The porter told her it was fine growing weather, and she wondered stupidly why, after the years she had had of the sort of thing, she had had not grown, then, more thoroughly5 herself. A retired6 colonel she knew —she knew all the retired colonels—waved his umbrella and shouted a genial7 inquiry8 after her toothache, and she looked at him with a dead, ungrateful eye. A passing postman touched his cap, and she turned the other way. The same sensible female figures she had seen all her life draped in the same sensible mackintoshes bowed and smiled, and she pretended she hadn't seen them. Everybody, in fact, behaved as though she were still good, which was distressing9, embarrassing, and productive of an overwhelming desire to shut her eyes and hide.
There were the shops, with the things in the windows unchanged since she left nine days ago, the same ancient novelties nobody ever bought, the same flies creeping over the same buns. There was the book-seller her Christian10 Year had come from, his windows full of more of them, endless supplies for endless dieted daughters, vegetarians11 in literature she called them to herself, forcibly vegetabled vegetarians; and there was the silversmith who provided the Bishop12 with the crosses after a good Florentine fifteenth-century pattern he presented to those of his confirmation13 candidates who were the daughters in the diocese of the great. The Duke's daughter had one. The Lord-Lieutenant's daughter had one. On this principle Ingeborg herself had been given one, and wore it continually night and day, as her father expected, under her dress, where it bruised14 her. It was pleasant to her father to be able to recollect15, in the stress and dust of much in his work that was unrefreshing, how there was a yearly increasing though severely16 sifted17 number of gentle virgin18 blouses belonging to the best families beneath which lay and rhythmically19 heaved this silver reminder20 of the wearer's Bishop and of her God.
"Father," Ingeborg said, after she had worn hers for a week, "may I take my cross off at night?"
"No; but—you see when one turns round in one's sleep it sticks into one."
"Sticks, Ingeborg?" the Bishop said gently, raising his eyebrows22 at such an expression applied23 to such an object.
"Yes, and I'm getting awfully24 bruised." She was still in the schoolroom, and still saying awfully.
"By His stripes we are healed," said the Bishop, shutting up the conversation as one shuts up a book.
In spite of the wet warmth she shivered as the silversmith's window reminded her of this. It had happened years ago, but even farther back, as far back as she could remember, every time she had asked leave of her father to do anything it had been refused; and refused with bits of Bible, which was so peculiarly silencing.
And now here she was about to face him covered with the leaves she had not asked for at all but had so tremendously taken, and going to ask the most tremendous one of all, the leave to marry Herr Dremmel.
For that was how the last two days of her Dent's Tour had been spent, in being openly engaged to Herr Dremmel. She had found her attempts to explain that she was not so really availed nothing against his conviction that she was. And public opinion, the public opinion of the whole Tour, also never doubted but that she was—had not seven of its most reliable members actually seen her in the act of becoming it? In fact it not only did not doubt it, it was sternly determined25 that she should be engaged whether she liked it or not. It was the least, the Tour felt, that she could do. So that there was nothing for it now but to face the Bishop.
She felt cold. No amount of the familiar moist stuffiness26 could warm her. Vainly she tried to sit up, to be proud and brave, to recapture something at least of the courage that had seemed so easy just at the end in Switzerland with Herr Dremmel to laugh at her doubts. Her head would droop27, and her hands and feet were like stones.
It was the place, the place, she thought, the hypnotic effect of it, of her old environment. The whole of Redchester was heavy with recollections of past obediences28. Not once had she ever in Redchester even dreamt of rebellion. She had questioned latterly, in the remoter and less filial corners of her heart, but she had never so much as thought of rebellion. And the moment she got away out of sight and hearing of home, things she knew here were wicked had appeared to be quite good and extremely natural. How strange that was. And how strange that now she was back everything was beginning to seem wicked again. What was a poor wretch29 to do, she asked herself with sudden passion, confronted by these shuffling30 standards that behaved as if they were dancing a quadrille? This was the place in which for years her conscience had been cockered to size and delicacy31; and though it had become temporarily tough in Herr Dremmel's company she felt it relapsing with every turn of the wheels more and more into its ancient softness.
Yet she undoubtedly32, conscience-stricken and frightened or not, had to tell her father what she had done. She had got to be brave, and if needs be she had got to defy. She was bound to Herr Dremmel. He had only gone home to set his house in order, and then, he announced, she meanwhile having prepared the Bishop, he was coming to Redchester to marry her. Prepared the Bishop! She shivered. Herr Dremmel had tried to marry her in Lucerne; but the Swiss, it seemed, would not be hurried, so that here she was, and within the next few hours she was going to have to prepare the Bishop.
She shut her eyes and thought of Herr Dremmel; of Robert, as she was was learning to call him. With all her heart she liked him. And he had been so kind when he found she really disliked being engulfed33 in embraces, and had restricted his exhibitions of affection to the kissing of her hand, telling her he could very well wait till later on, sure that she would after marriage warm, as he had explained to her on the Rigi all women did, to a just appreciation34 of the value of the caresses35 of an honest man. He had also produced a number of German love-names from some hitherto fallow corner of his mind, and garnished36 his conversation with them in a way that made her who, nourished as she had been on the noble language of the Bible and the Prayer-book, was instantly responsive to the charm of words, laugh and glow with pleasure. She was his Little Heart, his Little Tiny Treasure, his Little Sugar Lamb—a dozen little sweet diminished German things translated straight away just as they were into English. The freshness of it! The freshness of being admired and petted after the economies in these directions practised in her home. And his ring at that very moment dangled37 beneath her dress on the same chain as her father's cross. Yes, she was bound to him. Duty, she perceived, could be a very blessed thing sometimes if it protected one from some other duty. It was Herr Dremmel now who had become her Duty.
She put up her hand to get courage by feeling the ring, for her spirit was fainting within her—she had just caught sight of the cathedral. The ring had been slung38 on the chain alongside the confirmation cross because it was impossible to wear it on her thumb; and out there in Switzerland, where one was simple, it had seemed a most natural and obvious place to put it. Yet now, as the fly rattled39 over the cobbles of the Close and the familiar cathedral rose before her like a menace, she hung her head and greatly doubted but what the juxtaposition40 was wicked.
Nobody was on the doorstep when she arrived beneath the great cedar41 that spread its shade, an intensified42 bit of dripping gloom where all was gloom and dripping, across from the lawn to the Palace's entrance, except the butler, whose black clothes struck her instantly as very neat and smooth, and his underling, a youth kept carefully a little on the side of a suitable episcopal shabbiness. She had telegraphed her train from Paddington, but that, of course, was no reason why any one should be on the doorstep. It was she whose business lay with doorsteps when people arrived or left, she was the one who welcomed and who sped, and, since she could not welcome herself, there was nobody there to do it.
She stole a nervous look at Wilson as he helped her out, but his face was a blank. The boy on her other side had an expression, she thought, as though under happier conditions he might have let himself go in a smirk43, and she turned her eyes away with a little sick feeling. Did they know already, all of them, that she had left her aunt's a week ago? But, indeed, that seemed a small thing now compared with the things she had done since.
"I'm a dead girl," thought Ingeborg, as she passed beneath her parents' porch.
The servants brought in her luggage, off which in her newness at deceit she had not thought to scrape the continental44 labels, and she crossed the hall, treading on the dim splashes of lovely blurred45 colour that fell from the vast stained glass windows on to the stone flags of its floor. It was the noblest hall, as bare of stuffs and carpets as the cathedral itself, and she looked more than insignificant46 going across it to the carved oak door that opened into the wide panelled passage leading to the drawing-room, a little figure braced47 to a miserable48 courage, the smallest thing to be going to defy powers of which this magnificence was only one of the expressions.
Her mother was as usual on her sofa near a fire whose heat, that warm day, was mitigated49 by the windows being wide open. Beside her was her own particular table with the usual flowers, needlework, devotional books, and biographies of good men. It was difficult to believe her mother had got off that sofa nine times to go to bed, had dressed and undressed and had meals—thirty-six of them, counted Ingeborg mechanically, while she looked about for the Bishop, if you excluded the before breakfast tea, forty-five if you didn't—since she saw her last, so immovable did she appear, so exactly in the same position and composed into the same lines as she had been nine days before. The room was full of the singing of thrushes, quite deafeningly full, as she opened the door, for the windows gave straight into the green and soppy garden and it was a day of many worms. Judith was making tea as far away from the fire as she could get, and there was no sign of the Bishop.
"Is that you, Ingeborg?" said her mother, turning her face, grown pale with years of being shut up, to the door.
Ingeborg's mother had found the sofa as other people find salvation50. She was not ill. She had simply discovered in it a refuge and a very present help in all the troubles and turmoil51 of life, and in especial a shield and buckler when it came to dealing52 with the Bishop. It is not easy for the married, she had found when first casting about for one, to hit on a refuge from each other that shall be honourable53 to both. In a moment of insight she perceived the sofa. Here was a blameless object that would separate her entirely54 from duties and responsibilities of every sort. It was respectable; it was unassailably effective; it was not included in the Commandments. All she had to do was to cling to it, and nobody could make her do or be anything. She accordingly got on to it and had stayed there ever since, mysteriously frail55, an object of solicitude56 and sympathy, a being before whose helplessness the most aggressive or aggrieved57 husband must needs be helpless, too. And she had gradually acquired the sofa look, and was now very definitely a slightly plaintive58 but persistently59 patient Christian lady.
"Is that you, Ingeborg?" she said, turning her head.
"Yes, mother," said Ingeborg, hesitating in spite of herself on the threshold.
"Come in, dear, and shut the door. You see the windows are open."
Judith glanced up at her a moment from her tea-making and did not move. Even in the midst of her terrors Ingeborg was astonished, after not having seen it for a while, at her loveliness. She seemed to have taken the sodden61 greys of the afternoon, the dulness and the gathering62 dusk, and made out of their gloom the one perfect background for her beauty.
"We thought you would have written," said Mrs. Bullivant, putting her cheek in a position convenient for the kiss that was to be applied to it.
"I—I telegraphed," said Ingeborg, applying the kiss.
"Yes, dear, but only about your train."
"I—thought that was enough."
"But, Ingeborg dear, such a great occasion. One of the great occasions of life. We did expect a little notice, didn't we, Judith?"
"Notice?" said Ingeborg faintly.
"Your father was wounded, dear. He thought it showed so little real love for your parents and your sister."
"But—" said Ingeborg, looking from one to the other.
"We wrote to you at once—directly we knew. Didn't we, Judith?"
"Of course," said Judith.
Ingeborg stood flushing and turning pale. Had one of the Dent's Tour people somehow found out where she lived and written about her engagement and the impossible had happened and they weren't going to mind? Was it possible? Did they know? And were taking it like this? If only she had called at her aunt's house on the way to Paddington and got the letters—what miserable hours of terror she would have been spared!
"But—" she began. Then the immense relief of it suddenly flooded her whole being with a delicious warm softness. They did know. Somehow. And a miracle had happened. Oh, how kind God was!
She dropped on her knees by the sofa and began to kiss her mother's hand, which surprised Mrs. Bullivant; and indeed it is a foreign trick, picked up mostly by those who go abroad. "Mother," she said, "are you really pleased about it? You don't mind then?"
"Mind?" said Mrs. Bullivant.
"Oh, how glad, how glad I am. And father? What does he say? Does he—does he mind?"
"Mind?" repeated Mrs. Bullivant.
"Father is very pleased, I think," said Judith, with what in one less lovely would have been a slight pursing of the lips. And she twisted a remarkable63 diamond ring she was wearing straight.
"Father is—pleased?" echoed Ingeborg, quite awe-struck by the amount and quality of these reliefs.
"I must say I think it is really good of your dear father to be pleased, when he loses—" began Mrs. Bullivant.
"Oh, yes, yes," interrupted the overcome Ingeborg, "it's a wonder—a wonder of God."
"Ingeborg dear," her mother gently rebuked64, for this was excess; and Judith looked still more what would have been a little pursed in any other woman.
"When he loses," then resumed Mrs. Bullivant with the plaintive determination of one who considers it the least she may expect as a sofa-ridden mother to be allowed to finish her sentences, "so much."
"Yes, yes," assented65 Ingeborg eagerly, whose appreciation of her parents' attitude was so warm that she almost felt she must stay and bask66 in its urbanity forever and not go away after all to the bleak67 distance of East Prussia.
"Your father loses not only a daughter," continued Mrs. Bullivant, "but £500 a year of his income."
"Would one call it his income?" inquired Judith, politely but yet, if one could suspect a being with an angel's face of such a thing, with some slight annoyance68. "I thought our grandmother—"
"Judith dear, the £500 a year your grandmother left to each of you was only to be yours when you married," explained Mrs. Bullivant, also with some slight annoyance beneath her patience. "Till you married it was to be mine—your father's, I mean, of course. And if you never did marry it would have been mine—I mean his—always."
Ingeborg had heard of her Swedish grandmother's will, but had long ago forgotten it, marriage being remote and money never of any interest to her who had no occasions for spending. Now her heart bounded with yet more thankfulness. What a comfort it would be to Robert. How it would help him in his research. Extraordinary that she should have forgotten it. When he told her of his stipend69 of five thousand marks—£250 it was in English money, he explained, and there was the house and land free—most of which went in his experiments, but what was left being ample, he said, for the living purposes of reasonable beings if they approached it in a proper spirit, it all depending, he said, on whether they approached it in a proper spirit. "And after all," he had added triumphantly70, throwing out his chest just as she was about to inquire what the proper spirit was, "no man can call me thin—"—to think she had forgotten the substantial help she was going to be able to bring him!
The full splendour of her father's generosity71 in being pleased at her engagement was now revealed to her. The relief of it. The glad, warm relief. So must one feel who is born again, all new, all clean from old mistakes and fears. She felt lifted up, extraordinarily72 happy, extraordinarily good, more in harmony with Providence73 and the Bible than she had been since childhood. She would have been willing, and indeed found it perfectly74 natural, to kneel down with her mother and Judith then and there and say prayers together out loud. She would have been willing on the crest75 of her wave of gratefulness quite readily to give up Herr Dremmel in return for the family's immense kindness in not asking her to give him up. She had felt nothing like this exaltation before in her life, this complete being in harmony with the infinite, this confidence in the inherent goodness of things, except on the afternoon her tooth was pulled out.
"Oh," she exclaimed, laying her cheek on her mother's hand, "oh, I do hope you'll like Robert!"
"Robert?" said Mrs. Bullivant; and at the tea-table there was a sudden silence among the cups, as though they were holding their breath.
"His name's Robert," said Ingeborg, still with her cheek on her mother's hand, her eyes shut, her face a vision of snuggest76, safest contentment.
"What Robert, Ingeborg?" inquired Mrs. Bullivant, shifting her position to stare down more conveniently at her daughter.
"Herr Dremmel. It's his Christian name. He's got to have one, you know," said Ingeborg, still with her eyes shut in the blissfulness of perfect confidence.
"Herr who?" said Mrs. Bullivant, a sharper note of life in her voice than there had been for years. "Here's your father," she added quickly, hastily composing herself into the lines of the unassailable invalid77 again as the door opened and the Bishop came in.
Ingeborg jumped up. "Oh, father," she cried, running to him with the entire want of shyness one may conceive in the newly washed and forgiven soul when it first arrives in heaven and meets its Maker78 and knows there are going to be no more misunderstandings for ever, "how good you've been!"
Was he then at any time not good? His daughter's excessive gratitude81, really almost noisy gratitude, for what after all had been inevitable82, the permission to go up to London and place herself in the hands of a dentist, suggested that humaneness83 on his part came to her as a surprise. He did feel he had been good to let her go, but he also felt he would have been not good if he had not let her go. Certainly Redchester opinion would have condemned84 him as cruel even if he himself, who knew all the circumstances, was not able to think so. What had really been cruel was the terrible muddle85 his papers and letters had got into owing to her prolonged absence. Grave dislocations had taken place in the joints86 of his engagements, several with far-reaching results; and all because, he could not help feeling, Ingeborg, in spite of precept87 and example, did not in her earlier years use her toothbrush with regularity88 and conscientiousness89. Manifestly she did not, or how could she have needed nine enormous days to be set in repair? He himself, who regarded his body as a holy temple, which was the one solution of the body question that at all approached satisfactoriness, and had accordingly brushed his teeth, from the point of view of their being pillars of a sacred edifice90, after every meal for forty years, had never had a toothache in his life.
"Let us hope now, Ingeborg," he said, reflecting on the instance she had provided of the modern inversion91 of the Mosaic92 law which visited the sins of the fathers on the children, the original arrangement, the Bishop felt, being considerably93 healthier, and gently putting her away in order to go over to the tea-table where he stood holding out his hand for the cup Judith hastened to place in it, "let us now hope, now you have had your lesson, that in future you will remember cleanliness is next to godliness."
And this seemed to Ingeborg an answer so surprising that she could only stare at him with her mouth fallen a little open, there where he had left her in the middle of the carpet.
But the Bishop had not done. He went on to say another thing that surprised her still more; nay94, smote95 her cold, shook her to her foundations. He said, after a pause during which the silence in the room was remarkable, his back turned to her while at the tea-table he carefully selected the particular piece of bread and butter he intended to eat, "And pray, Ingeborg, why did you not write the moment you heard from us, and congratulate your sister on her engagement?"
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1
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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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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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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vegetarians
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| n.吃素的人( vegetarian的名词复数 )；素食者；素食主义者；食草动物 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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rhythmically
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| adv.有节奏地 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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stuffiness
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| n.不通风，闷热；不通气 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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obediences
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| 服从，顺从，听话( obedience的名词复数 ) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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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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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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snuggest
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| adj.整洁的( snug的最高级 )；温暖而舒适的；非常舒适的；紧身的 | |
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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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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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humaneness
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| n.深情，慈悲 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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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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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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