This comfortable state of mind, however, did not last long. Frances met them at the door with her face full of excitement. “Did you meet him?” she said. “You must have met him. He has not been gone ten minutes.”
“Meet whom? We met no one but the General.”
“I think I know,” cried Constance. “I have been expecting him every day—Markham.{v1-278}”
“He says he has come to fetch me, papa.”
“Markham!” cried Waring. His face clouded over in a moment. It is not easy to get rid of the past. He had accomplished13 it for a dozen years; and after a very bad moment, he thought he was about to shuffle14 it off again; but it was evident that in this he was premature15. “I will not allow you to go with Markham,” he said. “Don’t say anything more. Your mother ought to have known better. He is not an escort I choose for my daughter.”
“Poor old Markham! he is a very nice escort,” said Constance, in her easy way. “There is no harm in him, papa. But never mind till after dinner, and then we can talk it over. You are ready, Fan? Oh, then I must fly. We have had a delightful16 walk. I never knew anything about fathers before; they are the most charming companions,” she said, kissing her hand to him as she went away. But this did not mollify the angry man. There rose up before him the recollection of a hundred contests in which Markham’s voice had come in to make everything{v1-279} worse, or of which Markham’s escapades had been the cause.
“I will not see him,” he said; “I will not sanction his presence here. You must give up the idea of going altogether, till he is out of the way.”
“I think, papa, you must see him.”
“Must—there is no must. I have not been in the habit of acknowledging compulsion, and be assured that I shall not begin now. You seem to expect that your small affairs are to upset my whole life!”
“I suppose,” said Frances, “my affairs are small; but then they are my life too.”
She ought to have been subdued17 into silence by his first objection; but, on the contrary, she met his angry eyes with a look which was deprecating, but not abject19, holding her little own. It was a long time since Waring had encountered anything which he could not subdue18 and put aside out of his path. But, he said to himself—all that long restrained and silent temper which had once reigned20 and raged within him, springing up again unsubdued—he might have{v1-280} known! The moment long deferred21, yet inevitable22, which brought him in contact once more with his wife, could bring nothing with it but pain. Strife23 breathed from her wherever she appeared. He had never been a match for her and her boy, even at his best; and now that he had forgotten the ways of battle—now that his strength was broken with long quiet, and the sword had fallen from his hand—she had a pull over him now which she had not possessed24 before. He could have done without both the children a dozen years ago. He was conscious that it was more from self-assertion than from love that he had carried off the little one, who was rather an embarrassment than a pleasure in those days—because he would not let her have everything her own way. But now, Frances was no longer a creature without identity, not a thing to be handed from one to another. He could not free himself of interest in her, of responsibility for her, of feeling his honour and credit implicated25 in all that concerned her. Ah! that woman knew. She had a hold upon him that she never had before; and the first use she made of it was to insult{v1-281} him—to send her son, whom he hated, for his daughter, to force him into unwilling26 intercourse with her family once more.
Frances took the opportunity to steal away while her father gloomily pursued these thoughts. What a change from the tranquillity27 which nothing disturbed! now one day after another, there was some new thing that stirred up once more the original pain. There was no end to it. The mother’s letters at one moment, the brother’s arrival at another, and no more quiet whatever could be done, no more peace.
Nevertheless, dinner and the compulsory28 decorum which surrounds that great daily event, had its usual tranquillising effect. Waring could not shut out from his mind the consciousness that to refuse to see his wife’s son, the brother of his own children, was against all the decencies of life. It is easy to say that you will not acknowledge social compulsion, but it is not so easy to carry out that determination. By the time that dinner was over, he had begun to perceive that it was impossible. He took no part, indeed, in the{v1-282} conversation, lightly maintained, by Constance, about her brother, made short replies even when he was directly addressed, and kept up more or less the lowering aspect with which he had meant to crush Frances. But Frances was not crushed, and Constance was excited and gay. “Let us send for him after dinner,” she said. “He is always amusing. There is nothing Markham does not know. I have seen nobody for a fortnight, and no doubt a hundred things have happened. Do send for Markham, Frances. Oh, you must not look at papa. I know papa is not fond of him. Dear! if you think one can be fond of everybody one meets—especially one’s connections. Everybody knows that you hate half of them. That makes it piquant29. There is nobody you can say such spiteful things to as people whom you belong to, whom you call by their Christian30 names.”
“That is a charming Christian sentiment—entirely suited to the surroundings you have been used to, Con1; but not to your sister’s.”
“Oh, my sister! She has heard plenty of hard things said of that good little Tasie, who{v1-283} is her chief friend. Frances would not say them herself. She doesn’t know how. But her surroundings are not so ignorant. You are not called upon to assume so much virtue31, papa.”
“I think you forget a little to whom you are speaking,” said Waring, with quick anger.
“Papa!” cried Constance, with an astonished look, “I think it is you who forget. We are not in the middle ages. Mamma failed to remember that. I hope you have not forgotten too, or I shall be sorry I came here.”
He looked at her with a sudden gleam of rage in his eyes. That temper which had fallen into disuse was no more overcome than when all this trouble began; but he remained silent, putting force upon himself, though he could not quite conceal8 the struggle. At last he burst into an angry laugh: “You will train me, perhaps, in time to the subjection which is required from the nineteenth-century parent,” he said.
“You are charming,” said his daughter, with a bow and smile across the table. “There is only this lingering trace of medievalism in respect to Markham. But you know, papa, really a feud{v1-284} can’t exist in these days. Now, answer me yourself; can it? It would subject us all to ridicule32. My experience is that people as a rule are not fond of each other; but to show it is quite a different thing. Oh no, papa; no one can do that.”
She was so certain of what she said, so calm in the enunciation33 of her dogmas, that he only looked at her and made no other reply. And when Constance appealed to Frances whether Domenico should not be sent to the hotel to call Markham, he avoided the inquiring look which Frances cast at him. “If papa has no objection,” she said with hesitation34 and alarm. “Oh, papa can have no objection,” Constance cried; and the message was sent; and Markham came. Frances, frightened, made many attempts to excuse herself; but her father would neither see nor hear the efforts she made. He retired36 to the bookroom, while the girls entertained their visitor on the loggia; or rather, while he entertained them. Waring heard the voices mingled37 with laughter, as we all hear the happier intercourse of others when we are ourselves in gloomy opposition38, nursing our wrath39.{v1-285} He thought they were all the more lively, all the more gay, because he was displeased40. Even Frances. He forgot that he had made up his mind that Frances had better go (as she wished to go), and felt that she was a little monster to take so cordially to the stranger whom she knew he disliked and disapproved41. Nevertheless, in spite of this irritation42 and misery43, the little lecture of Constance on what was conventionally necessary had so much effect upon him, that he appeared on the loggia before Markham went away, and conquered himself sufficiently44 to receive, if not to make much response to the salutations which his wife’s son offered. Markham jumped up from his seat with the greatest cordiality, when this tall shadow appeared in the soft darkness. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, sir, after all these years. I hope I am not such a nuisance as I was when you knew me before—at the age when all males should be kept out of sight of their seniors, as the sage35 says.”
“What sage was that? Ah! his experience was all at second-hand45.”
“Not like yours, sir,” said Markham. And{v1-286} then there was a slight pause, and Constance struck in.
“Markham is a great institution to people who don’t get the ‘Morning Post.’ He has told me a heap of things. In a fortnight, when one is not on the spot, it is astonishing what quantities of things happen. In town one gets used to having one’s gossip hot and hot every day.”
“The advantage of abstinence is that you get up such an appetite for your next meal. I had only a few items of news. My mother gave me many messages for you, sir. She hopes you will not object to trust little Frances to my care.”
“I object—to trust my child to any one’s care,” said Waring, quickly.
“I beg your pardon. You intend, then, to take my sister to England yourself,” the stranger said.
It was dark, and their faces were invisible to each other; but the girls looking on saw a momentary46 swaying of the tall figure towards the smaller one, which suggested something like a blow. Frances had nearly sprung from her seat; but Constance put out her hand and{v1-287} restrained her. She judged rightly. Passion was strong in Waring’s mind. He could, had inclination47 prevailed, have seized the little man by the coat, and pitched him out into the road below. But bonds were upon him more potent48 than if they had been made of iron.
“I have no such intention,” he said. “I should not have sent her at all. But it seems she wishes to go. I will not interfere49 with her arrangements. But she must have some time to prepare.”
“As long as she likes, sir,” said Markham, cheerfully. “A few days more out of the east wind will be delightful to me.”
And no more passed between them. Waring strolled about the loggia with his cigarette. Though Frances had made haste to provide a new chair as easy as the other, he had felt himself dislodged, and had not yet settled into a new place; and when he joined them in the evening, he walked about or sat upon the wall, instead of lounging in indolent comfort, as in the old quiet days. On this evening he stood at the corner, looking down upon the lights of the Marina in the distance, and the grey{v1-288} twinkle of the olives in the clear air of the night. The poor neighbours of the little town were still on the Punto, enjoying the coolness of the evening hours; and the murmur50 of their talk rose on one side, a little softened51 by distance; while the group on the loggia renewed its conversation close at hand. Waring stood and listened with a contempt which he partially52 knew to be unjust. But he was sore and bitter, and the ease and gaiety seemed a kind of insult to him, one of many insults which he was of opinion he had received from his wife’s son. “Confounded little fool,” he said to himself.
But Constance was right in her worldly wisdom. It would make them all ridiculous if he made objections to Markham, if he showed openly his distaste to him. The world was but a small world at Bordighera; but yet it was not without its power. The interrupted conversation went on with great vigour53. He remarked with a certain satisfaction that Frances talked very little; but Constance and her brother—as he called himself, the puppy!—never paused. There is no such position for seeing the worst of{v1-289} ordinary conversation. Waring stood looking out blankly upon the bewildering lines of the hills towards the west, with the fresh breeze in his face, and his cigarette only kept alight by a violent puff54 now and then, listening to the lively chatter55. How vacant it was—about this one and that one; about So-and-so’s peculiarities56; about things not even made clear, which each understood at half a word, which made them laugh. Good heavens! at what? Not at the wit of it, for there was no wit—at some ludicrous image involved, which to the listener was dull, dull as the village chatter on the other side; but more dull, more vapid57 in its artificial ring. How they echoed each other, chiming in; how they remembered anecdotes58 to the discredit59 of their friends; how they ran on in the same circle endlessly, with jests that were without point even to Frances, who sat listening in an eager tension of interest, but could not keep up to the height of the talk, which was all about people she did not know—and still more without point to Waring, who had known, but knew no longer, and who was angry and mortified60 and{v1-290} bitter, feeling his supremacy61 taken from him in his own house, and all his habits shattered: yet knew very well that he could not resist, that to show his dislike would only make him ridiculous; that he was once more subject to Society, and dare not show his contempt for its bonds.
After a while, he flung his half-finished cigarette over the wall, and stalked away, with a brief, “Excuse me, but I must say good-night.” Markham sprang up from his chair; but his step-father only waved his hand to the little party sitting in the evening darkness, and went away, his footsteps sounding upon the marble floor through the salone and the ante-room, closing the doors behind him. There was a little silence as he disappeared.
“Well,” said Markham, with a long-drawn breath, “that’s over, Con; and better than might have been expected.”
“Better! Do you call that better? I should say almost as bad as could be. Why didn’t you stand up to him and have it out?”
“My dear, he always cows me a little,” said Markham. “I remember times when I stood{v1-291} up to him, as you say, with that idiotcy of youth in which you are so strong, Con; but I think I generally came off second-best. Our respected papa has a great gift of language when he likes.”
“He does not like now, he is too old; he has given up that sort of thing. Ask Frances. She thinks him the mildest of pious62 fathers.”
“If you please,” said the little voice of Frances out of the gloom, with a little quiver in it, “I wish you would not speak about papa so, before me. It is perhaps quite right of you, who have no feeling for him, or don’t know him very well; but with me it is quite different. Whether you are right or wrong, I cannot have it, please.”
“The little thing is quite right, Con,” said Markham. “I beg your pardon, little Fan. I have a great respect for papa, though he has none for me. Too old! He is not so old as I am, and a much more estimable member of society. He is not old enough—that is the worst of it—for you and me.{v1-292}”
“I am not going to encourage her in her nonsense,” said Constance, “as if one’s father or mother was something sacred, as if they were not just human beings like ourselves. But apart from that, as I have told Frances, I think very well of papa.
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1
con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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2
rehabilitated
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| 改造（罪犯等）( rehabilitate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使恢复正常生活； 使恢复原状； 修复 | |
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3
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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4
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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5
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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6
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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7
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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8
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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9
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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10
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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11
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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12
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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13
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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14
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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15
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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16
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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17
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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18
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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19
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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20
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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21
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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22
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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23
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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24
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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25
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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26
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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27
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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28
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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29
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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30
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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31
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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32
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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33
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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34
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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35
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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36
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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37
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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38
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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39
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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40
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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41
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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43
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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44
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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45
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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46
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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47
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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48
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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49
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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50
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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51
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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52
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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53
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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54
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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55
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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56
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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57
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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58
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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59
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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60
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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61
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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62
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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