There stood the roué— the duellist3 — and, with all his faults, the hero too! In that dark large eye lurked4 the profound and fiery5 enthusiasm of his ill-starred passion. In the thin but exquisite6 lip I read the courage of the paladin, who would have “fought his way,” though single-handed, against all the magnates of his county, and by ordeal7 of battle have purged8 the honour of the Ruthyns. Thee in that delicate half-sarcastic tracery of the nostril9 I detected the intellectual defiance10 which had politically isolated11 Silas Ruthyn and opposed him to the landed oligarchy12 of his county, whose retaliation13 had been a hideous14 slander15. There, too, and on his brows and lip, I traced the patience of a cold disdain16. I could now see him as he was — the prodigal17, the hero, and the martyr18. I stood gazing on him with a girlish interest and admiration19. There was indignation, there was pity, thee was hope. Some day it might come to pass that I, girl as I was, might contribute by word or deed towards the vindication20 of that long-suffering, gallant21, and romantic prodigal. It was a flicker22 of the Joan of Arc inspiration, common, I fancy, to many girls. I little then imagined how profoundly and strangely involved my uncle’s fate would one day become with mine.
I was interrupted by Captain Oakley’s voice at the window. He was leaning on the window-sill, and looking in with a smile — the window being open, the morning sunny, and his cap lifted in his hand.
“Good morning, Miss Ruthyn. What a charming old place! quite the setting for a romance; such timber, and this really beautiful house. I do so like these white and black houses — wonderful old thing. By-the-by, you treated us very badly last night — you did, indeed; upon my word, now, it really was too bad — running away, and drinking tea with Lady Knollys — so she says. I really — I should not like to tell you how very savage23 I felt, particularly considering how very short my time is.”
I was a shy, but not a giggling24 country miss. I knew I was an heiress; I knew I was somebody. I was not the least bit in the world conceited25, but I think this knowledge helped to give me a certain sense of security and self-possession, which might have been mistaken for dignity or simplicity26. I am sure I looked at him with a fearless enquiry, for he answered my thoughts.
“I do really assure you, Miss Ruthyn, I am quite serious; you have no idea how very much we missed you.”
There was a little pause, and, I believe, like a fool, I lowered my eyes, and blushed.
“I— I was thinking of leaving to-day; I am so unfortunate — my leave is just out — it is so unlucky; but I don’t quite know whether my aunt Knollys will allow me to go.”
“I? — certainly, my dear Charlie, I don’t want you at all,” exclaimed a voice — Lady Knollys’s — briskly, from an open window close by; “what could put that in your head, dear?”
And in went my cousin’s head, and the window shut down.
“She is such an oddity, poor dear Aunt Knollys,” murmured the young man, every so little put out, and he laughed. “I never know quite what she wishes, or how to please her; but she’s so good-natured; and when she goes to town for the season — she does not always, you know — her house is really very gay — you can’t think ——”
Here again he was interrupted, for the door opened, and Lady Knollys entered. “And you know, Charles,” she continued, “it would not do to forget your visit to Snodhurst; you wrote, you know, and you have only to-night and to-morrow. You are thinking of nothing but that moor27; I heard you talking to the gamekeeper; I know he is — is not he, Maud, the brown man with great whiskers, and leggings? I’m very sorry, you know, but I really must spoil your shooting, for they do expect you at Snodhurst, Charlie; and do not you think this window a little too much for Miss Ruthyn? Maud, my dear, the air is very sharp; shut it down, Charles, and you’d better tell them to get a fly for you from the town after luncheon28. Come, dear,” she said to me. “Was not that the breakfast bell? Why does not your papa get a gong? — it is so hard to know one bell from another.”
I saw that Captain Oakley lingered for a last look, but I did not give it, and went out smiling with Cousin Knollys, and wondering why old ladies are so uniformly disagreeable.
In the lobby she said, with an odd, goodnatured look —
“Don’t allow any of his love-making, my dear. Charles Oakley has not a guinea, and an heiress would be very convenient. Of course he has his eyes about him. Charles is not by any means foolish; and I should not be at all sorry to see him well married, for I don’t think he will do much good any other way; but there are degrees, and his ideas are sometimes very impertinent.”
I was an admiring reader of the Albums, the Souvenirs, the Keepsakes, and all that flood of Christmas-present lore29 which yearly irrigated30 England, with pretty covers and engravings, and floods of elegant twaddle — the milk, not destitute31 of water, on which the babes of literature were then fed. On this, my genius throve. I had a little album, enriched with many gems32 of original thought and observation, which I jotted33 down in suitable language. Lately, turning over these faded leaves of rhyme and prose, I lighted, under this day’s date, upon the following sage34 reflection, with my name appended:—
“Is there not in the female heart an ineradicable jealousy35, which, if it sways the passions of the young, rules also the advice of the aged36? Do they not grudge37 to youth the sentiments (though Heaven knows how shadowed with sorrow) which they can no longer inspire, perhaps even experience; and does not youth, in turn, sigh over the envy which has power to blight38?
MAUD AYLMER RUTHYN.”
“He has not been making love to me,” I said rather tartly39, “and he does not seem to me at all impertinent, and I really don’t care the least whether he goes or stays.”
Cousin Monica looked in my face with her old waggish40 smile, and laughed.
“You’ll understand those London dandies better some day, dear Maud; they are very well, but they like money — not to keep, of course — but still they like it and know its value.”
At breakfast my father told Captain Oakley where he might have shooting, or if he preferred going to Dilsford, only half an hour’s ride, he might have his choice of hunters, and find the dogs there that morning.
The Captain smiled archly at me, and looked at his aunt. There was a suspense41. I hope I did not show how much I was interested — but it would not do. Cousin Monica was inexorable.
“Hunting, hawking42, fishing, fiddle-de-dee! You know, Charlie, my dear, it is quite out of the question. He is going to Snodhurst this afternoon, and without quite a rudeness, in which I should be involved too, he really can’t — you know you can’t, Charles! and — and he must go and keep his engagement.”
So papa acquiesced43 with a polite regret, and hoped another time.
“Oh, leave all that to me. When you want him, only write me a note, and I’ll send him or bring him if you let me. I always know where to find him — don’t I, Charlie? — and we shall be only too happy.”
Aunt Monica’s influence with her nephew was special, for she “tipped” him handsomely every now and then, and he had formed for himself agreeable expectations, besides, respecting her will. I felt rather angry at his submitting to this sort of tutelage, knowing nothing of its motive44; I was also disgusted by Cousin Monica’s tyranny.
So soon as he had left the room, Lady Knollys, not minding me, said briskly to papa, “Never let that young man into your house again. I found him making speeches, this morning, to little Maud here; and he really has not two pence in the world — it is an amazing impudence45 — and you know such absurd things do happen.”
“Come, Maud, what compliments did he pay you?” asked my father.
I was vexed46, and therefore spoke47 courageously48. “His compliments were not to me; they were all to the house,” I said, drily.
“Quite as it should be — the house, of course; it is that he’s in love with,” said Cousin Knollys.
“’Twas on a widow’s jointure land, The archer49, Cupid, took his stand.”
“Hey! I don’t quite understand,” said my father, slily.
“Tut! Austin; you forget Charlie is my nephew.”
“So I did,” said my father.
“Therefore the literal widow in this case can have no interest in view but one, and that is yours and Maud’s. I wish him well, but he shan’t put my little cousin and her expectations into his empty pocket — not a bit of it. And there’s another reason, Austin, why you should marry — you have no eye for these things, whereas a clever woman would see at a glance and prevent mischief50.”
“So she would,” acquiesced my father, in his gloomy, amused way. “Maud, you must try to be a clever woman.”
“So she will in her time, but that is not come yet; and I tell you, Austin Ruthyn, if you won’t look about and marry somebody, somebody may possibly marry you.”
“You were always an oracle51, Monica; but here I am lost in total perplexity,” said my father.
“Yes; sharks sailing round you, with keen eyes and larger throats; and you have come to the age precisely52 when men are swallowed up alive like Jonah.”
“Thank you for the parallel, but you know that was not a happy union, even for the fish, and there was a separation in a few days; not that I mean to trust to that; but there’s no one to throw me into the jaws53 of the monster, and I’ve no notion of jumping there; and the fact is, Monica, there’s no monster at all.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“But I’m quite sure,” said my father, a little drily. “You forget how old I am, and how long I’ve lived alone — I and little Maud;” and he smiled and smoothed my hair, and, I thought, sighed.
“No one is ever too old to do a foolish thing,” began Lady Knollys.
“Nor to say a foolish thing, Monica. This has gone on too long. Don’t you see that little Maud here is silly enough to be frightened at your fun.”
So I was, but I could not divine how he guessed it.
“And well or ill, wisely or madly, I’ll never marry; so put that out of your head.”
This was addressed rather to me, I think, than to Lady Knollys, who smiled a little waggishly54 on me, and said —
“To be sure, Maud; maybe you are right; a stepdame is a risk, and I ought to have asked you first what you thought of it; and upon my honor,” she continued merrily but kindly55, observing that my eyes, I know not exactly from what feeling, filled with tears, “I’ll never again advise your papa to marry, unless you first tell me you wish it.”
This was a great deal from Lady Knollys, who had a taste for advising her friends and managing their affairs.
“I’ve a great respect for instinct. I believe, Austin, it is truer than reason, and yours and Maud’s are both against me, though I know I have reason on my side.
My father’s brief wintry smile answered, and Cousin Monica kissed me, and said —
“I’ve been so long my own mistress that I sometimes forget there are such things as fear and jealousy; and are you going to your governess, Maud?”
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收听单词发音
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1
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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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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duellist
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| n.决斗者；[体]重剑运动员 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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6
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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8
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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9
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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oligarchy
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| n.寡头政治 | |
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retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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16
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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19
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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23
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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24
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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28
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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29
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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30
irrigated
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| [医]冲洗的 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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33
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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38
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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39
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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40
waggish
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| adj.诙谐的，滑稽的 | |
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41
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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42
hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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43
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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45
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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46
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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47
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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48
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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49
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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50
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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51
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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52
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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53
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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54
waggishly
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| adv.waggish（滑稽的，诙谐的）的变形 | |
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55
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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