. Fortunate in having obtained, wise, in having sought for, the love of that young girl; for she is not one to love lightly. She is a sweet, true girl, and she will be an even sweeter woman! I can’t pity you, Ralph, if your choice, as I suspect, has fallen on Marion Freer.”
“You have guessed rightly,” said Ralph, “though how you came to do so passes my comprehension. But you don’t understand it all yet, Mr. Price. ‘Wise and fortunate,’ you call me. The former I certainly have not been in this matter. To tell the truth I never thought about it, till the mischief91 was done. Fortunate, most wonderfully so, I should indeed consider myself, were I free to avail myself of this good fortune.
“Free, my dear boy?” exclaimed Mr. Price. “I confess I don’t understand you. Why are you not so? You are of age, your own master to a sufficient extent to marry when and where you choose. It is all very well to think of pleasing your mother, but you and she have not lived so much together as to be in any way dependent on each other in the way that some mothers and sons are. Probably Lady Severn might not consider Miss Freer suitable as to position and all that. But no one can look at her and not see that she is a lady! And beyond that I do not see that Lady Severn is called on to interfere92.”
“Nor do I,” said Ralph, “but she thinks she is. But don’t mistake me. It is no over regard to my mother’s prejudices that is influencing me. It is sheer necessity. This is the actual state of the case, Mr. Price—I am utterly and entirely dependent upon my mother. Not one shilling, not one farthing of my own do I either possess at present, or have I any certainty of ever possessing. How then can I think myself free to marry; to involve another in such galling93 dependence on my mother’s caprices? Though, truly speaking, hitherto the dependence has not galled94 me particularly. It affected95 no one but myself, and till now it never occurred to me how terribly it might complicate96 matters.”
Mr. Price stopped and looked at the speaker with an air of extreme bewilderment.
“Even now, my dear Ralph,” he said, “I don’t clearly follow you. In what is your position different from your brother’s? John married to please himself. As far as I remember Lady Severn did not particularly fancy the Bruce connection, but then she was too sensible to oppose it; knowing as she did that in the end all would be his. You mean, I suppose, that the amount of your yearly allowance depends on her goodwill97? But if I remember rightly this was settled permanently98 when John came of age; and I never before doubted that you were now in receipt, as a matter of course, or what had been his. Besides, in any case the whole must be yours eventually. It is only a question of a little time! You seem to be forgetting the entail99.”
“Forgetting it,” repeated Ralph, “no indeed; though there is little use in remembering what no longer exists. I will explain it all to you. But in the first place as to my allowance. It is altogether an arbitrary affair. John’s was settled as you say—settled in such a way that he was able to marry to please himself, without having to go on his knees for my lady’s permission. But then he was the heir; and my mother’s favourite. Whereas I, as you know, a mistake from the beginning, in childhood and youth barely endured; in manhood still more unfortunate in becoming the possessor or empty honours I never wished for; can hardly expect now for the first time, to find my mother ready to accede100 to my wishes; to agree in short to what few mothers in her position could consider other than an immense folly and mistake. No, Mr. Price, I have thought it all over calmly and dispassionately. My mother would never consent to my marrying a governess. I don’t think she cares about money. To do her justice she is not mercenary. But the thought of my wire having been a governess she could never get over.”
“And the entail?” put in Mr. Price, “what about that? You don’t mean to say you consented to its being broken?”
“Yes,” replied Ralph, “I do mean to say so. The entail no longer exists. That part of the affair I have in a sense no one but myself to thank for. This was how it happened. It was soon after John’s death—that horrible time you know, when my mother was really mad with grief, and the whole household shocked and upset by the accident and its dreadful result. I came home just in time to see him die. He was hardly conscious, but he whispered something when they told him I was there. I could not catch the words, but my mother said it was an appeal to me to be good to his children. Very probably it was. Well, after his death, my mother fell ill, and made up her mind that she too was going to die. She was in a frightfully low, nervous state, and her mind preyed101 on the notion that these children, Lotty and Sybil, were going to be left to my tender mercies, and that, I verily believe, I would turn them out into the streets! Of course they were utterly unprovided for, and as things were could not be made independent. So nothing would satisfy her but the breaking of the entail, to which I, miserable102 enough at being thus forced into my brother’s place, and at seeing how every one wished I had been thrown from my horse instead of him, was only too ready to consent. It was done, and a portion of ten thousand pounds each, was raised for my nieces. Then the estate was resettled, giving back to my mother, of course, her former life-estate according to her marriage-settlement.”
“But only hers for life, Ralph,” interrupted the tutor. “It will all be yours in the end?”
“If I survive her,” said Ralph, “But if not, and if I marry without her approval, what then? Why, my unfortunate widow and yet more unfortunate children would be simply beggars! Not one farthing of all she has, would got to them, save she gave it of free gift. Which thing, Mr. Price, in such a case she would never do. I am not exaggerating the state of the case. I know my mother well—her good points as well as her weak ones—and I am not reckoning without my host. Very lately she has told me her mind on the subject of my possible marriage; told it me plainly enough; and I know what I have to expect. If I marry to please her, she will, I know, act most liberally. If not, all I can look for depends on the contingency103 of my surviving her. She has not actually threatened to stop my allowance unless I marry as she wishes, but she very nearly did so. And I may tell you, Mr. Price,” added Ralph, his dark cheek flushing darker, “that my marrying to please her is utterly and entirely out of the question. She is bewitched I think, but thank Heaven I am not. If had but a certainty, however small, I would marry to-morrow, if my sweet Marion would have me, and leave Florence Vyse to the enjoyment104 of all she can extract from my poor mother. For that is all she wants. My mother’s money, not me; but unfortunately she sees that through me she might best secure it.”
“But the Whitelake estate?” asked Mr. Price, “that surely is independent of Lady Severn.”
“Yes,” replied Ralph, “that was not in my grandfather’s power touch, when he made over all the rest to his daughter. It went to my father with the title. But unfortunately between his succeeding to the title and his marrying the heiress several years intervened. Whitelake was not much of a place to begin with—I don’t think in its best days it gave more than some fifteen hundred a year; and my father mortgaged it so heavily that now the rents only just cover the mortgage interest. So that is a merely illusory possession, you see, I have nothing, Mr. Price. Nothing whatever and no certainty of ever having anything. And, then, though not idle, I am desultory105. At this moment I see before me no means of gaining enough to marry upon, even were I more sure than I am of my own health and strength, and even if I could make up my mind to risk the future. The present even is barred to me.”
“But if John had not died, Ralph? If you had remained in your original place as younger son. You are no worse off than you would have been then.”
“Yes, I am,” said Ralph emphatically, “ten times worse off. Had John lived some small provision would have been secured to me. He often talked of this. And I am worse off in another way. At that time I was getting on fairly well and should soon have risen higher. I had been vice32 consul16 at —— for some time, and had a good chance of succeeding Sir Archibald eventually. I liked the East, and it suited me. Climate and everything. I had ample time for the studies I liked best, and in my quiet, stupid way I was contented106 enough. Looking back on it now I certainly wonder at myself.” He went on dreamily. “I have, to my cost, had a shadowy, tantalizing107 glimpse of something like happiness! But at the time I believed myself to be an exception to the rest of mankind. I thought myself perfectly secure against this sort of thing”—he smiled half bitterly as he spoke. “You see how I am punished for my presumption108.”
Mr. Price answered by another question.
“Why, then, did you leave the East? I was never quite sure of the reason.”
“Solely and entirely to please my mother. Though she cared little for me personally, she had a regard for me as the head of the family, and thought it unfitting that I should spend my life half buried alive out there. Then the estate, Medhurst, puzzled her. The agent left and she had to choose another. Then, too, she had that fit of thinking she was going to die. Altogether, I seemed to have no choice. So I threw up my appointment, as you know.”
“I think you did wrong, Ralph. Wrong in this way. You should not have cut the ground from under your feet in both directions. You should not have thrown up your only other chance without securing to yourself a competency at home. This you might easily have done at the time the money was raised for John’s children.”
“Yes,” said Ralph penitently109. “I see it plainly enough now. But at that time I stood so completely alone. It never occurred to me that I should ever have to be selfish for others!”
“Well, there is no use blaming you now,” said Mr. Price. “The present question is, what can you, what should you do?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Sir Ralph. “And you see, Price, how horribly complicated it is. Were only I myself concerned I could soon decide, whatever agony it cost me. But if indeed, it be true, as I have great reason to believe (for the life of me I can’t be unselfish enough to say “fear”), that she is involved, that she cares for me,”—his voice sank as he uttered the words—“what can I do? How can I condemn another to the suffering that it has taken all my manhood to endure?”
Mr. Price did not reply. They walked on for some time in silence.
“Did you see Sir Archibald when you were in town lately?”
“Sir Archibald?” repeated Ralph, with surprise. “Oh, yes, I saw him. He was very gracious and condescended112 to approve of my notes on the various patois114 about here. Though, of course, Basque is his great hobby; and I have not been able to collect much new information about that. He is leaving England again next month. He says Cameron has not been so well lately.”
“So I heard,” said Mr. Price; “indeed I had better tell you at once what I am thinking of. I heard from Cameron yesterday. He is returning home. He can’t stand the climate. Now, Ralph, you see your old post will be free again. Supposing Sir Archibald were willing to use his interest for you to get it again, would you take it?”
Ralph did not answer at once. When he did at last speak it was slowly and thoughtfully.
“Yes,” he said, “I think I would. That is to say I should like to have the option of it to fall back upon, if—if I am right in my hope—or fear,” he added with a smile. “Thank you for telling me of it. But what must I do? It is not much use writing to my old chief. It would be much better to see him; don’t you think so?”
“Much better, I should say, from what I know of him. If you take my advice, Ralph, you will go over to London as soon as you can, see Sir Archibald, and, as you say yourself, secure the option of the appointment. There is no such tremendous hurry, as Cameron is not coming home for a month or two. But you should lose no time in obtaining Sir Archibald’s promise to get you the refusal of it. I don’t know the particulars of the thing, I suppose you could live on it, if the worst came to the worst and Lady Severn refused all assistance? But, remember, I am not advising you to anything rash. You must, if possible, be surer of your ground before risking a quarrel with your nearest relation. On the other hand, you have no right to ask for this young girl’s pledge till you are sure of something offer her. It is an awkward position, a very awkward position,” he repeated.
“But Price,” said Ralph, eagerly, “do you mean to say that were I obtaining this small certainty for the present, I should be justified115 in marrying? I—we could certainly live on my pay out there. Comfortably enough, I dare say. But the future. What about that?”
Mr. Price looked very grave.
“I trust I am not advising you badly, my dear boy. I can only tell you what I think. It seems to me that if you and this young lady do really care for each other, as I believe you do—as I and my poor little Margaret cared for each other, fifteen years ago,” he said, with a gentle smile, “in this case,” he went on, “I think you should, to some extent, brave the future. The probability of your not surviving your mother is small. And I cannot help feeling more sanguine116 than you appear about the way she would act if she were once convinced your decision was irrevocable. Lady Severn, I have good reason to know, is kind-hearted and conscientious, though, I must allow, prejudiced; and, perhaps, naturally so. You don’t think it would be well to make an appeal to her before doing anything else?”
“No, I don’t,” said Ralph. “At present it could do no good, and might do great harm. If I told her anything I must tell all, and imagine the horrors of her name being bandied about and insulted by my mother and Miss Vyse! For that girl hears everything. I have a dreadful idea that her suspicions are already aroused. Besides I should feel myself so much stronger to lay the case before my mother, if I felt I had something else to fall back upon. It would prove to her that I was most thoroughly in earnest. No, my first step must be to see my old chief.”
Just then their roads parted. They separated with a hearty117 shake of the hand, and a few strong words of thanks from Ralph for his former tutor’s sympathy and advice.
“You will let me know how it all ends, my dear Ralph,” said Mr. Price, as he left him.
“Most certainly. But I shall see you again?”
“It is doubtful,” replied the tutor. Any day now the Countess may decide on leaving Altes. And if you set off for England in a few days, we may be away when you return.”
“I hope not,” said Ralph. And then he walked home quickly, trying to arrange his plans in his mind.
“I should much like to be sure, quite sure, of what Berwick told me,” he thought; “and yet I see no way of satisfying myself without risk of committing her to more than at present I have a right to ask. But I couldn’t endure to go about in an underhand way; prying118 into her innocent thoughts and feelings. And on the other hand, I can’t endure to think that she may now be suffering, through my apparent coldness. Suffering, my poor little girl—and for me!”
At that moment he felt inclined to brave all, and rush off to Mrs. Archer’s on the spot.
Thinking threw no light on the difficulty. All he could decide upon was to make immediate119 preparations for another visit to England; and for the rest to be guided by circumstances, and by his honest determination to think first and most of her happiness.
Notwithstanding, however, all his misgivings120 and anxieties, the Ralph Severn who ran lightly up the long stone staircase of No. 5, was a very different being from the grave, careworn121 man who had slowly descended113 those same steps a few hours previously122.
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1
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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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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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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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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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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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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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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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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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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awe
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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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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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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87
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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100
accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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101
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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102
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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103
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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104
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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105
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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106
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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107
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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108
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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109
penitently
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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111
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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112
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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113
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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114
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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115
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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116
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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117
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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118
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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119
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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120
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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121
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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122
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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