Upon the day following, O'Connor had not yet received any answer to his letter. He was, however, not a little surprised instead to receive a second visit from young Ashwoode.
"I am very glad, my dear O'Connor," said the young man as he entered, "to have found you alone. I have been wishing very much for this opportunity, and was half afraid as I came upstairs that I should again have been disappointed. The fact is, I wish much to speak to you upon a subject of great difficulty and delicacy—one in which, however, I naturally feel so strong an interest, that I may speak to you upon it, and freely, too, without impertinence. I allude2 to your attachment3 to my sister. Do not imagine, my dear O'Connor, that I am going to lecture you on prudence4 and all that; and above all, my dear fellow, do not think I want to tax your confidence more deeply than you are willing I should; I know quite enough for all I would suggest; I know the plain fact that you love my sister—I have long known it, and this is enough."
"Well, sir, what follows?" said O'Connor, dejectedly.
"Do not call me sir—call me friend—fellow—fool—anything you please but that," replied Ashwoode, kindly5; and after a brief pause, he continued: "I need not, and cannot disguise it from you, that I was much opposed to this, and vexed6 extremely at the girl's encouragement of what I considered a most imprudent suit. I have, however, learned to think differently—very differently. After all my littlenesses and pettishness7, for which you must have, if not abhorred8, at least despised me from your very heart—after all this, I say, your noble conduct in risking your own life to save my worthless blood is what I never can enough admire, and honour, and thank." Here he grasped O'Connor's hand, and shook it warmly. "After this, I tell you, O'Connor, that were there offered to me, on my sister's behoof, on the one side the most brilliant alliance in wealth and rank that ever ambition dreamed of, and upon the other side this hand of yours, I would, so heaven is my witness, forego every allurement9 of titles, rank, and riches, and give my sister to you. I have come here, O'Connor, frankly10 to offer you my aid and advice—to prove to you my sincerity11, and, if possible, to realize your wishes."
O'Connor could hardly believe his senses. Here was the man who, scarcely six days since, he felt assured, would more readily have suffered him to thrust him through the body than consent to his marriage with Mary Ashwoode, now not merely consenting to it, but offering cordially and spontaneously all the assistance in his power towards effecting that very object. Had he heard him aright? One look at his expressive12 face—the kindly pressure of his hand—everything assured him that he had justly comprehended all that Ashwoode had spoken, and a glow of hope, warmer than had visited him for years, cheered his heart.
"In the meantime," continued Ashwoode, "I must tell you exactly how matters stand at Morley Court. The Earl of Aspenly, of whom you may have heard, is paying his addresses to my sister."
"The Earl of Aspenly," echoed O'Connor, slightly colouring. "I had not heard of this before—she did not name him."
"Yet she has known it a good while," returned Ashwoode, with well-affected surprise—"a month, I believe, or more. He's now at Morley Court, and means to make some stay—are you sure she never mentioned him?"
"Titled, and, of course, rich," said O'Connor, scarce hearing the question. "Why should I have heard of this by chance, and from another—why this reserve—this silence?"
"Nay13, nay," replied Henry, "you must not run away with the matter thus. Mary may have forgotten it, or—or not liked to tell you—not cared to give you needless uneasiness."
"I wish she had—I wish she had—I am—I am, indeed, Ashwoode, very, very unhappy," said O'Connor, with extreme dejection. "Forgive me—forgive my folly14, since folly it seems—I fear I weary you."
"Well, well, since it seems you have not heard of it," rejoined Henry, carelessly throwing himself back in his chair, "you may as well learn it now—not that there is any real cause of alarm in the matter, as I shall presently show you, but simply that you may understand the position of the enemy. Lord Aspenly, then, is at present at Morley Court, where he is received as Mary's lover—observe me, only as her lover—not yet, and I trust never as her accepted lover."
"Now, though my father is very hot about the match," resumed his visitor, "it may appear strange enough to you that I never was. There are a few—a very few—advantages in the matter, of course, viewing it merely in its worldly aspect. But Lord Aspenly's property is a good deal embarrassed, and he is of violently Whig politics and connections, the very thing most hated by my old Tory uncle, Oliver French, whom my father has been anxious to cultivate; besides, the disparity in years is so very great that it is ridiculous—I might almost say indecent—and this even in point of family standing16, and indeed of reputation, putting aside every better consideration, is objectionable. I have urged all these things upon my father, and perhaps we should not find any insurmountable obstacle there; but the fact is, there is another difficulty, one of which until this morning I never dreamed—the most whimsical difficulty imaginable." Here the young man raised his eyebrows18, and laughed faintly, while he looked upon the floor, and O'Connor, with increasing earnestness, implored19 him to proceed. "It appears so very absurd and perverse20 an obstacle," continued Ashwoode, with a very quizzical expression, "that one does not exactly know how to encounter it—to say the truth, I think that the girl is a little—perhaps the least imaginable degree—taken—dazzled—caught by the notion of being a countess; it's very natural, you know, but then I would have expected better from her."
"By heavens, it is impossible!" exclaimed O'Connor, starting to his feet; "I cannot believe it; you must, indeed, my dear Ashwoode, you must have been deceived."
"Well, then," rejoined the young man, "I have lost my skill in reading young ladies' minds—that's all; but even though I should be right—and never believe me if I am not right—it does not follow that the giddy whim17 won't pass away just as suddenly as it came; her most lasting21 impressions—with, I should hope, one exception—were never very enduring. I have been talking to her for nearly half an hour this morning—laughing with her about Lord Aspenly's suit, and building castles in the air about what she will and what she won't do when she's a countess. But, by the way, how did you let her know that you intend returning to France at the end of this month, only, as she told me, however, for a few weeks? She mentioned it yesterday incidentally. Well, it is a comfort that I hear your secrets, though you won't entrust22 them to me. But do not, my dear fellow—do not look so very black—you very much overrate the firmness of women's minds, and greatly indeed exaggerate that of my sister's character if you believe that this vexatious whim which has entered her giddy pate23 will remain there longer than a week. The simple fact is that the excitement and bustle24 of all this has produced an unusual flow of high spirits, which will, of course, subside25 with the novelty of the occasion. Pshaw! why so cast down?—there is nothing in the matter to surprise one—the caprice of women knows do rule. I tell you I would almost stake my reputation as a prophet, that when this giddy excitement passes away, her feelings will return to their old channel." O'Connor still paced the room in silence. "Meanwhile," continued the young man, "if anything occur to you—if I can be useful to you in any way, command me absolutely, and till you see me next, take heart of grace." He grasped O'Connor's hand—it was cold as clay; and bidding him farewell, once more took his departure.
"Well," thought he, as he threw his leg across his high-bred gelding at the inn door, "I have shot the first shaft26 home."
And so he had, for the heart at which it was directed, unfenced by suspicion, lay open to his traitorous27 practices. O'Connor's letter, an urgent and a touching28 one, was still unanswered; it never for a moment crossed his mind that it had not reached the hand for which it was intended. The maid who had faithfully delivered all the letters which had passed between them had herself received it; and young Ashwoode had but the moment before mentioned, from his sister's lips, the subject on which it was written—his meditated29 departure for France. This, too, it appeared, she had spoken of in the midst of gay and light-hearted trilling, and projects of approaching magnificence and dissipation with his rich and noble rival. Twice since the delivery of that letter had his servant seen Miss Ashwoode's maid; and in the communicative colloquy30 which had ensued she had told—no doubt according to well-planned instructions—how gay and unusually merry her mistress was, and how she passed whole hours at her toilet, and the rest of her time in the companionship of Lord Aspenly—so that between his lordship's society, and her own preparations for it, she had scarcely allowed herself time to read the letter in question, much less to answer it.
All these things served to fill O'Connor's mind with vague but agonizing31 doubts—doubts which he vainly strove to combat; fears which had not their birth in an alarmed imagination, but which, alas32! were but too surely approved by reason. The notion of a systematic33 plot, embracing so many agents, and conducted with such deep and hellish hypocrisy34, with the sole purpose of destroying affections the most beautiful, and of alienating35 hearts the truest, was a thought so monstrous36 and unnatural37 that it never for a second flashed upon his mind; still his heart struggled strongly against despair. Spite of all that looked gloomy in what he saw—spite of the boding38 suggestions of his worst fears, he would not believe her false to him—that she who had so long and so well loved and trusted him—she whose gentle heart he knew unchanged and unchilled by years, and distance, and misfortunes—that she should, after all, have fallen away from him, and given up that heart, which once was his, to vanity and the hollow glitter of the world—this he could hardly bring himself to believe, yet what was he to think? alas! what?
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1
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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2
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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4
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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5
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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6
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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pettishness
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8
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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9
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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10
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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11
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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12
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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13
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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14
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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15
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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16
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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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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18
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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19
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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21
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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25
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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27
traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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29
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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30
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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31
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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32
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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33
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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34
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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35
alienating
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| v.使疏远( alienate的现在分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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36
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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38
boding
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| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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