It is however with the inside of the mansion8 that we have now to do, and with those gentle beings who constitute a home, without whom a palace is little better than a dungeon9.
Breakfast has been over at the Dove-cote for an hour or so. Cissy and her mamma have established themselves in what they call “the little drawing-room”—a snug2 apartment of small dimensions, with windows opening to the ground, and “giving,” as the French say, on a neatly10 laid-out garden, in spring and summer the peculiar11 care of the daughter of the house. To-day, however, flowers and blossoms are replaced by a million sparkling gems12, formed by last night’s white frost, which is melting rapidly under the noon-day sun. Inside, the furniture is of a rich and somewhat gaudy13 pattern, assorting well with the rose-tinted muslin curtains and multiplicity of looking-glasses, which are so characteristic of a lady’s bower14; whilst a thousand pretty knick-knacks, and a graceful15 litter of books, music, work, paper-lights, stray gloves, and gossamer16 handkerchiefs betray at once the sex of the occupants. A little statuette of a Cupid in tears, with nothing on but a quiver, occupies a niche17 between the windows, under a portrait of Miss Dove, depicted18 by the artist in a graceful attitude on the chestnut19 horse, attired20 in a blue riding-habit, with her hat off, and her hair falling about her shoulders, as, it is only right to observe, she is not in the habit of wearing it when taking equestrian21 exercise. Altogether the painter’s idea seems to have been borrowed from a French print entitled “The Rendezvous,” representing a disconsolate22 damsel waiting for a gentleman in a wood—not in the best of humours, as is natural under the circumstances,—and sitting her white horse in a listless, woe-begone attitude, unworthy of an Amazon. The laggard23, however, is perceptible in the far distance, making up for lost time on an exceedingly bad goer, whose “form” must at once absolve24 him of intentional25 unpunctuality in the eyes of his ladye-love. As a pendant to this work of art, hangs a portrait in crayons of Mrs. Dove, done some years ago, when people wore bunches of ringlets and a high comb at the back of the head—a fashion by no means unbecoming to the original, who must have been a sufficiently26 handsome young woman when she sat for this likeness27. Indeed, the Reverend, no mean judge of “make-and-shape,” always declared (at least in his wife’s presence) that Cissy could not hold a candle to what her mother had been in her best days.
That matron, though somewhat voluminous in person and too highly coloured, is by no means bad-looking even now. As she sits at the window, shaping a little child’s shirt for a poor parishioner (Mrs. Dove is a managing, bustling28 person—prejudiced, it may be, and deaf to argument, as what woman is not? but overflowing29 with the milk of human kindness), a judicious30 artist might tone her down into a very picturesque31 study of “A lady in the prime of life.”
She looks up from her work, and casts her eye across the trim garden over many a mile of undulating prairie, to where a dim smoke in the far distance denotes the locality of Harborough.
“Cissy,” observes the matron, “wasn’t that Papa going round to the stables?”
Cissy raises those killing32 eyelashes from her crochet33, and dutifully replies—“Yes, Mamma. He’s only going to smoke his cigar as usual. I’m glad it’s not a hunting-day: we shall have him all to ourselves till luncheon34.”
Miss Dove pets her papa immensely; and it is needless to remark that, although on occasion he runs rusty35 with his wife, his daughter can wind him round her little finger at will.
“That reminds me,” continues Mrs. D., in the inconsequent manner in which ladies follow out the thread of their reflections—“that reminds me we haven’t had any visitors lately from over there,” nodding with her head in the direction of Market Harborough.
Cissy looks very innocent in reply, and observes that “Gentlemen seem to make hunting the one great business of life.”
Mamma, whose rest for the last five-and-twenty years has been broken every winter whenever the nights have been symptomatic of frost, and who can scarcely be expected to share the anxiety which drives the Reverend at short intervals36 from the connubial37 couch to open the window and look out, is unable to controvert38 so self-evident a proposition; so she tries back on their Harborough friends.
“Mr. Crasher never comes except on Sundays, or when there is a hard frost; and the rest of the gang I would just as soon be without, for they will light their cigars in the hall—a thing I’ve quite broke your papa of doing, till the whole place smells like a public-house. But I do think that Mr. Sawbridge, or whatever his name is, might have called in common civility, if it was only to ask how you were after your long day.”
Cissy was of the same opinion; but she adhered steadily39 to the crochet, and said nothing: perhaps she thought the more. She had confided40 to her mamma certain passages of the nocturnal ride into Market Harborough, and Mr. Sawyer’s categorical answers to her very pertinent41 queries42. I do not think, however, she had quite made what is called “a clean breast of it.”
The mother, as is often the case in these days of improvement, had scarcely so much force of character as the daughter. She never dared cross-question “Cissy” beyond a certain point. Not that the girl was rebellious43, but she had a quiet way of setting her mamma down, which was as uncomfortable as it was irresistible44.
Mrs. Dove, however, was not without her share of matronly cunning. She had been young herself, and had not forgotten it; nay45, she felt quite young again sometimes, even now. It does not follow that because a lady increases in bulk she should decrease in susceptibility. Look at a German baroness—fifteen stone good, in her ball dress, and ?sthetic to the tips of her plump fingers. Mamma got up to fetch her scissors; cut the little boy’s shirt to the true Corazza pattern, and, holding up that ridiculous little garment as if to dry, went on with her argument.
“I don’t think much of that Mr. Sawbridge after all, if you ask me,” said she, looking over the collar full in her daughter’s face. “He seems very shy, by no means good-looking, and I should say has not seen much of the world! Steadier perhaps than Brush, and not so stout46 as Struggles, but yet he don’t give me the idea of a very gentlemanlike person—like Mr. Crasher, for instance.”
The Honourable47 was one of the good lady’s great favourites. She admired hugely, as country dames48 will, his languor49, his insouciance50, his recklessness and dandyism—above all, his tendency to become torpid51 at a moment’s notice, which latter faculty52 frequently provoked the strong-minded “Cissy” beyond endurance.
The girl’s colour, always high, rose perceptibly. Like a true woman, she stood up for her new friend.
“Indeed, Mamma,” said she, “Mr. Sawyer is quite as gentlemanlike as anybody we meet anywhere, and as for being shy, I confess I like people all the better for not being forward, like that rude Mr. Savage53, who told me I should look hideous54 with my hair à l’Impératrice. Now, Mr. Sawyer at least tries to make himself agreeable.”
“And seems to succeed, Cissy,” rejoined Mamma, with an arch smile that deepened the young lady’s colour still more, and consequently heightened her resemblance to her buxom55 parent. “Well, dear, I must remind Papa about asking some of them to dinner. Shall I tell him to send Mr. Sawbridge an invitation?”
“Really, I don’t the least care,” answered Miss Dove, with a toss of her shining black hair. “I suppose you can’t well leave him out. But, Mamma, I wish you would call the man by his right name. It isn’t Sawbridge, but Sawyer.”
“I’ll try and remember, Cissy,” answered her mother, with another of those provoking smiles, which might have been too much for the young lady’s equanimity56, had not the entrance of the Reverend, bringing with him a strong perfume of tobacco, stables, and James’s horse-blister, put an end to the tête-à-tête, and diverted Mrs. Dove’s attack to her natural prey57.
The Reverend was not in the best of humours. He had been feeling a horse’s legs—the swelling58 of which no stimulant59, however strong, seemed to be able to reduce. It was aggravating60 to make his hands smell like a chemist’s shop, and at the same time to be aware that his favourite’s legs were getting rounder and rounder under the application. It was not consolatory61 to be told by the groom62 that “the old ’oss was about wore out.” Nor was it reassuring63 to reflect that he wanted for half-a-dozen other purposes the couple of hundred it would take to replace him. These, however, are the annoyances65 to which hunting men are subject; the metaphorical66 thorns that bristle67 round our rose, and make her all the dearer and the sweeter for their sharpness. As he returned to the house via the pigsties68, he could scarcely raise sufficient interest to examine the lately-arrived litter of nine. Spotted69 black and white, they reminded him of fox-hound puppies; and to the Reverend, short of horses as he was, the association was but suggestive of annoyance64.
When he entered the little drawing-room, Mrs. Dove knew by his face that the moment was an unpropitious one at which to hazard a request for anything she wanted to obtain; but having managed him for a quarter of a century, it would have been odd if she had not known exactly how to get her own way with him now.
“My dear,” she said, “I’ve a letter from that man at Brighton about the house we had last year. He wants to know if we would like to engage it for a couple of months in the spring. It would be a good opportunity to give Cissy a little sea-bathing, you know.”
Now, the Reverend had the same horror of that, as of other watering-places, which is usually entertained by middle-aged70 gentlemen of settled habits, who do not choose to accept second-rate dissipation and salt-water as equivalents for the comforts of a home. He had indeed, during the previous summer, been seduced71 into spending two months at Brighton, under the erroneous impression that on those Sussex downs the harriers hunted all the year round; but, having found out his mistake, had inwardly registered a vow72 never to be “let in” for such a benefit again. It was no wonder that he rose freely at the suggestion.
“Gracious Heavens! Mrs. Dove!” exclaimed the Reverend, plumping down into an arm-chair, and raising both hands in irritable73 deprecation, “knowing what you do, how can you ask such a question? Of course, if this house is too uncomfortable to live in, and it don’t matter about the parish going to the d— to the dogs, and the Bishop74 is to be a nonentity75, and my duties a farce76, you are perfectly77 right to go gadding78 about from here to Brighton, and from Brighton to London, and from London to Halifax, if you like, and I shall be happy to indulge you. I only wish you would tell me where the money is to come from—where the money is to come from, Mrs. Dove—that’s all!” And, having thus spoken, the Reverend took up the Leicester Journal, and looked over the top of it at his wife, as if he had indeed propounded79 a poser.
This was exactly what that dear artful woman wanted. She knew that when he had blown off his steam, her husband would settle down into his usual easy temper, and become perfectly malleable80 in about five minutes. So she folded the poor parishioner’s little shirt with the nicest accuracy, and replied in the most perfect good-humour—
“Well, dear, I’m sure I don’t want to move from here till we go to London. You know I’m so fond of my garden in the spring, and I like you to get your hunting as long as you can: it does you so much good. My idea is, London about the time of the Derby; then Ascot for a week; and home again by the beginning of July. After all, we are wonderfully well situated here for the country as regards society, and Harborough never was so full as it seems this season. What should we do in this part of the world if it wasn’t for hunting?”
Precious, in proportion to their rarity, opinions so orthodox sank like music in the Reverend’s ear. Five-and-twenty years’ experience had failed to teach him, that such congenial sentiments must as necessarily be followed by a request, as a soft southerly wind is succeeded by rain. And this is the strangest feature in our subservience81 to the other sex. Though they deceive us ninety-nine times, we believe them the hundredth, and, more foolish than the feathered biped, though its meshes82 be spread in our very sight, rush open-eyed, neck-and-heels into the net of the fowler.
The Reverend glanced at the wife of his bosom83, and thought her wonderfully like that picture done a score of years ago. He said as much: but the compliment by no means diverted Mrs. Dove from the object she had in view. “Cissy and I were just talking,” said she simply, “of your friend Mr. Crasher, and the rest of them. By the bye, you really ought to ask some of them to dinner. There’s a barrel of oysters84 come by rail last night, and our turkeys this year are finer than usual. Better say Tuesday, don’t you think, Papa?” added she coaxingly85.
But the Reverend was not so hospitably86 inclined as he would have been had the old horse been sound. “They can have plenty of oysters at Harborough,” said he. “They won’t care to drive all that way in the dark. Bad roads, wet nights, perhaps, and nobody to meet them. Better put it off, I think, Dottie, till the days get a little longer.”
You or I would hardly have thought of calling so ample a lady as Mrs. Dove, whose baptismal name indeed was Dorothy, by the above diminutive87. Nevertheless, when in his best humour, it was the Reverend’s habit to address her by the old pet name, and she returned to the charge accordingly.
“Better do it at once, dear,” she replied. “The end of the season comes upon us before we know where we are. And if frost should arrive, or anything, they are all off to London by the express train. As for not liking88 to come, they’ll jump at it. Mr. Crasher says yours is the best claret within three counties, and I’m sure you all sit long enough at it to appreciate its merits. How you will talk about hunting: won’t they, Cissy? Well, we can’t wonder at it—gentlemen are so enthusiastic. Why, if I was a man, with such wine as that, I’d sell ’em every horse in my stable before coffee came in.”
The Reverend burst out laughing. The last argument was irresistible. “Have it your own way, Dottie,” said he; “I must be off to write my sermon.” And he betook himself to his study accordingly, leaving his wife and daughter to issue the invitations.
Of these it is unnecessary for us to trace the delivery of more than one. Mr. Sawyer, eating devilled kidneys the following morning for breakfast, felt his heart leap into his mouth at the reception of a primrose-coloured, highly-scented billet, in a long narrow envelope, bearing on the reverse what is called a “monogram”—a thing not unlike the puzzle-wit lock on a gate—consisting of the letter D and others twisted into every variety of shape. Though his experience in ladies’ letters was limited, being indeed confined to one from Miss Mexico at the conclusion of their intercourse89, in which she “wished to have no further communication with him, but hoped always to remain friends,” something told him that the delicate, neatly-written superscription must have been indited90 by a fair hand. For an instant, the delightful91 suggestion flashed across him, that Miss Dove, forgetting maidenly92 reserve in the ardour of her affection, had plunged93 into a correspondence with himself, and he turned hot and cold by turns. Opening the missive with a trembling hand, it proved to be, if not from the young lady, at least from her mamma, and as it lay open all that day on his table, it is no breach94 of confidence on my part to publish its contents for the reader’s benefit. Thus it ran:—
“Dear Mr. Sawyer,
“Can you give us the pleasure of your company at dinner on Tuesday next, at half-past seven o’clock? Mr. Dove desires me to say that as you will probably drive, you had better not attempt the short way, but come by the high-road. My daughter unites with me in hoping that your poor horse has recovered the hard day in which he carried you so well, and I remain,
“Dear Mr. Sawyer,
“Yours sincerely,
“Dorothy Dove.
“Dove-cote Rectory, Friday.”
There is nothing ambiguous in the above. It seems a simple invitation to dinner enough; you or I can gather its drift at a glance. Why the man should have read it over at least half-a-dozen times is more than I can divine.
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1
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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coveting
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的现在分词 ) | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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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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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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crochet
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| n.钩针织物；v.用钩针编制 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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connubial
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妇的 | |
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controvert
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| v.否定；否认 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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43
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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48
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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51
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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52
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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53
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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54
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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55
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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56
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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57
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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58
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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59
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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61
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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62
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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63
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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64
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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metaphorical
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| a.隐喻的，比喻的 | |
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bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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pigsties
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| n.猪圈，脏房间( pigsty的名词复数 ) | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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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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gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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malleable
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| adj.(金属)可锻的;有延展性的；(性格)可训练的 | |
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subservience
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| n.有利，有益；从属（地位），附属性；屈从，恭顺；媚态 | |
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meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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