She chose that book from the bundle which seemed most promising9, and began to read. Presently the door was opened by a servant, and Miss Glover was announced. An expression of annoyance10 passed over Miss Ley’s face, but was immediately succeeded by one of mellifluous11 amiability12.
“Oh, don’t get up, dear Miss Ley,” said the visitor, as her hostess slowly rose from the sofa.
Miss Ley shook hands and began to talk. She said she was delighted to see Miss Glover, thinking meanwhile that this estimable person’s sense of etiquette13 was very tedious. The Glovers had dined at Court Leys during the previous week, and punctually seven days afterwards Miss Glover was paying a ceremonious call.
Miss Glover was a worthy14 person, but dull; and that Miss Ley could not forgive. Better ten thousand times, in her opinion, was it to be Becky Sharp and a monster of wickedness than Amelia and a monster of stupidity.
“Pardon me, Madam, it is well known that Thackeray, in Amelia, gave us a type of the pure-hearted, sweet-minded English maiden16, whose qualities are the foundation of the greatness of Great Britain, and the superiority of the Anglo-Saxon race.”
“I have no doubt that such was his intention. But why do you think novelists, when they draw the average English girl, should invariably produce an utter fool?”
“No, sir, it is merely a question—prompted by a desire for information.”
“It must be their want of skill.”
“I hope so.”
Miss Glover was one of the best natured and most charitable creatures upon the face of the earth, a miracle of abnegation and unselfishness; but a person to be amused by her could have been only an absolute lunatic.
“She’s really a dear kind thing,” said Miss Ley of her, “and she does endless good in the parish—but she’s really too dull: she’s only fit for heaven!”
And the image passed through Miss Ley’s mind, unsobered by advancing years, of Miss Glover, with her colourless hair hanging down her back, wings, and a golden harp15, singing hymns18 in a squeaky voice, morning, noon, and night. Indeed, the general conception of paradisaical costume suited Miss Glover very ill. She was a woman of about eight and twenty, but might have been any age between one score and two; you felt that she had always been the same and that years would have no power over her strength of mind. She had no figure, and her clothes were so stiff and unyielding as to give an impression of armour19. She was nearly always dressed in a tight black jacket of ribbed cloth that was evidently most durable20, the plainest of skirts, and strong, really strong boots! Her hat was suited for all weathers and she had made it herself! She never wore a veil, and her skin was dry and hard, drawn21 so tightly over the bones as to give her face extraordinary angularity; over her prominent cheek-bones was a red flush, the colour of which was not uniformly suffused22, but with the capillaries23 standing24 out distinctly, forming a network. Her nose and mouth were what is politely termed of a determined25 character, her pale blue eyes slightly protruded26. Ten years of East Anglian winds had blown all the softness from her face, and their bitter fury seemed to have bleached27 even her hair. One could not tell if this was brown and had lost its richness, or gold from which the shimmer28 had vanished; and the roots sprang from the cranium with a curious apartness, so that Miss Ley always thought how easy in her case it would be for the Recording29 Angel to number the hairs. But notwithstanding the hard, uncompromising exterior30 which suggested extreme determination, Miss Glover was so bashful, so absurdly self-conscious, as to blush at every opportunity; and in the presence of a stranger to go through utter misery31 from inability to think of a single word to say. At the same time she had the tenderest of hearts, sympathetic, compassionate32; she overflowed33 with love and pity for her fellow-creatures. She was also excessively sentimental34!
“And how is your brother?” asked Miss Ley.
Mr. Glover was the Vicar of Leanham, which was about a mile from Court Leys on the Tercanbury Road, and for him Miss Glover had kept house since his appointment to the living.
“Oh, he’s very well. Of course he’s rather worried about the dissenters35. You know they’re putting up a new chapel36 in Leanham; it’s perfectly37 dreadful.”
“Mr. Craddock mentioned the fact at luncheon.”
“Oh, was he lunching with you? I didn’t know you knew him well enough for that.”
“I suppose he’s here now,” said Miss Ley; “he’s not been in to say good-bye.”
Miss Glover looked at her with some want of intelligence. But it was not to be expected that Miss Ley could explain before making the affair a good deal more complicated.
“And how is Bertha?” asked Miss Glover, whose conversation was chiefly concerned with inquiries38 about mutual39 acquaintance.
“Oh, of course, she’s in the seventh heaven of delight.”
“Oh!” said Miss Glover, not understanding at all what Miss Ley meant.
She was somewhat afraid of the elder lady. Even though her brother Charles said he feared she was worldly, Miss Glover could not fail to respect a woman who had lived in London and on the continent, who had met Dean Farrar and seen Miss Marie Corelli.
“Of course,” she said, “Bertha is young, and naturally high spirited.”
“Well, I’m sure, I hope she’ll be happy.”
“You must be very anxious about her future, Miss Ley.” Miss Glover found her hostess’s observations simply cryptic40, and, feeling foolish, blushed a fiery41 red.
“Not at all; she’s her own mistress, and as able-bodied and as reasonably-minded as most young women. But, of course, it’s a great risk.”
“I’m very sorry, Miss Ley,” said the vicar’s sister, in such distress42 as to give her friend certain qualms43 of conscience, “but I really don’t understand. What is a great risk?”
“Matrimony, my dear.”
“Is Bertha going to be married? Oh, dear Miss Ley, let me congratulate you. How happy and proud you must be!”
“My dear Miss Glover, please keep calm. And if you want to congratulate anybody, congratulate Bertha—not me.”
“But I’m so glad, Miss Ley. To think of dear Bertha getting married; Charles will be so pleased.”
“It’s to Mr. Edward Craddock,” drily said Miss Ley, interrupting these transports.
“Oh!” Miss Glover’s jaw44 dropped and she changed colour; then, recovering herself: “You don’t say so!”
“You seem surprised, dear Miss Glover,” said the elder lady, with a thin smile.
“I am surprised. I thought they scarcely knew one another; and besides—“ Miss Glover stopped, with embarrassment45.
“And besides what?” inquired Miss Ley, sharply.
“Well, Miss Ley, of course Mr. Craddock is a very good young man and I like him, but I shouldn’t have thought him a suitable match for Bertha.”
“It depends upon what you mean by a suitable match.”
“I was always hoping Bertha would marry young Mr. Branderton of the Towers.”
“Hm!” said Miss Ley, who did not like the neighboring squire’s mother, “I don’t know what Mr. Branderton has to recommend him beyond the possession of four or five generations of particularly stupid ancestors and two or three thousand acres which he can neither let nor sell.”
“Of course Mr. Craddock is a very worthy young man,” added Miss Glover, who was afraid she had said too much. “If you approve of the match no one else can complain.”
“I don’t approve of the match, Miss Glover, but I’m not such a fool as to oppose it. Marriage is always a hopeless idiocy46 for a woman who has enough money of her own to live upon.”
“Is it?” retorted Miss Ley. “I always thought it was an arrangement to provide work for the judges in the Divorce Court.”
To this Miss Glover very properly made no answer.
“Do you think they’ll be happy together?”
“I think it very improbable,” said Miss Ley.
“Well, don’t you think it’s your duty—excuse my mentioning it, Miss Ley—to do something?”
“My dear Miss Glover, I don’t think they’ll be more unhappy than most married couples; and one’s greatest duty in this world is to leave people alone.”
“There I cannot agree with you,” said Miss Glover, bridling48. “If duty was not more difficult than that there would be no credit in doing it.”
“Ah, my dear, your idea of a happy life is always to do the disagreeable thing: mine is to gather the roses—with gloves on, so that the thorns should not prick49 me.”
“That’s not the way to win the battle, Miss Ley. We must all fight.”
“My dear Miss Glover!” said Bertha’s aunt.
She fancied it a little impertinent for a woman twenty years younger than herself to exhort50 her to lead a better life. But the picture of that poor, ill-dressed creature fighting with a devil, cloven-footed, betailed and behorned, was as pitiful as it was comic; and with difficulty Miss Ley repressed an impulse to argue and to startle a little her estimable friend.
But at that moment Dr. Ramsay came in. He shook hands with both ladies.
“I thought I’d look in to see how Bertha was,” he said.
“Poor Mr. Craddock has another adversary,” remarked Miss Ley. “Miss Glover thinks I ought to take the affair seriously.”
“I do, indeed,” said Miss Glover.
“Ever since I was a young girl,” said Miss Ley, “I’ve been trying not to take things seriously, and I’m afraid now I’m hopelessly frivolous51.”
The contrast between this assertion and Miss Ley’s prim52 manner was really funny, but Miss Glover saw only something quite incomprehensible.
“After all,” added Miss Ley, “nine marriages out of ten are more or less unsatisfactory. You say young Branderton would have been more suitable; but really a string of ancestors is no particular assistance to matrimonial felicity, and otherwise I see no marked difference between him and Edward Craddock. Mr. Branderton has been to Eton and Oxford53, but he conceals54 the fact with very great success. Practically he’s just as much a gentleman-farmer as Mr. Craddock; but one family is working itself up and the other is working itself down. The Brandertons represent the past and the Craddocks the future; and though I detest55 reform and progress, so far as matrimony is concerned I prefer myself the man who founds a family to the man who ends it. But, good Heavens! you’re making me sententious.”
It was curious how opposition56 was making Miss Ley almost a champion of Edward Craddock.
“Well,” said the doctor, in his heavy way, “I’m in favour of every one sticking to his own class. Nowadays, whoever a man is he wants to be the next thing better; the labourer apes the tradesman, the tradesman apes the professional man.”
“And the professional man is worst of all, dear doctor,” said Miss Ley, “for he apes the noble lord, who seldom affords a very admirable example. And the amusing thing is that each set thinks itself quite as good as those above, while harbouring profound contempt for all below. In fact the only members of society who hold themselves in proper estimation are the servants. I always think that the domestics of gentlemen’s houses in South Kensington are several degrees less odious57 than their masters.”
This was not a subject which Miss Glover or Dr. Ramsay could discuss, and there was a momentary58 pause.
“What single point can you bring in favour of this marriage?” asked the doctor, suddenly.
Miss Ley looked at him as if she were thinking, then, with a dry smile: “My dear doctor, Mr. Craddock is so matter of fact—the moon will never rouse him to poetic59 ecstasies60.”
Miss Ley glanced from one to the other. “Do you want my serious opinion?” she asked, rather more gravely than usual. “The girl loves him, my dear doctor. Marriage, after all, is such a risk that only passion makes it worth while.”
Miss Glover looked up uneasily at the word passion.
“Yes, I know what you all think in England,” said Miss Ley, catching62 the glance and its meaning. “You expect people to marry from every reason except the proper, one—and that is the instinct of reproduction.”
“Miss Ley!” exclaimed Miss Glover, blushing.
“Oh, you’re old enough to take a sensible view of the, matter,” answered Miss Ley, somewhat brutally63. “Bertha is merely the female attracted to the male, and that is the only decent foundation of marriage—the other way seems to me merely horrid64. And what does it matter if the man is not of the same station, the instinct has nothing to do with the walk in life; if I’d ever been in love I shouldn’t have cared if it was a pot-boy, I’d have married him—if he asked me.”
“Well, upon my word!” said the doctor.
But Miss Ley was roused now, and interrupted him: “The particular function of a woman is to propagate her species; and if she’s wise she’ll choose a strong and healthy man to be the father of her children. I have no patience with those women who marry a man because he’s got brains. What is the good of a husband who can make abstruse65 mathematical calculations? A woman wants a man with strong arms and the digestion66 of an ox.”
“Miss Ley,” broke in Miss Glover, “I’m not clever enough to argue with you, but I know you’re wrong. I don’t think I am right to listen to you; I’m sure Charles wouldn’t like it.”
“My dear, you’ve been brought up like the majority of English girls—that is, like a fool.”
Poor Miss Glover blushed. “At all events I’ve been brought up to regard marriage as a holy institution. We’re here upon earth to mortify67 the flesh, not to indulge it. I hope I shall never be tempted68 to think of such matters in the way you’ve suggested. If ever I marry I know that nothing will be further from me than carnal thoughts. I look upon marriage as a spiritual union in which it is my duty to love, honour, and obey my husband, to assist and sustain him, to live with him such a life that when the end comes we may be prepared for it.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Miss Ley.
“I should have thought you of all people,” said Dr. Ramsay, “would object to Bertha marrying beneath her.”
“They can’t be happy,” said Miss Glover.
“Why not? I used to know in Italy Lady Justitia Shawe, who married her footman. She made him take her name, and they drank like fishes. They lived for forty years in complete felicity, and when he drank himself to death poor Lady Justitia was so grieved that her next attack of delirium69 tremens carried her off. It was most pathetic.”
“I can’t think you look forward with pleasure to such a fate for your only niece, Miss Ley,” said Miss Glover, who took everything seriously.
“I have another niece, you know,” answered Miss Ley, “My sister, Mrs. Vaudrey, has three children.”
But the doctor broke in: “Well, I don’t think you need trouble yourselves about the matter, for I have authority to announce to you that the marriage of Bertha and young Craddock is broken off.”
“What!” cried Miss Ley. “I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t say so,” ejaculated Miss Glover at the same moment. “Oh, I am relieved.”
Dr. Ramsay rubbed his hands, beaming with delight. “I knew I should stop it,” he said. “What do you think now, Miss Ley?”
He was evidently rejoicing over her discomfiture70, and that lady became rather cross.
“How can I think anything till you explain yourself?” she asked.
“He came to see me last night—you remember he asked for an interview of his own accord—and I put the case before him. I talked to him, I told him that the marriage was impossible; and I said the Leanham and Blackstable people would call him a fortune-hunter. I appealed to him for Bertha’s sake. He’s an honest, straightforward71 fellow—I always said he was. I made him see he wasn’t doing the straight thing, and at last he promised he’d break it off.”
“He won’t keep a promise of that sort,” said Miss Ley.
“Oh, won’t he!” cried the doctor. “I’ve known him all his life, and he’d rather die than break his word.”
“Poor fellow!” said Miss Glover, “it must have pained him terribly.”
“He bore it like a man.”
Miss Ley pursed her lips till they practically disappeared. “And when is he supposed to carry out your ridiculous suggestion, Dr. Ramsay?” she asked.
“He told me he was lunching here to-day, and would take the opportunity to ask Bertha for his release.”
“The man’s a fool!” muttered Miss Ley to herself, but quite audibly.
“I think it’s very noble of him,” said Miss Glover, “and I shall make a point of telling him so.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Mr. Craddock,” snapped Miss Ley.
Miss Glover looked at Dr. Ramsay to see how he took the rudeness; but at that moment the door was opened and Bertha walked in. Miss Ley caught her mood at a glance. Bertha was evidently not at all distressed72; there were no signs of tears, but her cheeks showed more colour than usual, and her lips were firmly compressed; Miss Ley concluded that her niece was in a very pretty passion. However, she drove away the appearance of anger, and her face was full of smiles as she greeted her visitors.
“Miss Glover, how kind of you to come. How d’you do, Dr. Ramsay?... Oh, by the way, I think I must ask you—er—not to interfere73 in future with my private concerns.”
“Dearest,” broke in Miss Glover, “it’s all for the best.”
Bertha turned to her and the flush on her face deepened: “Ah, I see you’ve been discussing the matter. How good of you! Edward has been asking me to release him.”
Dr. Ramsay nodded with satisfaction.
“But I refused!”
Dr. Ramsay sprang up, and Miss Glover, lifting her hands, cried: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” This was one of the rare occasions in her life upon which Miss Ley was known to laugh outright74.
Bertha now was simply beaming with happiness. “He pretended that he wanted to break the engagement—but I utterly75 declined.”
“D’you mean to say you wouldn’t let him go when he asked you?” said the doctor.
“Did you think I was going to let my happiness be destroyed by you?” she asked, contemptuously. “I found out that you had been meddling76, Dr. Ramsay. Poor boy, he thought his honour required him not to take advantage of my inexperience; I told him, what I’ve told him a thousand times, that I love him, and that I can’t live without him.... Oh, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dr. Ramsay. What d’you mean by coming between me and Edward?”
Bertha said the last words passionately77, breathing hard. Dr. Ramsay was taken aback, and Miss Glover, thinking such a manner of speech almost unladylike, looked down. Miss Ley’s sharp eyes played from one to the other.
“Do you think he really loves you?” said Miss Glover, at last. “It seems to me that if he had, he would not have been so ready to give you up.”
Miss Ley smiled; it was certainly curious that a creature of quite angelic goodness should make so Machiavellian78 a suggestion.
“He offered to give me up because he loved me,” said Bertha, proudly. “I adore him ten thousand times more for the suggestion.”
“I have no patience with you,” cried the doctor, unable to contain himself. “He’s marrying you for your money.”
Bertha gave a little laugh. She was standing by the fire and turned to the glass.... She looked at her hands, resting on the edge of the chimney-piece, small and exquisitely80 modelled, the fingers tapering81, the nails of the softest pink. They were the gentlest hands in the world, made for caresses82; and, conscious of their beauty, she wore no rings. With them Bertha was well satisfied. Then, raising her glance, she saw herself in the mirror: for a while she gazed into her dark eyes, flashing sometimes and at others conveying the burning messages of love. She looked at her ears—small, and pink like a shell; they made one feel that no materials were so grateful to the artist’s hands as the materials which make up the body of man. Her hair was dark too, so abundant that she scarcely knew how to wear it, curling; one wanted to pass one’s hands through it, imagining that its touch must be delightful. She put her fingers to one side, to arrange a stray lock: they might say what they liked, she thought, but her hair was good. Bertha wondered why she was so dark; her olive skin suggested, indeed, the south with its burning passion: she had the complexion83 of the fair women in Umbria, clear and soft beyond description. A painter once had said that her skin had in it all the colour of the setting sun, of the setting sun at its borders where the splendour mingles84 with the sky; it had an hundred mellow85 tints86, cream and ivory, the palest yellow of the heart of roses and the faintest, the very faintest green, all flushed with radiant light. She looked at her full, red lips, almost passionately sensual. Bertha smiled at herself, and saw the even, glistening87 teeth; the scrutiny88 had made her blush, and the colour rendered still more exquisite79 the pallid89, marvellous complexion. She turned slowly and faced the three persons looking at her.
“Do you think it impossible for a man to love me for myself? You are not flattering, dear doctor.”
Miss Ley thought Bertha certainly very bold thus to challenge the criticism of two women, both unmarried; but she silenced it. Miss Ley’s eyes went from the statuesque neck to the arms as finely formed, and to the figure.
“You’re looking your best, my dear,” she said, with a smile.
The doctor uttered an expression of annoyance: “Can you do nothing to hinder this madness, Miss Ley?”
“My dear Dr. Ramsay, I have trouble enough in arranging my own life; do not ask me to interfere with other people’s.”
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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subdued
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gaily
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fixed
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delightful
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promising
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annoyance
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mellifluous
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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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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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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heresy
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hymns
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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drawn
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suffused
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capillaries
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standing
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determined
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protruded
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bleached
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shimmer
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recording
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exterior
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misery
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compassionate
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overflowed
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sentimental
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dissenters
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chapel
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perfectly
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inquiries
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mutual
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cryptic
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fiery
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distress
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qualms
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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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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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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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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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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machiavellian
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| adj.权谋的，狡诈的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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