“He ain’t dangerous, sir,” that worthy6 returned to report, “but he’s been a-gulpin’ down suthin’ as has kicked up a bobbery in his innards.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Waddy; “have Pallid7 ready for eleven o’clock. How does he look this morning?”
“He’s as gay, sir, as a house afire,” Bowery assured him. “Yer kin2 bet yer life on it, he’ll rake ’em down!” and Bowery departed, humming cheerfully to himself, confident of being richer ere the day was over.
[242]Major Granby dropped in upon his friend a moment later.
“I’m losing my interest in this race,” said Waddy, “since Dunstan’s unwillingness10 to ride has become so evident. Poor fellow! I’m afraid there’s very little hope for Diana.”
“Don’t say so,” protested Granby; “the world cannot spare that noble girl. I was just speaking with Skerrett of her. He says she is the only woman he ever knew who is afraid of neither fresh air nor sunshine. And Clara—how can that beautiful friendship be severed11? You can hardly imagine how those sisters have quartered themselves in my rusty12 old heart. Did you ever hear them speak of Miss Sullivan, their governess? She must be a remarkable13 person.”
“Sullivan? No,” said Waddy, connecting the name at once with his preserver at The Island. “A lady of that name did me a service once. I must ask them about her.”
“Dunstan will ride without fail, I suppose?” asked Granby. “We must beat that fellow Belden.”
“Dunstan will hold to his word; if it were to drive the chariot of Tullia,” answered Ira, who had read his friend’s character aright.
Mrs. Budlong had an interview with Arabella early that morning. Arabella looked very tearful, but there was also a new expression in her face,[243] thanks to Peter Skerrett—one might almost call it determination.
“Well, my dear,” said the step-mother, “what shall I say to the lover? He is eager for the kind word of encouragement,” and Mrs. De Flournoy played affectionately with the young lady’s curls.
“Tell him I hate him!” cried the poor penitent14, bursting into tears again. “I hope, madam, you will never mention his name to me—no, not once more! Oh! oh! you hurt me.”
“You silly fool!” said she, “don’t you know he can ruin your prospects16? You’ll offend your father so that he’ll discard you, and then what will you do? If you are so dishonourable and disobedient, when we are striving for your good, we shall let you go to the destruction you choose.”
“I hope I shall find some friends who will not think me dishonourable,” sobbed17 poor Arabella, thinking with rueful gratitude18 and confidence of honest Peter and his fraternal feelings. “I’m not dishonourable. I’m trying to do right. I may have been foolish, but that—man—he can’t be a gentleman, or he would not persecute19 me so. I don’t know what reason you can have for wanting to make me miserable20.”
“My reasons are of course wise and judicious,” retorted Mrs. B. “I will see you once more, and[244] then, if you do not choose to yield, you will be the cause of the éclatant scandal of the season. You won’t think of going to the race with those red eyes. I wouldn’t take you if you did.”
Poor Arabella was the only one who did not go; everybody went; all that we have encountered in this history and platoons of others.
The first beach at Newport is straightish, and a mile or so in length,—a very long “or so,” when you are dragged over it in the unwilling9 family coach, by stagnant21 steeds—a very short mile when the beautiful comrade whose presence is a consecration22 and a poet’s dream, says “Shall we gallop23?” and cheats with fleeting24 transport, as she passes, the winds from summer seas, that sigh to stay and dally25 with her curls.
Between beach number one and beach number two is an interregnum of up and down, a regency of dust. Then comes the glorious second beach. You will hardly see anything more beautiful than this long, graceful26 sweep, silvery grey in the sunshine, with a keener silver dashed along its edge by curving wave that follows curving wave. You will hardly see any place gayer than this same wide path beside the exhilarating dash of the Atlantic, on a gay afternoon of August—hundreds of carriages, more or less well-appointed; scores of riders, more or less well-mounted or -seated.
Thus, then, to the second beach between grey[245] rocks, grey sand slopes, and grey meadows beyond, and on the other hand the gleaming glory of the sea, came at eleven that morning, to see the race, all the snobs27 and all the nobs. Peter Skerrett and his aides marshalled them. Mrs. Budlong, alone in her carriage, bowed and smiled very pleasantly to Peter. However critical that person may have felt her position, and whatever desperate resolve she might entertain for escape, through whatever postern, from the infamy28 of public dismissal, she was quite as usual. No; she was even handsomer than usual, more quietly splendid in attire29, and reclining with calmer luxuriousness30 of demeanour on her cushions of satin.
Among the many traps, drags, and go-carts, of various degrees of knowingness, Mr. Waddy’s was conspicuous31. Major Granby, old Budlong, and Paulding accompanied him. Old Bud said it made him quite young again to see the boys out.
“But, sir,” he added, “why do they bump on the outside of a horse, when they might sit and grow fat in a buggy? There’s Tim, sir, my boy Tim, is growing quite thin and haggard; he says riding don’t agree with him. I’m afraid he won’t do much with Drummer to-day.”
A straight race, on a dead level, lacks features of varied32 brilliancy. Peter Skerrett had arranged that the field should start alternately from either end, that all might see alphas and omegas. Thus the[246] proud and numerous start and the disarrayed33 and disappointed finishes might be viewed by all spectators. All might share the breathless sympathies of doubts and enthusiasms for the winner.
Peter Skerrett, too busy to think of poor Arabella, who, in her bower5, was thinking much of him and sighing as she thought how unworthy she had been in her long education of vanities and follies34; Peter now brought forward his rank of equestrians35. The sea was still, and hardly rustled36 as it crept along the sands, unterrifying to horse or man; yet the air was cool and the sun not too ardent37 to be repelled38 by a parasol.
As the line formed, the ladies chose their champion men and bet gloves recklessly on them; the gentlemen chose champion horses, with a view also to riders, and bet reckfully.
It appeared that Tim Budlong was—bluntly—drunk, and Drummer lost his backers. There was a murmur39 of sympathy as Dunstan rode up on Pallid; sympathy admiring for this pair, a best of the animal and a best of the man, and sympathy pitiful for the man of a soul that must bear the anxiety and perhaps the sorrow that all knew of. A noble fellow and a generous the common suffrage40 made him, already distinguished41 for bold ability and frank disdain42 of cowardice43 and paltering. When experience had made him a little more indulgent to the limping progress and feeble vision and awkward drill of[247] mankind, rank and file, he would be a great popular leader. So thought the Nestors, feeling themselves fired by the fervours of this young Achilles.
Belden had overdone44 his costume, as such men often do. It was urgent with him to look young; he achieved only a gaudy45 autumnal bloom. Knockknees, malgré that ungainly quality of his legs, was an imposing46, masculine style of horse. As he passed, stopping to speak intimately to Mrs. De Flournoy, several of the intuitionless women envied that person and several men called him “lucky dog.”
Blinders was not a lady’s man. His horse was, however, one of the favourites. Very few men but Blinders would have ventured to mount, or even approach, such a rascal47 brute48. Nosegay knew that his master was invincible49, but he wished to inform him that they were a pair of invincibles; accordingly, despising the two snaffles, the one in hand, the other around the rider’s waist for steady drag, Nosegay would fling his head about and then move on without reference to requests that he tarry or stand at ease.
“That there ’oss’ll overrun ’isself,” said Figgins to Mr. Waddy’s Bowery Boy, with whom he had bets on Pallid, money up. “’E’ll make a four-mile ’eat hout of hevery mile ’eat.”
“Gaaz, Johnny Bull!” returned the Bowery. “Thar ain’t no hoss in a hide as kin git away from[248] Mr. Blinders. It caan’t be did. He’s one er the bohoys, he is.”
Bob O’Link’s horse was a mare50. The sentimental51 fellow had named her Lalla Rookh. She was a delicate beauty, but it was quite evident that her master would not give himself the trouble to win.
Scalper was so busy caricaturing Billy Dulger that he was near forgetting to present himself with Gossoon. Little Skibbereen recalled him to his duty. Skibby wanted to see his horse go, and could hardly forgive his mamma for keeping him at her side.
“Why shouldn’t I break my neck, ma, if I like?” he protested. “I’ll go and break it the day I’m twenty-one and leave my property to the Tract52 Society.”
Sir Com Ambient said good-naturedly that he merely started to make one more in the field. This was clear to the observing eye.
Billy Dulger, having achieved his heart’s desire, rode up very unwillingly53. The bookkeeper had sent him on garments much too refulgent54 for this, or any occasion. He was rather conspicuous per se as the Great Accepted of Miss Center. The Billy-dulgerid epic55, having already been brought to its finale, nothing more need be said of its hero’s performances in the race, except that his horse did not disappoint the stableman, his owner; did not win a heat; did not start a second time; and that Billy’s[249] hair was full of sand for several days after this eventful one.
Preparations are of years, acts of moments. To run a mile takes a minute and so many seconds, disappointingly brief. Poor, dissolute Tim Budlong, over-fortified by drink, struck Drummer viciously at starting. Drummer shied toward the water and Tim went over his head. Sobered by the plunge56, Timothy mounted the horse, which someone caught, and disappeared homeward, fully8 ashamed of himself.
In a minute and so many seconds, a hurrah57 came down the wind. Blinders had won; Pallid second; Knockknees third.
“All right next time,” telegraphed Figgins to his master.
Sir Comeguys had saved his distance handsomely and now withdrew.
Time was about to be called again. Where was Blinders? At last he reappeared. Nosegay had gone on indefinitely and was at last, with difficulty, persuaded to return.
Off they all go once more. The ladies at the upper end are almost terrified at this assault of cavalry58. So even seems the front of charge that all are deemed winners; but the judges announce Pallid first; Knockknees second; Nosegay third—all very close running.
Belden began to be anxious. Instead of drooping,[250] Pallid was improving. Had the poison failed? He superintended the care of his horse most sedulously59. Each of the gentlemen had a groom at either end of the course. Dunstan grew excited with success. The match was a very even one. Good riding would determine it. Bob O’Link strolled up to Miss Anthrope’s carriage.
“I think I’ll win the next heat, if you wish it,” said he languidly.
Everyone was astonished at the next announcement of victory. Lalla Rookh first; Knockknees second; Pallid and Nosegay third. Blinders kept Nosegay up, but he was showing the effects of his stubborn struggles. Belden called Figgins.
“By God!” said he, “you’ve cheated me; the horse goes better every time. I only got ahead this time by Link’s riding in.”
“Hi dunno what hit means,” protested his accomplice60. “Hif I’ve cheated you, Hi’ve cheated myself. Hevery penny of mine’s hon it. I ’ope ’e’ll drop next time.”
But he did not drop. There was only half a head between him and Nosegay, but Pallid won the race and immense applause. He was victor in the first regular race ever run on the beach of Newport. Everyone felt that the occasion was important.
For a moment Belden sat his horse like a man dazed. He had been falling a long time—at last he had come to the ground. He had backed Knockknees[251] heavily, besides his bet with Granby. He could not pay. He knew that his Boston creditors61 would be down to attach his horses for Boston debts; Millard’s bill of three figures was lying on his table unpaid62.
“That damned Figgins will blow me,” he thought. He cursed Dunstan, winner of the race, winner of Diana. “She would have made me a better man,” thought he, with a groan63 of despair. “I shall have to retire for a while. Luckily, I’ve got hold of someone that I can invite, rather positively64, to go along and pay expenses.”
The thought nerved him, and he pulled himself together. He dismounted, gave his horse to his supplemental groom, and looking with a pleasant scowl65 around, walked up to Mrs. Budlong’s carriage.
“I find it rather warm, now that the race is over,” said that person. “Will you get in and drive home with me?”
So they drove off in very handsome style, admired by the admiring, envied by the envious66. Mrs. Budlong complained of a headache, and kept her room the rest of the day.
Wellabout drove Dunstan away. They stopped at Mr. Waddie’s. Diana would see her betrothed67 to-day. His heart sank at the announcement. There was, indeed, no hope; she must die; slowly, sadly, after many days of lingering adieux, and all that[252] divine beauty be no more seen and felt to inspire and to consecrate68 her neighbour world.
Mr. Waddy, Major Granby, and Peter Skerrett returned at ten that evening from dining at the Skibbereens’. Old Budlong met them in the hall, and they all went up to Mr. Waddy’s parlour for a cigar.
Chin Chin had reappeared, looking as unwholesome as a cold buckwheat cake. Retribution for his reticence69 had overtaken him. He began to tell Ira his story of the stable scene in his odd, broken English. While he was so doing, there was a knock at the door. A woman, Miss Arabella’s maid, to see Mr. Skerrett, and the Bowery Boy for Mr. Waddy.
Ira interpreted Chin Chin’s tale to the other gentlemen.
“Well,” said the Bowery Boy, who had waited with the imperturbableness of his class, “if somebody tried t’ pizen the hoss afore, it must be the same chap as has did it now. I found this piece of a ball in the manger, and Pallid’s down on his side as dead as Billy Kirby.”
At this moment Peter Skerrett returned.
“Send your people away, Waddy,” said he. “Mr. Budlong, these gentlemen are friends. We shall need their advice. Your wife and Mr. Belden are missing. They probably went in the Providence70 boat two hours ago.”
[253]For a moment no one spoke71. Poor Bud sat staring, his face purple, unable for a breath to comprehend. Then his colour faded, his face fell suddenly into folds and wrinkles. He put down his head and groaned72.
Before anyone could find words of consolation73, or realise how powerless to console any words must be, there came another knock at the door. It was Figgins, looking more like a ticket-of-leave man than ever. The bow in his legs seemed to have increased.
“My master ’as ran hoff without payin’ me hanythink,” said he, cringing74 to Mr. Waddy. “Hi found them papers hamong ’is traps,” he continued, laying a packet on the table, “hand seein’ as they was marked with yer honour’s name, Hi thought yer honour mout give me five dollars fer a savink of ’em.”
“So you’ve been thieving as well as trying to poison,” said Ira, as he opened the door. “Here, boys,” he called to Chin Chin and Bowery, in the adjoining room. “Lug this beggar off. We’ll have him attended to to-morrow.”
“Hi yi! All same!” shouted Chin Chin, pouncing75 upon Figgins, and that worthy was dragged off with a Chinaman at his hair and the Bowery Boy playfully tapping him on the nob.
Mr. Waddy picked up the packet of papers, to toss[254] it after Figgins, but held his hand, with a sudden start of astonishment76 as his eye caught the indorsement. He stared at it a moment, scarce believing that he saw aright; a swift presentiment77 shook him, turned him hot, cold——
“Gentlemen,” said he, a little hoarsely78, “I do not desire to pry79 into Mr. Belden’s private papers, but this parcel is indorsed in my own hand, or a hand that seems my own, as relating to me. I shall take the liberty, in your presence, of ascertaining80 the contents.”
He opened them with trembling fingers: the whole plot burst upon him, foul81, damnable, unspeakably vile82.
“My God!” thought he. “They showed her these—she could not doubt my own hand. And I have wronged her all these fifteen years! Oh, how I pardon her!”
His hands were trembling still; his eyes were hot with tears—tears of joy, tears of thankfulness——
Old Budlong looked up, with a sudden jerk of the head. His eyes, too, were wet and his hands tremulous.
“Gentlemen,” said he, steadying his voice, which would have broken, “I’m an old man, but I’ve been a kind husband, and as devoted83 to my wife as I knew how. I sometimes thought she was a little gay[255] and it made me unhappy—but I was old and she was young, and I never thwarted84 her. She has had everything she wished, and, gentlemen, I loved her like a wife and a daughter. She was a beautiful woman, you know, and I found her very poor, the daughter of one of my old cronies, and I put her where she belonged, among splendid things. I have never seen anything handsomer than she was, gentlemen, and I was proud of her.”
He spoke of her as if she were dead, and other lips were quivering, in sympathy with his.
“Perhaps you have thought,” he went on, after a moment, with a quiet dignity that was new to him and very touching85, “that I was too much away this summer; but when we came back from Europe, she asked me to take a few thousands she had inherited from her uncle and operate with them. So I’ve been at work for her all summer in that hot town. I paid her over the profits last time I was down, in shares of the Manhattan Bank, a good old stock, twenty-three thousand dollars. I thought perhaps she’d like to feel more independent of the old man. I felt a little vain of the operation, gentlemen, and I said to her, ‘You see, Betty dear, your old boy does understand one thing, and that is how to make money for you.’ She actually cried at that, she did, gentlemen, and said she was very sorry I’d been away so much, working so hard, and she wished she was good enough for me. That doesn’t look like a bad[256] woman,” he continued, wiping his eyes. “I can’t believe she’s bad,—not at heart, my friends,—but you know I’m an old man and a little rough, perhaps, and she didn’t like my being proud that I’d come up from a deck-hand on a North River barge86. It was to please her that I stopped writing my name Flirney and bought my new house and tried to study French and went to Europe. But it was too late—I was too old—I couldn’t change—though God knows I tried!
“I’m sorry on Arabella’s account,” he added, more calmly. “She’s an honest girl, and a pretty girl, and a good girl, too, though I say it, and like her own mother, when we lived down in Pearl Street long ago. Now, nobody will speak to the daughter of an old man whose wife has——” And the broken-hearted old gentleman stopped and wiped his eyes again.
“No! no! Peter Skerrett, lad,” he continued, “I know what you mean to say. I love you like a son; but it’s no use. My name shall never bring its disgrace upon anyone else.
“And now,” he added, rising, “I thank you, gentlemen, for your kind feeling and listening to my childish talk. I’m an old man, you see; but there’s some of the old stuff left in me still. I start to-morrow morning and I’ll trail him—I’ll trail him like an Injun. I’ve lived mostly in the city since I was a boy, but I used to be pretty good with the old[257] King’s arm and I guess he’ll find I can hit the size of a man yet. Good-night, gentlemen. Good-night, Peter, my boy.”
“Mr. Budlong,” said Ira, seizing the old man’s hand, “I will go with you. My revenge is older than yours.”
Well out of Vanity Fair, Mr. Ira Waddy!
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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pallid
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fully
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unwilling
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unwillingness
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severed
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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tug
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prospects
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sobbed
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gratitude
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persecute
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miserable
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stagnant
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consecration
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gallop
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fleeting
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dally
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graceful
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snobs
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infamy
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attire
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luxuriousness
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conspicuous
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varied
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follies
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equestrians
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repelled
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murmur
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suffrage
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distinguished
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disdain
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cowardice
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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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gaudy
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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refulgent
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| adj.辉煌的，灿烂的 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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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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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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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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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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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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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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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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