They arrived a little before dinner; just in time to get to their rooms and dress. But Mary Quince enlivened my toilet with eloquent1 descriptions of the youthful Captain whom she had met in the gallery, on his way to his room, with the servant, and told me how he stopped to let her pass, and how “he smiled so ‘ansom.”
I was very young then, you know, and more childish even than my years; but this talk of Mary Quince’s interested me, I must confess, considerably2. I was painting all sort of portraits of this heroic soldier, while affecting, I am afraid, a hypocritical indifference3 to her narration4, and I know I was very nervous and painstaking5 about my toilet that evening. When I went down to the drawing-room, Lady Knollys was there, talking volubly to my father as I entered — a woman not really old, but such as very young people fancy aged6 — energetic, bright, saucy7, dressed handsomely in purple satin, with a good deal of lace, and a rich point — I know not how to call it — not a cap, a sort of head-dress — light and simple, but grand withal, over her greyish, silken hair.
Rather tall, by no means stout8, on the whole a good firm figure with something kindly9 in her look. She got up, quite like a young person, and coming quickly to meet me with a smile —
“My young cousin!” she cried, and kissed me on both cheeks. “You know who I am? Your cousin Monica — Monica Knollys — and very glad, dear, to see you, though she has not set eyes on you since you were no longer than that paper-knife. Now come here to the lamp, for I must look at you. Who is she like? Let me see. Like your poor mother, I think, my dear; but you’ve the Aylmer nose — yes — not a bad nose either, and, come! very good eyes, upon my life — yes, certainly something of her poor mother — not a bit like you, Austin.”
My father gave her a look as near a smile as I had seen there for a long time, shrewd, cynical10, but kindly too, and said he —
“So much the better, Monica, eh?”
“It was not for me to say — but you know, Austin, you always were an ugly creature. How shocked and indignant the little girl looks! You must not be vexed11, you loyal little woman, with Cousin Monica for telling the truth. Papa was and will be ugly all his days. Come, Austin, dear, tell her — is not it so?”
“What! depose12 against myself! That’s not English law, Monica.”
“Well, maybe not; but if the child won’t believe her own eyes, how is she to believe me? She has long, pretty hands — you have — and very nice feet too. How old is she?”
“How old, child?” said my father to me, transferring the question.
She recurred13 again to my eyes.
“That is the true grey — large, deep, soft — very peculiar14. Yes, dear, very pretty — long lashes15, and such bright tints16! You’ll be in the Book of Beauty, my dear, when you come out, and have all the poet people writing verses to the tip of your nose — and a very pretty little nose it is!”
I must mention here how striking was the change in my father’s spirit while talking and listening to his odd and voluble old Cousin Monica. Reflected from bygone associations, there had come a glimmer17 of something, not gaiety, indeed, but like an appreciation18 of gaiety. The gloom and inflexibility19 were gone, and there was an evident encouragement and enjoyment20 of the incessant21 sallies of his bustling22 visitor.
How morbid23 must have been the tendencies of his habitual24 solitude25, I think, appeared from the evident thawing26 and brightening that accompanied even this transient gleam of human society. I was not a companion — more childish than most girls of my age, and trained in all his whimsical ways, never to interrupt a silence, or force his thoughts by unexpected question or remark out of their monotonous28 or painful channel.
I was as much surprised at the good-humour with which he submitted to his cousin’s saucy talk; and, indeed, just then those black-panelled and pictured walls, and that quaint29, misshapen room, seemed to have exchanged their stern and awful character for something wonderfully pleasanter to me, notwithstanding the unpleasantness of the personal criticism to which the plain-spoken lady chose to subject me.
Just at that moment Captain Oakley joined us. He was my first actual vision of that awful and distant world of fashion, of whose splendours I had already read something in the three-volumed gospel of the circulating library.
Handsome, elegant, with features almost feminine, and soft, wavy30, black hair, whiskers and moustache, he was altogether such a knight31 as I had never beheld32, or even fancied, at Knowl — a hero of another species, and from the region of the demigods. I did not then perceive that coldness of the eye, and cruel curl of the voluptuous33 lip — only a suspicion, yet enough to indicate the profligate34 man, and savouring of death unto death.
But I was young, and had not yet the direful knowledge of good and evil that comes with years; and he was so very handsome, and talked in a way that was so new to me, and was so much more charming than the well-bred converse35 of the humdrum36 county families with whom I had occasionally sojourned for a week at a time.
It came out incidentally that his leave of absence was to expire the day after to-morrow. A Lilliputian pang37 of disappointment followed this announcement. Already I was sorry to lose him. So soon we begin to make a property of what pleases us.
I was shy, but not awkward. I was flattered by the attention of this amusing, perhaps rather fascinating, young man of the world; and he plainly addressed himself with diligence to amuse and please me. I dare say there was more effort than I fancied in bringing his talk down to my humble38 level, and interesting me and making me laugh about people whom I had never heard of before, than I then suspected.
Cousin Knollys meanwhile was talking to papa. It was just the conversation that suited a man so silent as habit had made him, for her frolic fluency39 left him little to supply. It was totally impossible, indeed, even in our taciturn household, that conversation should ever flag while she was among us.
Cousin Knollys and I went into the drawing-room together, leaving the gentlemen — rather ill-assorted, I fear — to entertain one another for a time.
“Come here, my dear, and sit near me,” said Lady Knollys, dropping into an easy chair with an energetic little plump, “and tell me how you and your papa get on. I can remember him quite a cheerful man once, and rather amusing — yes, indeed — and now you see what a bore he is — all by shutting himself up and nursing his whims27 and fancies. Are those your drawings, dear?”
“Yes, very bad, I’m afraid; but there are a few, better, I think in the portfolio40 in the cabinet in the hall.”
“They are by no means bad, my dear; and you play, of course?”
“Yes — that is, a little — pretty well, I hope.”
“I dare say. I must hear you by-and-by. And how does your papa amuse you? You look bewildered, dear. Well, I dare say, amusement is not a frequent word in this house. But you must not turn into a nun41, or worse, into a puritan. What is he? A Fifth–Monarchy-man, or something — I forget; tell me the name, my dear.”
“Papa is a Swedenborgian, I believe.”
“Yes, yes — I forgot the horrid42 name — a Swedenborgian, that is it. I don’t know exactly what they think, but everyone knows they are a sort of pagans, my dear. He’s not making one of you, dear — is he?”
“I go to church every Sunday.”
“Well, that’s a mercy; Swedenborgian is such an ugly name, and besides, they are all likely to be damned, my dear, and that’s a serious consideration. I really wish poor Austin had hit on something else; I’d much rather have no religion, and enjoy life while I’m in it, than choose one to worry me here and bedevil me hereafter. But some people, my dear, have a taste for being miserable43, and provide, like poor Austin, for its gratification in the next world as well as here. Ha, ha, ha! how grave the little woman looks! Don’t you think me very wicked? You know you do; and very likely you are right. Who makes your dresses, my dear? You are such a figure of fun!”
“Mrs. Rusk, I think, ordered this dress. I and Mary Quince planned it. I thought it very nice. We all like it very well.”
There wa something, I dare say, very whimsical about it, probably very absurd, judged at least by the canons of fashion, and old Cousin Monica Knollys, in whose eye the London fashions were always fresh, was palpably struck by it as if it had been some enormity against anatomy44, for she certainly laughed very heartily45; indeed there were tears on her cheeks when she had done, and I am sure my aspect of wonder and dignity, as her hilarity46 proceeded, helped to revive her merriment again and again as it was subsiding47.
“There, you mustn’t be vexed with old Cousin Monica,” she cried, jumping up, and giving me a little hug, and bestowing48 a hearty49 kiss on my forehead, and a jolly little slap on my cheek. “Always remember your cousin Monica is an outspoken50, wicked old fool, who likes you, and never be offended by her nonsense. A council of three — you all sat upon it — Mrs. Rusk, you said, and Mary Quince, and your wise self, the weird51 sisters; and Austin stepped in, as Macbeth, and said, ‘What is’t ye do?’ you all made answer together, ‘A something or other without a name!’ Now, seriously, my dear, it is quite unpardonable in Austin — your papa, I mean — to hand you over to be robed and bedizened according to the whimsies52 of these wild old women — aren’t they old? If they know better, it’s positively53 fiendish. I’ll blow them up — I will indeed, my dear. You know you’re an heiress, and ought not to appear like a jack-pudding.”
“Papa intends sending me to London with Madame and Mary Quince, and going with me himself, if Doctor Bryerly says he may make the journey, and then I am to have dresses and everything.”
“Well, that is better. And who is Doctor Bryerly — is your papa ill?”
“Ill; oh no; he always seems just the same. You don’t think him ill — looking ill, I mean?” I asked eagerly and frightened.
“No, my dear, he looks very well for his time of life; but why is Doctor What’s-his-name here? Is he a physician, or a divine, or a horse-doctor? and why is his leave asked?”
“I— I really don’t understand.”
“Is he a what d’ye call ’em — a Swedenborgian?”
“I believe so.”
“Oh, I see; ha, ha, ha! And so poor Austin must ask leave to go up to town. Well, go he shall, whether his doctor likes it or not, for it would not do to send you there in charge of your Frenchwoman, my dear. What’s her name?”
“Madame de la Rougierre.”
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1
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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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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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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10
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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depose
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| vt.免职；宣誓作证 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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15
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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16
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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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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inflexibility
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| n.不屈性，顽固，不变性；不可弯曲；非挠性；刚性 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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26
thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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27
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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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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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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30
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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32
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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33
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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38
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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39
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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45
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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46
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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47
subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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48
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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49
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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50
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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51
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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52
whimsies
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| n.怪念头( whimsy的名词复数 )；异想天开；怪脾气；与众不同的幽默感 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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