“Donatan, why don’t you get that big ting, to-day?”
Jonathan looked up, a broad smile on his face. He delighted in little children. He liked to hear them call him “Donatan:” and the little lady before him was as backward in the sound of the “th,” as if she had been French. “She means the scythe13, ma’am,” said Jonathan.
“I know she does,” said Maria. “The grass does not want mowing14 to-day, Meta. David, do you not think those rose-trees are very backward?”
David gave his usual grunt15. “I should wonder if they were for’ard.[167] There ain’t no rose-trees for miles round but what is back’ard, except them as have been nursed. With the cutting spring we’ve had, how are the rose-trees to get on, I’d like to know?”
Jonathan looked round, his face quite sunshine compared with David’s: his words also. “They’ll come on famous now, ma’am, with this lovely weather. Ten days of it, and we shall have them all out in bloom. Little miss shall have a rare posy then, and I’ll cut off the thorns first.”
“A big one, mind, Donatan,” responded the young lady, beginning to dance about in anticipation16. The child had an especial liking17 for roses, which Jonathan remembered. She inherited her mother’s great love for flowers.
“David, how is your wife?” asked Maria.
“I’ve not heard that there’s anything the matter with her,” was David’s phlegmatic18 answer, without lifting his face from the bed. He and Jonathan were both engaged almost at the same spot: David, it must be confessed, getting through more work than Jonathan.
They had kept that garden in order for Mr. Crosse, when the Bank was his residence. Also for Thomas Godolphin and his sisters, the little time they had lived there: and afterwards for George. George had now a full complement19 of servants—rather more than a complement, indeed—and one of them might well have attended to that small garden. Janet had suggested as much: but easy George continued to employ the Jekyls. It was not often that the two attended together; as they were doing to-day.
“David,” returned Maria, in answer to his remark, “I am sure you must know that your wife is often ailing20. She is anything but strong. Only she is always merry and in good spirits, and so people think her better than she is. She is quite a contrast to you, David,” Maria added, with a smile. “You don’t talk and laugh much.”
“Talking and laughing don’t get on with a man’s work, as ever I heerd on,” returned David.
“Is it true that your father slipped yesterday, and sprained21 his ankle?” continued Maria. “I heard that he did.”
“’Twas all along of his good fortune, ma’am,” said sunny Jonathan. “He was so elated with it that he slipped down Gaffer Thorpe’s steps, where he was going to tell the news, and fell upon his ankle. The damage ain’t of much account. But that’s old father all over! Prime him up with a piece of good fortune, and he is all cock-a-hoop about it.”
“What is the good fortune?” asked Maria.
“It’s that money come to him at last, ma’am, what he had waited for so long. I’m sure we had all given it up for lost; and father stewed23 and fretted24 over it, wondering always what was going to become of him in his old age. ’Tain’t so very much, neither.”
“Well, so it is,” acquiesced26 Jonathan. “And father looks to it to make him more comfortable than he could be from his profits; his honey, and his garden, and that. He was like a child last night, ma’am, planning what he’d do with it. I told him he had better take care not to lose it.”
[168]“Let him bring it to the Bank,” said Maria. “Tell him I say so, Jonathan. It will be safe here. He might be paid interest for it.”
“I will, ma’am.”
Maria spoke27 the words in good faith. Her mind had conjured28 up a vision of old Jekyl keeping his sixty pounds in his house, at the foot of some old stocking: and she thought how easily he might be robbed of it. “Yes, Jonathan, tell him to bring it here: don’t let him keep it at home, to lose it.”
Maria had another auditor30, of whose presence she was unconscious. It was her mother. Mrs. Hastings had been admitted by a servant, and came through the room to the terrace unheard by Maria. The little girl’s ears—like all children’s—were quick, and she turned, and broke into a joyous31 cry of “Grandma!” Maria looked round.
“On, mamma! I did not know you were here. Are you quite well?” hastily added Maria, fancying that her mother looked dispirited.
“We have had news from Reginald this morning, and the news is not good,” was the reply. “He has been getting into some disagreeable scrape over there, and it has taken a hundred pounds or two to clear him. Of course they came upon us for it.”
Maria’s countenance32 fell. “Reginald is very unlucky. He seems always to be getting into scrapes.”
“He always is,” said Mrs. Hastings. “We thought he could not get into mischief33 at sea: but it appears that he does. The ship was at Calcutta still, but they were expecting daily to sail for home.”
“What is it that he has been doing?” asked Maria.
“I do not quite understand,” replied Mrs. Hastings. “I saw his letter, but that was not very explanatory. What it chiefly contained were expressions of contrition34, and promises of amendment35. The captain wrote to your papa: and that letter he would not give me to read. Your papa’s motive36 was a good one, no doubt,—to save me vexation. But, my dear, he forgets that uncertainty37 causes the imagination to conjure29 up fears, worse, probably, than the reality.”
“As Reginald grows older, he will grow steadier,” remarked Maria. “And, mamma, whatever it may be, your grieving over it will not mend it.”
“True,” replied Mrs. Hastings. “But,” she added, with a sad smile, “when your children shall be as old as mine, Maria, you will have learnt how impossible it is to a mother not to grieve. Have you forgotten the old saying? ‘When our children are young they tread upon our toes; but when they are older they tread upon our hearts.’”
Little Miss Meta was treading upon her toes, just then. The child’s tiny shoes were dancing upon grandmamma’s in her eagerness to get close to her; to tell her that Donatan was going to give her a great big handful of roses, as soon as they were out, with the thorns cut off.
“Come to me, Meta,” said Maria. She saw that her mamma was not in a mood to be troubled with children, and she drew the child on to her own knee. “Mamma, I am going for a drive presently,” she continued. “Would it not do you good to accompany me?”
“I don’t know that I could spare the time this morning,” said Mrs. Hastings. “Are you going far?”
“I can go far or not, as you please,” replied Maria. “We have a[169] new carriage, and George told me at breakfast that I had better try it, and see how I liked it.”
“A new carriage!” replied Mrs. Hastings, her accent betraying surprise. “Had you not enough carriages already, Maria?”
“In truth, I think we had, mamma. This new one is one that George took a fancy to when he was in London last week; and he bought it.”
“Child—though of course it is no business of mine—you surely did not want it. What sort of carriage is it?”
“It is a large one: a sort of barouche. It will do you good to go out with me. I will order it at once, if you will do so, mamma.”
Mrs. Hastings did not immediately reply. She appeared to have fallen into thought. Presently she raised her head and looked at Maria.
“My dear, I have long thought of mentioning to you a certain subject; and I think I will do so now. Strictly38 speaking, it is, as I say, no business of mine, but I cannot help being anxious for your interests.”
“I and your papa sometimes talk it over, one with another. And we say”—Mrs. Hastings smiled, as if to disarm40 her words of their serious import—“that we wish we could put old heads upon young shoulders. Upon yours and your husband’s.”
“But why?—in what way?” cried Maria.
“My dear, if you and he had old heads, you would, I think, see how very wrong it is—I speak the word only in your interests, Maria—to maintain so great and expensive an establishment. It must cost you and George, here, far more than it costs them at Ashlydyat.”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” said Maria.
“We do not know what your husband’s income is——”
“I do not know, either,” spoke Maria, for Mrs. Hastings had paused and looked at her, almost as though she would give opportunity for the information to be supplied. “George never speaks to me upon money matters or business affairs.”
“Well, whatever it is,” resumed Mrs. Hastings, “we should judge that he must be living up to every farthing of it. How much better it would be if you were to live more moderately, and put something by!”
“I dare say it would,” acquiesced Maria. “To tell you the truth, mamma, there are times when I fall into a thoughtful mood, and feel half frightened at our expenditure41. But then again I reflect that George knows his own affairs and his own resources far better than I do. The expense is of his instituting: not of mine.”
“George is proverbially careless,” significantly spoke Mrs. Hastings.
“But, mamma, if at the end of one year, he found his expenses heavier than they ought to be, he would naturally retrench42 them the next. His not doing it proves that he can afford it.”
“I am not saying, or thinking, that he cannot afford it, Maria, in one sense; I do not suppose he outruns his income. But you might live at half your present expense and be quite as comfortable, perhaps more so. Servants, carriages, horses, dress, dinner-parties!—I know you must spend enormously.”
[170]“Well, so we do,” replied Maria. “But, mamma, you are perhaps unaware43 that George has an equal share with Thomas. He has indeed. When Mr. Crosse retired44, Thomas told George it should be so for the future.”
“Did he? There are not many like Thomas Godolphin. Still, Maria, whatever may be your income, I maintain my argument, that you keep up unnecessary style and extravagance. Remember, my dear, that you had no marriage settlement. And, the more you save, the better for your children. You may have many yet.”
Of course the past seven years had not been without their changes. Mr. Crosse had retired from the Bank, and Thomas Godolphin, in his generosity46, immediately constituted his brother an equal partner. He had not been so previously47. Neither had it been contemplated48 by Sir George in his lifetime that it was so to be, yet awhile. The state maintained at Ashlydyat took more to keep it up than the quiet way in which it was supposed George would live at the Bank, and Thomas was the representative Godolphin. But Thomas Godolphin was incapable49 of any conduct bordering in the remotest degree upon covetousness50 or meanness: they were the sons of one father; and though there was the difference in their ages, and he was chief of the Godolphins, he made George’s share equal to his own.
It was well perhaps that he did so. Otherwise George might have plunged51 into shoals and quicksands. He appeared to have no idea of living quietly; had he possessed52 the purse of Fortunatus, which was always full of gold, we are told, he could not have been much more careless of money. Rumour53 went, too, that all Mr. George’s wild oats (bushels of which, you may remember to have heard, Prior’s Ash gave him credit for) were not yet sown; and wild oats run away with a great deal of money. Perhaps the only person in all Prior’s Ash who believed George Godolphin to be a saint, or next door to one, was Maria. Best that she should think so! But, extravagant54 as George was, a suspicion that he lived beyond his income, was never glanced at. Sober people, such as the Rector of All Souls’ and Mrs. Hastings, would say in private what a pity it was that George did not think of saving for his family. Ample as the income, present and future, arising from the Bank might be, it could not be undesirable55 to know that a nest-egg was accumulating. Thomas might have suggested this to George: gossips surmised56 that he did so, and that George let the suggestion go for nothing. They were wrong. Whatever lectures Janet may have seen well to give him, Thomas gave him none. Thomas was not one to interfere, or play the mentor57: and Thomas had a strong silent conviction within him, that ere very long George would come into Ashlydyat. The conviction was born of his suspected state of health. He might be wrong: but he believed he was not. Ashlydyat George’s; the double income from the Bank George’s—where was the need to tell him to save now?
The Reverend Mr. Hastings had had some trouble with his boys: insomuch as that they had turned their faces against the career he had marked out for them. Isaac, the eldest, destined58 for the Church, had declined to qualify himself for it when he came to years of discretion59. After some uncertainty, and what Mr. Hastings called “knocking[171] about”—which meant that he was doing nothing when he ought to have been at work: and that state of affairs lasted for a year or two—Isaac won Maria over to his side. Maria, in her turn, won over George: and Isaac was admitted into the Bank. He held a good post in it now: the brother of Mrs. George Godolphin was not left to rise by chance or priority. A handsome young man of three and twenty was he; steady; and displaying an aptitude60 for business beyond his years. Many a one deemed that Isaac Hastings, in a worldly point of view, had done well in quitting the uncertain prospects61 offered by the Church, for a clerkship in the house of Godolphin. He might rise some time to be a partner in it. Reginald had also declined the career marked out for him. Some government appointment had been promised him: in fact, had been given him: but Reginald would hear of nothing but the sea. It angered Mr. Hastings much. One of the last men, was he, to force a boy into the Church; nay62, to allow a boy to enter it, unless he showed a special liking for it; therefore Isaac had, on that score, got off pretty freely; but he was not one of the last men to force a boy to work, who displayed a taste for idleness. Reginald argued that he should lead a far more idle life in a government office, than he should have a chance of doing if he went to sea. He was right, so far. Mrs. Hastings had a special horror of the sea. Mothers, as a general rule, have. She set her face—and Mr. Hastings had also set his—against Reginald’s sea visions; which, truth to say, had commenced with his earliest years.
However, Reginald and inclination63 proved too strong for opposition64. The government post had to be declined with thanks; and to sea he went. Not into the navy: the boy had become too old for it: but into the merchant service. A good service, the firm he entered: but an expensive one. The premium65 was high; the outfit66 was large; the yearly sum that went in expenses while he was what is called a midshipman was considerable. But he quitted that service in a pique67, and had since been trying different ships on his own account. Altogether, Mr. Hastings had trouble with him. Harry68 was keeping his first term at College. He had chosen the Church of his own free will: and was qualifying for it. Grace was married. And Rose was growing up to be as pretty as Maria.
“Maria,” said Mrs. Hastings, “if I am to go out with you to-day, why should we not call upon Mrs. Averil? I have wanted to see her for some time.”
“I will call with pleasure,” was Maria’s answer. “As well take a long drive as a short one. Then we should start at once.”
She rang the bell as she spoke. To order the carriage, and for Margery to come for Miss Meta. The latter, who had played the trick before, suddenly broke from Margery, and dashed into the Bank parlour. She had learned to open the door.
George by good luck happened to be alone. He affected69 great anger, and Margery also scolded sharply. George had been sitting at a table, bending over account books, his spirit weary, his brow knit. His assumed anger was wasted: for he caught up the child the next moment and covered her face with kisses. Then he carried her into the dining-room to Maria.
[172]“What am I to do with this naughty child, mamma? She came bursting in upon me like a great fierce lion. I must buy a real lion and keep him in the closet, and let him loose if she does it again. Meta won’t like to be eaten up.”
Meta laughed confidentially70. “Papa won’t let a lion eat Meta.”
“Is Meta going with you?” asked George, when Maria told him of the contemplated visit to Mrs. Averil.
Meta interposed. “Yes, she should go,” she said.
“If I take Meta, I must take you also, Margery,” observed Maria. “I cannot have the trouble of her in the carriage.”
“I shan’t hinder time,” was Margery’s response. “My bonnet72 and shawl’s soon put on, ma’am. Come along, child. I’ll dress you at once.”
She went off with Meta, waiting for no further permission. George stepped out on the terrace, to see what Jonathan and David were about. Maria took the opportunity to tell him of the sixty pounds which had come to old Jekyl, and that she had advised its being brought to the Bank to be taken care of.
“What money is it? Where does it come from?” inquired George of the men.
“It’s the money, sir, as was left to father this three years ago, from that dead uncle of ourn,” returned Jonathan. “But the lawyers, sir, they couldn’t agree, and it was never paid over. Now there has been a trial over it, something about the will; and father has had notice that it’s ready for him, all the sixty pound.”
“We will take care of it for him, and pay him interest, tell him, if he chooses to leave it here,” said George.
“I’ll tell him, sure enough, sir. He’s safe to bring it.”
The carriage was at the door in due course, and they were ready. A handsome carriage; acknowledged to be so by even Mrs. Hastings. George came out to hand them in. Miss Meta, a pretty little dressed-up fairy; Margery, plain and old-fashioned; Mrs. Hastings, quiet and ladylike; Maria, beautiful. Her hand lingered in her husband’s.
“I am too busy to-day, my dearest.”
Although nearly seven years a wife, the world still contained no idol74 for Maria like George Godolphin. She loved, respected, reverenced75 him. Nothing, as yet, had shaken her faith in her husband. The little tales, making free with Mr. George’s name, which would now and then be flying about Prior’s Ash, had never reached the ears of Maria.
They had a seven-mile drive. The Honourable76 Mrs. Averil, who was growing in years, and had become an invalid77, was delighted to see them. She kept them for two or three hours, and wanted to keep them for the day. It was late in the afternoon when they returned to Prior’s Ash.
They met a cavalcade78 on entering the town. A riding-party, consisting of several ladies and one or two gentlemen, followed by some[173] grooms79. Somewhat apart from the rest, midway between the party and the grooms, rode two abreast80, laughing, animated81, upon the best of terms with each other. The lady sat her horse unusually well. She was slightly larger, but not a whit7 less handsome, than on the day you first saw her at the meet of the hounds: Charlotte Pain. He, gay George—for it was no other—was riding carelessly, half turning on his horse, his fair curls bending towards Charlotte.
George turned hastily, but the carriage had then passed. So occupied had he been in making himself agreeable that he had positively84 not seen it. Charlotte had. Charlotte had bowed. Bowed to Maria with a look of cool assurance of triumph—as much as to say, You are sitting alone, and your husband is with me. At least, it might have worn that appearance to one given to flights of fancy, which Maria was not; and she returned the bow with a pleasant smile. She caught George’s eye when he turned, and a flush of pleasure lighted her face. George nodded to her cordially, and raised his hat, sending back a smile at the idea of his not having seen her.
“It was papa, was it not, darling!” said Maria, gleefully, bending over to her little girl.
But Maria did not notice that Margery’s head had given itself a peculiar85 toss at sight of George’s companion; or that a severe expression had crossed the face of Mrs. Hastings. An expression which she instantly smoothed away, lest Maria should see it.
The fact was, that gossiping Prior’s Ash had for some time coupled together the names of George Godolphin and Charlotte Pain in its usual free manner. No need, one would think, for Mrs. Hastings or Margery to give heed86 to such tattle: for they knew well what the stories of Prior’s Ash were worth.
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1
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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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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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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ailing
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sprained
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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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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acquiesced
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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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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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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retrench
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| v.节省，削减 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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covetousness
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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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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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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