During my time of struggle I had avoided all communication with old Hasluck. He was not a man to sympathise with feelings he did not understand. With boisterous1 good humour he would have insisted upon helping2 me. Why I preferred half starving with Lott and Co. to selling my labour for a fair wage to good-natured old Hasluck, merely because I knew him, I cannot explain. Though the profits may not have been so large, Lott and Co.'s dealings were not one whit4 more honest: I do not believe it was that which decided5 me. Nor do I think it was because he was Barbara's father. I never connected him, nor that good old soul, his vulgar, homely6 wife, in any way with Barbara. To me she was a being apart from all the world. Her true Parents! I should have sought them rather amid the sacred groves7 of vanished lands, within the sky-domed shrines8 of banished10 gods. There are instincts in us not easily analysed, not to be explained by reason. I have always preferred the finding—sometimes the losing—of my way according to the map, to the surer and simpler method of vocal11 enquiry; working out a complicated journey, and running the risk of never arriving at my destination, by aid of a Continental12 Bradshaw, to putting myself into the hands of courteous13 officials maintained and paid to assist the perplexed14 traveller. Possibly a far-off progenitor15 of mine may have been some morose16 “rogue” savage17 with untribal inclinations18, living in his cave apart, fashioning his own stone hammer, shaping his own flint arrow-heads, shunning19 the merry war-dance, preferring to caper20 by himself.
But now, having gained my own foothold, I could stretch out my hand without fear of the movement being mistaken for appeal. I wrote to old Hasluck; and almost by the next post received from him the friendliest of notes. He told me Barbara had just returned from abroad, took it upon himself to add that she also would be delighted to see me, and, as I knew he would, threw his doors open to me.
Of my boyish passion for Barbara never had I spoken to a living soul, nor do I think, excepting Barbara herself, had any ever guessed it. To my mother, though she was very fond of her, Barbara was only a girl, with charms but also with faults, concerning which my mother would speak freely; hurting me, as one unwittingly might hurt a neophyte21 by philosophical22 discussion of his newly embraced religion. Often, choosing by preference late evening or the night, I would wander round and round the huge red-brick house standing24 in its ancient garden on the top of Stamford Hill; descending25 again into the noisome26 streets as one returning to the world from praying at a shrine9, purified, filled with peace, all noble endeavour, all unselfish aims seeming within my grasp.
During Barbara's four years' absence my adoration27 had grown and strengthened. Out of my memory of her my desire had evolved its ideal; a being of my imagination, but by reason of that, to me the more real, the more present. I looked forward to seeing her again, but with no impatience28, revelling29 rather in the anticipation30 than eager for the realisation. As a creature of flesh and blood, the child I had played with, talked with, touched, she had faded further and further into the distance; as the vision of my dreams she stood out clearer day by day. I knew that when next I saw her there would be a gulf31 between us I had no wish to bridge. To worship her from afar was a sweeter thought to me than would have been the hope of a passionate32 embrace. To live with her, sit opposite to her while she ate and drank, see her, perhaps, with her hair in curl-papers, know possibly that she had a corn upon her foot, hear her speak maybe of a decayed tooth, or of a chilblain, would have been torture to me. Into such abyss of the commonplace there was no fear of my dragging her, and for this I was glad. In the future she would be yet more removed from me. She was older than I was; she must be now a woman. Instinctively33 I felt that in spite of years I was not yet a man. She would marry. The thought gave me no pain, my feeling for her was utterly34 devoid35 of appetite. No one but myself could close the temple I had built about her, none deny to me the right of entry there. No jealous priest could hide her from my eyes, her altar I had reared too high. Since I have come to know myself better, I perceive that she stood to me not as a living woman, but as a symbol; not a fellow human being to be walked with through life, helping and to be helped, but that impalpable religion of sex to which we raise up idols36 of poor human clay, alas37, not always to our satisfaction, so that foolishly we fall into anger against them, forgetting they were but the work of our own hands; not the body, but the spirit of love.
I allowed a week to elapse after receiving old Hasluck's letter before presenting myself at Stamford Hill. It was late one afternoon in early summer. Hasluck had not returned from the City, Mrs. Hasluck was out visiting, Miss Hasluck was in the garden. I told the supercilious38 footman not to trouble, I would seek her there myself. I guessed where she would be; her favourite spot had always been a sunny corner, bright with flowers, surrounded by a thick yew39 hedge, cut, after the Dutch fashion, into quaint40 shapes of animals and birds. She was walking there, as I had expected, reading a book. And again, as I saw her, came back to me the feeling that had swept across me as a boy, when first outlined against the dusty books and papers of my father's office she had flashed upon my eyes: that all the fairy tales had suddenly come true, only now, instead of the Princess, she was the Queen. Taller she was, with a dignity that formerly41 had been the only charm she lacked. She did not hear my coming, my way being across the soft, short grass, and for a little while I stood there in the shadow of the yews42, drinking in the beauty of her clear-cut profile, bent43 down towards her book, the curving lines of her long neck, the wonder of the exquisite44 white hand against the lilac of her dress.
I did not speak; rather would I have remained so watching; but turning at the end of the path, she saw me, and as she came towards me held out her hand. I knelt upon the path, and raised it to my lips. The action was spontaneous, till afterwards I was not aware of having done it. Her lips were smiling as I raised my eyes to them, the faintest suggestion of contempt mingling45 with amusement. Yet she seemed pleased, and her contempt, even if I were not mistaken, would not have wounded me.
“So you are still in love with me? I wondered if you would be.”
“Did you know that I was in love with you?”
“I should have been blind if I had not.”
“But I was only a boy.”
“You were not the usual type of boy. You are not going to be the usual type of man.”
“You do not mind my loving you?”
“I cannot help it, can I? Nor can you.”
She seated herself on a stone bench facing a sun-dial, and leaning hack46, her hands clasped behind her head, looked at me and laughed.
“I shall always love you,” I answered, “but it is with a curious sort of love. I do not understand it myself.”
“Tell me,” she commanded, still with a smile about her lips, “describe it to me.”
I was standing over against her, my arm resting upon the dial's stone column. The sun was sinking, casting long shadows on the velvety47 grass, illuminating48 with a golden light her upturned face.
“I would you were some great queen of olden days, and that I might be always near you, serving you, doing your bidding. Your love in return would spoil all; I shall never ask it, never desire it. That I might look upon you, touch now and then at rare intervals49 with my lips your hand, kiss in secret the glove you had let fall, the shoe you had flung off, know that you knew of my love, that I was yours to do with as you would, to live or die according to your wish. Or that you were priestess in some temple of forgotten gods, where I might steal at daybreak and at dusk to gaze upon your beauty; kneel with clasped hands, watching your sandalled feet coming and going about the altar steps; lie with pressed lips upon the stones your trailing robes had touched.”
She laughed a light mocking laugh. “I should prefer to be the queen. The role of priestess would not suit me. Temples are so cold.” A slight shiver passed through her. She made a movement with her hand, beckoning50 me to her feet. “That is how you shall love me, Paul,” she said, “adoring me, worshipping me—blindly. I will be your queen and treat you—as it chooses me. All I think, all I do, I will tell you, and you shall tell me it is right. The queen can do no wrong.”
She took my face between her hands, and bending over me, looked long and steadfastly51 into my eyes. “You understand, Paul, the queen can do no wrong—never, never.” There had crept into her voice a note of vehemence52, in her face was a look almost of appeal.
“My queen can do no wrong,” I repeated. And she laughed and let her hands fall back upon her lap.
“Now you may sit beside me. So much honour, Paul, shall you have to-day, but it will have to last you long. And you may tell me all you have been doing, maybe it will amuse me; and afterwards you shall hear what I have done, and shall say that it was right and good of me.”
I obeyed, sketching53 my story briefly54, yet leaving nothing untold55, not even the transit56 of the Lady 'Ortensia, ashamed of the episode though I was. At that she looked a little grave.
“You must do nothing again, Paul,” she commanded, “to make me feel ashamed of you, or I shall dismiss you from my presence for ever. I must be proud of you, or you shall not serve me. In dishonouring57 yourself you are dishonouring me. I am angry with you, Paul. Do not let me be angry with you again.”
And so that passed; and although my love for her—as I know well she wished and sought it should—failed to save me at all times from the apish voices whispering ever to the beast within us, I know the desire to be worthy58 of her, to honour her with all my being, helped my life as only love can. The glory of the morning fades, the magic veil is rent; we see all things with cold, clear eyes. My love was a woman. She lies dead. They have mocked her white sweet limbs with rags and tatters, but they cannot cheat love's eyes. God knows I loved her in all purity! Only with false love we love the false. Beneath the unclean clinging garments she sleeps fair.
My tale finished, “Now I will tell you mine,” she said. “I am going to be married soon. I shall be a Countess, Paul, the Countess Huescar—I will teach you how to pronounce it—and I shall have a real castle in Spain. You need not look so frightened, Paul; we shall not live there. It is a half-ruined, gloomy place, among the mountains, and he loves it even less than I do. Paris and London will be my courts, so you will see me often. You shall know the great world, Paul, the world I mean to conquer, where I mean to rule.”
“Is he very rich?” I asked.
“As poor,” she laughed, “as poor as a Spanish nobleman. The money I shall have to provide, or, rather, poor dear Dad will. He gives me title, position. Of course I do not love him, handsome though he is. Don't look so solemn, Paul. We shall get on together well enough. Queens, Paul, do not make love matches, they contract alliances. I have done well, Paul; congratulate me. Do you hear, Paul? Say that I have acted rightly.”
“Does he love you?” I asked.
“He tells me so,” she answered, with a laugh. “How uncourtier-like you are, Paul! Do you suggest that any man could see me and not love me?”
She sprang to her feet. “I do not want his love,” she cried; “it would bore me. Women hate love they cannot return. I don't mean love like yours, devout59 little Paul,” she added, with a laugh. “That is sweet incense60 wafted61 round us that we like to scent62 with our noses in the air. Give me that, Paul; I want it, I ask for it. But the love of a hand, the love of a husband that one does not care for—it would be horrible!”
I felt myself growing older. For the moment my goddess became a child needing help.
“But have you thought—” I commenced.
“Yes, yes,” she interrupted me quickly, “I have thought and thought till I can think no more. There must be some sacrifice; it must be as little as need be, that is all. He does not love me; he is marrying me for my money—I know that, and I am glad of it. You do not know me, Paul. I must have rank, position. What am I? The daughter of rich old Hasluck, who began life as a butcher in the Mile End Road. As the Princess Huescar, society will forget, as Mrs.”—it seemed to me she checked herself abruptly—“Jones or Brown it would remember, however rich I might be. I am vain, Paul, caring for power—ambition. I have my father's blood in me. All his nights and days he has spent in gaining wealth; he can do no more. We upstarts have our pride of race. He has done his share, I must do mine.”
“But you need not be mere3 Mrs. anybody commonplace,” I argued. “Why not wait? You will meet someone who can give you position and whom at the same time you can love. Would that not be better?”
“He will never come, the man I could love,” she answered. “Because, my little Paul, he has come already. Hush63, Paul, the queen can do no wrong.”
“Who is he?” I asked. “May I not know?”
“Yes, Paul,” she answered, “you shall know; I want you to know, then you shall tell me that I have acted rightly. Do you hear me, Paul?—quite rightly—that you still respect me and honour me. He could not help me. As his wife, I should be less even than I am, a mere rich nobody, giving long dinner-parties to other rich nobodies, living amongst City men, retired64 trades-people; envied only by their fat, vulgarly dressed wives, courted by seedy Bohemians for the sake of my cook; with perhaps an opera singer or an impecunious65 nobleman or two out of Dad's City list for my show-guests. Is that the court, Paul, where you would have your queen reign66?”
“Is he so commonplace a man,” I answered, “the man you love? I cannot believe it.”
“He is not commonplace,” she answered. “It is I who am commonplace. The things I desire, they are beneath him; he will never trouble himself to secure them.”
“Not even for love of you?”
“I would not have him do so even were he willing. He is great, with a greatness I cannot even understand. He is not the man for these times. In old days, I should have married him, knowing he would climb to greatness by sheer strength of manhood. But now men do not climb; they crawl to greatness. He could not do that. I have done right, Paul.”
“What does he say?” I asked.
“Shall I tell you?” She laughed a little bitterly. “I can give you his exact words, 'You are half a woman and half a fool, so woman-like you will follow your folly67. But let your folly see to it that your woman makes no fool of herself.'”
The words were what I could imagine his saying. I heard the strong ring of his voice through her mocking mimicry68.
“Hal!” I cried. “It is he.”
“So you never guessed even that, Paul. I thought at times it would be sweet to cry it out aloud, that it could have made no difference, that everyone who knew me must have read it in my eyes.”
“But he never seemed to take much notice of you,” I said.
She laughed. “You needn't be so unkind, Paul. What did I ever do for you much more than snub you? We boys and girls; there is not so much difference between us: we love our masters. Yet you must not think so poorly of me. I was only a child to him then, but we were locked up in Paris together during the entire siege. Have not you heard? He did take a little notice of me there, Paul, I assure you.”
Would it have been better, I wonder, had she followed the woman and not the fool? It sounds an easy question to answer; but I am thinking of years later, one winter's night at Tiefenkasten in the Julier Pass. I was on my way from San Moritz to Chur. The sole passenger, I had just climbed, half frozen, from the sledge69, and was thawing70 myself before the stove in the common room of the hotel when the waiter put a pencilled note into my hand:
“Come up and see me. I am a prisoner in this damned hole till the weather breaks. Hal.”
I hardly recognised him at first. Only the poor ghost he seemed of the Hal I had known as a boy. His long privations endured during the Paris siege, added to the superhuman work he had there put upon himself, had commenced the ruin of even his magnificent physique—a ruin the wild, loose life he was now leading was soon to complete. It was a gloomy, vaulted71 room that once had been a chapel72, lighted dimly by a cheap, evil-smelling lamp, heated to suffocation73 by one of those great green-tiled German ovens now only to be met with in rare out-of-the-way world corners. He was sitting propped74 up by pillows on the bed, placed close to one of the high windows, his deep eyes flaring75 like two gleaming caverns76 out of his drawn77, haggard face.
“I saw you from the window,” he explained. “It is the only excitement I get, twice a day when the sledges78 come in. I broke down coming across the Pass a fortnight ago, on my way from Davos. We were stuck in a drift for eighteen hours; it nearly finished my last lung. And I haven't even a book to read. By God! lad, I was glad to see your frosted face ten minutes ago in the light of the lantern.”
He grasped me with his long bony hand. “Sit down, and let me hear my voice using again its mother tongue—you were always a good listener—for the last eight years I have hardly spoken it. Can you stand the room? The windows ought to be open, but what does it matter? I may as well get accustomed to the heat before I die.”
I drew my chair close to the bed, and for awhile, between his fits of coughing, we talked of things that were outside our thoughts, or, rather, Hal talked, continuously, boisterously79, meeting my remonstrances80 with shouts of laughter, ending in wild struggles for breath, so that I deemed it better to let him work his mad mood out.
Then suddenly: “What is she doing?” he asked. “Do you ever see her?”
“She is playing in—” I mentioned the name of a comic opera then running in Paris. “No; I have not seen her for some time.”
He laid his white, wasted hand on mine. “What a pity you and I could not have rolled ourselves into one, Paul—you, the saint, and I, the satyr. Together we should have made her perfect lover.”
There came back to me the memory of those long nights when I had lain awake listening to the angry voices of my father and mother soaking through the flimsy wall. It seemed my fate to stand thus helpless between those I loved, watching them hurting one another against their will.
“Tell me,” I asked—“I loved her, knowing her: I was not blind. Whose fault was it? Yours or hers?”
He laughed. “Whose fault, Paul? God made us.”
Thinking of her fair, sweet face, I hated him for his mocking laugh. But the next moment, looking into his deep eyes, seeing the pain that dwelt there, my pity was for him. A smile came to his ugly mouth.
“You have been on the stage, Paul; you must have heard the saying often: 'Ah, well, the curtain must come down, however badly things are going.' It is only a play, Paul. We do not choose our parts. I did not even know I was the villain81, till I heard the booing of the gallery. I even thought I was the hero, full of noble sentiment, sacrificing myself for the happiness of the heroine. She would have married me in the beginning had I plagued her sufficiently82.”
I made to speak, but he interrupted me, continuing: “Ah, yes, it might have been better. That is easy to say, not knowing. So, too, it might have been worse—in all probability much the same. All roads lead to the end. You know I was always a fatalist, Paul. We tried both ways. She loved me well enough, but she loved the world also. I thought she loved it better, so I kissed her on her brow, mumbled83 a prayer for her happiness and made my exit to a choking sob84. So ended the first act. Wasn't I the hero throughout that, Paul? I thought so; slapped myself upon the back, told myself what a fine fellow I had been. Then—you know what followed. She was finer clay than she had fancied. Love is woman's kingdom, not the world. Even then I thought more of her than of myself. I could have borne my share of the burden had I not seen her fainting under hers, shamed, degraded. So we dared to think for ourselves, injuring nobody but ourselves, played the man and woman, lost the world for love. Wasn't it brave, Paul? Were we not hero and heroine? They had printed the playbill wrong, Paul, that was all. I was really the hero, but the printing devil had made a slip, so instead of applauding you booed. How could you know, any of you? It was not your fault.”
“But that was not the end,” I reminded him. “If the curtain had fallen then, I could have forgiven you.”
He grinned. “That fatal last act. Even yours don't always come right, so the critics tell me.”
The grin faded from his face. “We may never see each other again, Paul,” he went on; “don't think too badly of me. I found I had made a second mistake—or thought I had. She was no happier with me after a time than she had been with him. If all our longings85 were one, life would be easy; but they are not. What is to be done but toss for it? And if it come down head we wish it had been tail, and if tail we think of what we have lost through its not coming down head. Love is no more the whole of a woman's life than it is of a man's. He did not apply for a divorce: that was smart of him. We were shunned87, ignored. To some women it might not have mattered; but she had been used to being sought, courted, feted. She made no complaint—did worse: made desperate effort to appear cheerful, to pretend that our humdrum88 life was not boring her to death. I watched her growing more listless, more depressed89; grew angry with her, angrier with myself. There was no bond between us except our passion; that was real enough—'grand,' I believe, is the approved literary adjective. It is good enough for what nature intended it, a summer season in a cave. It makes but a poor marriage settlement in these more complicated days. We fell to mutual90 recriminations, vulgar scenes. Ah, most of us look better at a little distance from one another. The sordid91, contemptible92 side of life became important to us. I was never rich; by contrast with all that she had known, miserably93 poor. The mere sight of the food our twelve-pound-a-year cook put upon the table would take away her appetite. Love does not change the palate, give you a taste for cheap claret when you have been accustomed to dry champagne94. We have bodies to think of as well as souls; we are apt to forget that in moments of excitement.
“She fell ill, and it seemed to me that I had dragged her from the soil where she had grown only to watch her die. And then he came, precisely95 at the right moment. I cannot help admiring him. Most men take their revenge clumsily, hurting themselves; he was so neat, had been so patient. I am not even ashamed of having fallen into his trap; it was admirably baited. Maybe I had despised him for having seemed to submit meekly96 to the blow. What cared he for me and my opinion? It was she was all he cared for. He knew her better than I, knew that sooner or later she would tire, not of love but of the cottage; look back with longing86 eyes towards all that she had lost. Fool! Cuckold! What was it to him that the world would laugh at him, despise him? Love such as his made fools of men. Would I not give her back to him?
“By God! It was fine acting97; half into the night we talked, I leaving him every now and again to creep to the top of the stairs and listen to her breathing. He asked me my advice, I being the hard-headed partner of cool judgment98. What would be the best way of approaching her after I was gone? Where should he take her? How should they live till the nine days' talk had died away? And I sat opposite to him—how he must have longed to laugh in my silly face—advising him! We could not quite agree as to details of a possible yachting cruise, and I remember hunting up an atlas99, and we pored over it, our heads close together. By God! I envy him that night!”
He sank back on his pillows and laughed and coughed, and laughed and coughed again, till I feared that wild, long, broken laugh would be his last. But it ceased at length, and for awhile, exhausted100, he lay silent before continuing.
“Then came the question: how was I to go? She loved me still. He was sure of it, and, for the matter of that, so was I. So long as she thought that I loved her, she would never leave me. Only from her despair could fresh hope arise for her. Would I not make some sacrifice for her sake, persuade her that I had tired of her? Only by one means could she be convinced. My going off alone would not suffice; my reason for that she might suspect—she might follow. It would be for her sake. Again it was the hero that I played, the dear old chuckle-headed hero, Paul, that you ought to have cheered, not hooted101. I loved her as much as I ever loved her in my life, that night I left her. I took my boots off in the passage and crept up in my stockinged feet. I told him I was merely going to change my coat and put a few things into a bag. He gripped my hand, and tears were standing in his eyes. It is odd that suppressed laughter and expressed grief should both display the same token, is it not? I stole into her room. I dared not kiss her for fear of waking her; but a stray lock of her hair—you remember how long it was—fell over the pillow, nearly reaching to the floor. I pressed my lips against it, where it trailed over the bedstead, till they bled. I have it still upon my lips, the mingling of the cold iron and the warm, soft silken hair. He told me, when I came down again, that I had been gone three-quarters of an hour. And we went out of the house together, he and I. That is the last time I ever saw her.”
I leant across and put my arms around him; I suppose it was un-English; there are times when one forgets these points. “I did not know! I did not know,” I cried.
He pressed me to him with his feeble arms. “What a cad you must have thought me, Paul,” he said. “But you might have given me credit for better taste. I was always rather a gourmet102 than a gourmand103 where women were concerned.”
“You have never seen him either again?” I asked.
“No,” he answered; “I swore to kill him when I learnt the trick he had played me. He commenced the divorce proceedings104 against her the very morning after I had left her. Possibly, had I succeeded in finding him within the next six months, I should have done so. A few newspaper proprietors105 would have been the only people really benefited. Time is the cheapest Bravo; a little patience is all he charges. All roads lead to the end, Paul.”
But I tell my tale badly, marring effects of sunlight with the memory of shadows. At the time all promised fair. He was a handsome, distinguished-looking man. Not every aristocrat106, if without disrespect to one's betters a humble107 observer may say so, suggests his title; this man would have suggested his title, had he not possessed108 it. I suppose he must have been about fifty at the time; but most men of thirty would have been glad to exchange with him both figure and complexion109. His behaviour to his fiancee was the essence of good taste, affectionate devotion, carried to the exact point beyond which, having regard to the disparity of their years, it would have appeared ridiculous. That he sincerely admired her, was fully110 content with her, there could be no doubt. I am even inclined to think he was fonder of her than, divining her feelings towards himself, he cared to show. Knowledge of the world must have told him that men of fifty find it easier to be the lovers of women young enough to be their daughters, than girls find it to desire the affection of men old enough to be their fathers; and he was not the man to allow impulse to lead him into absurdity111.
From my own peculiar112 point of view he appeared the ideal prince consort113. It was difficult for me to imagine my queen in love with any mere man. This was one beside whom she could live, losing in my eyes nothing of her dignity. My feelings for her he guessed at our first interview. Most men in his position would have been amused, and many would have shown it. For what reason I cannot say, but with a tact114 and courtesy that left me only complimented, he drew from me, before I had met him half-a-dozen times, more frank confession115 than a month previously116 I should have dreamt of my yielding to anything than my own pillow. He laid his hand upon my shoulder.
“I wonder if you know, my friend, how wise you are,” he said. “We all of us at your age love an image of our own carving117. Ah, if only we could be content to worship the white, changeless statute118! But we are fools. We pray the gods to give her life, and under our hot kisses she becomes a woman. I also loved when I was your age, Paul. Your countrymen, they are so practical, they know only one kind of love. It is business-like, rich—how puts it your poet? 'rich in saving common sense.' But there are many kinds, you understand that, my friend. You are wise, do not confuse them. She was a child of the mountains. I used to walk three leagues to Mass each day to worship her. Had I been wise—had I so left it, the memory of her would have coloured all my life with glory. But I was a fool, my friend; I turned her into a woman. Ah!”—he made a gesture of disgust—“such a fat, ugly woman, Paul, I turned her into. I had much difficulty in getting rid of her. We should never touch things in life that are beautiful; we have such clumsy hands, we spoil whatever we touch.”
Hal did not return to England till the end of the year, by which time the Count and Countess Huescar—though I had her permission still to call her Barbara, I never availed myself of it; the “Countess” fitted my mood better—had taken up residence in the grand Paris house old Hasluck had bought for them.
It was the high-water mark of old Hasluck's career, and, if anything, he was a little disappointed that with the dowry he had promised her Barbara had not done even better for herself.
“Foreign Counts,” he grumbled119 to me laughingly, one day, “well, I hope they're worth more in Society than they are in the City. A hundred guineas is their price there, and they're not worth that. Who was that American girl that married a Russian Prince only last week? A million dollars was all she gave for him, and she a wholesale120 boot-maker's daughter into the bargain! Our girls are not half as smart.”
But that was before he had seen his future son-in-law. After, he was content enough, and up to the day of the wedding, childishly elated. Under the Count's tuition he studied with reverential awe121 the Huescar history. Princes, statesmen, warriors122, glittered, golden apples, from the spreading branches of its genealogical tree. Why not again! its attenuated123 blue sap strengthened with the rich, red blood, brewed124 by toil125 and effort in the grim laboratories of the under world. In imagination, old Hasluck saw himself the grandfather of Chancellors126, the great-grandfather of Kings.
“I have laid the foundation, you shall raise the edifice,” so he told her one evening I was spending with them, caressing127 her golden hair with his blunt, fat fingers. “I am glad you were not a boy. A boy, in all probability, would have squandered128 the money, let the name sink back again into the gutter129. And even had he been the other sort, he could only have been another business man, keeping where I had left him. You will call your first boy Hasluck, won't you? It must always be the first-born's name. It shall be famous in the world yet, and for something else than mere money.”
I began to understand the influences that had gone towards the making—or marring—of Barbara's character. I had never guessed he had cared for anything beyond money and the making of money.
It was, of course, a wedding as ostentatious as possible. Old Hasluck knew how to advertise, and spared neither expense nor labour, with the result that it was the event of the season, at least according to the Society papers. Mrs. Hasluck was the type of woman to have escaped observation, even had the wedding been her own; that she was present at her daughter's, “becomingly dressed in grey veiling spotted130 white, with an encrustation of mousseline de soie,” I learnt the next day from the Morning Post. Old Hasluck himself had to be fetched every time he was wanted. At the conclusion of the ceremony, seeking him, I found him sitting on the stairs leading to the crypt.
“Is it over?” he asked. He was mopping his face on a huge handkerchief, and had a small looking-glass in his hand.
“All over,” I answered, “they are waiting for you to start.”
But the next time I saw him, which was two or three days later, the reaction had set in. He was sitting in his great library, surrounded by books he would no more have thought of disturbing than he would of strumming on the gorgeous grand piano inlaid with silver that ornamented132 his drawing-room. A change had passed over him. His swelling133 rotundity, suggestive generally of a bladder inflated134 to its extremest limits by excess of self-importance, appeared to be shrinking. I put the idea aside as mere fancy at the time, but it was fact; he became a mere bag of bones before he died. He was wearing an old pair of carpet slippers135 and smoking a short clay pipe.
“Well,” I said, “everything went off all right.”
“Everybody's gone off all right, so far,” he grunted136. He was crouching137 over the fire, though the weather was still warm, one hand spread out towards the blaze. “Now I've got to go off, that's the only thing they're waiting for. Then everything will be in order.”
“I don't think they are wanting you to go off,” I answered, with a laugh.
“You mean,” he answered, “I'm the goose that lays the golden eggs. Ah, but you see, so many of the eggs break, and so many of them are bad.”
“Some of them hatch all right,” I replied. The simile138 was becoming somewhat confused: in conversation similes139 are apt to.
“If I were to die this week,” he said—he paused, completing mental calculations, “I should be worth, roughly speaking, a couple of million. This time next year I may be owing a million.”
I sat down opposite to him. “Why run risks?” I suggested. “Surely you have enough. Why not give it up—retire?”
He laughed. “Do you think I haven't said that to myself, lad—sworn I would a dozen times a year? I can't do it; I'm a gambler. It's the earliest thing I can recollect140 doing, gambling141 with brace23 buttons. There are men, Paul, now dying in the workhouse—men I once knew well; I think of them sometimes, and wish I didn't—who any time during half their life might have retired on twenty thousand a year. If I were to go to any one of them, and settle an annuity142 of a hundred a year upon him, the moment my back was turned he'd sell it out and totter143 up to Threadneedle Street with the proceeds. It's in our blood. I shall gamble on my death-bed, die with the tape in my hand.”
He kicked the fire into a blaze. A roaring flame made the room light again.
“But that won't be just yet awhile,” he laughed, “and before it does, I'll be the richest man in Europe. I keep my head cool—that's the great secret.” Leaning over towards me, he sunk his voice to a whisper, “Drink, Paul—so many of them drink. They get worried; fifty things dancing round and round at the same time in their heads. Fifty questions to be answered in five minutes. Tick, tick, tick, taps the little devil at their elbow. This going down, that going up. Rumor144 of this, report of that. A fortune to be lost here, a fortune to be snatched there. Everything in a whirl! Tick, tick, tick, like nails into a coffin145. God! for five minutes' peace to think. Shut the door, turn the key. Out comes the bottle. That's the end. All right so long as you keep away from that. Cool, quick brain, clear judgment—that's the secret.”
“But is it worth it all?” I suggested. “Surely you have enough?”
“It means power, Paul.” He slapped his trousers pocket, making the handful of gold and silver he always carried there jingle146 musically. “It is this that rules the world. My children shall be big pots, hobnob with kings and princes, slap them on the back and call them by their Christian147 names, be kings themselves—why not? It's happened before. My children, the children of old Noel Hasluck, son of a Whitechapel butcher! Here's my pedigree!” Again be slapped his tuneful pocket. “It's an older one than theirs! It's coming into its own at last! It's money—we men of money—that are the true kings now. It's our family that rules the world—the great money family; I mean to be its head.”
The blaze died out, leaving the room almost in darkness, and for awhile we sat in silence.
“Quiet, isn't it?” said old Hasluck, raising his head.
The settling of the falling embers was the only sound about us.
“Guess we'll always be like this, now,” continued old Hasluck. “Old woman goes to bed, you see, immediately after dinner. It used to be different when she was about. Somehow, the house and the lackeys148 and all the rest of it seemed to be a more natural sort of thing when she was the centre of it. It frightens the old woman now she's gone. She likes to get away from it. Poor old Susan! A little country inn with herself as landlady149 and me fussing about behind the bar; that was always her ambition, poor old girl!”
“You will be visiting them,” I suggested, “and they will be coming to stop with you.”
He shook his head. “They won't want me, and it isn't my game to hamper150 them. I never mix out of my class. I've always had sense enough for that.”
I laughed, wishing to cheer him, though I knew he was right. “Surely your daughter belongs to your own class,” I replied.
“Do you think so?” he asked, with a grin. “That's not a pretty compliment to her. She was my child when she used to cling round my neck, while I made the sausages, calling me her dear old pig. It didn't trouble her then that I dropped my aitches and had a greasy151 skin. I was a Whitechapel butcher, and she was a Whitechapel brat152. I could have kept her if I'd liked, but I was set upon making a lady of her, and I did it. But I lost my child. Every time she came back from school I could see she despised me a little more. I'm not blaming her; how could she help it? I was making a lady of her, teaching her to do it; though there were moments when I almost hated her, felt tempted153 to snatch her back to me, drag her down again to my level, make her my child again, before it was too late. Oh, it wasn't all unselfishness; I could have done it. She would have remained my class then, would have married my class, and her children would have been my class. I didn't want that. Everything's got to be paid for. I got what I asked for; I'm not grumbling154 at the price. But it ain't cheap.”
He rose and knocked the ashes from his pipe. “Ring the bell, Paul, will you?” he said. “Let's have some light and something to drink. Don't take any notice of me. I've got the hump to-night.”
It was a minute or two before the lamp came. He put his arm upon my shoulder, leaning upon me somewhat heavily.
“I used to fancy sometimes, Paul,” he said, “that you and she might have made a match of it. I should have been disappointed for some things. But you'd have been a bit nearer to me, you two. It never occurred to you, that, I suppose?”
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1
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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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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10
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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progenitor
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| n.祖先，先驱 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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17
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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18
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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19
shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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20
caper
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| v.雀跃，欢蹦；n.雀跃，跳跃；续随子，刺山柑花蕾；嬉戏 | |
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21
neophyte
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| n.新信徒；开始者 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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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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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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26
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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29
revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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31
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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32
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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33
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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34
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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37
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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39
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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40
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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41
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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42
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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43
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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44
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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45
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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46
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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47
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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48
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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49
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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50
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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51
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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52
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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53
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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54
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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55
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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56
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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57
dishonouring
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| 使（人、家族等）丧失名誉（dishonour的现在分词形式） | |
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58
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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60
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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61
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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63
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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64
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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66
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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67
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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68
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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69
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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70
thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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71
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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72
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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73
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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74
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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78
sledges
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| n.雪橇，雪车( sledge的名词复数 )v.乘雪橇( sledge的第三人称单数 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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79
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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80
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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81
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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82
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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83
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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85
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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86
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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87
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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89
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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90
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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91
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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92
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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93
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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94
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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95
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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96
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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97
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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98
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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99
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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100
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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101
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
gourmet
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| n.食物品尝家；adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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103
gourmand
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| n.嗜食者 | |
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104
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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105
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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106
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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107
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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108
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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109
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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110
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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111
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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112
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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113
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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114
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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115
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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116
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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117
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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118
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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119
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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120
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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121
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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122
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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123
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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124
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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125
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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126
chancellors
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| 大臣( chancellor的名词复数 )； （某些美国大学的）校长； （德国或奥地利的）总理； （英国大学的）名誉校长 | |
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127
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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128
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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131
perspire
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| vi.出汗，流汗 | |
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132
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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134
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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135
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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136
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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137
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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138
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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139
similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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140
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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141
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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142
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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143
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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144
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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145
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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146
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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147
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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148
lackeys
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| n.听差( lackey的名词复数 )；男仆（通常穿制服）；卑躬屈膝的人；被待为奴仆的人 | |
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149
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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150
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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151
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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152
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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153
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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154
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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