The Squire1 may have forgotten, when he gave his consent to Virginia being asked to Kencote on this particular date, that on the following day the hounds would meet at Kencote, and there was to be a hunt breakfast. He had his due share of stupidity, but he was clever enough to see, when he did realise what had happened, that Virginia's presence at Kencote on so public an occasion would spread abroad the fact of his surrender as nothing else could do so pointedly2.
He did not half like it. He was not quite sure in his mind exactly what he had surrendered by consenting to receive her, but he was quite sure that he had never meant to give up his right to make her first visit her last if he did not approve of her, and when the mild January day dawned and he went into his dressing-room it was with a mind considerably3 perplexed4, for he did not know whether he approved of her or not, and yet here were all these people coming, who would see her there, and possibly—the more officious of them—actually go so far as to congratulate him on the approaching marriage in his family.
He had gone as far as that. He recognised that, whatever he thought about the matter himself, the rest of the world, as represented by the people amongst whom he lived, would, undoubtedly5, hold that there was cause for congratulation. He even went a little further, without admitting it to himself: he accepted the general verdict of his neighbours, that Virginia was a very beautiful and a very taking person. Only he had not taken to her himself. She had tried him hard, during the previous evening, and several times, especially after his first glass of port, he had nearly allowed himself to fall a victim to her charm. But he had just managed to hold out, and in the cold light of morning, and removed from her presence, thinking also of the company that was presently to assemble, he frowned when he thought of her, and said aloud as he brushed his hair, which he always did the first thing in the morning, even before he looked at the weather-glass, "Confound the woman! Infernal nuisance! I wish the day was well over."
Presently, however, his thoughts grew rather lighter6. It was a perfect day for his favourite sport, and he was going to hunt once more. He felt as eager as a schoolboy for it. Having received Virginia in his house, there was no object in seeking to avoid her in the field, and the relief to his mind in having nothing before him actually to spoil his pleasure in a day with the hounds was so great that it reacted on his view of Virginia, and he said, also aloud, as he folded his stock, "I wonder if she'll do after all."
But no; that was too much. Of course she wouldn't do. She was an American—well, perhaps that could be forgiven her: she was not glaringly transatlantic. She had been a stage-dancer. You had to remind yourself of the fact, but there was no doubt that it was a fact. Ugh! She was the widow of a rascal7, living on the money he had left her, which had been got, probably, by the shadiest of courses, if not dishonestly. That was positively8 damning, and he could not understand how Dick could complaisantly accept such a situation and prepare to live partly upon it. But perhaps she had very little money and was deeply in debt, and there would be difficulty about that later on. He had not thought of that before, and slid away from the thought now, as quickly as possible. He did not want to spoil his day's pleasure. But a gloomy tinge9 was imparted to his thoughts, and again he frowned at the idea of what lay before him when the neighbours for miles round would be collected and he would have his difficult part to play before them.
Virginia came down to breakfast in her riding habit, which is a becoming costume to no woman unless she is on a horse. The Squire had an old-fashioned grudge10 against hunting-women in general, and he was not cordial to Virginia, although he made every effort to act conformably to his duties as her host. Whatever inroads she might have made on his prejudice against her on the previous evening when, in a dress of black chiffon with touches of heliotrope11 about her neck and in her lustrous12 hair, she had looked lovely and surprisingly young, she held small charm for him now, and it was with difficulty that he brought himself to be polite to her, as she sat at his right hand during breakfast.
Fortunately some distraction13 was afforded to him by the presence of Miss Phipp, to whom he had just been introduced for the first time. He found her astonishingly plain, and he was the sort of man who finds food for humour in the contemplation of a plain woman. But in his present mild state of discomfort14 he found no food for humour in Miss Phipp's obvious disregard of her proper position in the house. Miss Bird had never spoken at the breakfast table unless spoken to. She would have considered it immodest to do so. Miss Phipp bore a leading part in the conversation, and as she had only one subject—the education of the young, in which the Squire possessed15 no overmastering interest—by the end of the meal he was seriously considering the necessity of giving her a snub.
Miss Phipp's thesis, which she developed with considerable force, and a wealth of illustration drawn16 from her previous experience, was that a woman's brains were every bit as good as a man's, and that she could do just as much in the way of scholarship if her training began early and was carried on on the right lines.
"What do you think about it?" Miss Dexter asked of Nancy, who was sitting next to her.
"I think," replied Nancy, with a side glance at Miss Phipp, "that it depends a great deal on the teacher," at which Miss Dexter laughed, thus giving the answer a personal application.
"Of course it depends a great deal upon the teacher. That is exactly what I said," Miss Phipp went on. "When I was at the High School there was a girl who had taken the highest possible honours at London University, but she was of no more use as a teacher than—than anything. Teaching is a gift by itself, and sometimes the best scholars do not possess it."
"I think we shall find a fox in Hartover," said the Squire. "I believe that fellow they lost a month ago has taken up his quarters there."
"At the same time," said Miss Phipp, "for the higher forms of a school you must have women who are good scholars as well as with a gift for teaching."
When breakfast was over the twins went out of the room one on each side of Miss Dexter, to whom they had taken a warm fancy, and invited her to visit their animals with them. But Miss Phipp said at once, "Oh, but I shall want you in the schoolroom, girls. We are not to begin lessons until Monday, but we must lose no time then, and I want to find out beforehand exactly where you are."
The twins looked at one another. They were all standing17 in the hall. "Saturday is a whole holiday," said Joan.
"That I know," replied Miss Phipp, "but it is important that we should begin work on Monday without any delay. You can spare an hour. I shall probably not keep you longer."
The twins looked at one another again, and then at Miss Dexter, who preserved a perfectly18 passive demeanour. "I think, if you don't mind," said Joan, "we would rather get up an hour earlier on Monday. We always feed the animals ourselves on Saturdays, directly after breakfast."
"Are you going to begin with me by showing disobedience?'" asked Miss Phipp. "I must insist now that you shall come upstairs with me."
The High School girls would have recognised this tone and quailed19 before it. But Nancy said, "We'll come if mother says we must," and Miss Phipp lost patience, and without another word walked into the morning-room, into which she had seen Mrs. Clinton go with Virginia.
The twins looked at one another once more, and then at Miss Dexter, who received their glance with a twinkle in her eyes. "Now you're in for it," she said.
But the twins were rather alarmed. "We weren't rude to her, were we?" asked Joan.
"Hadn't we better go in to mother?" asked Nancy.
"No, it's all right; we'll wait here," said Miss Dexter, and they waited in silence until Miss Phipp marched out of the morning-room, passed them without a word, and went upstairs.
"Now we'll go and put our hats on and go out and see the animals," said Miss Dexter; but just then Mrs. Clinton came out to them, looking rather concerned, and Miss Dexter left them and joined Virginia in the morning-room.
"What happened?" she asked eagerly.
"My dear Toby," replied Virginia, "are you going to foment20 a quarrel between those darling children and the bosom21 friend of your childhood?"
"No, I'm not," replied Miss Dexter. "I'm going to put her in the way of settling down here. What happened?"
"What happened? Why, she came in looking as red as a tomato, and said, 'Mrs. Clinton, I want the children to come into the schoolroom for an hour, and they refuse. Is it your wish that they shall disobey me?' or something like that."
"They didn't refuse. What did Mrs. Clinton say?"
"She said, 'Oh, surely not, Miss Phipp,' and it turned out, as you say, that they had only said that they would rather not. Then Mrs. Clinton said that she didn't want them to work on Saturdays, especially to-day, because of the meet, and the friend of your childhood flounced out of the room without another word. Toby, that good lady is as hot as pepper."
Then Mrs. Clinton came in again, and said, "I want the children to take Miss Phipp out to see their animals too. They have gone up to her. Will you go too?"
But Miss Phipp was not in the schoolroom. "You go and put on your hats, and I'll go and find her," said Miss Dexter.
"Mother wasn't annoyed with us," said Joan. "We said we were quite polite. We were, weren't we?"
"Your manners were a lesson to us all," said Miss Dexter.
Miss Phipp was in her bedroom, and Miss Dexter proffered22 the invitation, of which she took no notice. "It's perfectly preposterous," she said, turning an angry face upon her. "If this is the sort of thing that is to happen my position here will be impossible."
"My dear girl, you shouldn't lose your temper," said Miss Dexter. "They were quite right. You've no right to expect them to work in their playtime. Besides, you shouldn't have told Mrs. Clinton that they were disobedient. Come out and see their rabbits and guinea-pigs."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Miss Phipp. "I shall reconsider my position. I will not stay and teach girls who are encouraged to set my authority at naught23."
"Look here, Janet," said Miss Dexter firmly. "You are going the wrong way to work here. You have every chance of having a real good time, and doing something useful besides, but you can't behave in a private family as if you were in a school."
For answer Miss Phipp burst into most feminine tears. "I'm not well," she sobbed24. "I've got a splitting headache after yesterday's journey, and I've lost control over myself."
"Well, lie down for a bit," advised Miss Dexter. "You'll have the whole day to yourself, and you needn't begin to think about work until Monday. I'll put a match to your fire. Is there anything you'd like? If there is I'm sure you can have it."
"I'm a fool," said Miss Phipp, drying her eyes. "For goodness' sake don't let those two know I broke down. I dare say I was wrong, but I do want to do all I can to get them on quickly."
"I know you do. And you'll have no difficulty when the proper time comes. They're clever girls, and nice ones too. They are quite upset at the idea of having upset you."
"Are they?" said Miss Phipp drily. "Well, I think I will lie down for a bit and take some Phenacetin. No, I don't want anything else. If I do, I can ring the bell."
So she was left to herself, and Miss Dexter accompanied the twins in their various errands of mercy, and expressed unbounded admiration25 of the breeding and intelligence of the rodents26 submitted to her inspection27, after which they took her for a walk round the rhododendron dell.
They, were a little less ready with their conversation than usual, for the late episode had been something quite new in their experience and given them occasion for thought. At last Miss Dexter said, "If you are worrying about Janet Phipp, I shouldn't, if I were you. She's a good sort, and you'll get on with her all right."
"I hope we shall," said Joan, "but I'm inclined to doubt it. She's so very different to the old starling. We had any amount of fun with her, but then, we loved her."
"Well, you'll love Miss Phipp when you know her. I've known her for—well, I won't tell you how many years, but we're neither of us chickens, as you can see."
"And do you love her?" asked Nancy.
"I used to, and I should again if I saw anything of her."
"Well, that's something in her favour," said Joan. "But Nancy and I will have to talk it over and settle our course of action."
"Well, talk it over now. I shan't repeat anything you say."
"We like you very much," said Nancy. "But as you're a friend of hers, we might not like to speak quite plainly. It's rather a serious situation."
"Oh, you can talk quite plainly before me. I can see the situation well enough, and it isn't as serious as you think. She has never been in a private family before, and has had no experience except with a horde28 of schoolgirls. Of course you have to keep a tight hand over them, and when they're at school nobody has authority over them except the teachers. She'll soon tumble to it that your mother has more say in things than she can have. But you mustn't always be appealing to your mother against her."
"Of course we shouldn't do that," said Joan indignantly. "We never did with Starling, except in fun."
"Besides, we are quite capable of controlling the situation by ourselves, when once we've settled on a course of action," said Nancy.
Miss Dexter laughed. "I've no doubt you are," she said. "Only give her a chance. That's all I ask."
"I suppose you don't object to our exercising our humour on her?" asked Nancy. "We have our reputation to keep up. And you must admit that she was rather trying this morning."
"Look here," said Miss Dexter. "She's been ill, and she's not well now. You may think it funny, but when I went in to see her just now she cried."
"Oh, poor darling!" exclaimed Joan. "Of course we'll be kind to her, won't we, Nancy?"
"We'll think it over," said Nancy. "We mustn't be sentimental29. You're rather inclined to it, Joan. She may have shed tears of rage at being thwarted30."
"You're a beast," said Joan uncompromisingly. "I hate to think of people being unhappy."
"You see," Miss Dexter put in, "she's suffering under a great disappointment. She's a splendid teacher and was getting on awfully31 well, and then she broke down and has had to take a private job. Many people would much prefer to live in a place like this, and have a good time, instead of toiling33 hard at a school. But, for her, it's good-bye to a career in life, and she can't help feeling rather sore about it."
"Poor darling!" exclaimed Joan again. "We'll take her to our hearts and make up for it. Don't you be afraid, Toby dear—you don't mind us calling you that, do you?—if Nancy misbehaves I know how to deal with her."
"I don't want to misbehave," said Nancy, "and if I did you couldn't stop me. If she treats us well we'll treat her well. I shan't make any rash promises. I think we'd better be getting back now. People will begin to turn up soon, and it's such fun to see them."
They went back to the house, and presently there came riding up the drive two men in pink, and immediately after there came a dogcart and then a carriage and then more men on horses and a lady or two, and after that a constant succession of riders and people on wheels and on foot, until the open stretch of park in front of the house was full of them.
And at last the huntsman and whips came trotting34 slowly along the drive and on to the grass, and the hounds streaming along with them waving their sterns, a useful, well-matched pack, much alike in the mass, but each with as much individuality as the men and women who thronged35 around them.
Then the members of the hunt began to drift by twos and threes into the house and into the dining-room, where the Squire was very hospitable36 and hearty37 in pressing refreshments38 on them—"just a sandwich, or something to keep out the draught," he kept on repeating, full of pleasure at being able to feed dozens of people who didn't want feeding, and quite forgetting for the time being his fears as to the effect of Virginia's presence.
Virginia, not wishing any more than he to make herself a centre of the occasion, was on her horse already, and Dick was with her, and a handsome pair they made. So thought old Aunt Laura who had had herself drawn up by the porch in her Bath chair, as far away as possible from "the horses' hoofs39." She had just heard that a marriage was about to take place in the family and was full of twittering excitement at the news.
"My nephew," she said, meaning the Rector, "told me the glad news only this morning, my dear. I am overjoyed to hear it, and to have the opportunity of seeing you so soon. Please do not bring your horse too close, if you do not mind. I am somewhat nervous of animals."
"I'll bring her to see you this evening, Aunt Laura," said Dick, "or, if she's too tired, to-morrow morning."
"I shan't be too tired," said Virginia, smiling at the old lady. "Dick has often told me about you, Miss Clinton, but you know I have never been in Kencote before."
The Rector had given Aunt Laura some hint of the difficulty there had been over the engagement, and she said soothingly40, "I know, my dear, I know. But I have no doubt you will be here very often now, and I am sure nobody will be more pleased to see you than I shall. Dear me, what with Walter and Cicely being married two years ago and Dick and Humphrey about to be married, one feels one belongs to a family in which things are always happening. I only wish that my dear sisters had been alive to take part in it all. They would have been so pleased. But the last of them died last year, as no doubt Dick has told you, and I am no longer able to welcome you in our old home. But I have a very nice little house in the village, and if you will come and drink a cup of tea with me I shall feel great gratification, and I will show you some of my treasures. Tell me, Dick, for my eyes are not quite what they were, is that our Cousin Humphrey?"
It was, in fact, Lord Meadshire, who in spite of a cold, which made him hoarser41 than ever, had driven over with his daughter, and now, looking frail42 and shrunken in his heavy fur coat, but indomitably determined43 to make the best of life, came slowly across the gravel44 to greet once again the only member of his own generation left alive amongst all his relations.
"Well, Laura," he said, "this is like old times, eh?" and then he recognised Virginia, and showed, although he did not say so, that he was pleasantly surprised to see her there.
"You have heard, I suppose, Humphrey," said Aunt Laura, with obvious pride in being first with the news, "that we are shortly to have yet another wedding in the family. I have not seen dear Edward yet; I have no doubt he is busy indoors, but will be out soon—and I shall be able to tell him how glad I am that everything is happily settled."
Lord Meadshire's sharp old eyes twinkled up at Virginia, and at Dick, who said, "Don't you say anything to him about it yet, Aunt Laura. He's not quite ready for it"; and Lord Meadshire added, "You've been given early news, Laura. We must keep it to ourselves until it is published abroad—what? My dear"—this to Virginia—"I needn't tell you how glad I am, and I wish you every possible happiness and prosperity."
He stayed to chat for a few minutes with Aunt Laura after Virginia and Dick had moved away. "It seems but yesterday," said Aunt Laura, "that my dear father, who, of course, kept these hounds, entertained his friends here in just such a way as this, and I was a little girl with all my dear sisters, and you were a young man, Humphrey, very gay and active, riding over and talking and laughing with everybody. And it is just the same pretty scene now as it was then, although all the people who took part in it are dead, except you and I."
"My dear Laura," wheezed45 Lord Meadshire, "I'm gay and active now, if it comes to that, and so are you, in your heart of hearts. Come, let us forget that tiresome46 number of years that lies behind us and go and amuse ourselves with the rest. If I stand out here in the cold, I shall have Emily after me—what?"
So Aunt Laura was helped out of her Bath chair, and they went into the house together slowly, and arm in arm.
The Squire hastened to meet them and find chairs for them, rather uncomfortably near the fire. He was loud in his expressions of pleasure at seeing his kinsman47 there, and not unmindful, either, of the comfort of Aunt Laura. He would have been beyond measure scandalised at the charge of treating her with increased consideration since he had learnt of her wealth, and indeed he had shown himself, as has been said, indifferent to the possibility of her being wealthy, but there was no doubt that she had increased in importance in his eyes during the last week or two, and she was accordingly treated more as a personage at Kencote than she had ever been before in her life.
Lord Meadshire accepted a glass of champagne48. It was a festive49 occasion, and he loved festive occasions of all sorts. Everybody in the room came up and talked to him, and he was pleased to talk to everybody and said the right thing to each. But presently he found the opportunity of a word apart with the Squire.
"So you've given in, Edward—eh, what?" he remarked, with a mischievous50 look in his old face, and before he could be answered, said, more seriously, "Well, you were right to stick out if you thought it wouldn't do—to stick out as long as you could—but you must be glad all the bother's over now, and I feel sure you'll come to think it isn't so bad as you thought it would be. Come now, weren't all the rest of us right? Isn't she a dear creature?"
"I haven't given in," said the Squire shortly. "I don't know yet what I'm going to do. Of course, if Dick has made up his mind, I'm not going to keep him at arm's length all the rest of my life, however much I may object to what he's doing. That's why he's here, and why she's here."
"Ah!" said Lord Meadshire wisely. "That's the way to talk. When you say that you're nearly at the end of your troubles."
As he drove off a little later with Lady Kemsale he told her that Edward was conquered, although he wouldn't acknowledge it. "He's an obstinate51 fellow," said Lord Meadshire, "and from what Nina told me I should say that he's having hard work to hold out against the dear lady. Well, she's only got to keep on being herself and he'll be at her feet like all the rest of us."
"Dear papa," said Lady Kemsale, "Lady George has bewitched you."
"My dear," said Lord Meadshire, "I admit it fully32. And if she can bewitch me she can bewitch Edward. She's half-way on the road already."
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1
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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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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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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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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foment
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| v.煽动，助长 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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rodents
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| n.啮齿目动物( rodent的名词复数 ) | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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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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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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hoarser
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| （指声音）粗哑的，嘶哑的( hoarse的比较级 ) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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45
wheezed
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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48
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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49
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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