John Hammond might be playing a very deep game, perhaps assisted by Maulevrier. He might ostensibly leave Fellside before Lesbia’s return, yet lurk7 in the neighbourhood, and contrive8 to meet her every day. If Maulevrier encouraged this folly9, they might be married and over the border, before her ladyship — fettered10, impotent as she was — could interfere11.
Lady Maulevrier felt that Georgie Kirkbank was her strong rock. So long as Lesbia was under that astute12 veteran’s wing there could be no danger. In that embodied13 essence of worldliness and diplomacy14, there was an ever-present defence from all temptations that spring from romance and youthful impulses. It was a bitter thing, perhaps, to steep a young and pure soul in such an atmosphere, to harden a fresh young nature in the fiery15 crucible16 of fashionable life; but Lady Maulevrier believed that the end would sanctify the means. Lesbia, once married to a worthy17 man, such a man as Lord Hartfield, for instance, would soon rise to a higher level than that Belgravian swamp over which the malarian18 vapours of falsehood, and slander19, and self-seeking, and prurient20 imaginings hang dense21 and thick. She would rise to the loftier table-land of that really great world which governs and admonishes22 the ruck of mankind by examples of noble deeds and noble thoughts; the world of statesmen, and soldiers, and thinkers, and reformers; the salt wherewithal society is salted.
But while Lesbia was treading the tortuous23 mazes24 of fashion, it was well for her to be guided and guarded by such an old campaigner as Lady Kirkbank, a woman who, in the language of her friends, ‘knew the ropes.’
Lesbia’s last letter had been to the effect that she was to go back to London with the Kirkbanks directly after Easter, and that directly they arrived she would set off with her maid for Fellside, to spend a week or a fortnight with her dearest grandmother, before going back to Arlington Street for the May campaign.
‘And then, dearest, I hope you will make up your mind to spend the season in London,’ wrote Lesbia. ‘I shall expect to hear that you have secured Lord Porlock’s house. How dreadfully slow your poor dear hand is to recover! I am afraid Horton is not treating the case cleverly. Why do you not send for Mr. Erichsen? It is a shock to my nerves every time I receive a letter in Mary’s masculine hand, instead of in your lovely Italian penmanship. Strange — isn’t it? — how much better the women of your time write than the girls of the present day! Lady Kirkbank receives letters from stylish25 girls in a hand that would disgrace a housemaid.’
Lady Maulevrier allowed a post to go by before she answered this letter, while she deliberated upon the best and wisest manner of arranging her granddaughter’s future. It was an agony to her not to be able to write with her own hand, to be obliged to so shape every sentence that Mary might learn nothing which she ought not to know. It was impossible with such an amanuensis to write confidentially26 to Lady Kirkbank. The letters to Lesbia were of less consequence; for Lesbia, albeit27 so intensely beloved, was not in her grandmother’s confidence, least of all about those schemes and dreams which concerned her own fate.
However, the letters had to be written, so Mary was told to open her desk and begin.
The letter to Lesbia ran thus:—
‘My dearest Child,
‘This is a world in which our brightest day-dreams generally end in mere28 dreaming. For years past I have cherished the hope of presenting you to your sovereign, to whom I was presented six and forty years ago, when she was so fair and girlish a creature that she seemed to me more like a queen in a fairy tale than the actual ruler of a great country. I have beguiled29 my monotonous30 days with thoughts of the time when I should return to the great world, full of pride and delight in showing old friends what a sweet flower I had reared in my mountain home; but, alas31, Lesbia, it may not be.
‘Fate has willed otherwise. The maimed hand does not recover, although Horton is very clever, and thoroughly32 understands my case. I am not ill, I am not in danger; so you need feel no anxiety about me; but I am a cripple; and I am likely to remain a cripple for months; so the idea of a London season this year is hopeless.
‘Now, as you have in a manner made your début at Cannes, it would never do to bury you here for another year. You complained of the dullness last summer; but you would find Fellside much duller now that you have tasted the elixir33 of life. No, my dear love, it will be well for you to be presented, as Lady Kirkbank proposes, at the first drawing-room after Easter; and Lady Kirkbank will have to present you. She will be pleased to do this, I know, for her letters are full of enthusiasm about you. And, after all, I do not think you will lose by the exchange. Clever as I think myself, I fear I should find myself sorely at fault in the society of to-day. All things are changed: opinions, manners, creeds34, morals even. Acts that were crimes in my day are now venial35 errors — opinions that were scandalous are now the mark of “advanced thought.” I should be too formal for this easy-going age, should be ridiculed36 as old-fashioned and narrow-minded, should put you to the blush a dozen times a day by my prejudices and opinions.
‘It is very good of you to think of travelling so long a distance to see me; and I should love to look at your sweet face, and hear you describe your new experiences; but I could not allow you to travel with only the protection of a maid; and there are many reasons why I think it better to defer37 the meeting till the end of the season, when Lady Kirkbank will bring my treasure back to me, eager to tell me the history of all the hearts she has broken.’
The dowager’s letter to Lady Kirkbank was brief and business-like. She could only hope that her old friend Georgie, whose acuteness she knew of old, would divine her feelings and her wishes, without being explicitly38 told what they were.
‘My dear Georgie,
‘I am too ill to leave this house; indeed I doubt if I shall ever leave it till I am taken away in my coffin39; but please say nothing to alarm Lesbia. Indeed, there is no ground for fear, as I am not dangerously ill, and may drag out an imprisonment40 of long years before the coffin comes to fetch me. There are reasons, which you will understand, why Lesbia should not come here till after the season; so please keep her in Arlington Street, and occupy her mind as much as you can with the preparations for her first campaign. I give you carte blanche. If Carson is still in business I should like her to make my girl’s gowns; but you must please yourself in this matter, as it is quite possible that Carson is a little behind the times.
‘I must ask you to present my darling, and to deal with her exactly as if she were a daughter of your own. I think you know all my views and hopes about her; and I feel that I can trust to your friendship in this my day of need. The dream of my life has been to launch her myself, and direct her every step in the mazes of town life; but that dream is over. I have kept age and infirmity at a distance, have even forgotten that the years were going by; and now I find myself an old woman all at once, and my golden dream has vanished.’
Lady Kirkbank’s reply came by return of post, and happily this gushing41 epistle had not to be submitted to Mary’s eye.
‘My dearest Di,
‘My heart positively42 bleeds for you. What is the matter with your hand, that you talk of being a life-long prisoner to your room? Pray send for Paget or Erichsen, and have yourself put right at once. No doubt that local simpleton is making a mess of your case. Perhaps while he is dabbing43 with lint44 and lotions45 the real remedy is the knife. I am sure amputation46 would be less melancholy47 than the despondent48 state of feeling which you are now suffering. If any limb of mine went wrong, I should say to the surgeon, “Cut it off, and patch up the stump49 in your best style; I give you a fortnight, and at the end of that time I expect to be going to parties again.” Life is not long enough for dawdling50 surgery.
‘As regards Lesbia, I can only say that I adore her, and I am enchanted51 at the idea that I am to run her myself. I intend her to be the beauty of the season — not one of the loveliest debutantes52, or any rot of that kind — but just the girl whom everybody will be crazy about. There shall be a mob wherever she appears, Di, I promise you that. There is no one in London who can work a thing of that kind better than your humble53 servant. And when once the girl is the talk of the town, all the rest is easy. She can choose for herself among the very best men in society. Offers will pour in as thickly as circulars from undertakers and mourning warehouses54 after a death.
‘Lesbia is so cool-headed and sensible that I have not the least doubt of her success. With an impulsive55 or romantic girl there is always the fear of a fiasco. But this sweet child of yours has been well brought up, and knows her own value. She behaved like a queen here, where I need not tell you society is just a little mixed; though, of course, we only cultivate our own set. Your heart would swell56 with pride if you could see the way she puts down men who are not quite good style; and the ease with which she crushes those odious57 American girls, with their fine complexions58 and loud manners.
‘Be assured that I shall guard her as the apple of my eye, and that the detrimental59 who circumvents60 me will be a very Satan of schemers.
‘I can but smile at your mention of Carson, whose gowns used to fit us so well in our girlish days, and whose bills seem moderate compared with the exorbitant61 accounts I get now.
‘Carson has long been forgotten, my dear soul, gone with the snows of last year. A long procession of fashionable French dressmakers has passed across the stage since her time, like the phantom62 kings in Macbeth; and now the last rage is to have our gowns made by an Englishman who works for the Princess, and who gives himself most insufferable airs, or an Irishwoman who is employed by all the best actresses. It is to the latter, Kate Kearney, I shall entrust63 our sweet Lesbia’s toilettes.’
The same post brought a loving letter from Lesbia, full of regret at not being allowed to go down to Fellside, and yet full of delight at the prospect64 of her first season.
‘Lady Kirkbank and I have been discussing my court dress,’ she wrote, ‘and we have decided65 upon a white cut-velvet train, with a border of ostrich66 feathers, over a satin petticoat embroidered67 with seed pearl. It will be expensive, but we know you will not mind that. Lady Kirkbank takes the idea from the costume Buckingham wore at the Louvre the first time he met Anne of Austria. Isn’t that clever of her? She is not a deep thinker like you; is horribly ignorant of science, metaphysics, poetry even. She asked me one day who Plato was, and whether he took his name from the battle of Platoea; and she says she never could understand why people make a fuss about Shakespeare; but she has read all the secret histories and memoirs68 that ever were written, and knows all the ins and outs of court life and high life for the last three hundred years; and there is not a person in the peerage whose family history she has not at her fingers’ ends, except my grandfather. When I asked her to tell me all about Lord Maulevrier and his achievements as Governor of Madras, she had not a word to say. So, perhaps, she draws upon her invention a little in talking about other people, and felt herself restrained when she came to speak of my grandfather.’
This passage in Lesbia’s letter affected69 Lady Maulevrier as if a scorpion70 had wriggled71 from underneath72 the sheet of paper. She folded the letter, and laid it in the satin-lined box on her table, with a deep sigh.
‘Yes, she is in the world now, and she will ask questions. I have never warned her against pronouncing her grandfather’s name. There are some who will not be so kind as Georgie Kirkbank; some, perhaps, who will delight in humiliating her, and who will tell her the worst that can be told. My only hope is that she will make a great marriage, and speedily. Once the wife of a man with a high place in the world, worldlings will be too wise to wound her by telling her that her grandfather was an unconvicted felon73.’
The die was cast. Lady Maulevrier might dread the hazard of evil tongues, of slanderous74 memories; but she could not recall her consent to Lesbia’s début. The girl was already launched; she had been seen and admired. The next stage in her career must be to be wooed and won by a worthy wooer.
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1
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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ineligible
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| adj.无资格的，不适当的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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8
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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12
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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15
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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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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malarian
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| 疟疾； 瘴气； 瘴疠； 痁 | |
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19
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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20
prurient
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| adj.好色的，淫乱的 | |
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21
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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22
admonishes
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| n.劝告( admonish的名词复数 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责v.劝告( admonish的第三人称单数 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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23
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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25
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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29
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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30
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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31
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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38
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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39
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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40
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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41
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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42
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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43
dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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44
lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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45
lotions
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| n.洗液，洗剂，护肤液( lotion的名词复数 ) | |
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46
amputation
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| n.截肢 | |
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47
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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48
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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49
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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50
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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51
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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52
debutantes
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| n.初进社交界的上流社会年轻女子( debutante的名词复数 ) | |
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53
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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54
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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55
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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56
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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57
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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58
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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59
detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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60
circumvents
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| n.设法克服或避免（某事物），回避( circumvent的名词复数 )；绕过，绕行，绕道旅行v.设法克服或避免（某事物），回避( circumvent的第三人称单数 )；绕过，绕行，绕道旅行 | |
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61
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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62
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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63
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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64
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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67
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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68
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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71
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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72
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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73
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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74
slanderous
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| adj.诽谤的，中伤的 | |
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