There stands a man before you, a stranger; seen now for the first time. As you glance at him you involuntarily shrink within yourself, and trench3 imaginary walls around you, and say: That man is a bad man. Your eyes fall upon another—equally a stranger until that moment—and your honest heart flows out to him. You could extend to him the hand of confidence there and then, for that man’s countenance is an index to his nature, and you know that you may trust him to the death. In what part of the face does this index seat itself? In the eyes? the mouth? the features separately? or in the whole?
Certainly in the whole. To judge of temper alone, the eye and mouth—provided you take them in repose—are sure indications; but, to judge of what a man is, you must look to the whole. You don’t know precisely4 where to look for it—any more than do those know who cannot see it at all. You cannot say that it lies in the forehead, the eyebrows5, the eyes, or the chin. You see it, and that is the most you can tell. Beauty and ugliness, in themselves, have nothing to do with it. An ugly countenance may, and often does, bear its own innate6 goodness, as certainly as that one of beauty sometimes bears its own repulsion. Were there certain unerring signs to judge by, the whole human race might become readers of character: but that will never be, so long as the world shall last.
In like manner, as we cannot tell precisely where nature’s marks lie, so are we unable to tell where lies the capacity to read them. Is it a faculty7? or an instinct? This I do know: that it is one of the great gifts of God. Where the power exists in an eminent8 degree, rely upon it its possessor is never deceived in his estimation of character. It is born with him into the world. As a little child he has his likes and dislikes to persons: and sometimes may be whipped for expressing them too strongly. As he grows up, the faculty—instinct—call it what you will—is ever in exercise; at rest when he sleeps; never at any other time.
Those who do not possess the gift (no disparagement9 to them: they may possess others, equally or more valuable) cavil10 at it—laugh at it—- do not believe in it. Read what people are by their face? Nonsense! they know better. Others, who admit the fact, have talked of “reducing it to a science,” whatever that may mean; of teaching it to the world, as we teach the classics to our boys. It may be done, say they. Pos[46] sibly. We all acknowledge the wonders of this most wonderful age. Fishes are made to talk; fleas11 to comport12 themselves as gentlemen; monkeys are discovered to be men—or men monkeys—which is it? a shirt is advertised to be made in four minutes by a new sewing machine. We send ourselves in photograph to make morning calls. The opposite ends of the world are brought together by electric telegraph. Chloroform has rendered the surgeon’s knife something rather agreeable than otherwise. We are made quite at home with “spirits,” and ghosts are reduced to a theory. Not to mention other discoveries connected with the air, earth, and water, which would require an F.R.S. to descant13 upon. Wonderful discoveries of a wonderful age! Compare the last fifty years with the previous fifty years; when people made their wills before going to London, and flocked to the fair to see the learned pig point out the identical young woman who had had the quarrel with her sweetheart the previous Sunday afternoon! It is not my province to dispute these wonders: they may, or may not, be facts; but when you attempt to reduce this great gift to a “science,” the result will be failure. Try and do so. Set up a school for it; give lectures; write books; beat it into heads; and then say to your pupils, “Now that you are accomplished14, go out into the world and use your eyes and read your fellow-men.” And the pupil will, perhaps, think he does read them; but, the first deduction15 he draws, will be the last—a wrong one. Neither art nor science can teach it; neither man nor woman can make it theirs by any amount of labour: where the faculty is not theirs by divine gift, it cannot be made to exist by human skill.
A reader of character would have noted16 the contrast between those two young ladies as they stood there: he would have trusted the one; he would not have trusted the other. And yet, Charlotte Pain had her good qualities also. She was kind-hearted in the main, liberal by nature, pleasant tempered, of a spirit firm and resolute17, fitted to battle with the world and to make good her own way in it. But she was not truthful18; she was not high principled; she was not one, whom I—had I been George Godolphin—would have chosen for my wife, or for my bosom19 friend.
Maria Hastings was eminent in what Charlotte Pain had not. Of rare integrity; highly principled; gentle, and refined; incapable20 of deceit; and with a loving nature that could be true unto death! But she was a very child in the ways of the world; timid, irresolute21, unfitted to battle with its cares; swayed easily by those she loved; and all too passionately22 fond of George Godolphin.
Look at them both now—Charlotte, with her marked, brilliant features; her pointed23 chin, telling of self-will; her somewhat full, red lips; the pose of the head upon her tall, firm form: her large eyes, made to dazzle more than to attract; her perfectly24 self-possessed, not to say free manners!—All told of power; but not of innate refinement25. Maria had too much of this refinement—if such a thing may be said of a young and gentle lady. She was finely and sensitively organized; considerate and gentle. It would be impossible for Maria Hastings to hurt wilfully26 the feelings of a fellow-creature. To the poorest beggar in the street she would have been courteous27, considerate, almost humble28. Not so much as a word of scorn could she cast to another, even in her[47] inmost heart. The very formation of her hands would betray how sensitive and refined was her nature. And that is another thing which bears its own character—the hand; if you know how to read it. Her hands were of exceeding beauty; long, slender, taper29 fingers, of delicate aspect from a physical point of view. Every motion of those hands—and they were ever restless—was a word; every unconscious, nervous movement of the frail30, weak-looking fingers had its peculiar31 characteristic. Maria Hastings had been accused of being vain of her hands; of displaying them more than was necessary: but the accusation32, utterly33 untrue, was made by those who understood her but little, and her hands less. Such hands are rare: and it is as well that they are so: for they indicate a nature far removed from the common; a timid, intellectual, and painfully sensitive nature, which the rude world can neither understand, nor, perhaps, love. The gold, too much refined, is not fitted for ordinary uses. Charlotte Pain’s hands were widely different: firm, plump, white; not small, and never moving unconsciously of themselves.
These pretty hands resting upon her knee, sat Maria Hastings, doing nothing. Maria—I grieve to have it to say of her in this very utilitarian34 age—was rather addicted35 to doing nothing. In her home, the Rectory, Maria was reproved on that score more than on any other. It is ever so with those who live much in the inward life. Maria would fall into a train of thought—and be idle.
Master Reginald Hastings would have lost his bet—that George Godolphin would be in Scotland a week after they arrived there—had he found any one to take it. Ten or eleven days had elapsed, and no George had come, and no news of his intention of coming. It was not for this, to be moped to death in an old Scotch36 country-house, that Charlotte Pain had accepted the invitation of Lady Godolphin. Careless George—careless as to the import any of his words might bear—had said to her when they were talking of Scotland: “I wish you were to be of the party; to help us while away the dull days.” Mr. George had spoken in gallantry—he was too much inclined so to speak, not only to Charlotte—without ever dreaming that his wish would be fulfilled literally38. But, when Lady Godolphin afterwards gave the invitation—Sir George had remarked aloud at the family dinner-table that Miss Pain had fished for it—Charlotte accepted it with undisguised pleasure. In point of fact, Mr. George, had the choice been given him, would have preferred having Maria Hastings to himself there.
But he did not come. Eleven days, and no George Godolphin. Charlotte began to lay mental plans for the arrival of some sudden telegraphic message, demanding her immediate39 return to Prior’s Ash; and Maria could only hope, and look, and long in secret.
It was a gloomy day; not rainy, but enveloped40 in mist, almost as bad as rain. They had gone out together, after luncheon41, these two young ladies, but the weather drove them in again. Charlotte was restless and peevish42. She stirred the fire as if she had a spite against it; she dashed off a few bars at the piano, on which instrument she was a skilful43 player; she cut half the leaves of a new periodical and then flung it from her; she admired herself in the pier-glass; she sat down opposite Maria Hastings and her stillness; and now she jumped[48] up again and violently rang the bell, to order her desk to be brought to her. Maria roused herself from her reverie.
“Charlotte, what is the matter? One would think you had St. Vitus’s dance.”
“So I have—if to twitch44 all over with the fidgets is to have it. How you can sit so calm, so unmoved, is a marvel45 to me. Maria, if I were to be another ten days in this house, I should go mad.”
“Why did you come to it?”
“I thought it might be a pleasant change. Ashlydyat grows gloomy sometimes. How was I to know my lady led so quiet a life here? She was always talking of ‘Broomhead,’ ‘Broomhead!’ I could not possibly suppose it to be so dull a place as this!”
“It is not dull in itself. The house and grounds are charming.”
“Oh dear!” uttered Charlotte. “I wonder what fogs were sent for?”
“No saddle-horses!” went on Charlotte. “I shall forget how to ride. I never heard of such a thing as a country-house without saddle-horses. Where was the use of bringing my new cap and habit? Only to have them crushed!”
Maria seemed to have relapsed into thought. She made no reply. Presently Charlotte began again.
“I wish I had my dogs here! Lady Godolphin would not extend the invitation even to King Charlie. She said she did not like dogs. What a heathen she must be! If I could only see my darling pet, King Charlie! Kate never mentioned him once in her letter this morning!”
The words aroused Maria to animation47. “Did you receive a letter this morning from Prior’s Ash? You did not tell me.”
“Margery brought it to my bedroom. It came last night, I fancy, and lay in the letter-box. I do not think Sir George ought to keep that letter-box entirely48 under his own control,” continued Charlotte. “He grows forgetful. Some evenings I know it is never looked at.”
“You observe nothing. I say that Sir George declines daily: both bodily and mentally. I see a great difference in him, even in the short time that we have been here. He is not the man he was.”
“He has his business letters regularly; and answers them.”
“What news does Mrs. Verrall give you?” inquired Maria.
“Not much. Sarah Anne Grame is out of immediate danger, and the fever has attacked two or three others.”
“In Lady Sarah’s house?”
“Nonsense! No. That sickly girl, Sarah Anne, took it because I suppose she could not help it: but there’s not much fear of its spreading to the rest of the house. If they had been going to have it, it would have shown itself ere this. It has crept on to those pests of cottages by the Pollards. The Bonds are down with it.”
[49]“The worst spot it could have got to!” exclaimed Maria. “Those cottages are unhealthy at the best of times.”
“They had a dinner-party on Saturday,” continued Charlotte.
“At the cottages!”
Charlotte laughed. “At Ashlydyat. The Godolphins were there. At least, she mentioned Bessy, and your chosen cavalier, Mr. George.”
Maria’s cheek flushed crimson51. Charlotte Pain was rather fond of this kind of satire52. Had she believed there was anything serious between George Godolphin and Maria, she would have bitten her tongue out rather than allude53 to it. It was not Charlotte’s intention to spare him to Maria Hastings.
Charlotte Pain at length settled herself to her desk. Maria drew nearer to the fire, and sat looking into it, her cheek leaning on her hand: sat there until the dusk of the winter’s afternoon fell upon the room. She turned to her companion.
“Can you see, Charlotte?”
“Scarcely. I have just finished.”
A few minutes, and Charlotte folded her letters. Two. The one was directed to Mrs. Verrall; the other to Rodolf Pain, Esquire.
“I shall go up to dress,” she said, locking her desk.
“There’s plenty of time,” returned Maria. “I wonder where Sir George and Lady Godolphin are? They did not intend to stay out so late.”
“Oh, when those ancient codgers get together, talking of their past times and doings, they take no more heed54 how time goes than we do at a ball,” carelessly spoke37 Charlotte.
Maria laughed. “Lucky for you, Charlotte, that Lady Godolphin is not within hearing. ‘Ancient codgers!’”
Charlotte left the room, carrying her letters with her. Maria sat on, some time longer—and then it occurred to her to look at her watch. A quarter to five.
A quarter to five! Had she been asleep? No, only dreaming. She started up, threw wide the door, and was passing swiftly into the dark ante-chamber. The house had not been lighted, and the only light came from the fire behind Maria—revealing her clearly enough, but rendering55 that ante-chamber particularly dark. Little wonder, then, that she gave a scream when she found herself caught in some one’s arms, against whom she had nearly run.
“Is it you, Sir George? I beg your pardon.”
Not Sir George. Sir George would not have held her to him with that impassioned fervour. Sir George would not have taken those fond kisses from her lips. It was another George, just come in from his long day’s journey. He pressed his face, cold from the fresh night air, upon her warm one. “My dearest! I knew you would be the first to welcome me!”
Dark enough around, it was still; but a light as of some sunny Eden, illumined the heart of Maria Hastings. The shock of joy was indeed great. Every vein56 was throbbing57, every pulse tingling58, and George Godolphin, had he never before been sure that her deep and entire love was his, must have known it then.
[50]A servant was heard approaching with lights. George Godolphin turned to the fire, and Maria turned and stood near him.
“Did any of you expect me?” he inquired.
“Oh no!” impulsively59 answered Maria. “I can scarcely now believe that it is you in reality.”
He looked at her and laughed; his gay laugh: as much as to say that he had given her a tolerable proof of his reality. She stood, in her pretty, timid manner, before the fire, her eyelids60 drooping61, and the flame lighting62 up her fair face.
“Is my father at home?” he asked, taking off his overcoat. He had walked from the railway station, a mile or two distant.
“He went out with Lady Godolphin this morning to pay a visit to some old friends. I thought they would have returned long before this.”
“Is he getting strong, Maria?”
Maria thought of what Charlotte Pain had said, and hesitated. “He appears to me to be better than when we left Prior’s Ash. But he is far from strong.”
The servant finished lighting the chandelier and retired63. George Godolphin watched the door close, and then drew Maria before him, gazing down at her.
“Let me look at you, my darling! Are you glad to see me?”
Glad to see him! The tears nearly welled up with the intensity64 of her emotion. “I had begun to think you were not coming at all,” she said, in a low tone. “Charlotte Pain received a letter from Mrs. Verrall this morning, in which you were mentioned as——”
Charlotte herself interrupted the conclusion of the sentence. She came in, dressed for dinner. George turned to greet her, his manner warm; his hands outstretched.
“Margery said Mr. George was here! I did not believe her!” cried Charlotte, resigning her hands to him. “Did you come on the telegraph-wires?”
“They would not have brought me quickly enough to your presence,” cried Mr. George.
Charlotte laughed gaily65. “I was just prophesying66 you would not come at all. Mrs. Verrall did not inform me that you were about to start, amidst her other items of intelligence. Besides, I know that you are rather addicted to forgetting your promises.”
“What items had Mrs. Verrall to urge against me?” demanded George.
“I forget them now. Nothing I believe. Is Prior’s Ash alive still?”
“It was, when I left it.”
“And the fever, George?” inquired Maria.
“Fever? Oh, I don’t know much about it.”
“As if fevers were in his way!” ironically cried Charlotte Pain. “He troubles himself no more about fevers than does Lady Godolphin.”
“Than Lady Godolphin would like to do, I suppose you mean, Miss Pain?” he rejoined.
Maria was looking at him wistfully—almost reproachfully. He saw[51] it, and turned to her with a smile. “Has it in truth attacked the cottages down by the Pollards?” she asked.
George nodded. He was not so ignorant as he appeared to be. “Poor Bond had it first; and now two of his children are attacked. I understand Mr. Hastings declares it is a judgment67 upon the town, for not looking better after the hovels and the drainage.”
“Has Bond recovered?” asked Maria.
“No.”
“Not recovered?” she exclaimed quickly.
“He is dead, Maria.”
She clasped her hands, shocked at the news. “Dead. Leaving that large, helpless family! And Sarah Anne Grame?—is she out of danger?”
“From the violence of the fever. But she is in so dangerously weak a state from its effects, that it will be next to a miracle if she recovers. Lady Sarah is half out of her mind. She had prayers put up for Sarah Anne on Sunday. Pretty Ethel has escaped! to the delight of Prior’s Ash in general, and of Thomas in particular. What carriage is that?” suddenly broke off George, as the sound of one approaching was heard.
It proved to be Sir George’s, bringing home himself and my lady. George hastened to meet them as they entered the hall, his handsome face glowing, his bright chestnut68 hair taking a golden tinge69 in the lamp-light, his hands held out. “My dear father!”
The old knight70, with a cry of glad surprise, caught the hands, and pressed them to his heart. My lady advanced with her welcome. She bent71 her tinted72 cheek forwards, by way of greeting, and Mr. George touched it with his delicate lips—lightly, as became its softened73 bloom.
“So you have found your way to us, George! I expected you would have done so before.”
“Did you, madam?”
“Did we?” cried the knight, taking up the word. “Listen to that vain George! He pretends to ignore the fact that there was an attraction here. Had a certain young lady remained at Prior’s Ash, I expect you would not have given us much of your company at Broomhead. If Miss Charlotte——”
“Did you call me, Sir George?” interrupted Charlotte, tripping forward from the back of the hall, where she and Maria stood, out of sight, but within hearing.
“No, my dear, I did not call you,” replied Sir George Godolphin.
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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cavil
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fleas
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| n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 )；爱财如命；没好气地（拒绝某人的要求） | |
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comport
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descant
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| v.详论，絮说；n.高音部 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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noted
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resolute
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truthful
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bosom
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incapable
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irresolute
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passionately
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pointed
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perfectly
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refinement
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wilfully
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courteous
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humble
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taper
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frail
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peculiar
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accusation
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utterly
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utilitarian
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addicted
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scotch
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spoke
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literally
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immediate
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enveloped
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luncheon
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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marvel
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sketch
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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dissented
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| 不同意，持异议( dissent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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crimson
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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rendering
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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