Rachel felt as bitter as one only does against those who have inspired some softer feeling; the poison of misplaced confidence rankled10 in her blood. Her husband had told her much, but it was not enough for Rachel, and the little he refused to tell eliminated all the rest from her mind. There was no merit even in such frankness as he had shown, since her own, accidental discoveries had forced some measure of honesty upon him. He had admitted nothing which Rachel could not have deduced from that which she had found out for herself. She felt as far as ever from any satisfactory clew to his mysterious reasons for ever wishing to marry her. There lay the kernel11 of the whole matter, there the problem that she meant to solve. If her first husband was at the bottom of it, no matter how indirectly12, and if she had been married for the dead man's sake, to give his widow a home, then Rachel felt that the last affront13 had been put upon her, and she would leave this man as she had been within an ace9 of leaving his friend. So ran the wild and unreasonable14 tenor15 of her thoughts. He had not married her for her own sake; it was not she herself who had appealed to him, after all. Curiosity might consume her, and a sense of deepening mystery add terrors of its own, but the resentful feeling was stronger than either of these, and would have afforded as strange a revelation as any, had Rachel dared to look deeper into her own heart.
If, on the other hand, she had already some conception of the truth about herself, it would scarcely lessen16 her bitterness against one who inspired in her emotions at once so complex and so painful. Suffice it that this bitterness was extreme in the days immediately following the scene between Rachel and her husband in the drawing-room after dinner. It was also unconcealed, and must have been the cause of many another such scene but for the imperturable temper and the singularly ruly tongue of John Buchanan Steel. And then, in those same days, there fell the two social events to which the bidden guests had been looking forward for some two or three weeks, and of which the whole neighborhood was to talk for years.
On the tenth of August the Uniackes were giving a great garden party at Hornby Manor17, while the eleventh was the date of the first real dinner-party for which the Steels had issued invitations to Normanthorpe House.
The tenth was an ideal August day: deep blue sky, trees still untarnished in the hardy18 northern air, and black shadows under the trees. Rachel made herself ready before lunch, to which she came down looking quite lovely, in blue as joyous19 as the sky's, to find her husband as fully20 prepared, and not less becomingly attired21, in a gray frock-coat without a ripple22 on its surface. They looked critically at each other for an instant, and then Steel said something pleasant, to which Rachel made practically no reply. They ate their lunch in a silence broken good-naturedly at intervals23 from one end of the table only. Then the Woodgates arrived, to drive with them to Hornby, which was some seven or eight miles away; and the Normanthorpe landau and pair started with, the quartette shortly after three o'clock.
Morning, noon, and afternoon of this same tenth of August, Charles Langholm, the minor24 novelist, never lifted his unkempt head from the old bureau at which he worked, beside an open window overlooking his cottage garden. A tumbler of his beloved roses stood in one corner of the writing space, up to the cuts in MSS., and roses still ungathered peeped above the window-sill and drooped25 from either side. But Langholm had a soul far below roses at the present moment; his neatly26 numbered sheets of ruled sermon-paper were nearing the five hundredth page; his hero and his heroine were in the full sweep of those emotional explanations which they had ingeniously avoided for the last three hundred at least; in a word, Charles Langholm's new novel is being finished while you wait. It is not one of his best; yet a moment ago there was a tear in his eye, and now he is grinning like a child at play. And at play he is, though he be paid for playing, and though the game is only being won after weeks and months of uphill labor27 and downhill joy.
At last there is the final ticking of inverted28 commas, and Charles Langholm inscribes29 the autograph for which he is importuned30 once in a blue moon, and which the printer will certainly not set up at the foot of the last page; but the thing is done, and the doer must needs set his hand to it out of pure and unusual satisfaction with himself. And so, thank the Lord!
Langholm rose stiffly from the old bureau, where at his best he could lose all sense of time; for the moment he was bent31 double, and faint with fasting, because it was his mischievous32 rule to reach a given point before submitting to the physical and mental distraction33 of a meal. But to-day's given point had been the end of his book, and for some happy minutes Langholm fed on his elation2. It was done at last, yet another novel, and not such a bad one after all. Not his best by any means, but perhaps still further from being his worst; and, at all events, the thing was done. Langholm could scarcely grasp that fact, though there was the last page just dry upon the bureau, and most of the rest lying about the room in galley-proofs or in typewritten sheets. Moreover, the publishers were pleased; that was the joke. It was nothing less to Langholm when he reflected that the final stimulus34 to finish this book had been the prospect35 and determination of at last writing one to please himself. And this reflection brought him down from his rosy36 clouds.
It was the day of the Uniacke's garden-party; they had actually asked the poor author, and the poor author had intended to go. Not that he either shone or revelled37 in society; but Mrs. Steel would be there, and he burned to tell her that he had finished his book, and was at last free to tackle hers; for hers at bottom it would be, the great novel by which the name of Langholm was to live, and which he was to found by Rachel Steel's advice upon the case of her namesake Rachel Minchin.
The coincidence of the Christian38 names had naturally struck the novelist, but no suspicion of the truth had crossed a mind too skilled in the construction of dramatic situations to dream of stumbling into one ready-made. It was thus with a heart as light as any feather that Langholm made a rapid and unwholesome meal, followed by a deliberate and painstaking39 toilet, after which he proceeded at a prudent40 pace upon his bicycle to Hornby Manor.
Flags were drooping41 from their poles, a band clashing fitfully through the sleepy August air, and carriages still sweeping42 into the long drive, when Langholm also made his humble43 advent44. He was a little uneasy and self-conscious, and annoyed at his own anxiety to impart his tidings to Mrs. Steel, but for whom he would probably have stayed at home. His eye sought her eagerly as he set foot upon the lawn, having left his bicycle at the stables, and carefully removed the clips from his trousers; but before his vigilance could be rewarded he was despatched by his hostess to the tea-tent, in charge of a very young lady, detached for the nonce from the wing of a gaunt old gentleman with side whiskers and lantern jaws45.
Fresh from his fagging task, Langholm did not know what on earth to say to the pretty schoolgirl, whose own shyness reacted on herself; but he was doing his best, and atoning46 in attentiveness47 for his shortcomings as a companion, when in the tent he had to apologize to a lady in blue, who turned out to be Rachel herself, with Hugh Woodgate at her side.
"Oh, no, we live in London," the young girl was saying; "only I go to the same school as Ida Uniacke, and I am staying here on a visit."
"I've finished it," whispered Langholm to Rachel, "this very afternoon; and now I'm ready for yours! I see," he added, dropping back into the attitude of respectful interest in the young girl; "only on a visit; and who was the old gentleman from whom I tore you away?"
The child laughed merrily.
"That was my father," she said; "but he is only here on his way to Leeds."
"You mustn't call it my book," remonstrated48 Rachel, while Woodgate waited upon both ladies.
"But it was you who gave me the idea of writing a novel round Mrs. Minchin."
"I don't think I did. I am quite sure it was your own idea. But one book at a time. Surely you will take a rest?"
"I shall correct this thing. It will depress me to the verge49 of suicide. Then I shall fall to upon my magnum opus."
"You really think it will be that?"
"It should be mine. It isn't saying much; but I never had such a plot as you have given me!"
Rachel shook her head in a last disclaimer as she moved away with the Vicar of Marley.
"Oh, Mr. Langholm, do you write books?" asked the schoolgirl, with round blue eyes.
"For my sins," he confessed. "But do you prefer an ice, or more strawberries and cream?"
"Neither, thank you. I've been here before," the young girl said with a jolly smile. "But I didn't know I should come back with an author!"
"Then we'll go out into the open air," the author said; and they followed Rachel at but a few yards' distance.
It was a picturesque50 if an aimless pageant51, the smart frocks sweeping the smooth sward, the pretty parasols with the prettier faces underneath52, the well-set-up and well-dressed men, with the old gray manor rising upon an eminence53 in the background, and a dazzling splash of scarlet54 and of brass55 somewhere under the trees. The band was playing selections from The Geisha as Langholm emerged from the tea-tent in Rachel's wake. Mrs. Venables was manoeuvring her two highly marriageable girls in opposite quarters of the field, and had only her own indefatigable56 generalship to thank for what it lost her upon this occasion. Mr. Steel and Mrs. Woodgate apparently57 missed the same thing through wandering idly in the direction of the band; but the tableau58 might have been arranged for the express benefit of Charles Langholm and the very young lady upon whom he was dancing laborious59 attendance.
Mrs. Uniacke had stepped apart from the tall old gentleman with the side whiskers, to whom she had been talking for some time, and had intercepted60 Rachel as she was passing on with Hugh Woodgate.
"Wait while I introduce you to my most distinguished61 guest, or rawther him to you," whispered Mrs. Uniacke, with the Irish brogue which rendered her slightest observation a delight to the appreciative62. "Sir Baldwin Gibson—Mrs. Steel."
Langholm and the little Miss Gibson were standing63 close behind, and the trained eye of the habitual64 observer took in every detail of a scene which he never forgot. Handsome Mrs. Uniacke was clinching65 the introduction with a smile, which ended in a swift expression of surprise. Sir Baldwin had made an extraordinary pause, his hand half way to his hat, his lantern jaws fallen suddenly apart. Mrs. Steel, though slower at her part of the obvious recognition, was only a second slower, and thereupon stood abashed66 and ashamed in the eyes of all who saw; but only for another second at the most; then Sir Baldwin Gibson not only raised his hat, but held out his hand in a fatherly way, and as she took it Rachel's color changed from livid white to ruby67 red.
Yet even Rachel was mistress of herself so quickly that the one or two eye-witnesses of this scene, such as Mrs. Uniacke and Charles Langholm, who saw that it had a serious meaning, without dreaming what that meaning was, were each in hopes that no one else had seen as much as they. Sir Baldwin plunged68 at once into amiable69 and fluent conversation, and before many moments Rachel's replies were infected with an approximate assurance and ease; then Langholm turned to his juvenile70 companion, and put a question in the form of a fib.
"So that is your father," said he. "I seem, do you know, to know his face?"
"You probably do; he is the judge, you know!"
"The judge, is he?"
"Yes; and I wanted to ask you something just now in the tent. Did you mean the Mrs. Minchin who was tried for murder, when you were talking about your plot?"
Langholm experienced an unforeseen shock from head to heel; he could only nod.
"He was the judge who tried her!" the schoolgirl said with pardonable pride.
"Do you really mean that that is Mr. Justice Gibson, who tried Mrs. Minchin at the Old Bailey last November?"
"Yes—my father," said the proud young girl.
"What a very singular thing! How do you do, Mr. Langholm? I didn't see it was you."
And Langholm found himself shaking hands with the aquiline73 lady to whom he had talked so little at the Upthorpe dinner-party; she took her revenge by giving him only the tips of her fingers now, and by looking deliberately74 past him at Rachel and her judge.
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1
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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3
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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7
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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10
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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12
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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13
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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14
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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15
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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16
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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17
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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19
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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20
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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21
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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22
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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23
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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24
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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25
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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27
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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28
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
inscribes
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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31
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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32
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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33
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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34
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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35
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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36
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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37
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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38
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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39
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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40
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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41
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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42
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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43
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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44
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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45
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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46
atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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47
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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48
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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49
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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50
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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51
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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52
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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53
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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54
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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55
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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56
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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57
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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58
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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59
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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60
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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61
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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62
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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63
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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64
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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65
clinching
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的现在分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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66
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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68
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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69
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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70
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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71
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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72
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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73
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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74
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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