“Lord bless us!” said Mr. Williamson, “what is that you say?”
“It is only a rumour9, sir, but I hear Kinloch Houran is all in a commotion10, and it is believed everywhere. The young lord was seen with some ladies going there in a boat this afternoon, and they say that he has perished in the flames.”
Sanderson was fond of fine language, and his countenance11 was composed to the occasion.
“Lord bless us!” cried Mr. Williamson again. “Send off a man and horse without a moment’s delay to find out the truth. Quick, man, and put down the sherry, I’ll help myself! Poor lad, poor lad, young Erradeen! He was about this house like one of our own, and no later than yesterday—Katie, do you hear?” he cried, half rising and leaning over the forest of flowers and ferns that covered the table, “Katie! do you hear this terrible news? but it cannot be true!”
Katie had been told at the same moment, and the shock was so great that everything swam in her eyes, as she looked up blanched12 and terror-stricken in mechanical obedience13 to her father’s cry. “That man will have killed him,” she said to herself: and then there came over her mind a horror which was flattering too, which filled her with dismay and pain, yet with a strange sensation of importance. Was it she who was to blame for this catastrophe14, was she the cause——
“It seems to be certain,” said some one at the table, “that Erradeen was there. He was seen on the battlements with a lady, just before the explosion.”
“His mother!” said Katie, scarcely knowing why it was that she put forth15 this explanation.
“A young lady. There is some extraordinary story among the people that she—had something to do with the fire.”
“That will be nonsense,” said Mr. Williamson. “What would a lady have to do with the fire? Old stone walls like yon are not like rotten wood. I cannot understand for my part——”
“And there could be no young lady,” said Katie. “Mrs. Methven was alone.”
“Well, well!” said her father. “I am sorry—sorry for Lord Erradeen; he was just as fine a young fellow——But we will do him no good, poor lad, by letting our dinner get cold. And perhaps the man will bring us better news—there is always exaggeration in the first report. I am afraid you will find that soup not eatable, Lady Mary. Just send it away; there is some fine trout16 coming.”
He was sincerely sorry; but, after all, to lose the dinner would have spared nothing to poor young Erradeen.
Katie said little during the long meal. Her end of the table, usually so gay, was dull. Now and then she would break in with a little spasmodic excitement, and set her companions talking: then relapse with a strange mingling17 of grief and horror, and that melancholy18 elation3 which fills the brain of one who suddenly feels himself involved in great affairs and lifted to heroic heights. If it was for her—if it was she who was the cause of this calamity19——She had dreamed often of finding herself with a high heroic part to fulfil in the world, though it seemed little likely that she would ever realise her dream; but now, Katie said to herself, if this was so, never more should another take the place which she had refused to him. If he had died for her, she would live—for him. She would find out every plan he had ever formed for good and fulfil it. She would be the providence20 of the poor tenants21 whom he had meant to befriend. She imagined herself in this poetical22 position always under a veil of sadness, yet not enough to make her unhappy—known in the county as the benefactor23 of everybody, described with whispers aside as “the lady that was to have married poor young Lord Erradeen.” Katie was profoundly sorry for poor Walter—for the first few minutes her grief was keen; but very soon this crowd of imaginations rushed in, transporting her into a new world. If this were so! Already everybody at table had begun to remark her changed looks, and to whisper that they had been sure there was “something between” Katie and the poor young lord. When the ladies went to the drawing-room they surrounded her with tender cares.
“If you would like to go to your room, my dear, never mind us.”
“Oh, never mind us,” cried the gentle guests, “we can all understand——”
But Katie was prudent24 even at this crisis of fate. She reflected that the report might not be true, and that it was premature25 at least to accept the position. She smiled upon the ladies who surrounded her, and put her handkerchief to her eyes.
“Of course,” she said, “I can’t help feeling it—every one will feel it on the loch—and we had seen so much of him! But perhaps, as papa says, when the messenger comes back, we may have better news.”
The messenger did not come back till late, when the party were about to separate. He had found the greatest difficulty in getting information, for all that was known at Auchnasheen was that the young lord and his mother had gone in the boat from the isle26 with the ladies, to see the old castle. With the ladies! Katie could not restrain a little cry. She knew what was coming. And he had been seen, the man went on, with Miss Oona on the walls—and that was all that was known. This stroke went to Katie’s heart. “Oona!” she cried, with something of sharpness and bitterness in the cry; though in the wail27 that rose from all around who knew the isle, this tone that broke the harmony of grief was lost. But her little fabric28 of imaginary heroism29 fell into the dust: and for the moment the shock of a genuine, if alloyed, sentiment thrown back upon herself, and the secret mortification30 with which she became conscious of the absurdity31 of her own self-complacence, kept Katie from feeling the natural pity called forth by such a catastrophe, and the deeper pang32 which by-and-by awakened33 her heart to the thought of Oona—Oona no rival, but the friend of her youth, Oona the only companion of her mother, the young and hopeful creature whom everybody loved. To think that she should have indulged a little miserable34 rivalry—on account of a man for whom she did not care the hundredth part so much as she cared for Oona, before realising this real grief and calamity! Katie’s honest little soul was bowed down with shame. She, too, watched that night with many a prayer and tear, gazing from her many-windowed chamber35 towards the feathery crest36 of the isle which lay between her and Kinloch Houran. Oh, the desolation that would be there and Oona gone! Oh, the blank upon the loch, and in all the meetings of the cheerful neighbours! Another man on horseback was sent off by break of day for news, and not only from Birkenbraes, but from every house for miles round the messengers hurried. There had been no such excitement in the district for generations.
The news reached the Lodge37—Sir Thomas Herbert’s shooting-box—early in the morning when the family met at breakfast. The previous night had been occupied with an excitement of their own. Major Antrobus, Sir Thomas’s friend, brother in sport and arms, had been from the moment of his arrival a disappointment to Sir Thomas. The first evening Julia had caught him in her toils38. She had sung and laughed and talked his heart, so much as remained to him, away. He was the man of all others who, his friends were convinced, was not a marrying man. He had a good estate, a house full of every bachelor comfort, and was useful to those in whom he was interested as only a bachelor can be. Nor was it only to men that he was invaluable39 as a friend. He had a box at Ascot; he had ways of making the Derby delightful40 to a party of ladies; he was of infinite use at Goodwood; he knew everybody whom it was well to know. Lady Herbert was almost as inconsolable as her husband at the idea of losing him. And that such a man should be brought by Sir Thomas himself into harm’s way, and delivered over to the enemy by the very hands of his friends, was more than flesh and blood could bear. The Herberts saw their mistake before he had been at the Lodge two days. But what could they do? They could not send him away—nor could they send Julia away. Had they done so, that young lady had already made herself friends enough to have secured two or three invitations in a foolishly hospitable41 country, where everybody’s first idea was to ask you to stay with them! Sir Thomas acted with the noble generosity42 characteristic of middle-aged43 men of the world in such circumstances. He told his friend, as they smoked their cigars in the evening, a great many stories about Julia, and all she had been “up to” in her chequered career. He described how Lady Herbert had brought her down here, because of some supposed possibility about Lord Erradeen. “But young fellows like that are not to be so easily taken in,” Sir Thomas said, and vaunted his own insight in perceiving from the first that there was nothing in it. The major listened, and sucked his cigar, and said nothing; but next day on the way home, when the fire at Kinloch Houran was reddening the skies, took his host aside, and said—
“I say, all that may be true, you know. I don’t know anything about that. Girls, you know, poor things! they’ve devilish hard lines, when they’ve got no tin. If she’s tried it on, you know, once or twice before, that’s nothing to me. That’s all their mother’s fault, don’t you know. She’s the jolliest girl I ever met, and no end of fun. With her in the house, you know, a fellow would never be dull, and I can tell you it’s precious dull at Antrobus on off days, when all you fellows are away. I say! I’ve asked her—to be mine, you know, and all that; and she’s—going to have me, Tom!”
“Going to have you! Oh, I’ll be bound she is! and everything you’ve got belonging to you!” in the keenness of his annoyance44, cried Sir Thomas.
The major, who was somewhat red in the face, and whose figure was not elegant (but what trifles were these, Julia truly said, in comparison with a true heart!), hemmed45 a little, and coughed, and set his chin into his shirt collar. He stood like a man to his choice, and would have no more said.
“Of course she is—if she’s going to have me, you know. Fixtures46 go with the property,” said Major Antrobus, with a hasty laugh. “And, I say, by-gones are by-gones, you know—but no more of them in the future if we’re going to be friends.”
The men had a quarrel, however, before Sir Thomas gave in—which was stopped fortunately before it went too far by his wife, who met them all smiles with both hands extended.
“What are you talking loud about, you two?” she said. “Major, I’m delighted. Of course I’ve seen it all along. She’ll make you an excellent wife, and I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
“Thank you: he don’t think so,” the major said with a growl47.
But after this Sir Thomas perceived that to quarrel with a man for marrying your cousin whom he has met in your house is one of the foolishest of proceedings48. He relieved his feelings afterwards by falling upon the partner of his life.
“What humbugs49 you women are! What lies you tell! You said she would make him an excellent wife.”
“And so she will,” said Lady Herbert, “a capital wife! He will be twice as happy, but alas50! no good at all henceforward,” she ended with a sigh.
The excitement of this incident was not over, when to the breakfast-table next morning, where Julia appeared triumphant51, having overcome all opposition52, the news arrived, not softened53 by any doubt as if the result was still uncertain, but with that pleasure in enhancing the importance of dolorous54 intelligence which is common to all who have the first telling of a catastrophe. There was a momentary55 hush56 of horror when the tale was told, and then Julia, her expression changed in a moment, her eyes swimming in tears, rose up in great excitement from her lover’s side.
“Oh, Walter!” she cried, greatly moved. “Oh that I should be so happy, and he——” And then she paused, and her tears burst forth. “And his mother—his mother!”
She sat down again and wept, while the rest of the party looked on, her major somewhat gloomy, her cousin (after a momentary tribute of silence to death) with a dawning of triumph in his eye.
“You always thought a great deal of young Erradeen, Ju—at least since he has been Lord Erradeen.”
“I always was fond of him,” she cried. “Poor Walter! poor Walter! Oh, you can weigh my words if you like at such a time, but I won’t weigh them. If Henry likes to be offended I can’t help it. He has no reason. Oh, Walter, Walter! I was always fond of him. I have known him since I was that high—and his mother, I have always hated her. I have known her since I was that high. If you think such things go for nothing it is because you have no hearts. Harry57, if you love me as you say, get your dog-cart ready this moment and take me to that poor woman—that poor, poor woman! His mother—and she has only him in all the world. Harry, take me or not but I will go——”
“You said you hated her, Julia,” cried Lady Herbert.
“And so I did: and what does that matter? Shall I keep away from her for that—when I am the only one that has known him all his life—that knew him from a child? Harry——”
“I have ordered the dog-cart, my dear; and you are a good woman, Julia. I thought so, but with all your dear friends and people hang me if I knew.”
Julia gave him her hand: she was crying without any disguise.
“Perhaps I haven’t been very good,” she said, “but I never was hard-hearted, and when I think upon that poor woman among strangers——”
“By Jove, but this is something new,” cried Sir Thomas; “the girl that liked young men best without their mothers, Antrobus, hey?”
“Oh hush, Tom,” cried his wife; “and dear Julia, be consistent a little—that you’re sorry for your old—friend (don’t laugh, Tom; say her old flame if you like, but remember that he’s dead, poor fellow), that we can understand. Major Antrobus knows all that story. But this fuss about the mother whom you never could bear. Oh that is a little too much! You can’t expect us to take in that!”
Julia turned upon her relations with what at bottom was a generous indignation. “If you don’t know,” she said, “how it feels to hear of another person’s misfortune, when you yourself are happier than you deserve—and if you don’t understand that I would go on my knees to poor Mrs. Methven to take one scrap58 of her burden off her! oh all the more because I never liked her——But what is the use of talking, for if you don’t understand, nothing I could say would make you understand. And it does not matter to me now,” cried Julia, less noble feelings breaking in, “now I have got one who is going to stand by me, who knows what I mean, and will put no bad motive—”
The real agitation59 and regret in her face gave force to the triumph with which she turned to her major, and taking his arm swept out of the room. He, too, had all the sense of dignity which comes from fine feeling misunderstood, and felt himself elevated in the scale of humanity by his superior powers of understanding. Lady Herbert, who remained behind, was saved by the humour of the situation from exploding, as Sir Thomas did. To think that the delicacy60 of the major’s perceptions should be the special foundation of his bride’s satisfaction was, as she declared with tears of angry laughter, “too good!”
But the second and better news arrived before Julia could set out on her charitable mission. Perhaps it was better that it should end so: for though the first outburst of feeling had been perfectly61 genuine and sincere, the impulse might have been alloyed by less perfect wishes before she had reached Kinloch Houran. And it is doubtful in any case whether her ministrations, however kind, would have been acceptable to Walter’s mother. As it was, when she led her major back, Julia was too clever not to find a medium of reconciliation62 with her cousins, who by that time had come to perceive how ludicrous any quarrel open to the world would be. And so peace was established, and Julia Herbert’s difficulties came in the happiest way to an end.
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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2
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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3
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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4
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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bagatelle
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| n.琐事；小曲儿 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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9
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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10
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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12
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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13
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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14
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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17
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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18
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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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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23
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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28
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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38
toils
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| 网 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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40
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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41
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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42
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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43
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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44
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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45
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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46
fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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47
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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48
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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49
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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50
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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51
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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52
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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53
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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54
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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55
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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56
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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57
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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58
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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59
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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60
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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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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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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