In the house in Great Walpole-street there was little change. Things went on in pretty much the same manner as when John Calverley was in the habit of creeping back to his dismal1 home with sorrow in his heart, or when Pauline sat watching and plotting in the solitude2 of her chamber3. Since her second husband's death Mrs. Calverley seemed to have eschewed4 even the small amount of society which she had previously5 kept; the heavy dinner-parties were given up, and the only signs of so-called social intercourse6 were the fortnightly meetings of a Dorcas Club which was held under Mrs. Calverley's auspices7, and at which several elderly ladies of the neighbourhood discussed tea and scandal under the pretence8 of administering to the necessities of the poor. At other times, the mistress of the house led a life which was eminently9 solitary10 and self-contained. She read occasionally, it is true; but when she called at the circulating library, she brought away with her, for her amusement or edification, no story in which, under the guise11 of fiction, the writer had endeavoured to portray12 any of the varieties of shifting human nature which had come beneath his ken13; no poem glowing with passion and ardour, or sweetly musical with melodious14 numbers. Hard, strong books of travel through districts with immense unpronounceable names; tales of missionary15 enterprise set forth16 in the coldest, baldest, and least-educated style, relieved with frequent interpolations of theological phraseology; reviews which had once been potential, but whose feeble echoes Of former trumpet17 fanfarons now fell idly on inattentive ears; polemical discussions on religious questions, and priestly biographies--lives of small men, containing no proper precept18, setting no worthy19 example--these were Mrs. Calverley's favourite reading. The butler declared that she read nothing at all; that though these books were brought from Mudie's on the back seat of the carriage, and were afterwards displayed on the drawing-room table, one at a time occupying the post of honour on his mistress's lap, she never so much as glanced at them, but sat staring with her steely blue eyes straight in front of her; a state of things which, rigorously persisted in, afflicted20 the butler, on his own statement, with a disease known to him as 'the creeps,' and which was considered generally so uncanny throughout the lower regions, that had not the wages been good and the table liberal, the whole household would have departed in a body.
About four o'clock on a dull afternoon in the very early spring, Mrs. Calverley was seated in her drawing-room in that semi-comatose state which inspired her domestics with so much terror. Some excuse, however, was to be made for her not attempting, on the present occasion, to read the book which lay idly in her lap, the time being 'between the lights,' as the phrase goes, when the gathering21 gloom of light, aided by the ever-present thickness of the London atmosphere, blots22 out the sun's departing rays before the time recorded in the almanac. It was very seldom, indeed, that Mrs. Calverley suffered her thoughts to dwell upon any incident of her immediately passed life. On what had happened during her girlhood, when she was the spoiled and petted heiress, on certain episodes in the career of jolly George Gurwood, her first husband, in which she had borne a conspicuous23 part, she was in the habit of bestowing24 occasional remembrances; but all that concerned her later life she wilfully25 and deliberately27 shut out from her mind. And this not from any sting of conscience, for Mrs. Calverley considered herself far too immaculate to be open to any such vulgar, consideration, but, as she said to herself, because everything of that kind was too near to allow her to form an impartial28 judgment29 upon it. It chanced, however, that upon this particular day, the deceased John Calverley had been frequently present to his widow's recollection. There was nothing extraordinary in this; it arose from the fact that that very morning, in looking through the contents of an old trunk which had long since been consigned30 to the lumber-room, Mrs. Calverley had come upon an old fly-blown water-colour drawing of a youth with a falling linen31 collar, a round jacket, and white-duck trousers, a drawing which bore some faint general resemblance to John even as she remembered him. Pondering over this work of art in a dreamy fashion, Mrs. Calverley found herself wondering whether her late husband's mental condition in youth had been as frank and ingenuous32 as that to be gathered from his physical portrait; and, secondly33, whether she had not either faultily misapprehended or wilfully misconstrued that mental and moral condition even during the time that she had been acquainted with him. Two or three times later in the day her mind had wandered to the same topic, and now, as she sat in the dull drawing-room in the failing light, her thoughts were full on him. It was pleasant, she remembered, though she had not thought so at the time, to be looking forward in expectation of his return home at a certain hour; pleasant to know that he would probably be detained beyond the appointed time, thereby34 giving her opportunity for complaint; pleasant to have some one to vent35 her annoyance36 upon who would feel it so keenly, and reply to it so little. She had not hitherto looked at her loss from this point of view, and she was much struck by the novelty of it; though she had never had any opinion of Mr. Calverley, she was willing to admit that he was not absolutely bad-hearted; nay37, there were times when--
Her reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the butler, who announced that a young lady was below desiring to speak to Mrs. Calverley.
'A lady! What kind of a lady?'
'A--a widow, mum,' replied the butler, pointing in an imbecile way, first at Mrs. Calverley's cap, and then at his own head.
'Ah,' said Mrs. Calverley, with a deep groan38, and shaking her head to and fro--for she never missed an opportunity of making capital out of her condition before the servants--'one who has known grief; eh, James? And she wants to see me?'
'Asked first if you lived here, mum, and then was very particular in wishing to see you. A pleasant-spoken young woman, mum, and not like any begging-letter impostor, or coves--or people I mean--of that sort.'
'You can light the gas, James, and then show the lady up. No, stay; show her up at once, and do not light the gas until I ring.'
Since she had known Madame Du Tertre, Mrs. Calverley had taken some interest in her own personal appearance, and not having seen her toilet-glass since the morning, she had an idea that she might have become somewhat-dishevelled.
The butler left the room, and presently returned, ushering40 in a lady who, so far as Mrs. Calverley could make out in the uncertain light, was young, of middle height, and dressed in deep mourning.
'You wish to speak to me, I believe?'
'I wish to speak with Mrs. Calverley.'
'I am Mrs. Calverley. What is your business?'
'Your--your husband died recently?'
'About six months ago. How very curious! What is your object in asking these questions?'
'Bear with me, pray! Do not think me odd; only answer me what I ask you--my reasons for wishing you to do so are so urgent.'
'The lady's voice was agitated42, her manner eager and unusual. Mrs. Calverley did not quite know what to make of her visitor. She might be a maniac43, but then why her interest in the deceased Mr. Calverley? Another, and to her idea, a much more likely explanation of that mystery arose in Mrs. Calverley's mind. Who was this hussy who was so inquisitive44 about other women's husbands? She should like to see what the bold-faced thing looked like. And she promptly45 rang the bell to summon James to light the gas.
'You will answer me--will you not?' said the pleading voice.
'It depends upon what you ask,' replied Mrs. Calverley with a smile.
'Tell me then--Mr. Calverley--your husband--was he very fond of you?'
The few scattered46 bristles47 which did duty as Mrs. Calverley's eyebrows48 rose half an inch nearer her forehead with astonishment49.
Something like a groan escaped from the stranger.
'And you--you loved him?'
'Very much in the same way,' said Mrs. Calverley, feeling herself for the first time in her life imbued51 with a certain amount of grim humour--'quite devoted to him.'
'Yes,' said the visitor sadly, 'that I can fully26 understand. Did you ever see or hear of his partner, Mr. Claxton?'
'I never saw him,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'I've heard of him often enough, oftener than I like. It was he that persuaded Mr. Calverley to going into that speculation52 about those iron-works which Mr. Jeffreys can make nothing of. But he wasn't a partner in the house; there are no partners in the house--only some one that Mr. Calverley knew in the City, and probably a designing swindler, for Mr. Calverley was a weak man, and this Claxton--'
'Mr. Claxton was the best man that ever walked this earth!' cried Alice, breaking forth, 'the kindest, the dearest, and the best.'
'Heyday53!' cried Mrs. Calverley with a snort of defiance54. 'And who may you be, who knows so much about Mr. Claxton, and who wants to know so much about Mr. Calverley?'
'That is right, James,' she added, 'light the gas;' and then she said in a lower tone, 'I shall be better able to judge the kind of visitor I have.'
'The gas was lighted and the servant left the room; Mrs. Calverley rose stiffly from her chair and advanced towards Alice, who remained seated.
'What is this,' she said in a strong voice, 'and who are you? coming here tricked out in these weeds to make inquiries55, and to utter sentiments at which modest women would blush. Who are you, I say?'
But while Mrs. Calverley had been speaking Alice had looked up, and her eyes had fallen upon a picture hanging against the wall. A big crayon head of John, her own old John, jut56 as she had known him, with the large bright eyes, the heavy thoughtful brow, and the lines round the mouth somewhat deeply graven. For an instant she bent57 her head before the picture, the next, with the tears welling up into her eyes, and in a low soft voice, without the slightest exaggeration in tone or manner, she said:
'You ask me who I am, and I will tell you!' Then pointing up to the portrait, 'I am that man's widow!'
'What!' screamed Mrs. Calverley. 'Do you know who that was?'
'No,' said Alice, 'except that he was my husband.'
'Why, woman!' exclaimed the outraged58 mistress of the house, in a torrent59 of rage, 'that was Mr. Calverley!'
'I know nothing,' said Alice, 'save that in the sight of Heaven he was my husband. Call him by what name you will, he had neither lot nor part with you. You tell me that he loved you, was devoted to you--it is a lie! You talk of your love for him, and that may be indeed, for he was meant to be loved! But he was mine, all mine--ah, my dear John! ah, my darling old John!'
'Well, upon my word,' cried Mrs. Calverley, 'this is a little too much! No one who knows me would imagine for a minute that I should condescend61 to quarrel about Mr. Calverley with any trolloping miss who chooses to come here! And no one who knew Mr. Calverley, selfish and neglectful as he was, and without the least consideration for me, would suspect him of being such a Bluebeard or a Mormon as you endeavour to make him out! How dare you come here with a tale like this! How dare you present yourself before me with your brazen62 face and your well-prepared story, unless it is, as I suppose, to induce me to give you hush-money to stop your mouth. Do you imagine for an instant that I am to be taken in by such a ridiculous plot? Do you imagine for an instant that--'
She stopped, for there was a sound of voices outside, and the next moment the door opened and Martin Gurwood, closely followed by Humphrey Statham, entered the room.
Mrs. Calverley dropped the arm which she had extended in monition, and Alice ran to place herself by Martin Gurwood's side.
'Save me from her!' she cried, shrinking on his arm. 'Save me from this woman!'
'Do not be afraid,' said Martin, endeavouring to calm her. 'We thought to find you here, but hoped to be in time to prevent your suffering any annoyance. Mother,' he added, turning to Mrs. Calverley, 'there is some mistake here.'
'There must be some mistake, indeed,' observed Mrs. Calverley, with great asperity63, 'when I find my son, a clergyman of the Church of England, taking part against his mother with a woman who, take the most charitable view of it, is only fitted for Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum64.'
'Not to take part against you, mother? Surely--'
'Well, I don't know what you call it,' cried Mrs. Calverley, 'or whether you consider it quite decorous to keep your arm round that young person before your mother's face! Or whether'--here the worthy lady gave a short nod towards Statham--'gentlemen with whom I have but slight personal acquaintance think themselves justified65 in coming into my house uninvited! I am an old-fashioned person, and I daresay don't understand these matters, but in my time they would not have been tolerated.'
'See, dear mother,' said Martin quietly, 'you do us all, and more especially this lady, great injustice66!'
'O, very likely,' said Mrs. Calverley, sarcastically67; 'very likely she is right and I am wrong! She has just told me that she was Mr. Calverley's wife, and no doubt you will bear out that that is correct, and that I have been dreaming for the last twelve years.'
'If you will permit me to speak, madam,' said Humphrey Statham in his deep tones, 'I think I can prove to you that this lady has, or imagines she has, grounds for the statement which she has made, and that while you have been deeply injured, her injuries are worse, and more serious than yours.'
'You will hear Mr. Statham, if you please, mother,' said Martin Gurwood; 'I am here to attest68 the truth of all that he will say.'
And then, with homely69 natural eloquence70 springing from the depth of his feeling, Humphrey Statham told, in nervous unadorned language, the story of the betrayal of the woman whom he loved. On the dead man's perfidy71 he dwelt as lightly as he could, more lightly still on the probable causes which had induced the dead man to waver in his faith, and to desert the home which had been rendered so unattractive to him; but he spoke39 earnestly and manfully of the irremediable wrong done to Alice, and of the manner in which her life had been sacrificed; and, finally, he produced the document in John Calverley's handwriting, which had just been discovered, to show how completely she had been made the victim of a fraud.
Sitting bolt upright on her chair, and slowly rubbing her withered72 hands one over the other, Mrs. Calverley listened to Statham's speech. When he stopped she bridled73 up and said with asperity,
'A very pretty story indeed; very well concocted74 and arranged between you all. Of course, I may believe as much of it as I choose! There's no law, I imagine, to compel me to swallow it whole, even though my son, a clergyman of the Church of England, sits by and nods his head in confirmation75 of his friend. And don't imagine, please, that I am at all surprised at what I hear about Mr. Calverley! I hear it now for the first time, but I always imagined him to be a bad and wicked man, given up to selfishness and debauchery, and quite without the power of appreciating the blessings76 of a well-ordered home. The young woman needn't start! I am not going to demean myself by engaging in any controversy77 with her, and wish rather to ignore her presence. But I will say,' said Mrs. Calverley, drawing herself up, 'but I will say that I had not expected to find that my son was sanctioning these proceedings78, and conniving79 at the disgrace which was being heaped upon me.'
'Mother!' cried Martin Gurwood, appealingly.
'It might,' continued Mrs. Calverley, with great placidity80, 'it might have been imagined that, as my son, and leaving out all question of his clerical position, he would have adopted another course, but such do not appear to have been his views. Let me tell him,' she cried, turning upon Martin with sudden fierceness, 'that henceforward he is no son of mine That I renounce81 him and leave him to shift for himself; he has no longer any expectations from me! On certain conditions I promised to share all with him now, and leave him my sole heir at my death. But I revoke82 what I said; I am mistress of my own fortune, and will continue to be so. Not one penny of it shall go to him.'
'You are, of course, at liberty to do what you like with your fortune, mother,' said Martin quietly, 'and it would never occur to me for an instant--'
'Stay!' interrupted Statham, taking his friend by the arm and pointing to Alice; 'there is no use in prolonging this painful discussion, and Mrs. Claxton is completely exhausted83.'
'You are right,' said Martin, rising from his seat, 'we have been somewhat thoughtless in thus overtaxing her strength, and will take her home at once.' Then advancing, he said, in a low tone, 'Mother, will you see me to-morrow?'
'Mr. Martin Gurwood,' said Mrs. Calverley, in a clear cold voice, 'with my own free will I will never look upon you again! And though the name that I bear is that of one who was a scoundrel, I am glad that it is not the name which is disgraced by you!'
And thus those two parted.
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1
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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4
eschewed
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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8
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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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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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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14
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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16
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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18
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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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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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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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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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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30
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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31
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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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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40
ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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41
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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44
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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46
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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47
bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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48
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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49
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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50
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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51
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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52
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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53
heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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54
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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55
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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56
jut
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| v.突出；n.突出，突出物 | |
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57
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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58
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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59
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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60
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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61
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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62
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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conniving
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| v.密谋 ( connive的现在分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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revoke
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| v.废除，取消，撤回 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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