But to Mrs Durant and Tasie it was an event of the first importance; and Mrs Gaunt was at first disposed to believe that it was a revelation of further wickedness, and that there was no telling where these discoveries might end. “We shall be hearing that he has a son next,” she said. They had a meeting in the afternoon to talk it over; and it really did appear at first that the new disclosure enhanced the enormity of the first—for, naturally, the difference between a widower6 and a married man is aggravated7 by the discovery that the deceiver pretending to have only one child has really “a family.” At the first glance the ladies were all impressed by this; though afterwards, when they began to think of it, they were obliged to admit that the conclusion perhaps was not very well founded. And when it turned out that Frances and the new-comer were twins, that altogether altered the question, and left them, though they were by no means satisfied, without anything further to say.{v1-179}
While all this went on outside the Palazzo, there was much going on within it that was calculated to produce difficulty and embarrassment8. Mr Waring, with a consciousness that he was acting9 a somewhat cowardly part, ran away from it altogether, and shut himself up in his library, and left his daughters to make acquaintance with each other as they best could. He was, as has been said, by no means sufficiently10 at his ease to return to what he called his studies, the ordinary occupations of his life. He had run away, and he knew it. He went so far as to turn the key in one door, so that, whatever happened, he could only be invaded from one side, and sat down uneasily in the full conviction that from moment to moment he might be called upon to act as interpreter or peacemaker, or to explain away difficulties. He did not understand women, but only his wife, from whom he had taken various prejudices on the subject; neither did he understand girls, but only Frances, whom, indeed, he ought to have known better than to suppose, either that she was likely to squabble with her{v1-180} sister, or call him in to mediate11 or explain. Frances was not at all likely to do either of these things; and he knew that, yet lived in a vague dread12, and did not even sit comfortably on his chair, and tried to distract his mind with a novel—which was the condition in which he was found by Mr Durant. The clergyman’s visit did him a little good, giving him at once a grievance13 and an object of ridicule14. During the rest of the day he was so far distracted from his real difficulties as to fall from time to time into fits of secret laughter over the idea of having been in all unconsciousness a source of danger for Tasie. He had never been a gay Lothario, as he said; but to have run the risk of destroying Tasie’s peace of mind was beyond his wildest imagination. He longed to confide15 it to somebody, but there was no one with whom he could share the fun. Constance perhaps might have understood; but Frances! He relapsed into gravity when he thought of Frances. It was not the kind of ludicrous suggestion which would amuse her.
Meanwhile the girls, who were such strangers{v1-181} to each other, yet so closely bound by nature, were endeavouring to come to a knowledge of each other by means which were much more subtle than any explanation their father could have supplied; so that he might, if he had understood them better, have been entirely16 at his ease on this point. As a matter of fact, though Constance was the cleverer of the two, it was Frances who advanced most quickly in her investigations17, for the excellent reason that it was Constance who talked, while Frances, for the most part having nothing at all interesting to say of herself, held her peace. Frances had been awakened18 at an unusually late hour in the morning—for the agitation19 of the night had abridged20 her sleep at the other end—by the sounds of mirth which accompanied the first dialogue between her new sister and Mariuccia. The Italian which Constance knew was limited, but it was of a finer quality than any with which Mariuccia was acquainted; yet still they came to some sort of understanding, and both repudiated21 the efforts of Frances to explain. And from that moment Constance had kept{v1-182} the conversation in her hands. She did not chatter22, nor was there any appearance of loquacity23 in her; but Frances had lived much alone, and had been taught not to disturb her father when she was with him, so that it was more her habit to be talked to than to talk. She did not even ask many questions—they were scarcely necessary; for Constance, as was natural, was full of herself and of her motives24 for the step she had taken. These revelations gave Frances new lights almost at every word.
“You always knew, then, about—us?” Frances said. She had intended to say “about me,” but refrained, with mingled25 modesty26 and pride.
“Oh, certainly. Mamma always writes, you know, at Christmas, if not oftener. We did not know you were here. It was Markham who found out that. Markham is the most active-minded fellow in the world. Papa does not much like him. I daresay you have never heard anything very favourable27 of him; but that is a mistake. We knew pretty well about you. Mamma used to ask that you should write, since there was no reason why, at your{v1-183} age, you should not speak for yourself; but you never did. I suppose he thought it better not.”
“I suppose so.”
“I should not myself have been restrained by that,” said Constance. “I think very well on the whole of papa; but obedience28 of that sort at our age is too much. I should not have obeyed him. I should have told him that in such a matter I must judge for myself. However, if one learns anything as one grows up,” said this young philosopher, “it is that no two people are alike. I suppose that was not how the subject presented itself to you?”
Frances made no reply. She wondered what she would have said had she been told to write to an unknown mother. Ought she to do so now? The idea was a very strange one to her mind, and yet what could be more natural? It was with a sense of precipitate29 avoidance of a subject which must be contemplated30 fully5 at an after-period, that she said hurriedly, “I have never written letters. It did not come into my head.{v1-184}”
“Ah!” said Constance, looking at her with a sort of impartial31 scrutiny32. Then she added, with a sequence of thoughts which it was not difficult to follow, “Don’t you think it is very odd that you and I should be the same age?”
Frances felt herself grow red, and the water came to her eyes. She looked wistfully at the other, who was so much more advanced than she felt herself to be. “I suppose—we ought to have been like each other,” she said.
“We are not, however, a bit. You are like mamma. I don’t know whether you are like her in mind—but on the outside. And I am like him. It is very funny. It shows that one has these peculiarities33 from one’s birth; it couldn’t be habit or association, as people say, for I have never been with him—neither have you with mamma. I suppose he is very independent-minded, and does what he likes without thinking? So do I. And you consider what other people will say, and how it will look, and a thousand things.”
It did not seem to Frances that this was the case; but she was not at all in the habit of studying herself, and made no protest. Did{v1-185} she consider very much what other people would say? Perhaps it was true. She had been obliged, she reflected, to consider what Mariuccia would say; so that probably Constance was right.
“It was Markham that discovered you, after all, as I told you. He is invaluable34; he never forgets; and if you want to find anything out, he will take any amount of trouble. I may as well tell you why I left home. If we are going to live together as sisters, we ought to make confidants of each other; and if you have to go, you can take my part. Well, then! You must know there is a man in it. They say you should always ask, ‘Who is She?’ when there is a row between men; and I am sure it is just as natural to ask, ‘Who is He?’ when a girl gets into a scrape.”
The language, the tone, the meaning, were all new to Frances. She did not know anything about it. When there is a row between men; when a girl gets into a scrape: the one and the other were equally far from her experience. She felt herself blush, though she scarcely knew why. She shook her head when Constance{v1-186} added, though rather as a remark than as a question, “Don’t you know? Oh, well; I did not mean, have you any personal experience, but as a general principle? The man in this case was well enough. Papa said, when I told him, that it was quite right; that I had better have made up my mind without making a fuss; that he would have advised me so, if he had known. But I will never allow that this is a point upon which any one can judge for you. Mamma pressed me more than a mother has any right to do—to a person of my age.”
“But, Constance, eighteen is not so very old.”
“Eighteen is the age of reason,” said the girl, somewhat imperiously; then she paused and added—“in most cases, when one has been much in the world, like me. Besides, it is like the middle ages when your mother thinks she can make you do what she pleases and marry as she likes. That must be one’s own affair. I must say that I thought papa would take my part more strongly, for they have always been so much opposed. But after all, though he is not in harmony with her, still the parents’ side is his side.{v1-187}”
“Did you not like—the gentleman?” said Frances. Nothing could be more modest than this question, and yet it brought the blood to her face. She had never heard the ordinary badinage35 on this subject, or thought of love with anything but awe36 and reverence37, as a mystery altogether beyond her and out of discussion. She did not look at her sister as she put the question. Constance lay back in the long wicker-work chair, well lined with cushions, which was her father’s favourite seat, with her hands clasped behind her head, in one of those attitudes of complete abandon which Frances had been trained to think impossible to a girl.
“Did I like—the gentleman? I did not think that question could ever again be put to me in an original way. I see now what is the good of a sister. Mamma and Markham and all my people had such a different way of looking at it. You must know that that is not the first question, whether you like the man. As for that, I liked him—well enough. There was nothing to—dislike in him.”
Frances turned her eyes to her sister’s face with something like reproach. “I may not{v1-188} have used the right word. I have never spoken on such subjects before.”
“I have always been told that men are dreadful prudes,” said Constance. “I suppose papa has brought you up to think that such things must never be spoken of. I’ll tell you what is original about it. I have been asked if he was not rich enough, if he was not handsome enough, if it was because he had no title: and I have been asked if I loved him, which was nonsense. I could answer all that; but you I can’t answer. Don’t I like him? I was not going to be persecuted39 about him. It was Markham who put this into my head. ‘Why don’t you go to your father,’ he said, ‘if you won’t hear reason? He is just the sort of person to understand you, if we don’t.’ So, then, I took them at their word. I came off—to papa.”
“Does Markham dislike papa? I mean, doesn’t he think——”
“I know what you mean. They don’t think that papa has good sense. They think him romantic, and all that. I have always been{v1-189} accustomed to think so too. But the curious thing is that he isn’t,” said Constance, with an injured air. “I suppose, however foolish one’s father may be for himself, he still feels that he must stand on the parents’ side.”
“You speak,” said Frances, with a little indignation, “as if papa was likely to be against—his children; as if he were an enemy.”
“Taking sides is not exactly being enemies,” said Constance. “We are each of our own faction40, you know. It is like Whigs and Tories. The fathers and mothers side with each other, even though they may be quite different and not get on together. There is a kind of reason in it. Only, I have always heard so much of papa as unreasonable41 and unlike other people, that I never thought of him in that light. He would be just the same, though, except that for the present I am a stranger, and he feels bound to be civil to me. If it were not for his politeness, he is capable of being medieval too.”
“I don’t know what medieval means,” said Frances, with much heat, indignant to hear her father thus spoken of as a subject for criticism.{v1-190} Perhaps she had criticised him in her time, as children use—but silently, not putting it into words, which makes a great difference. And besides, what one does one’s self in this way is quite another matter. As she looked at this girl, who was a stranger, though in some extraordinary way not a stranger, a momentary42 pang43 and impotent sudden rage against the web of strange circumstances in which she felt herself caught and bewildered, flamed up in her mild eyes and mind, unaccustomed to complications. Constance took no notice of this sudden passion.
“It means bread and water,” she said, with a laugh, “and shutting up in one’s own room, and cutting off of all communication from without. Mamma, if she were driven to it, is quite capable of that. They all are—rather than give in; but as we are not living in the middle ages, they have to give in at last. Perhaps, if I had thought that what you may call his official character would be too strong for papa, I should have fought it out at home. But I thought he at least would be himself, and not a conventional parent. I am sure he has been a very{v1-191} queer sort of parent hitherto; but the moment a fight comes, he puts himself on his own side.”
She gave forth44 these opinions very calmly, lying back in the long chair, with her hands clasped behind her head, and her eyes following abstractedly the lines of the French coast. The voice which uttered sentiments so strange to Frances was of the most refined and harmonious45 tones, low, soft, and clear. And the lines of her slim elastic46 figure, and of her perfectly47 appropriate dress, which combined simplicity48 and costliness49, carelessness and consummate50 care, as only high art can, added to the effect of a beauty which was not beauty in any demonstrative sense, but rather harmony, ease, grace, fine health, fine training, and what, for want of a better word, we call blood. Not that the bluest blood in the world inevitably51 carries with it this perfection of tone; but Constance had the effect which a thoroughbred horse has upon the connoisseur52. It would have detracted from the impression she made had there been any special point upon which the attention lingered—had her eyes, or her complexion53, her{v1-192} hands, or her hair, or any individual trait, called for particular notice. But hers was not beauty of that description.
Her sister, who was, so to speak, only a little rustic54, sat and gazed at her in a kind of rapture55. Her heart did not, as yet at least, go out towards this intruder into her life; her affections were as yet untouched; and her temper was a little excited, disturbed by the critical tone which her sister assumed, and the calm frankness with which she spoke38. But though all these dissatisfied, almost hostile sentiments were in Frances’ mind, her eyes and attention were fascinated. She could not resist the influence which this external perfection of being produced upon her. It was only perhaps now in the full morning light, in the abandon of this confidence and candour, which had none of the usual tenderness of confidential56 revelations, but rather a certain half-disdainful self-discovery which necessity demanded, that Frances fully perceived her sister’s gifts. Her own impatience57, her little impulses of irritation58 and contradiction, died away in the wondering{v1-193} admiration59 with which she gazed. Constance showed no sign even of remarking the effect she produced. She said meditatively60, dropping the words into the calm air without any apparent conception of novelty or wonder in them, “I wonder how you will like it when you have to go.{v1-194}”
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1
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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2
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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3
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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4
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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5
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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6
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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7
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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8
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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9
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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10
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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11
mediate
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| vi.调解，斡旋；vt.经调解解决；经斡旋促成 | |
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12
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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13
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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14
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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15
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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16
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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17
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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18
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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19
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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20
abridged
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| 削减的，删节的 | |
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21
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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22
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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23
loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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24
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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25
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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26
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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27
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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28
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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29
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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30
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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31
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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32
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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33
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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34
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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35
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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36
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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37
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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38
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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39
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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40
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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41
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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42
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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43
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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46
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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47
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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48
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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49
costliness
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| 昂贵的 | |
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50
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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51
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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52
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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53
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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54
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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55
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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56
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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57
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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58
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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59
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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60
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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