Mr. Belden did not call upon Diana at Miss Sullivan’s, but he discovered the day of her departure. A carefully considered chance made him a passenger on the same train. He did not appear until Miss Sullivan had taken leave of her former pupil. Diana had no fear of travelling alone. Railroad conductors are among the errant knights5 of modern chivalry6; but I never heard that Diana needed protection. She could wither7 impertinence with a look. But though she did not need an escort, she did not hate one, and when Belden came up with the manner of his better self, she made place and accepted him as companion of dustyish hours.
[164]Diana was happy that day. Her talks with Miss Sullivan had cleared away much darkness from her mind. She was younger by many years than a week before. All the beautiful sights and scenes of her past fleeted before her in bright and changing pictures. She was thinking much of her free and huntress life in Texas. She could even forget the terrible death of her mother. The whole story of that dreadful event was no longer a dark secret with her and one other, and that other she no longer dreaded9 to meet—that other she need no longer exclude from her presence and her thoughts.
A few hours with Miss Sullivan had changed the current of her life. She was no longer drifting hopelessly toward maddening terrors, forever in dread8 of herself lest she should yield to a hope that she must deem sacrilege. She had called Miss Sullivan mother, and when that lady, studying her, perhaps by the light of some bitter experience of her own, had said, like a mother firm and wise, “My child! you are hiding something from me,” Diana flung herself into this mother’s arms, and with such agonised tears as you had not looked for in her clear and fearless eyes, told the secret that had been with her like a death—between her and God and hope and life and love.
And now that this, her mother, had shown her how her guiltless and natural terrors were only superstitions10, and how she might blamelessly accept[165] an offered happiness, should it ever offer, there was no more vision of death between Diana and the beloved hopes of her soul.
Yet she did not wish to think of the future; therefore she was glad to be diverted in her journey by an agreeable companion. And to him, also, it was good to be with her. This radiant nature shone upon him, and if there was anywhere in his being a dwarfed11 and colourless germ of better emotion among the thickets12 of his daily thoughts, this now sprang up and seemed ready to flourish and blossom. Belden, the petted and successful man, did not with Diana promise himself his usual easy triumph. He was willing to win her by pains. But sometimes in this day, her manner was so transparently13 full of happiness, and to him was so frank and gracious, that he began to draw inferences rapidly favourable14 to himself.
You have, perhaps, my young gentleman reader of more or less purity of mind and ardent15 temperament16, sat apart in a poisoned mental ambush17 watching the woman you loved, while some quite unworthy personage, quite vulpine or quite viperine20, was pouring into her ears talk that made you feel like a fox-hound or a snake exterminator21. It was not that the talk itself was poison—it was, perhaps, no more than easy clap-trap, shining and shallow, cleverish things, such as may suit a weekly newspaper, philosophy of a man-about-town, gossip from all the[166] courts from the Grand Lama to Brigham Young—the very subjects yourself would, like the cosmopolite you are, have descanted on, were it not that here you could only breathe phrases deep and devoted22. It is not the talk that troubles you; it is that the talker, a man you know to be false and foul23, should bring his presence so near your shrine24 of vestal purity. But pardon him, the viper19, that he eloquently25 orates, and pardon her, the Loved One, that she answers gaily26. Viper, under that good influence, has perhaps ceased to be venomous; and the Loved One is perhaps gay for remembering those meaning words uttered by you so tenderly before the serpent trailed in and you retired27 to discontented ambuscade under the fiery28 shelter of crimson29 curtains.
Belden, whether he deceived himself or not, was quite willing to think he had made a conquest of Diana. He was one of those who have been encouraged by vulgarish women, tending toward demirepdom, to think that, when he entered, “all fair, all rich—all won, all conquered stand.” Diana was guiltless of any willing coquetry. She was thinking of herself and did not concern herself as to what impression she made upon others. But unwittingly, by the gift of nature, she had all those slight fascinations30 and winning charms that self-made coquettes study for in laborious31 hours, and persuade themselves they have attained32.
Mr. Belden was, no doubt, properly solicitous33 for[167] Diana’s baggage. This goddess was mundane34 enough to have made purchases beyond belief of Parisian dresses. “I dare do all that may become a man,” but to enter her boxes and describe their contents I dare not. Thinking of Diana, one thought not of the robes, but of the Mistress of the Robes. Belden was experienced in the small cares of society. It was part of his profession as a ladies’ man to recognise all properties of his escorted. She therefore arrived unimpaired at Newport. Clara Waddie, who met her at the boat, would hardly have given the escort so cordial a reception. Mr. Belden, probably, did not resemble any friend of hers.
Diana’s presence completed the charm of the Waddies’ house at Newport, and the house was a worthy18 temple for its two deities35, for Clara had always been the mistress of its decorations, and her cultivation36 and intuitive judgment37 were everywhere apparent.
Clara and Diana! the A and B of this C, D, were Dunstan and Paulding, a pair of the best men. A noble thing is the friendship of two brothers in love. California began just as they left college together. They dashed off immediately. Being fellows who were up to anything, they got on wonderfully. They mined, drove coaches, were judges or counsel at the plentiful38 hangings of the day. Each of them shot a pillager40 or two and rescued a few Mexicans and Chinamen from pillage39 by escaped[168] Australians. In the starvation winter, they headed the party that relieved the involuntary cannibals of the Sierra Nevada. They bought a ranch41, and finding on its edge among the hills a ready-money boulder42 of gold, quite an Ajax cast in fact, they opened dry diggings there and took out neat piles before the outsiders came in. Then they took a little run to San Francisco. Everyone who has had California—and what one brave and bold of those days is there that could have it and did not?—every Californian of the early times knows what two men drawing together, not indulging in hebdomadal big drunks or diurnal43 little drunks, and not beguiled44 in any sense by the sirens of the Bella union or other halls, what such a whole team could achieve. These two friends, living together, acting45 together, having common purse, common purposes for the future, when they had seen the lights and shadows of this phase of life, had gained each the other’s good qualities. When they were together in presence, you saw their marked difference of nature, marked as their differences of physique. When they were apart, each seemed the other’s counterpart. One sometimes sees this singular likeness46 in man and wife of some marriage of happy augury47.
At San Francisco, they chanced to pick up one of the Mexicans whom they had protected and befriended in the mines. Through him they became interested in a land claim, which the poor fellow had[169] by inheritance. They carried it on in his behalf, and when he died they found themselves by his will owners of the claim. It was made good. They were selling it at the fabulous48 prices of that day when Paulding was recalled by his mother’s death. Dunstan remained to close the business. He was able to remit49 to his friend wealth for them both.
Dunstan returned home across the plains by New Mexico and Texas. In the up-country of Texas, he was detained some time by an accident. After some delay, he joined his friend in New York. Several years of toil50 and danger entitled them to brief repose51. When action again became necessary to them, they essayed to revive at home the interest they had felt in constructive52 politics in California, but the ripeness of times had not yet come. The line was not yet drawn53 upon the great national question of America, which has since made the position of man and man inevitable54 according to character and education. Politics were not interesting.
Paulding observed his friend falling into melancholy55. Since the trip across the plains and the accident in Texas, Dunstan had lost that ardent vigour56 and careless hopefulness which had made him the leader in their California adventures. Perhaps he had achieved success too early and was blasé. Paulding took his friend to Europe, where they remained knocking about and occasionally amusing themselves with making the aborigines stare with[170] some stupendous California extravagance, until they heard of Frémont’s nomination57. They knew the man. They had shared with him, and others good and true, the labours of constituting the State of California. He was one after their own hearts—a gentleman pioneer—a scholar forester—a man of untrammelled vigour and truth of character—a Californian, which is a type of man alike incomprehensible to the salon58 and the saloon. It was the man they wanted; it was also the cause they wanted. They made for home as friends, Californians, and lovers of right, to take part in the campaign. Dunstan was nominated for Congress at home, up the North River. They went to Newport for days a few—they were staying for many days.
Why?
Paulding and Dunstan had known the Waddies and Clara in Europe. The two friends were presented to Diana.
It was all over with Paulding at once—over head and ears. So it happened with too many men who met Diana.
Diana was very happy in these few weeks, brilliantly happy. All their friends came constantly to the Waddies’. At Newport, everyone is at leisure; pleasure is the object. Where it dwells, all go. So the young ladies held perpetual levées without tête-à-têtes.
At these levées Mr. Belden appeared frequently.[171] He was in most amicable59 and laudatory60 mood. He pleased both the ladies by speaking in terms almost affectionate of Miss Sullivan. He had known her, he said, from his boyhood. They had been playmates in the fresh days of childhood. Many a morning he had gone proud to school with her rosebud61 in his buttonhole. They had grown up together, like brother and sister—no, more like cousins. He spoke62 of it with some sentiment. She was very lovely then.
“She seems to me still very lovely,” said Diana. “The loveliest woman I have ever seen. There is a serene63 sweetness and tranquillity64 in her beauty. No one else has that look of tender resignation. She is my idea of Faith.”
Belden uttered a strange sound like a sigh.
“Yes,” he said, “she is what you describe. She has had need of resignation after so much domestic trouble—her father’s disgrace—their poverty. And then her life of teaching—ah! that can hardly have been miserable65, with pupils like you, young ladies! We can hardly regret that she was compelled temporarily to leave her own sphere for the purpose of educating you to fill yours so charmingly.”
“You are flattering Miss Sullivan through us,” retorted Diana. “We thank you in her name. You cannot praise her too highly. She is wise and good and noble. Only I could wish that she were not so sad.”
[172]“Let us hope that her spirits will improve, now that she is rich in the means to do good,” Belden said.
In the same laudatory strain he spoke of Mr. Waddy.
“He, also, was one of my playmates. We have been separated for several years, but I hope to revive our old intimacy66 here.”
“Was he always the same odd, hasty, irascible, placable person?” asked Clara.
“Yes,” replied Belden; “we called him at school Ira the Irate67. It was always a tropical climate wherever he was. I do not wonder he found our boreal Boston too chilly68 for his nature.”
“He does not resemble at all the typical nabob,” observed Diana. “He is not fat and curry-coloured. He does not wear yellow slippers69 and Madras cravats70 and queer white clothes of the last cycle. He sits a morning with us and does not ask for ale. He doesn’t call lunch tiffin. In fact, if he did not have a Chinese servant and smoke an immense number of cheroots, one could scarcely observe anything in which he differs from other men of the world.”
“How much Chin Chin looks like Julia Wilkes’s friends, Mr. Cutus and Mr. Fortisque,” said Clara.
“Those two unfortunate youths, with chop-stick legs, no perceptible moustache, complexions71 de foie gras?” and Belden laughed. “The bohoys call them[173] Shanghais. They are indeed changeling Chinese—not quite men. There is in South America one variety of monkey that has a moustache—most have not—they have not.”
“They have surrounded her,” Clara replied. “She is very good-natured and not very wise. One of them is always standing73 sentinel. I suppose no clever man likes to have a sprightly74 fool forever standing by and filling vacancy75 with smiling dumminess while he is talking. So the clever men have actually been thrust away from poor Julia by these two pertinacious76 friends.”
“Very different from your two civilised California friends,” said Belden, still in a complimentary77 vein78.
“Did you know them in California?” asked Diana.
“No; I was in San Francisco. They were up the country. They were well known from their efficiency in relieving the starved emigration of ’49, and from the very active part they took [G— d—n them!] in making California a free State.”
Belden went on commending judiciously79 the friends, whom he hated on general principles and found in his way at present. He relieved himself by internal salvos of cursing and achieved his object of[174] buttering all his antagonists80, so that he could slip by, as he hoped, and win the prize. He must win. Yes. Or what?
“How handsomely he spoke of Paulding and Dunstan,” said Clara, after he had gone. “I must learn to think better of a man who has the rare virtue81 of not being jealous.”
“Can it be,” said Diana, “that he was ever attached to Miss Sullivan? He speaks almost tenderly of her. I have noticed a certain coolness or awkwardness between them hardly to be accounted for in any other way. If it is so, he shows another rare trait, that of remembering without unkindness a woman who has rejected him.”
So this serpent charmed away Clara’s prejudices, or for a moment persuaded her that she was unjust, and beguiled Diana into something more like intimacy. They, as innocent women, knew very little of the man. And, indeed, there were no positive charges against him, except that he was what is pleasantly called a “lady-killer.” Their gentlemen friends, though sharing in the general distrust of him, had no brother’s privilege of warning against an acquaintance, if merely undesirable82. Therefore, the ladies did not hear of Mr. Belden’s flirtation83 with Mrs. Budlong. The Waddies did not know her. Her storming of good society had taken place during their absence. Mr. Belden, in reply to their inquiries84, spoke of her with respect.
[175]Diana, at this time, occasionally felt a slight recurrence85 of that pain in her side which has already been noticed. Once when Belden was accompanying her in a ride, a privilege he now frequently had, this pain for a moment overcame her terribly. She would have fallen but for his ready aid and judgment. She was restored in a moment and insisted upon continuing her ride. Belden was even better received than usual when he called in the evening to make proper inquiries. He had shown a very respectful delicacy86 and was rewarded by gratitude87 and an invitation to dinner. He congratulated himself upon his luck and hoped the lady would faint every day.
Diana was seized with this same pain one evening when she was sitting a little apart with Dunstan. He sprang to support her. She had strength to repel88 him, almost rudely. Clara retired with her a moment till the spasm89 passed. When the gentlemen took their leave, which they did immediately upon the ladies’ re-entrance, Diana gave her hand to Dunstan, as if to apologise. Her manner was grave, even solemn, as she said to him some commonplaces of thanks for his intended courtesy.
Clara felt some anxiety for her sister-friend. What meant these sudden pains? Diana made light of them. They were nothing, transitory only—a reminder90 of an unimportant hurt she had received in Texas. She was perfectly91 well—and so she seemed,[176] brilliantly full of life, that must sing and laugh and blush at each emotion.
There arose a singular coolness between the sisters at this time—a lover’s quarrel, as it were; and yet no quarrel, but a seeming hesitancy before some more perfect confidence. They were more affectionate than ever when together, but more apart, shunning92 each other, talking of trifles. Clara was conscious of this partial estrangement93. In fact, it was almost wholly on her side. The high and careless spirits of her friend seemed to jar upon her. She seemed to long for solitude94. Anywhere but at Newport in the summer, she might have indulged in lonely walks. There she was compelled to encounter the world and be gay with it.
But she grew pale—they told her so. She said it was moonshine. And so it was—beautiful moonshine—sweet, melancholy pallor; but bloom was better. Sorrow, unmerited, came to her—sorrow such as even to herself she could not confess. The wish, the hope that she would not admit, for all its besetting95 sieges, would make her untrue to herself and disloyal to her friend. Disloyal to Diana—her rival! The first was as far from her thoughts as the last seemed unimaginable. No one could be the rival of Diana!
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1
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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4
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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8
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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9
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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10
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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12
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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transparently
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| 明亮地，显然地，易觉察地 | |
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14
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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viperine
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| adj.毒蛇的，似毒蛇的 | |
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exterminator
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| n.扑灭的人，害虫驱除剂 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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pillager
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| n.掠夺者 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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42
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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43
diurnal
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| adj.白天的，每日的 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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45
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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46
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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47
augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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48
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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49
remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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50
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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51
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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52
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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53
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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54
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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55
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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56
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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57
nomination
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| n.提名，任命，提名权 | |
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58
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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60
laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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61
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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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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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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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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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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cravats
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| n.（系在衬衫衣领里面的）男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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amorphous
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| adj.无定形的 | |
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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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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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antagonists
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| 对立[对抗] 者，对手，敌手( antagonist的名词复数 )； 对抗肌； 对抗药 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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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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shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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