Constance was not unacquainted with the amusement, though she was so young; and it is to be feared that she resorted to it deliberately13 for the amusement of her otherwise dull life at the Palazzo, in the first shock of her loneliness, when she felt herself abandoned. It was, of course, the victim himself who had first put the suggestion and the means of carrying it out into her hands. And she did not take it up in pure wantonness, but actually gave a thought to him, and the effect it might produce upon him, even in the very act of entering upon her diversion. She said to herself that Captain Gaunt, too, was very dull; that he would want something more than the society of his father and mother; that it would be a kindness to the old people to make his life amusing to him, since in that case he would stay, and in the other, not. And as for himself, if the worst came to the worst, and he fell seriously in love—as, indeed, seemed rather likely, judging from the fervour of the begin{v2-61}ning—even that, Constance calculated, would do him no permanent harm. “Men have died,” she said to herself, “but not for love.” And then there is that famous phrase about a liberal education. What was it? To love her was a liberal education? Something of that sort. Then it could only be an advantage to him; for Constance was aware that she herself was cleverer, more cultivated, and generally far more “up to” everything than young Gaunt. If he had to pay for it by a disappointment, really everybody had to pay for their education in one way or another; and if he were disappointed, it would be his own fault; for he must know very well, everybody must know, that it was quite out of the question she should marry him in any circumstances—entirely out of the question; unless he was an absolute simpleton, or the most presumptuous14 young coxcomb15 in the world, he must see that; and if he were one or the other, the discovery would do him all the good in the world. Thus Constance made it out fully16, and to her own satisfaction, that in any case the experience could do him nothing but good.{v2-62}
Things had gone very far during this fortnight—so far, that she sometimes had a doubt whether they had not gone far enough. For one thing, it had cost her a great deal in the way of music. She was a very accomplished17 musician for her age, and poor George Gaunt was one of the greatest bunglers that ever began to study the violin. It may be supposed what an amusement this intercourse was to Constance, when it is said that she bore with his violin like an angel, laughed and scolded and encouraged and pulled him along till he believed that he could play the waltzes of Chopin and many other things which were as far above him as the empyrean is above earth. When he paused, bewildered, imploring18 her to go on, assuring her that he could catch her up, Constance betrayed no horror, but only laughed till the tears came. She would turn round upon her music-stool sometimes and rally him with a free use of a superior kind of slang, which was unutterably solemn, and quite unknown to the young soldier, who laboured conscientiously19 with his fiddle20 in the evenings and mornings, till General Gaunt’s life became a{v2-63} burden to him—in a vain effort to elevate himself to a standard with which she might be satisfied. He went to practise in the morning; he went in the afternoon to ask if she thought of making any expedition? to suggest that his mother wished very much to take him to see this or that, and had sent him to ask would Miss Waring come? Constance was generally quite willing to come, and not at all afraid to walk to the bungalow21 with him, where, perhaps, old Luca’s carriage would be standing22 to drive them along the dusty road to the opening of some valley, where Mrs Gaunt, not a good climber, she allowed, would sit and wait for them till they had explored the dell, or inspected the little town seated at its head. Captain Gaunt was more punctilious23 about his mother’s presence as chaperon than Constance was, who felt quite at her ease roaming with him among the terraces of the olive woods. It was altogether so idyllic24, so innocent, that there was no occasion for any conventional safeguards: and there was nobody to see them or remark upon the prolonged tête-à-tête. Constance came to know the young fellow far better than his{v2-64} mother did, better than he himself did, in these walks and talks.
“Miss Waring, don’t laugh at a fellow. I know I deserve it.—Oh yes, do, if you like. I had rather you laughed than closed the piano. I had a good long grind at it this morning; but somehow these triplets are more than I can fathom25. Let us have that movement again, will you? Oh, not if you are tired. As long as you’ll let me sit and talk. I love music with all my heart, but I love——”
“Chatter26,” said Constance. “I know you do. It is not a dignified27 word to apply to a gentleman; but you know, Captain Gaunt, you do love to chatter.”
“Anything to please you,” said the young man. “That wasn’t how I intended to end my sentence. I love to—chatter, if you like, as long as you will listen—or play, or do anything; as long as——”
“You must allow,” said Constance, “that I listen admirably. I am thoroughly28 well up in all your subjects. I know the station as well as if I lived there.”
“Don’t say that,” he cried; “it makes a man{v2-65} beside himself. Oh, if there was any chance that you might ever——! I think—I’m almost sure—you would like the society in India—it’s so easy; everybody’s so kind. A—a young couple, you know, as long as the lady is—delightful.”
“But I am not a young couple,” said Constance, with a smile. “You sometimes confuse your plurals29 in the funniest way. Is that Indian too? Now come, Captain Gaunt, let us get on. Begin at the andante. One, two—three! Now, let’s get on.”
And then a few bars would be played, and then she would turn sharp round upon the music-stool and take the violin out of his astonished hands.
“Oh, what a shriek30! It goes through and through one’s head. Don’t you think an instrument has feelings? That was a cry of the poor ill-used fiddle, that could bear no more. Give it to me.” She took the bow in her hands, and leaned the instrument tenderly against her shoulder. “It should be played like this,” she said.
“Miss Waring, you can play the violin too?{v2-66}”
“A little,” she said, leaning down her soft cheek against it, as if she loved it, and drawing a charmingly sympathetic harmony from the ill-used strings31.
“I will never play again,” cried the young man. “Yes, I will—to touch it where you have touched it. Oh, I think you can do everything, and make everything perfect you look at.”
“No,” said Constance, shaking her head as she ran the bow softly, so softly over the strings; “for you are not perfect at all, though I have looked at you a great deal. Look! this is the way to do it. I am not going to accompany you any more. I am going to give you lessons. Take it now, and let me see you play that passage. Louder, softer—louder. Come, that was better. I think I shall make something of you after all.”
“You can make anything of me,” said the poor young soldier, with his lips on the place her cheek had touched—“whatever you please.”
“A first-rate violin-player, then,” said Constance. “But I don’t think my power goes so high as that. Poor General, what does he{v2-67} say when you grind, as you call it, all the morning?”
“Oh, mother smooths him down—that is the use of a mother.”
“Is it?” said Constance, with an air of impartial32 inquiry33. “I didn’t know. Come, Captain Gaunt, we are losing our time.”
And then tant bien que mal, the sonata was got through.
“I am glad Beethoven is dead,” said Constance, as she closed the piano. “He is safe from that at least: he can never hear us play. When you go home, Captain Gaunt, I advise you to take lodgings34 in some quite out-of-the-way place, about Russell Square, or Islington, or somewhere, and grind, as you call it, till you are had up as a nuisance; or else——”
“Or else—what, Miss Waring? Anything to please you.”
“Or else—give it up altogether,” Constance said.
His face grew very long; he was very fond of his violin. “If you think it is so hopeless as that—if you wish me to give it up altogether——”
“Oh, not I. It amuses me. I like to hear{v2-68} you break down. It would be quite a pity if you were to give up, you take my scolding so delightfully35. Don’t give it up as long as you are here, Captain Gaunt. After that, it doesn’t matter what happens—to me.”
“No,” he said, almost with a groan36, “it doesn’t matter what happens after that—to me. It’s the Deluge37, you know,” said the poor young fellow. “I wish the world would come to an end first”—thus unconsciously echoing the poet. “But, Miss Waring,” he added anxiously, coming a little closer, “I may come back? Though I must go to London, it is not necessary I should stay there. I may come back?”
“Oh, I hope so, Captain Gaunt. What would your mother do, if you did not come back? But I suppose she will be going away for the summer. Everybody leaves Bordighera in the summer, I hear.”
“I had not thought of that,” cried the young soldier. “And you will be going too?’
“I suppose so,” said Constance. “Papa, I hope, is not so lost to every sense of duty as to let me spoil my complexion38 for ever by staying here.{v2-69}”
“That would be impossible,” he said, with eyes full of admiration39.
“You intend that for a compliment, Captain Gaunt; but it is no compliment. It means either that I have no complexion to lose, or that I am one of those thick-skinned people who take no harm—neither of which is complimentary40, nor true. I shall have to teach you how to pay compliments as well as how to play the violin.”
“Ah, if you only would!” he cried. “Teach me how to make myself what you like—how to speak, how to look, how——”
“Oh, that is a great deal too much,” she said. “I cannot undertake all your education. Do you know it is close upon noon? Unless you are going to stay to breakfast——”
“Oh, thanks, Miss Waring. They will expect me at home. But you will give me a message to take back to my mother. I may come to fetch you to drive with her to-day?”
“It must be dreadfully dull work for her sitting waiting while we explore.”
“Oh, not at all. She is never dull when{v2-70} she knows I am enjoying myself—that’s the mother’s way.”
“Is it?” said Constance, with once more that air of acquiring information. “I am not acquainted with that kind of mother. But do you think, Captain Gaunt, it is right to enjoy yourself, as you call it, at your mother’s cost?”
He gave her a look of great doubt and trouble. “Oh, Miss Waring, I don’t think you should put it so. My mother finds her pleasure in that—indeed she does. Ask herself. Of course I would not impose upon her, not for the world; but she likes it, I assure you she likes it.”
“It is very extraordinary that any one should like sitting in that carriage for hours with nothing to do. I will come with pleasure, Captain Gaunt. I will sit with your mother while you go and take your walk. That will be more cheerful for all parties,” Constance said.
Young Gaunt’s face grew half a mile long. He began to expostulate and explain; but Waring’s step was heard stirring in the next room, approaching the door, and the young man{v2-71} had no desire to see the master of the house with his watch in his hand, demanding to know why Domenico was so late. Captain Gaunt knew very well why Domenico was so late. He knew a way of conciliating the servants, though he had not yet succeeded with the young mistress. He said hurriedly, “I will come for you at three,” and rushed away. Waring came in at one door as Gaunt disappeared at the other. The delay of the breakfast was a practical matter, of which, without any reproach of medievalism, he had a right to complain.
“If you must have this young fellow every morning, he may at least go away in proper time,” he said, with his watch in his hand, as young Gaunt had divined.
“Oh, papa, twelve is striking loud enough. You need not produce your watch at the same time.”
“Then why have I to wait?” he said. There was something awful in his tone. But Domenico was equal to the occasion, worthy41 at once of the lover’s and of the father’s trust. At that moment, Captain Gaunt having been got away{v2-72} while the great bell of Bordighera was still sounding, the faithful Domenico threw open, perhaps with a little more sound than was necessary, an ostentation42 of readiness, the dining-room door.
The meal was a somewhat silent one. Perhaps Constance was pondering the looks which she had not been able to ignore, the words which she had managed to quench43 like so many fiery44 arrows before they could set fire to anything, of her eager lover, and was pale and a little preoccupied45 in spite of herself, feeling that things were going further than she intended; and perhaps her father, feeling the situation too serious, and remonstrance46 inevitable47, was silenced by the thought of what he had to say. It is so difficult in such circumstances for two people, with no relief from any third party, without even that wholesome48 regard for the servant in attendance, which keeps the peace during many a family crisis—for with Domenico, who knew no English, they were as safe as when they were alone—it is very difficult to find subjects for conversation, that will not lead direct to the very heart of the matter{v2-73} which is being postponed49. Constance could not talk of her music, for Gaunt was associated with it. She could not speak of her walk, for he was her invariable companion. She could ask no questions about the neighbourhood, for was it not to make her acquainted with the neighbourhood that all those expeditions were being made? The great bouquet50 of anemones51 which blazed in the centre of the table came from Mrs Gaunt’s garden. She began to think that she was buying her amusement too dearly. As for Waring, his mind was not so full of these references, but he was occupied by the thought of what he had to say to this headstrong girl, and by a strong sense that he was an ill-used man, in having such responsibilities thrust upon him against his will. Frances would not have led him into such difficulties. To Frances, young Gaunt would have been no more interesting than his father; or so at least this man, whose experience had taught him so little, was ready to believe.
“I want to say something to you, Constance,” he began at length, after Domenico had left the room. “You must not stop my mouth by re{v2-74}marks about middle-age parents. I am a middle-age parent, so there is an end of it. Are you going to marry George Gaunt?”
“I—going to marry George Gaunt! Papa!”
“You had better, I think,” said her father. “It will save us all a great deal of embarrassment52. I should not have recommended it, had I been consulted at the beginning. But you like to be independent and have your own way; and the best thing you can do is to marry. I don’t know how your mother will take it; but so far as I am concerned, I think it would save everybody a great deal of trouble. You will be able to turn him round your finger; that will suit you, though the want of money may be in your way.”
“I think you must mean to insult me, papa,” said Constance, who had grown crimson53.
“That is all nonsense, my dear. I am suggesting what seems the best thing in the circumstances, to set us all at our ease.”
“To get rid of me, you mean,” she cried.
“I have not taken any steps to get rid of you. I did not invite you, in the first place, you will remember; you came of your own will.{v2-75} But I was very willing to make the best of it. I let Frances go, who suited me—whom I had brought up—for your sake. All the rest has been your doing. Young Gaunt was never invited by me. I have had no hand in those rambles54 of yours. But since you find so much pleasure in his society——”
“Papa, you know I don’t find pleasure in his society; you know——”
“Then why do you seek it?” said Waring, with that logic55 which is so cruel.
Constance, on the other side of the table, was as red as the anemones, and far more brilliant in the glow of passion. “I have not sought it,” she cried. “I have let him come—that is all. I have gone when Mrs Gaunt asked me. Must a girl marry every man that chooses to be silly? Can I help it, if he is so vain? It is only vanity,” she said, springing up from her chair, “that makes men think a girl is always ready to marry. What should I marry for? If I had wanted to marry—— Papa, I don’t wish to be disagreeable, but it is vulgar, if you force me to say it—it is common to talk to me so.”
“I might retort,” said Waring.{v2-76}
“Oh yes, I know you might retort. It is common to amuse one’s self. So is it common to breathe and move about, and like a little fun when you are young. I have no fun here. There is nobody to talk to, not a thing to do. How do you suppose I am to get on? How can I live without something to fill up my time?”
“Then you must take the consequences,” he said.
In spite of herself, Constance felt a shiver of alarm. She began to speak, then stopped suddenly, looked at him with a look of mingled56 defiance57 and terror, and—what was so unlike her, so common, so weak, as she felt—began to cry, notwithstanding all she could do to restrain herself. To hide this unaccountable weakness, she hastened off and hid herself in her room, making as if she had gone off in resentment58. Better that, than that he should see her crying like any silly girl. All this had got on her nerves, she explained to herself afterwards. The consequences! Constance held her breath as they became dimly apparent to her in an atmosphere of horror. George Gaunt no longer an{v2-77} eager lover, whom it was amusing, even exciting to draw on, to see just on the eve of a self-committal, which it was the greatest fun in the world to stop, before it went too far—but the master of her destinies, her constant and inseparable companion, from whom she could never get free, by whom she must not even say that she was bored to death—gracious powers! and with so many other attendant horrors. To go to India with him, to fall into the life of the station, to march with the regiment59. Constance’s lively imagination pictured a baggage-waggon, with herself on the top, which made her laugh. But the reality was not laughable; it was horrible. The consequences! No; she would not take the consequences. She would sit with Mrs Gaunt in the carriage, and let him take his walk by himself. She would begin to show him the extent of his mistake from that very day. To take any stronger step, to refuse to go out with him at all, she thought, on consideration, not necessary. The gentler measures first, which perhaps he might be wise enough to accept.{v2-78}
But if he did not accept them, what was Constance to do? She had run away from an impending60 catastrophe61, to take refuge with her father. But with whom could she take refuge, if he continued to hold his present strain of argument? And unless he would go away of himself, how was she to shake off this young soldier? She did not want to shake him off; he was all the amusement she had. What was she to do?
There glanced across her mind for a moment a sort of desperate gleam of reflection from her father’s words: “You like to be independent; the best thing you can do is to marry.” There was a kind of truth in it, a sort of distorted truth, such as was likely enough to come through the medium of a mind so wholly at variance62 with all established forms. Independent—there was something in that; and India was full of novelty, amusing, a sort of world she had no experience of. A tremor63 of excitement got into her nerves as she heard the bell ring, and knew that he had come for her. He! the only individual who was at all inter{v2-79}esting for the moment, whom she held in her hands, to do what she pleased with. She could turn him round her little finger, as her father said: and independence! Was it a Mephistopheles that was tempting64 her, or a good angel leading her the right way?
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1
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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sonata
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| n.奏鸣曲 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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perennially
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| adv.经常出现地；长期地；持久地；永久地 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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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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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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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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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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plurals
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| n.复数，复数形式( plural的名词复数 ) | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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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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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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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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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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46
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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48
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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49
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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50
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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51
anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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52
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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53
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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54
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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55
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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56
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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57
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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58
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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59
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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60
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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61
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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62
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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63
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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