The following morning a letter came to Richard from Hardacre, a carefully sealed epistle smelling strangely of musk1. He stared at it like a spendthrift eying an unpayable bill, opened the letter as he sipped2 his chocolate, spread it on the tray before him, and read it grudgingly3 at his leisure. He was no longer moved to kiss the place where Miss Jilian’s hand had rested. The sentimental4 infatuation had withered5 in a week. It had never possessed6 roots in the natural soil. The letter ran:
“My dear Richard,—I was a little surprised to receive the note that informed me that you were proceeding7 to Tunbridge Wells for your health. Was it shame or delicacy8 of feeling that prevented you from taking leave of me in person? You must remember how little sympathy you showed me when we first met after my illness. I am ready to pardon you, however, and shall expect more sensibility in you in the future.
“Doubtless you will be rejoiced to hear that I am in good health, and that my poor complexion9 promises to improve. The great Dr. Buffin visited me yesterday. He had travelled down by private coach to Lady Polsons, and Lancelot rode over to desire him to call on me at Hardacre. His opinion proved to be most sympathetic and comforting, so that you can rejoice with me in my fresh flow of spirits.
“Is that terrible old woman—your aunt—at The Wells? Let me warn you against her, Richard. She has led a wicked life, and has no respect for God or the truth.”
Here followed certain very proper expressions of affection that made Jeffray wince10 and color. The letter ended with a veiled threat, the significance of which the man was world-wise enough to understand. He suspected, and suspected rightly, that Miss Hardacre was not singly responsible for the document before him. He had received letters from Jilian of old, formless, feeble, and vaporish things, indifferent as to spelling, commonplace as to style. Richard imagined that some family friend had collaborated11 with her in the production of the letter, and his docility12 was not increased by the impression.
Needless to say the Lady Letitia was permitted to read the epistle, and the unflattering reference to her morals brought the light of battle into the old lady’s eyes. She smiled very grimly at her nephew, tapped on the floor with her crooked13 stick, and desired him to state what he thought of Miss Hardacre’s letter. Richard had been watching the people parading on the Pantiles, looking morose14 and melancholy15, a man with a growing grievance16.
“You will see, madam,” he said, turning restlessly in his chair, “that Miss Hardacre’s complexion is likely to improve.”
“So she writes, Richard,” she retorted.
“Dr. Buffin is a physician of experience.”
“An old mollycoddle19, sir, fit to treat a cold in the head. He is one of those gentlemen who takes two guineas for telling people just what they wish to hear. But supposing the lady’s complexion mends, Richard, will your love mend with it?”
This was a home-thrust, and Jeffray’s face betrayed his inability to parry it. He played with his watch-chain and seals, and looked blank pessimism20 so far as his affection for Miss Hardacre was concerned.
“I suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself,” he confessed.
“Nonsense, mon cher, nonsense.”
“I cannot help my instincts.”
“Exactly, sir, exactly. Supposing now that you were set down in front of an ugly china cat, and were told that unless you admired and adored it eternally you would be the most dishonorable rascal21 in Christendom. What should you think, sir?—what should you think?”
The sally drew a smile even from Richard’s melancholy.
“I should feel that the command was unreasonable,” he said.
“Of course, Richard, no one can accomplish the impossible. Love has wings of fire, sir, it does not crawl like a spider in a web. And supposing now that you hesitated about adoring the same china cat, and that a great, red-faced bully22 stood over you with a whip, and swore he’d thrash you into admiring the monstrosity, what would you do then, Richard, eh?—what would you do then?”
“Rebel, I suppose,” confessed the catechumen, with a frown.
Though sitting as a disciple23 at his aunt’s feet, Jeffray had no great difficulty in amusing himself reflectively in the village. He walked on the Pantiles, watched the little comedies of life, listened to the music, dined at the various inns, and modestly refused the ogling24 invitations of sundry25 damsels in gay gowns and gaudy26 hats. Twice he attended at the Assembly Rooms with the Lady Letitia, and was not a little amused to find that the old lady had already discovered a rich and pretty rival to outshine Miss Jilian. Jeffray’s pulses remained unstirred by this new nereid. He danced with her twice, found her amiable27 and commonplace, and laughed with modest incredulity when the dowager rallied him on his chances. A young man in love might vote Dame28 Venus herself a very prosaic29 and ordinary person.
Jeffray’s favorite haunt was a rock on the Common, where he could bask30 in the sun, and look into the blue distance towards Pevensel. Bess was in his thoughts always; in truth, she was thought itself, the very blood within his brain. He rehearsed her every pose, gesture, and expression, the simple and half-tender words that she had spoken to him, the way her eyes grew full of light when they met his. He remembered her bathing at Holy Cross, a white pillar of loveliness glimmering31 in the sun. He remembered her at Thorney Chapel32, fierce, miserable33, and ashamed. Sweetest of all were the memories of the night when she had bent34 over him as he lay in bed, and the day when he had met her in the larch-wood and she had poured out all her despair into his ears.
What wonder that Miss Hardacre’s influence grew less and less, and that mere35 airy and fragile sentiments weighed like gossamer36 against the gold of love. Time and the Lady Letitia appeared to be clearing the metaphysical fog from Jeffray’s brain. The dark melted, the noon sun shone. True, he could not marry Bess, but his love for her should save him from perjuring37 himself by an alliance with Jilian. The truth was as plain as an Egyptian obelisk38 against the desert sky. Why should he shut his eyes and wander on, hating himself, and hating Jilian. What—and did he not pity her? Yes, in a vague and passive way, remembering ever the Lady Letitia’s cry of “money,” and Mr. Lancelot’s insolent39 face.
It was the fourth day of Jeffray’s sojourn40 at The Wells when the Lady Letitia succeeded in convincing him, somewhat dramatically, of how he was being exploited by the gentry41 at Hardacre. The dowager produced a letter from her reticule and handed it to Richard with a grim twinkle in her shrewd old eyes. It was a letter written from a confidential42 friend of Lot Hardacre’s to a confidential friend of the Lady Letitia’s. Jeffray’s betrothal43 had been broached44 in a gossip between the dowager and her confidant, and the letter had been confided45 to the old lady’s care, on the understanding she was on no account to disclose its contents to her nephew. The Lady Letitia’s jesuitical conscience disposed very easily of the promise, and Jeffray was admitted behind the scenes.
The passages that concerned him ran as follows:
“Jill Hardacre, that gay spinster, has had the small-pox, and looks—so folks say—like a pitted orange with a wig46. She is betrothed47, as you have probably heard, to a wealthy young sapling whose grandsire made a fortune in iron. It seems that the young gentleman is inclined to withdraw from the match, since the sweet maid is grievously disfigured. But our friend Lancelot thinks otherwise in the matter. Jilt my sister, sir, egad, but you may bet your last guinea that he won’t. The lad is a soft young fool, and will faint, damme, at the sight of a sword.”
“So you see, sweet coz, that the noble Lot intends to pin the calf48 to his promise in swaggering fashion. Well, Jill Hardacre has had her day, and this promises to be her last and final hunting-party. Now or never is the cry. The Hardacres want money, and the young squireling has a veritable pot of gold. Amusing, eh? Life is a merry jest, to be sure.”
When Richard had read the letter through he handed it back very quietly to the dowager. His face had hardened to that white, expressionless mobility49 that bespeaks50 action. The mouth was no longer soft and plastic, the eyes full of melancholy and reflective doubt.
“Well, Richard, what is to be done?”
Jeffray stood up and stretched himself.
“Ah ha, that is the right spirit!”
“I could handle a sword in Italy, but am stiff and out of play. I suppose there is a fencing-master in the place?”
The old lady’s eyes glittered, and she looked at her nephew approvingly.
“Yes, a Frenchman, a wonderful fellow, I believe. I will tell Parsons to go at once and find where he lodges52.”
“Thanks, madam. I will have a week’s practice with him before I return to Rodenham.”
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1
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grudgingly
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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7
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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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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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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11
collaborated
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| 合作( collaborate的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾结叛国 | |
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docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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13
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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15
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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16
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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17
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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18
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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mollycoddle
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| v.溺爱，娇养 | |
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20
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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23
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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24
ogling
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的现在分词 ) | |
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25
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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27
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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31
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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32
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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33
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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34
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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35
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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36
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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37
perjuring
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| v.发假誓，作伪证( perjure的现在分词 ) | |
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38
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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39
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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40
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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41
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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42
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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43
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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44
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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45
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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46
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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47
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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48
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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49
mobility
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| n.可动性，变动性，情感不定 | |
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50
bespeaks
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| v.预定( bespeak的第三人称单数 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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51
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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52
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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