“It was a great opportunity, dear, and you made the most of it. I am proud of my daughter,” she said. “I will join with you in praying that the poor fellow may be kept true to his pledge. It’s not the first step which costs in these struggles, whatever the proverb may say; the hardest part of the fight comes later on, when the first excitement is over, and progress seems so pitifully slow. So don’t let yourself grow weary in well-doing, dear Betty. Your poor friend will need your prayers more and more, not less and less.”
“Oh no, I shall never grow tired,” said Betty confidently. Then her face clouded, and she sighed. “Mother, do you suppose I shall ever—see him again?”
“It is very unlikely, dear. He is going so far away, and will have no money to spare for visits home. It must be a large sum which he has to repay, if the loss of it necessitated2 such a change in his friend’s household. With everything in his favour it would take a long time to earn.”
“How long, mother?”
“Dear child, what a question! It is impossible to say. It would be extraordinary, I should think, if he managed it in less than a dozen years.”
“A dozen years! I should be thirty! I shall be hideous3 at thirty,” thought Betty ruefully, recalling the vision of the sweet, flushed face which had looked at her from the mirror the day before. Could it be possible that a dozen years—twelve whole years—could pass by without bringing her any tidings of “Ralph”? In the state of exaltation which had possessed4 her last night she had felt raised above the need of words, but already reaction had set in, and with it a strange sense of depression at the thought of the future.
It was good to know that there was Cynthia to talk to—Cynthia, who might not be able to advise and strengthen as wisely as mother did, but who was a girl, and knew how girls felt—“up and down, and in and out, and—oh, and so topsy-turvy upside down!” thought poor Betty to herself.
A breathless, “I want to speak to you; I have something dreadfully interesting to tell!” whispered in a chance encounter in the street, brought an immediate5 invitation to tea ‘in my own room, where we shan’t be bothered’; and under these happy auspices6 the adventure was once more related, while Cynthia’s grey eyes grew wide with excitement.
“Dear Betty, how glorious for you!” she cried ecstatically. “What a wonderful thing to remember! You can never be blue again, and say that you are no use in the world. To have saved a man’s life, and started him on the right road—at eighteen—not eighteen! You are the most fortunate girl in the whole world! It’s so strange that this chance should have come to you on that particular day, because your brother and I had been talking about the different work of men and women as we walked over the Park to the Albert Hall, and he said that if it was men’s province to make the greatest things in the world, it was women’s work to make the men; and that was what you did, Betty dear. You helped God to make a man!”
Betty raised her brows in a surprise which was not altogether agreeable.
“Miles—Miles said so! How extraordinary! He never talks like that to me, and he hardly knew you at all. However did you come to discuss such a subject?”
“I asked him about his work, and envied him for being able to do something real. He is a nice boy. I like him very much,” said Cynthia placidly7.
Imagine being favoured with confidences from Miles, and remaining quite cool and unconcerned! For a good two moments Betty forgot all about her own affairs in sheer wonder at such an astonishing state of mind. Then remembrance came back, and she asked eagerly—
“Cynthia, do you think I shall ever hear anything more about him? Mother says it will take years and years to save so much money. Do you think I shall ever know?”
“Yes!” said Cynthia confidently. “Of course you will know. He will find some way of telling you. You told him your address, so it was the easiest thing in the world to find out your name. You will get something from him every year—perhaps on Christmas Day, perhaps in summer, perhaps on the anniversary of the night. It may be only a newspaper, it may be a letter, it may be just a flower—like the man in The Prisoner of Zenda sent to the princess, but it will be something! He mayn’t sign his name or give his address, but he will want you to know—he will feel you ought to know that he is alive and remembering.”
Oh, the beauty of a girl confidante! How truly she understands the art of comfort!
“And shall I ever see him again?”
“Yes—if you both live. He will want to see you again more than anything in the world, except paying off his debt. When that is done, he will rush straight off to you and say, ‘Here I am. I have worked hard and kept my promise. To-day I can look the whole world in the face, for I owe not any man. I have regained8 my friend and my position, and it is your doing. You saved me! All these years the thought of you has been my inspiration. I have lived in the thought of seeing your face again—’”
“Oh, oh, oh!” cried Betty, gasping9. “And I shall be hideous, Cynthia, hideous! Fancy, I may be thirty! What will he think, when he sees me so changed?”
“He won’t mind a bit—they never do. He will say, ‘Though worn and haggard, you are still in my eyes the most beautiful woman in the world!’” cried Cynthia.
And then, being only eighteen—nearly eighteen—each girl suddenly descended10 from her high horse, and went off into peal11 after peal of laughter, merry, heart-whole laughter, which floated to Mrs Alliot’s ears as she lay on her couch in the drawing-room, and brought a smile to her pale face. This new friendship was doing great things for her lonely girl!
Towards the end of the Christmas holidays the great news circulated that Mrs Vanburgh was coming home, and bringing her two younger sisters for a few weeks’ shopping in town. Agatha and Christabel had just returned from two years’ sojourn12 abroad, and were presumably “finished” young ladies. Cynthia and Betty wondered how much finished, and whether finished enough to look down with contempt upon unfinished damsels still undergoing the thraldom13 of “classes!”
It was a thrilling occasion when they were bidden to tea “to meet my sisters,” and Betty felt she would hardly have had courage to face the ordeal14 but for the fact of a new blouse and that fascinating buckle15 on her belt. She had a sensation of being all arms and legs—a horrible, almost forgotten remnant of schoolroom days—as she crossed Mrs Vanburgh’s drawing-room to be introduced to the two strange figures on the sofa.
One was dark and one was fair; both possessed a wonderful wealth of beautiful glossy16 hair, gold in the one case, in the other brown, rolling back from the brow in upstanding pompadours, which were, however, more picturesque17 than stiff, and rolled into coil after coil at the back of the neck. Done-up hair—that was very “finished” indeed! Both were distinctly good-looking, and the younger, though the smaller of the two, possessed a personality which at once seemed to constitute her mistress of the ceremonies. Both were perfectly18 at ease, and so full of conversation that they talked both at the same time, emphasising every second or third word after a quaint19 fashion of their own which Betty found very amusing.
They were fear-fully pleased to see her. They had heard such reams about her from Nan. It was so charming for Nan to have girl friends. Nan was devoted20 to girls. It was such sport to be staying with Nan. They had been simply dying to live in town. My dear, they had not a rag to wear! Nobody wore decent clothes in Germany. Frumps, my dear, per-fect frumps! They were on their own allowance. Was Betty on her own allowance? Lucky girl! It was simply agonising to have to buy everything you needed on a quarter’s allowance. They had lain awake for hours considering the problem. They were in despair! Nan had given them each a dress for Christmas. Nan was an angel! They wanted Nan to give a dance for them while they were in town.
Betty’s heart leapt, but Mrs Vanburgh shook her head, and said—
“Sorry, but Nan can’t! Mother wouldn’t like it, as you have only just left school, and are not properly out yet.”
“Well, I shall leak out, then! I am not going to wait another year, if I know it. There’s a dance coming on at home in February, and I’m going to it, or my name is not Christabel Rendell. I’m going to buy a dress and all the et-ceteras, and then mother won’t have the heart to say No. Nan, if you won’t give us a dance, what are you going to do? You can’t be so mean as to provide no evening jollification!”
“My dear, remembah! You were a girl yourself!” echoed Agatha, in deep-toned remonstrance21, and then they began rattling22 out a list of suggestions.
“Tableaux—”
“Progressive games—”
“Dinner-party. No old fogies! We will choose the guests.”
“General frolic, and supper to finish up. If it develops into a dance, so much the better! It’s not coming out to dance on a carpet.”
“Really, Nan, it’s piteous to think how stodgy24 you have grown! Married sisters are a delusion25. We used to imagine coming to stay, and doing whatever we liked, and eating all sorts of indigestible things that we mayn’t have at home. But now Maud can think of nothing but that baby, and you are so prim26—too fearfully prim for words.”
“Prim!” shouted Mrs Vanburgh. There is really no other word to express the outraged27 indignation of her tone. To hear her, one might have supposed it the greatest insult in the world to be accused of primness28 of demeanour. “You dare to sit there and call me names in my own house! If I am prim, you had better go home and leave me. I wouldn’t stay any longer, if I’m prim. I’m sorry I asked you, if I’m prim. If I’m prim, I wonder why you ever wanted to come. Prim, indeed! If it’s prim to know what is correct and what is not, it’s a pity you are not prim too! If I’m prim, I won’t give any party at all. You had better sit round the fire and knit stockings, and I’ll read aloud The Old Helmet, as I’m so prim.”
“Stop her, somebody—stop her for pity’s sake! When she is once wound up like this she will go on for hours! My dear, I crawl, I grovel31 before you! You are not prim! Nothing is further removed from your character. You are going to give us as many parties as we like.”
“Humph!” said Mrs Vanburgh shortly. She was by no means appeased32, and during the meal which followed ejaculations of “Prim—prim, indeed!” fell from her lips at intervals33 like so many minute-guns of indignation, while Christabel ate cakes and scones34 with undiminished zest35, and smiled upon her with patronising indulgence.
In relating the history of the afternoon to Jill, later on, Betty declared that she herself had not spoken a single sentence the whole afternoon. She had exclaimed, “Really!” “Fancy!” “Goodness!” “How killing36!” each about a hundred times over, had laughed and smiled, nodded her head and said “Yes” to a dozen propositions, had been unceasingly amused and interested, but had never been allowed a breathing space in which to air her own opinions.
It had been finally decided37 that “a general frolic” should be held on the following Thursday evening, Christabel proposing, seconding, and triumphantly38 carrying the resolution that each guest should come prepared to entertain the company for a period of at least five minutes on end. The protesting groans39 and denials of her companions beat in vain against the rock of her decision. She smiled graciously upon them, and cried—
“Rubbish! Of course you can! Sing, play, dance, recite, read aloud, tell a story, show some new tricks; there’s no end to the things to choose from, my deah! If you begin by protesting and excusing as you are doing now, there will be no time left. It will be too lovelay for words! A sit-down supper, Nan,—no light refreshments40, please!—and, as a matter of precaution, as much furniture as possible moved out of the drawing-room. I can’t think why you did not have a parquet41 floor! People grow so selfish and inconsiderate when they are married. Piteous, I call it!”
“Anything else?” queried42 Nan loftily. “Selfish, and inconsiderate, and prim, am I? Prim, indeed! I’ll tell Gervase the moment he comes in what a wretched wife he has married! He’d never find it out for himself.”
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1
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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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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16
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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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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21
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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22
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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23
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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24
stodgy
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| adj.易饱的；笨重的；滞涩的；古板的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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30
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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31
grovel
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| vi.卑躬屈膝，奴颜婢膝 | |
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32
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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33
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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34
scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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35
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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36
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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37
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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38
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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39
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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40
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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parquet
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| n.镶木地板 | |
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42
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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