The beck was swollen2 with late rains, and was brawling3 merrily over its stony4 bed; the churchyard grass was deep and cool and shadowy under the clustering branches. The poet’s tomb was disappointing in its unlovely simplicity5, its stern, slatey hue6. The plainest granite7 cross would have satisfied Mr. Hammond, or a cross in pure white marble, with a sculptured lamb at the base. Surely the lamb, emblem8 at once pastoral and sacred, ought to enter into any monument to Wordsworth; but that gray headstone, with its catalogue of dates, those stern iron railings — were these fit memorials of one whose soul so loved nature’s loveliness?
After Mr. Hammond had seen the little old, old church, and the medallion portrait inside, had seen all that Maulevrier could show him, in fact, the two young men went back to the place of graves, and sat on the low parapet above the beck, smoking their cigarettes, and talking with that perfect unreserve which can only obtain between men who are old and tried friends. They talked, as it was only natural they should talk, of that household at Fellside, where all things were new to John Hammond.
‘You like my sister Lesbia?’ said Maulevrier.
‘Like her! well, yes. The difficulty with most men must be not to worship her.’
‘Ah, she’s not my style. And she’s beastly proud.’
‘A little hauteur9 gives piquancy10 to her beauty; I admire a grand woman.’
‘So do I in a picture. Titian’s Queen of Cyprus, or any party of that kind; but for flesh and blood I like humility12 — a woman who knows she is human, and not infallible, and only just a little better than you or me. When I choose a wife, she will be no such example of cultivated perfection as my sister Lesbia. I want no goddess, but a nice little womanly woman, to jog along the rough and tumble road of life with me.’
‘Lady Maulevrier’s influence, no doubt, has in a great measure determined13 the bent14 of your sister’s character: and from what you have told me about her ladyship, I should think a fixed15 idea of her own superiority would be inevitable16 in any girl trained by her.’
‘Yes, she is a proud woman — a proud, hard woman — and she has steeped Lesbia’s mind in all her own pet ideas and prejudices. Yet, God knows, we have little reason to hold our heads high,’ said Maulevrier, with a gloomy look.
John Hammond did not reply to this remark: perhaps there was some difficulty for a man situated17 as he was in finding a fit reply. He smoked in silence, looking down at the pure swift waters of the Rotha tumbling over the crags and boulders18 below.
‘Doesn’t somebody say there is always a skeleton in the cupboard, and the nobler and more ancient the race the bigger the skeleton?’ said Maulevrier, with a philosophical19 air.
‘Yes, your family secret is an attribute of a fine old race. The Pelopidae, for instance — in their case it was not a single skeleton, but a whole charnel house. I don’t think your skeleton need trouble you, Maulevrier. It belongs to the remote past.’
‘Those things never belong to the past,’ said the young man. ‘If it were any other kind of taint20 — profligacy21 — madness, even — the story of a duel22 that went very near murder — a runaway23 wife — a rebellious24 son — a cruel husband. I have heard such stories hinted at in the records of families. But our story means disgrace. I seldom see strangers putting their heads together at the club without fancying they are telling each other about my grandfather, and pointing me out as the grandson and heir of a thief.’
‘Why use unduly25 hard words?’
‘Why should I stoop to sophistication, with you, my friend. Dishonesty is dishonesty all the world over; and to plunder26 Rajahs on a large scale is no less vile27 than to pick a pocket on Ludgate Hill.’
‘Nothing was ever proved against your grandfather.’
‘No, he died in the nick of time, and the inquiry28 was squashed, thanks to the Angersthorpe interest, and my grandmother’s cleverness. But if he had lived a few weeks longer England would have rung with the story of his profligacy and dishonour29. Some people say he committed suicide in order to escape the inquiry; but I have heard my mother emphatically deny this. My father told her that he had often talked with the people who kept the little inn where his father died, and they were clear enough in their assertion that the death was a natural death — the sudden collapse30 of an exhausted31 constitution.’
‘Was it on account of this scandal that your father spent the best part of his life away from England?’ Hammond asked, feeling that it was a relief to Maulevrier to talk about this secret burden of his.
The young Earl was light-hearted and frivolous32 by nature, yet even he had his graver moments; and upon this subject of the old Maulevrier scandal he was peculiarly sensitive, perhaps all the more so because his grandmother had never allowed him to speak to her about it, had never satisfied his curiosity upon any details of that painful story.
‘I have very little doubt it was so — though I wasn’t old enough when he died to hear as much from his own lips. My father went straight from the University to Vienna, where he began his career in the diplomatic service, and where he soon afterwards married a dowerless English girl of good family. He went to Rio as first secretary, and died of fever within seven years of his marriage, leaving a widow and three babies, the youngest in long clothes. Mother and babies all came over to England, and were at once established at Fellside. I can remember the voyage — and I can remember my poor mother who never recovered the blow of my father’s death, and who died in yonder house, after five years of broken health and broken spirits. We had no one but the dowager to look to as children — hardly another friend in the world. She did what she liked with us; she kept the girls as close as nuns34, so they have never heard a hint of the old history; no breach35 of scandal has reached their ears. But she could not shut me up in a country house for ever, though she did succeed in keeping me away from a public school. The time came when I had to go to the University, and there I heard all that had been said about Lord Maulevrier. The men who told me about the old scandal in a friendly way pretended not to believe it; but one night, when I had got into a row at a wine-party with a tailor’s son, he told me that if his father was a snip36 my grandfather was a thief, and so he thought himself the better bred of the two. I smashed his nose for him, but as it was a decided37 pug before the row began, that hardly squared the matter.’
‘Did you ever hear the exact story?’
‘I have heard a dozen stories; and if only a quarter of them are true my grandfather was a scoundrel. It seems that he was immensely popular for the first year or so of his government, gave more splendid entertainments than had been given at Madras for half a century before his time, lavished38 his wealth upon his favourites. Then arose a rumour39 that the governor was insolvent40 and harassed41 by his creditors42, and then a new source of wealth seemed to be at his command; he was more reckless, more princely than ever; and then, little by little, there arose the suspicion that he was trafficking in English interests, selling his influence to petty princes, winking43 at those mysterious crimes by which rightful heirs are pushed aside to make room for usurpers. Lastly it became notorious that he was the slave of a wicked woman, false wife, suspected murderess, whose husband, a native prince, disappeared from the scene just when his existence became perilous44 to the governor’s reputation. According to one version of the story, the scandal of this Rajah’s mysterious disappearance46, followed not long after by the Ranee’s equally mysterious death, was the immediate47 cause of my grandfather’s recall. How much, or how little of this story — or other dark stories of the same kind — is true, whether my grandfather was a consummate48 scoundrel, or the victim of a baseless slander49 — whether he left India a rich man or a poor man, is known to no mortal except Lady Maulevrier, and compared with her the Theban Sphinx was a communicative individual.’
‘Let the dead bury their dead,’ said Hammond. ‘Neither you nor your sisters can be the worse for this ancient slander. No doubt every part of the story has been distorted and exaggerated in the telling; and a great deal of it may be pure invention, evolved from the inner consciousness of the slanderer50. God forbid that any whisper of scandal should ever reach Lady Lesbia’s ears.’
He ignored poor Mary. It was to him as if there were no such person. Her feeble light was extinguished by the radiance of her sister’s beauty; her very individuality was annihilated51.
‘As for you, dear old fellow,’ he said, with warm affection, ‘no one will ever think the worse of you on account of your grandfather’s peccadilloes52.’
‘Yes, they will. Hereditary53 genius is one of our modern crazes. When a man’s grandfather was a rogue54, there must be a taint in his blood. People don’t believe in spontaneous generation, moral or physical, now-a-days. Typhoid breeds typhoid, and typhus breeds typhus, just as dog breeds dog; and who will believe that a cheat and a liar33 can be the father of honest men?’
‘In that case, knowing what kind of man the grandson is, I will never believe that the grandfather was a rogue,’ said Hammond, heartily55.
Maulevrier put out his hand without a word, and it was warmly grasped by his friend.
‘As for her ladyship, I respect and honour her as a woman who has led a life of self-sacrifice, and has worn her pride as an armour,’ continued Hammond.
‘Yes, I believe the dowager’s character is rather fine,’ said Maulevrier; ‘but she and I have never hit our horses very well together. She would have liked such a fellow as you for a grandson, Jack56 — a man who took high honours at Oxford57, and could hold his own against all comers. Such a grandson would have gratified her pride, and would have repaid her for the trouble she had taken in nursing the Maulevrier estate; for however poor a property it was when her husband went to India there is no doubt that it is a very fine estate now, and that the dowager has been the making of it.’
The two young men strolled up to Easedale Tarn58 before they went back to Fellside, where Lady Maulevrier received them with a stately graciousness, and where Lady Lesbia unbent considerably59 at luncheon60, and condescended61 to an animated62 conversation with her brother’s friend. It was such a new thing to have a stranger at the family board, a man whose information was well abreast63 with the march of progress, who could talk eloquently64 upon every subject which people care to talk about. In this new and animated society Lesbia seemed like an enchanted65 princess suddenly awakened67 from a spell-bound slumber68. Molly looked at her sister with absolute astonishment69. Never had she seen her so bright, so beautiful — no longer a picture or a statue, but a woman warm with the glow of life.
‘No wonder Mr. Hammond admires her,’ thought poor Molly, who was quite acute enough to see the stranger’s keen appreciation70 of her sister’s charms, and positive indifference71 towards herself.
There are some things which women find out by instinct, just as the needle turns towards the magnet. Shut a girl up in a tower till she is eighteen years old, and on the day of her release introduce her to the first man her eyes have ever looked upon, and she will know at a glance whether he admires her.
After luncheon the four young people started for Rydal Mount; with Fr?ulein as chaperon and watch-dog. The girls were both good walkers. Lady Lesbia even, though she looked like a hot-house flower, had been trained to active habits, could walk and ride, and play tennis, and climb a hill as became a mountain-bred damsel. Molly, feeling that her conversational72 powers were not appreciated by her brother’s friend, took half a dozen dogs for company, and with three fox-terriers, a little Yorkshire dog, a colley and an otter73-hound, was at no loss for society on the road, more especially as Maulevrier gave her most of his company, and entertained her with an account of his Black Forest adventures, and all the fine things he had said to the fair-haired, blue-eyed Baden girls, who had sold him photographs or wild strawberries, or had awakened the echoes of the hills with the music of their rustic flutes74.
Fr?ulein was perfectly75 aware that her mission upon this particular afternoon was not to let Lady Lesbia out of her sight for an instant, to hear every word the young lady said, and every word Mr. Hammond addressed to her. She had received no specific instructions from Lady Maulevrier. They were not necessary, for the Fr?ulein knew her ladyship’s intentions with regard to her elder granddaughter — knew them, at least, so far as that Lesbia was intended to make a brilliant marriage; and she knew, therefore, that the presence of this handsome and altogether attractive young man was to the last degree obnoxious76 to the dowager. She was obliged to be civil to him for her nephew’s sake, and she was too wise to let Lesbia imagine him dangerous: but the fact that he was dangerous was obvious, and it was Fr?ulein’s duty to protect her employer’s interests.
Everybody knew Lord Maulevrier, so there was no difficulty about getting admission to Wordsworth’s garden and Wordsworth’s house, and after Mr. Hammond and his companions had explored these, they went back to the shores of the little lake, and climbed that rocky eminence77 upon which the poet used to sit, above the placid78 waters of silvery Rydal. It is a lovely spot, and that narrow lake, so poor a thing were magnitude the gauge79 of beauty, had a soft and pensive80 loveliness in the clear afternoon light.
‘Poor Wordsworth’ sighed Lesbia, as she stood on the grassy81 crag looking down on the shining water, broken in the foreground by fringes of rushes, and the rich luxuriance of water-lilies. ‘Is it not pitiable to think of the years he spent in this monotonous82 place, without any society worth speaking of, with only the shabbiest collection of books, with hardly any interest in life except the sky, and the hills, and the peasantry?’
‘I think Wordsworth’s was an essentially83 happy life, in spite of his narrow range,’ answered Hammond. ‘You, with your ardent84 youth and vivid desire for a life of action, cannot imagine the calm blisses of reverie and constant communion with nature. Wordsworth had a thousand companions you and I would never dream of; for him every flower that grows was an individual existence — almost a soul.’
‘It was a mild kind of lunacy, an everlasting85 opium86 dream without the opium; but I am grateful to him for living such a life, since it has bequeathed us some exquisite87 poetry,’ said Lesbia, who had been too carefully cultured to fleer or flout88 at Wordsworth.
‘I do believe there’s an otter just under that bank,’ cried Molly, who had been watching the obvious excitement of her bandy-legged hound; and she rushed down to the brink89 of the water, leaping lightly from stone to stone, and inciting90 the hound to business.
‘Let him alone, can’t you?’ roared Maulevrier; ‘leave him in peace till he’s wanted. If you disturb him now he’ll desert his holt, and we may have a blank day. The hounds are to be out to-morrow.’
‘I may go with you?’ asked Mary, eagerly.
‘Well, yes, I suppose you’ll want to be in it.’ Molly and her brother went on an exploring ramble91 along the edge of the water towards Ambleside, leaving John Hammond in Lesbia’s company, but closely guarded by Miss Müller. These three went to look at Nab Cottage, where poor Hartley Coleridge ended his brief and clouded days; and they had gone some way upon their homeward walk before they were rejoined by Maulevrier and Mary, the damsel’s kilted skirt considerably the worse for mud and mire11.
‘What would grandmother say if she were to see you!’ exclaimed Lesbia, looking contemptuously at the muddy petticoat.
‘I am not going to let her see me, so she will say nothing,’ cried Mary, and then she called to the dogs, ‘Ammon, Agag, Angelina;’ and the three fox terriers flew along the road, falling over themselves in the swiftness of their flight, darting92, and leaping, and scrambling93 over each other, and offering the spectators the most intense example of joyous94 animal life.
The colley was far up on the hill-side, and the otter-hound was still hunting the water, but the terriers never went out of Mary’s sight. They looked to her to take the initiative in all their sports.
They were back at Fellside in time for a very late tea. Lady Maulevrier was waiting for them in the drawing-room.
‘Oh, grandmother, why did you not take your tea!’ exclaimed Lesbia, looking really distressed95. ‘It is six o’clock.’
‘I am used to have you at home to hand me my cup,’ replied the dowager, with a touch of reproachfulness.
‘I am so sorry,’ said Lesbia, sitting down before the tea-table, and beginning her accustomed duty. ‘Indeed, dear grandmother, I had no idea it was so late; but it was such a lovely afternoon, and Mr. Hammond is so interested in everything connected with Wordsworth —’
She was looking her loveliest at this moment, all that was softest in her nature called forth96 by her desire to please her grandmother, whom she really loved. She hung over Lady Maulevrier’s chair, attending to her small wants, and seeming scarcely to remember the existence of anyone else. In this phase of her character she seemed to Mr. Hammond the perfection of womanly grace.
Mary had rushed off to her room to change her muddy gown, and came in presently, dressed for dinner, looking the picture of innocence97.
John Hammond received his tea-cup from Lesbia’s hand, and lingered in the drawing-room talking to the dowager and her granddaughters till it was time to dress. Lady Maulevrier found herself favourably98 impressed by him in spite of her prejudices. It was very provoking of Maulevrier to have brought such a man to Fellside. His very merits were objectionable. She tried with exquisite art to draw him into some revealment as to his family and antecedents: but he evaded99 every attempt of that kind. It was too evident that he was a self-made man, whose intellect and good looks were his only fortune. It was criminal in Maulevrier to have brought such a person to Fellside. Her ladyship began to think seriously of sending the two girls to St. Bees or Tynemouth for change of air, in charge of Fr?ulein. But any sudden proceeding100 of that kind would inevitably101 awaken66 Lesbia’s suspicions; and there is nothing so fatal to a woman’s peace as this idea of danger. No, the peril45 must be faced. She could only hope that Maulevrier would soon tire of Fellside. A week’s Westmoreland weather — gray skies and long rainy days, would send these young men away.
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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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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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46
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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slanderer
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| 造谣中伤者 | |
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51
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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52
peccadilloes
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| n.轻罪，小过失( peccadillo的名词复数 ) | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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54
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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55
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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56
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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tarn
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| n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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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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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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otter
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| n.水獭 | |
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flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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flout
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| v./n.嘲弄，愚弄，轻视 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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inciting
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| 刺激的，煽动的 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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