Dick went out of the room angry with himself, angry with his father, and still more angry with his brother. He wanted to meet Humphrey and have it out with him, and he knew that Humphrey at that hour—about seven o'clock—would be in the smoking-room. But he went upstairs, not because he wanted a bath before dinner as he had told his father, and certainly not because he was stiff after trotting1 a dozen miles or so along the roads, but because he knew that it was not wise to have anything out with anybody unless you had complete command over yourself. So he went into his big comfortable bedroom, where a bright fire was burning, lit some candles, and threw himself into an easy-chair to think matters out.
That his father would give way, that he was already in process of giving way, he was well assured. He knew how to work that all right, and he had taken no false step, as far as he could remember, in dealing2 with him. But that little fact of Virginia's having once danced on the stage, of which she had told him in the early days of their friendship, as she had told him everything else about her varied3, unhappy life, he had never thought that he—and she—would have to face. If it had not been for that, his father, so he told himself, would have given way already. Knowing it, it was surprising that he had left anything to be said on the subject at all. He need never have known it; so few people did know it, even in London, where Virginia was beginning to be well known, or in Leicestershire, where she was very well known indeed. Of course, Humphrey knew it—he knew all that sort of gossip about everybody—and Dick's anger against him began to burn as he imagined the way in which he would have let it out. He was like a spiteful old woman, fiddling4 about in drawing-rooms, whispering scandal into other old women's ears and receiving it into his own in return.
At this point Humphrey came into the room. "Hullo, old chap!" he said. "What on earth are you doing up here? It isn't time to dress yet."
Dick got up quickly out of his chair and faced him. He had better have gone to him in the smoking-room at once before he had begun to think things over. "What the devil do you mean by meddling5 with my affairs?" he said angrily.
Humphrey stopped short and stared as if he had held a pistol to his head. He and Dick and Walter had been closer friends than most brothers are. Their ways for some time had begun to diverge6, but they had remained friends, and since their boyhood they had never quarrelled. Such a speech as Dick's was in effect more than a pistol held to his head. It was a pistol shot.
"I suppose you mean what I told them downstairs about Virginia Dubec," he said.
"Virginia Dubec? Who gave you the right to call her Virginia?" said Dick hotly, and could have bitten out his tongue for saying it the moment after, for of course it told Humphrey everything.
But Humphrey was too deeply astonished at the moment to take in anything. He thought he knew his brother; he had always rather admired him, and above all for his coolness. But if this was Dick, passionate7 and indiscreet, he did not know him at all, and it was difficult to tell how to deal with him.
But Humphrey was cool too, in his own way, hating the discomfort8 of passion, and he certainly did not want to have a row with his elder brother. "I don't know why you're up against me like this," he said. "I should have thought we knew each other well enough by this time to talk over anything that wants talking over, sensibly. I'm quite ready to talk over anything with you, but hadn't we better go and do it downstairs? They'll be up here putting out your clothes directly."
"We'll go down to the smoking-room," said Dick, not sorry to have a minute or two in which to pull himself together.
So they went downstairs without a word, and along a stone passage to a big room which had been given over to them as boys, because it was right away from the other rooms, and in which they knew no one would disturb them.
Neither of them spoke9 at once, but both took cigarettes from a box on a table, and Humphrey offered Dick a match, which he refused, lighting10 one for himself.
"Lady George Dubec," said Dick—"Virginia Dubec, if you like to call her so—I've no objection—is a friend of mine, as you know. She wanted a quiet place to hunt from for a month or two, and I said I would try to find her a house here. Of course I told her that they would make friends with her from here. I went to see her this afternoon, and I come back to find you have been talking scandal about her, and giving the governor the impression that she's an impossible sort of creature for respectable people to know. Upon my word, Humphrey, you ought to be kicked."
Humphrey grew a shade paler, but he asked quietly, "What scandal do you accuse me of spreading about her?"
"Well, it isn't scandal in the sense that it's untrue; but I don't suppose a dozen people know that she was ever on the stage. It was only for a few months, and the circumstances of it did her credit. But if it gets about, it will do her harm. As far as the governor goes, of course, it puts him up on his hind11 legs at once, and here am I in the position of getting this quite charming lady, against whom nobody can say a word, down here, and my own people refusing to go near her. It's too bad. If you happened to know that about her, which, of course, is just the sort of thing you would find out and remember and talk about, out of all the other things you might say about a woman like that, you ought to have kept it to yourself. And you would have done if you had had a spark of decent feeling."
"I should have kept it to myself if I had had any idea it was through you she came here."
"You ought to have kept it to yourself in any case. You know her, you know what she is, and the first thing you find to blurt12 out about her when you hear she has come down here is the very thing that you know will put everybody against her!"
"Look here, Dick, there's no sense in you going on blackguarding me like this. I hadn't a ghost of a notion she was anywhere near here when I told them what I did. The moment I came into the room the governor said, 'We've been talking about Lady George Dubec. Do you know her?' I said, 'Yes, she's a very charming lady.' That was the very first thing I said. Then I said, 'She was an actress once upon a time.' There's nothing in that. You say very few people know it. You're quite wrong. Lots of people know it. Why, even Mrs. Graham knew it, and had seen her. Nobody thinks anything the worse of her for it. Why should they? And anyhow it wasn't until afterwards that they told me that she had come down here. Then I said, 'Dick knows her better than I do; he'll tell you all you want to know.' Really, old chap, you're a bit unreasonable13."
Both of them had been standing14 so far, but now Humphrey, feeling perhaps that the crisis had been disposed of, threw himself into a chair.
So it was, on the surface. Dick stood for a time looking down on the floor. If it was as Humphrey had said, and he had not known that Virginia Dubec was in the neighbourhood until after he had let out that fact about her, it was impossible to carry the attack further. But Dick was no more satisfied with him than before. The hostility15 he had felt remained, and was destined16 to grow. From that moment the common ground of easy, tolerant brotherhood17 upon which they had both stood for so long was left behind. Dick had begun to criticise18, to find cause for dislike; Humphrey had received an affront19, and he did not easily forgive an affront.
But the cement of their years of frictionless20 companionship still held, and could not be broken in a moment. Dick also took a chair. "Well, if you didn't know——" he said rather grudgingly21.
"No, I didn't know, and I'm sorry," said Humphrey; "the governor won't hold out, Dick; he's only got to see her."
It was the best thing he could have said. Dick was inwardly gratified, and some of his resentment22 departed. "You needn't say anything unless he opens the subject," he said. "But——"
"Oh, I know what to say if he does," said Humphrey. "I say, Dick, old chap, is it a case?"
Dick was not at all ready for this—from Humphrey, although if Walter had asked him he might have admitted how much of a case it was, and gained some contentment by talking it over. "I like her, of course," he said, somewhat impatiently; "I've never disguised it. I suppose one is permitted to make friendship with women occasionally?"
"Oh yes," said Humphrey, with rather elaborate unconcern. Then Dick said he was going up to dress, and left the room without further word, while Humphrey sat a while longer looking at the fire and turning things over in his mind.
Over the dinner-table that evening there was talk of the forthcoming Hunt Ball, and the one or two others which made the week after Christmas a short season of gaiety in South Meadshire. The Birketts were coming to stay for them, the Judge and his wife and unmarried daughter, and his other daughter, Lady Senhouse, with her husband. These were the only guests invited so far, and the Squire23, who liked a little bustle24 of gaiety about him now and again, said that they must ask one or two more people.
"We shall be unusually gay this year," he said, "with the ball for Grace at Kemsale, which is sure to be well done. We must take a good party over from Kencote. Who can we ask?"
It was a somewhat extraordinary thing that a question like that could not easily be answered at Kencote. The Squire very seldom left home, Mrs. Clinton practically never, and in the course of years the families from whom they could draw for visitors had dwindled25 down to those of relations and county neighbours. The Squire was quite satisfied with this state of things. There were plenty of people about him with whom he could shoot, and who would shoot with him; and an occasional dinner party was all or more than he wanted in the way of indoor sociability—that, and this yearly little group of balls, the Hunt Ball, the Bathgate Ball, and whatever might be added to them from one or other of the big houses round. Kencote had never been one of those houses. Its women had never been considered of enough importance to make the trouble and expense of ball-giving worth while, and the men could get all the balls they wanted elsewhere. Before Cicely was married her brothers had generally brought a few men down for these local gaieties, but for the past two years there had been no party from Kencote.
"I think Lady Aldeburgh would bring Susan Clinton if you were to ask her," said Humphrey. "In fact, I'm pretty sure she would."
Now the Countess of Aldeburgh was a person of some importance in the social world, and her husband was sprung from the same race as the Squire, sprung, in fact, some distance back, from Kencote, and represented, as the Squire not infrequently pointed26 out, a junior branch of the family of which he himself was the head. He was accustomed to speak rather patronisingly of the Aldeburgh Clintons on that account, although not to them, for he did not know them, the present Lord Aldeburgh having been a small boy at school at that period of the Squire's life when he had been about London and known everybody.
"Are they friends of yours?" he asked, not displeased27 at the idea.
"Yes," said Humphrey. "I told Susan Clinton that she ought to see the home of her ancestors—I was lunching with them—and Lady Aldeburgh said they couldn't see it unless they were asked."
"No difficulty about asking them," said the Squire. "Very pleased to see them, and show them what there is, although I dare say they won't think much of it after the sort of thing they're accustomed to. They must take us as they find us. Did you say anything about these balls?"
"Well, yes, I did—threw out feelers, you know. I think they would come if mother were to ask them."
"Oh, write by all means, Nina," said the Squire. "Include Aldeburgh, of course."
"Oh, he won't come," said Humphrey. "He never goes where they do. He doesn't like them."
The Squire frowned. He knew there were people like that, but he didn't want to hear about them. According to his old-fashioned ideas, husbands and wives, if they went visiting at all, ought to go visiting together. Of course it was different where a man might have to go up to London for a day or two. There was no necessity always to take his wife along with him. Or he might perhaps go to a house to shoot. That was all right. But for women to make a point of going about by themselves—why, they had much better stop at home and look after their household duties. "Well, ask him, of course," he said. "He can refuse if he likes. We can do very well without him. Are either of you boys going to ask any men?"
Dick had thought of bringing a friend, Captain Vernon, who had been to Kencote before and would be very welcome. And Humphrey was going to ask Lord Edgeware.
"He didn't lose it all," said Humphrey, "and he's had a lot more left to him."
"We don't want that sort of person here," said the Squire decisively.
"All right," said Humphrey. "But he's a very good chap all the same, and has finished sowing his wild oats."
"He's an absolute rotter," said Dick. "I quite agree; we don't want that sort of fellow here."
Humphrey threw a glance at him and flushed with annoyance29, but he said lightly, "I beg to withdraw his candidature. Is there any objection to Bobby Trench30? He hasn't spent money racing because he has never had any to spend."
Dick was silent. The Squire enquired31 if Mr. Trench was one of Lord So-and-so's sons, and being informed that he was, said that he had known his father and should be pleased to see him at Kencote. So the party was made up, and the men went on to talk about pheasants and hounds, until the twins came in for dessert, when they went on talking about pheasants and hounds.
The Squire and Dick went into the library to go over their farm papers together almost immediately after dinner, leaving Humphrey with his mother and the girls in the morning-room. When they had finished they betook themselves to easy-chairs to talk, as their custom was in the evening. They were very good friends, and had enough in common to make their conversation mutually agreeable. Neither of them read much, and when Dick was at Kencote they usually spent their evenings talking. But Dick was rather silent to-night, and the Squire was uneasily conscious of the shadow that had fallen on their intercourse32. And when he was uneasy about anything his uneasiness always found expression.
"I say, my boy, I hope you don't take it amiss what I said about this Lady George Dubec this afternoon," he said. "You see my point all right, don't you?"
"I see your point well enough," said Dick. "Only I don't think it's much of a point."
He was accustomed thus to address his father on equal terms, and the Squire liked to have it so. He was now only anxious, while having his own way, to avoid the unpleasantness of leaving a grudge33 against himself in Dick's mind.
"Well, we needn't go all over it again," he said. "I haven't made up my mind yet. I don't say your mother shan't call and I don't say she shall. I must think it over. Of course it's a bit awkward for you."
"It's more than a bit awkward for me," said Dick uncompromisingly. "When you do think it over you might consider how particularly awkward it is, after having helped this lady to a house here, to have to tell her that my people don't consider her respectable enough to know."
"H'm! Ha!" grunted34 the Squire, at a loss how to meet this. Then he made a clutch at his authority. "Well, I think you ought to have asked me first, Dick," he said, "and not taken things for granted. If I'm putting you in an awkward position now, it's because you have put me in an awkward position first."
There was reason in this, perhaps more than the Squire usually displayed in discussing a subject in which his feelings were already engaged, and Dick did not want to go over the ground again until matters had advanced themselves a stage.
"She will be at the meet on Monday—driving," he said. "You will see what she is like, and that she isn't in the least like what you probably think she is. I should like to introduce you to her, but that shall be as you please."
The Squire did not reply to this. He sat looking at the fire with a puzzled frown on his face. Then he turned to his son and said, "There's nothing between you and this lady, Dick, is there? You hadn't got her in your mind last night when you said that you did not want to marry a young girl?"
Dick cursed himself inwardly for having made that unlucky speech. He was not cut out for however mild a conspiracy35, and he hated to have to fence and parry. But he must answer quickly if suspicion, which would be disastrous36 at the present stage, were not to rest on him. He gave a little laugh. "Is that what you have been thinking of?" he asked. "Is that why you don't want mother to call on Lady George?"
The Squire had only to push his question, and he would have learnt everything, for Dick would not have denied Virginia. But he did not do so. "No, of course not," he said. "But if it were so—if that's how the land lay——"
Dick did not tell him that that was not how the land lay. He said nothing, and the Squire relinquished37 the subject, not to open it up again until he was alone with his wife that night. Then his disquietude came out, for Dick's reply to his question had not satisfied him, and putting two and two together, as he said, and impelled38 towards dreadful conclusions by his habit of making the most of vague fears, he had now fully39 convinced himself that the land did indeed lie in the direction of Lady George Dubec, now settled within a mile or two, at Blaythorn, and that, unless he could do something to stop it, a most dreadful catastrophe40 was about to overtake the house of Clinton.
Mrs. Clinton could do little to calm his fears. Privately41 she thought that he was making a mountain out of a mole-hill, and that Dick was as little likely as the Squire himself to marry such a woman as she imagined Lady George Dubec to be. For she knew how much alike her husband and her son were in all the essential aims and ambitions of their lives, although she knew also that Dick had a far cooler head and a better brain than his father's. For that very reason he was the less likely to make a marriage which would be beneath the dignity of his family. She said what she could to persuade her husband that Dick might be trusted in a matter of this sort, but he was in that stage of alarm when however much a man may desire to find himself mistaken he resists all attempts to prove him so. "I tell you, Nina," he said, "that he told me himself that when he did marry it would be a middle-aged42 woman, or words to that effect. And he gets this woman down here without saying a word to us about it, and they say she's good-looking—you heard Humphrey say that yourself, and Mrs. Graham too—and he goes over there this afternoon without mentioning it.—By Jove! didn't he say he wanted to go and see Jim at Mountfield? Yes, he did,—you remember—at luncheon43. Nina, I'm afraid there's no doubt about it. Can't you see what a dreadful thing it would be, and that we must stop it at any cost?"
"I hope it will not come about," said Mrs. Clinton. "Dick is level-headed, and he sees questions of this sort in much the same light as you do, Edward."
"It would be intolerable," wailed44 the poor Squire. "And Dick of all people! I'd have trusted him anywhere. And now I shall have to stand up against him, and it will be one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. But I won't let him throw himself away and drag the old name in the dust if I can possibly prevent it. And, God helping45 me, I will prevent it, whatever it costs me. Nina, you are not to go near this woman. The only way is to keep her at arm's-length. If we stand firm the affair will fade out, and Dick will forget all about it. He has always been a good boy. I've been proud of my son. He will thank me some day for saving him from himself. Good-night, Nina, God bless you. There's a difficult time coming for us at Kencote, I'm afraid."
So night and silence fell on the great house. Its master, always healthily tired after his day, spent mostly in the open, soon forgot his troubles in sleep; its mistress lay awake for a long time, wondering if trouble were really going to befall her first-born, who had gone so far from her since she had first hugged him to her breast. And in other rooms in the house there were those who lay awake and wearied themselves with the troubles of life or slept soundly without a care, some of them of account in the daily comings and goings, some of very little, but one and all acting46 and reacting on one another, concerned in some degree in a common life.
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1
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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2
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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3
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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5
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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6
diverge
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| v.分叉，分歧，离题，使...岔开，使转向 | |
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7
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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8
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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9
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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10
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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11
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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12
blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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13
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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14
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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15
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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16
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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18
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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19
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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20
frictionless
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| adj.没有摩擦力的 | |
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grudgingly
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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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
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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27
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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28
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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29
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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30
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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31
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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32
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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33
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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34
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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35
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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36
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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37
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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38
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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40
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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41
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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42
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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43
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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44
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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46
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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