Sir Booth Fanshawe is away at Paris just now, engaged in a great negotiation5, which is to bring order out of chaos6, and inform him at last what he is really worth per annum. Margaret and her cousin, Miss Sheckleton, have revisited England; their Norman retreat is untenanted for the present.
With the sorrow of a great concealment7 upon her, with other sorrows that she does not tell, Margaret looks sad and pale.
In a small old suburban8 house, that stands alone, with a rural affectation, on a little patch of shorn grass, embowered in lilacs and laburnums, and built of a deep vermillion brick, the residence of these ladies is established.
It is a summer evening, and a beautiful little boy, more than a year old, is sprawling9, and babbling10, and rolling, and laughing on the grass upon his back. Margaret, seated on the grass beside him, prattles12 and laughs with him, and rolls him about, delighted, and adoring her little idol13.
Old Anne Sheckleton, sitting on the bench, smiling happily, under the window, which is clustered round with roses, contributes her quota14 of nonsense to the prattle11.
In the midst of this comes a ring at the bell in the jessamine-covered wall, and a tidy little maid runs out to the green door, opens it, and in steps Cleve Verney.
Margaret is on her feet in a moment, with the light of a different love, something of the old romance, in the glad surprise, “Oh, darling, it is you!” and her arms are about his neck, and he stoops and kisses her fondly, and in his face for a moment, is reflected the glory of that delighted smile.
“Yes, darling. Are you better?”
“Oh, yes — ever so much; I’m always well when you are here; and look, see our poor little darling.”
“So he is.”
“We have had such fun with him — haven’t we, Anne? I’m sure he’ll be so like you.”
“Is this in his favour, cousin Anne?” asked Cleve, taking the old lady’s hand.
“Why should it not?” said she gaily15.
“A question — well, I take the benefit of the doubt,” laughed Cleve. “No, darling,” he said to Margaret, “you mustn’t sit on the grass; it is damp; you’ll sit beside our Cousin Anne, and be prudent16.”
So he instead sat down on the grass, and talked with them, and prattled17 and romped18 with the baby by turns, until the nurse came out to convey him to the nursery, and he was handed round to say what passes for “Good night,” and give his tiny paw to each in turn.
“You look tired, Cleve, darling.”
“So I am, my Guido; can we have a cup of tea?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll get it in a moment,” said active Anne Sheckleton.
“It’s too bad disturbing you,” said Cleve.
“No trouble in the world,” said Anne, who wished to allow them a word together; “besides, I must kiss baby in his bed.”
“Yes, darling, I am tired,” said Cleve, taking his place beside her, so soon as old Anne Sheckleton was gone. “That old man”——
“Lord Verney, do you mean?”
“Yes; he has begun plaguing me again.”
“What is it about, darling?”
“Oh, fifty things; he thinks, among others, I ought to marry,” said Cleve, with a dreary19 laugh.
“Oh, I thought he had given up that,” she said, with a smile that was very pale.
“So he did for a time; but I think he’s possessed20. If he happens to take up an idea that’s likely to annoy other people, he never lets it drop till he teases them half to death. He thinks I should marry money and political connection, and I don’t know what all, and I’m quite tired of the whole thing. What a vulgar little box this is — isn’t it, darling? I almost wish you were back again in that place in France.”
“But I can see you so much oftener here, Cleve,” pleaded Margaret, softly, with a very sad look.
“And where’s the good of seeing me here, dear Margaret? Just consider, I always come to you anxious; there’s always a risk, besides, of discovery.”
“Where you are is to me a paradise.”
“Oh, darling, do not talk rubbish. This vulgar, odious21 little place! No place can be either—quite, of course — where you are. But you must see what it is — a paradise”— and he laughed peevishly22 —“of red brick, and lilacs, and laburnums — a paradise for old Mr. Dowlas, the tallow-chandler.”
There was a little tremor23 in Margaret’s lip, and the water stood in her large eyes; her hand was, as it were, on the coffin-edge; she was looking in the face of a dead romance.
“Now, you really must not shed tears over that speech. You are too much given to weeping, Margaret. What have I said to vex24 you? It merely amounts to this, that we live just now in the future; we can’t well deny that, darling. But the time will come at last, and my queen enjoy her own.”
And so saying he kissed her, and told her to be a good little girl; and from the window Miss Sheckleton handed them tea, and then she ran up to the nursery.
“You do look very tired, Cleve,” said Margaret, looking into his anxious face.
“I am tired, darling,” he said, with just a degree of impatience25 in his tone; “I said so — horribly tired.”
“I wish so much you were liberated26 from that weary House of Commons.”
“Now, my wise little woman is talking of what she doesn’t understand — not the least; besides, what would you have me turn to? I should be totally without resource and pursuit — don’t you see? We must be reasonable. No, it is not that in the least that tires me, but I’m really overwhelmed with anxieties, and worried by my uncle, who wants me to marry, and thinks I can marry whom I please — that’s all.”
“I sometimes think, Cleve, I’ve spoiled your fortunes,” with a great sigh, said Margaret, watching his face.
“Now, where’s the good of saying that, my little woman? I’m only talking of my uncle’s teasing me, and wishing he’d let us both alone.”
Here came a little pause.
“Is that the baby?” said Margaret, raising her head and listening.
“I don’t hear our baby or any one else’s,” said Cleve.
“I fancied I heard it cry, but it wasn’t.”
“You must think of me more, and of that child less, darling — you must, indeed,” said Cleve, a little sourly.
I think the poor heart was pleased, thinking this jealousy27; but I fear it was rather a splenetic impulse of selfishness, and that the baby was, in his eyes, a bore pretty often.
“Does the House sit to-night, Cleve, darling?”
“Does it, indeed? Why it’s sitting now. We are to have the second reading of the West India Bill on to-night, and I must be there — yes — in an hour”— he was glancing at his watch —“and heaven knows at what hour in the morning we shall get away.”
And just at this moment old Anne Sheckleton joined them. “She’s coming with more tea,” she said, as the maid emerged with a little tray, “and we’ll place our cups on the window-stone when we don’t want them. Now, Mr. Verney, is not this a charming little spot just at this light?”
“I almost think it is,” said Cleve, relenting. The golden light of evening was touching28 the formal poplars, and the other trees, and bringing out the wrinkles of the old bricks duskily in its flaming glow.
“Yes, just for about fifteen minutes in the twenty-four hours, when the weather is particularly favourable29, it has a sort of Dutch picturesqueness30; but, on the whole, it is not the sort of cottage that I would choose for a permanent dove-cot. I should fear lest my pigeons should choke with dust.”
“No, there’s no dust here; it is the quietest, most sylvan31 little lane in the world.”
“Which is a wide place,” said Cleve. “Well, with smoke then.”
“Nor smoke either.”
“But I forgot, love does not die of smoke or of anything else,” said Cleve.
“No, of course, love is eternal,” said Margaret.
“Just so; the King never dies. Les roix meurent-ils? Quelquefois, madame. Alas32, theory and fact conflict. Love is eternal in the abstract; but nothing is more mortal than a particular love,” said Cleve.
“If you think so, I wonder you ever wished to marry,” said Margaret, and a faint tinge33 flushed her cheeks.
“I thought so, and yet I did wish to marry,” said Cleve. “It is perishable34, but I can’t live without it,” and he patted her cheek, and laughed a rather cold little laugh.
“No, love never dies,” said Margaret, with a gleam of her old fierce spirit. “But it may be killed.”
“It is terrible to kill anything,” said Cleve.
“To kill love,” she answered, “is the worst murder of all.”
“A veritable murder,” he acquiesced35, with a smile and a slight shrug36; “once killed, it never revives.”
“You like talking awfully37, as if I might lose your love,” said she, haughtily38; “as if, were I to vex you, you never could forgive.”
“Forgiveness has nothing to do with it, my poor little woman. I no more called my love into being than I did myself; and should it die, either naturally or violently, I could no more call it to life, than I could Cleopatra or Napoleon Bonaparte. It is a principle, don’t you see? that comes as direct as life from heaven. We can’t create it, we can’t restore it; and really about love, it is worse than mortal, because, as I said, I am sure it has no resurrection — no, it has no resurrection.”
“That seems to me a reason,” she said, fixing her large eyes upon him with a wild resentment39, “why you should cherish it very much while it lives.”
“And don’t I, darling?” he said, placing his arms round her neck, and drawing her fondly to his breast, and in the thrill of that momentary40 effusion was something of the old feeling when to lose her would have been despair, to gain her heaven, and it seemed as if the scent41 of the woods of Malory, and of the soft sea breeze, was around them for a moment.
And now he is gone, away to that tiresome42 House — lost to her, given up to his ambition, which seems more and more to absorb him; and she remains43 smiling on their beautiful little baby, with a great misgiving44 at her heart, to see Cleve no more for four-and-twenty hours more.
As Cleve went into the House, he met old Colonel Thongs45, sometime whip of the “outs.”
“You’ve heard about old Snowdon?”
“No.”
“In the Cabinet, by Jove!”
“Really?”
“Fact. Ask your uncle.”
“By Jove, it is very unlooked for; no one thought of him; but I dare say he’ll do very well.”
“We’ll soon try that.”
It was a very odd appointment. But Lord Snowdon was gazetted; a dull man, but laborious46; a man who had held minor47 offices at different periods of his life, and was presumed to have a competent knowledge of affairs. A dull man, owing all to his dulness, quite below many, and selected as a negative compromise for the vacant seat in the Cabinet, for which two zealous48 and brilliant competitors were contending.
“I see it all,” thought Cleve; “that’s the reason why Caroline Oldys and Lady Wimbledon are to be at Ware49 this autumn, and I’m to be married to the niece of a Cabinet minister.”
Cleve sneered50, but he felt very uneasy.
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1
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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2
mutation
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| n.变化，变异，转变 | |
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3
usurp
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| vt.篡夺，霸占；vi.篡位 | |
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4
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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6
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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7
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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8
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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9
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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10
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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11
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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12
prattles
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的第三人称单数 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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13
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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14
quota
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| n.（生产、进出口等的）配额，（移民的）限额 | |
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15
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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16
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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17
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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18
romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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19
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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22
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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25
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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26
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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27
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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28
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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29
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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30
picturesqueness
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31
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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32
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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33
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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34
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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35
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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37
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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38
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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39
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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40
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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41
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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42
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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43
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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44
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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45
thongs
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| 的东西 | |
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46
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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47
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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48
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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49
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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50
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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