"Then they sat down and talked
Of their friends at home ...
—Courtship of Miles Standish.
"Do exert yourself," says Molly. "I never saw any one so lazy. You don't pick one to my ten."
"I can't see how you make that out," says her companion in an injured tone. "For the last three minutes you have sat with your hands in your lap arguing about what you don't understand in the least, while I have been conscientiously3 slaving; and before that you ate two for every one you put in the basket."
"I never heard any one talk so much as you do, when once fairly started," says Molly. "Here, open your mouth until I put in this strawberry; perhaps it will stop you."
"And I find it impossible to do anything with this umbrella," says Luttrell, still ungrateful, eying with much distaste the ancient article he holds aloft: "it is abominably4 in the way. I wouldn't mind if you wanted it, but you cannot with that gigantic hat you are wearing. May I put it down?"
"Certainly not, unless you wish me to have a sun-stroke. Do you?"
"No, but I really think——"
"Don't think," says Molly: "it is too fatiguing5; and if you get used up now, I don't see what Letitia will do for her jam."
"Why do people make jam?" asks Luttrell, despairingly; "they wouldn't if they had the picking of it: and nobody ever eats it, do they?"
"Yes, I do. I love it. Let that thought cheer you on to victory. Oh! here is another fat one, such a monster. Open your mouth again, wide, and you shall have it, because you really do begin to look weak."
They are sitting on the strawberry bank, close together, with a small square basket between them, and the pretty red and white fruit hanging from its dainty stalks all round them.
Molly, in a huge hat that only partially6 conceals7 her face and throws a shadow over her glorious eyes, is intent upon her task, while Luttrell, sitting opposite to her, holds over her head the very largest family umbrella ever built. It is evidently an old and esteemed8 friend, that has worn itself out in the Massereenes' service, and now shows daylight here and there through its covering where it should not. A troublesome scorching9 ray comes through one of these impromptu10 air-holes and alights persistently11 on his face; at present it is on his nose, and makes that feature appear a good degree larger than Nature, who has been very generous to it, ever intended.
It might strike a keen observer that Mr. Luttrell doesn't like the umbrella; either it or the wicked sunbeams, or the heat generally, is telling on him, slowly but surely; he has a depressed12 and melancholy13 air.
"Is it good?" asks Molly, à propos of the strawberry. "There, you need not bite my finger. Will you have another? You really do look very badly. You don't think you are going to faint, do you?"
"Molly," taking no notice of her graceful14 badinage15, "why don't you get your grandfather to invite you to Herst Royal for the autumn? Could you not manage it in some way? I wish it could be done."
"So do I," returns she, frankly16, "but there is not the remotest chance of it. It would be quite as likely that the skies should fall. Why, he does not even acknowledge me as a member of the family."
"Well, it has always been rather a regret to me, his neglect, I mean," says Molly, thoughtfully, "and besides, though I know it is poor-spirited of me, I confess I have the greatest longing19 to see my grandfather."
"To 'see' your grandfather?"
"Exactly."
"Do you mean to tell me," growing absolutely animated20 through his surprise, "that you have never been face to face with him?"
"Never. I thought you knew that. Why, how amazed you look! Is there anything the matter with him? is he without arms, or legs? or has he had his nose shot off in any campaign? If so, break it to me gently, and spare me the shock I might experience, if ever I make my curtsey to him."
"It isn't that," says Tedcastle: "there's nothing wrong with him beyond old age, and a beastly temper; but it seems so odd that, living all your life in the very next county to his, you should never have met."
"It is not so odd, after all, when you come to think of it," says Molly, "considering he never goes anywhere, as I have heard, and that I lead quite as lively an existence. But is he not a stern old thing, to keep up a quarrel for so many years, especially as it wasn't my fault, you know? I didn't insist on being born. Poor mother! I think she was quite right to run away with papa, when she loved him."
"Quite right," enthusiastically.
"What made her crime so unpardonable was the fact that she was engaged to another man at the time, some rich parti chosen by her father, whom she thought she liked well enough until she saw papa, and then she knew, and threw away everything for her love; and she did well," says Molly, with more excitement than would be expected from her on a sentimental21 subject.
"Still, it was rather hard on the first man, don't you think?" says Luttrell. There is rather less enthusiasm in his tone this time.
"One should go to the wall, you know," argues Molly, calmly, "and I for my part would not hesitate about it. Now, let us suppose I am engaged to you without caring very much about you, you know, and all that, and supposing then I saw another I liked better,—why, then, I honestly confess I would not hold to my engagement with you for an hour!"
Here that wicked sunbeam, with a depravity unlooked for, falling straight through the chink of the umbrella into Mr. Luttrell's eye, maddens him to such a degree that he rises precipitately22, shuts the cause of his misfortunes with a bang, and turns on Molly.
"I won't hold it up another instant," he says; "you needn't think it. I wonder Massereene wouldn't keep a decent umbrella in his hall."
"What's the matter with it? I see nothing indecent about it: I think it a very charming umbrella," says Molly, examining the article in question with a critical eye.
"Well, at all events, this orchard23 is oppressive. If you don't want to kill me, you will leave it, and come to the wood, where we may know what shade means!"
"Nonsense!" returns Molly, unmoved. "It is delicious here, and I won't stir. How can you talk in that wild way about no shade, when you have this beautiful apple-tree right over your head? Come and sit at this side; perhaps," with a smile, "you will feel more comfortable—next to me?"
Thus beguiled24, he yields, and seats himself beside her—very much beside her—and reconciles himself to his fate.
"I wish you would remember," she says, presently, "that you have nothing on your head. I would not be rash if I were you. Take my advice and open the umbrella again, or you will assuredly be having a sun-stroke."
This is one for him and two for herself; and—need I say?—the family friend is once more unfurled, and waves to and fro majestically25 in the soft wind.
"Now, don't you feel better?" asks Molly, placing her two fingers beneath his chin, and turning his still rather angry face toward her.
"I do," replies he; and a smile creeping up into his eyes slays27 the chagrin28 that still lingers there, but half perdu.
"And—are you happy?"
"Very."
"Intensely happy?"
"Yes."
"So much so that you could not be more so?"
"Yes," replies he again, laughing, and slipping his arm round her waist. "And you?" tenderly.
"Oh, I'm all right!" says Miss Massereene, with much graciousness, but rather disheartening vivacity29. "And now begin, Teddy, and tell me all about Herst Royal and its inmates30. First, is it a pretty place?"
"It is a magnificent place. But for its attractions, and his twenty thousand pounds a year, I don't believe your grandfather would be known by any one; he is such a regular old bear. Yet he is fond of society, and is never content until he has the house crammed31 with people, from garret to basement, to whom he makes himself odiously32 disagreeable whenever occasion offers. I have an invitation there for September and October."
"Will you go?"
"I don't know. I have hardly made up my mind. I have been asked to the Careys, and the Brownes also; and I rather fancy the Brownes. They are the most affording people I ever met: one always puts in such a good time at their place. But for one reason I would go there."
"What reason?"
"That Herst is so much nearer to Brooklyn," with a fond smile. "And, perhaps, if I came over once or twice, you would be glad to see me?"
"Oh, would I not!" cries Molly, her faultless face lighting33 up at his words. "You may be sure of it. You won't forget, will you? And you will come early, so as to spend the entire day here, and tell me all about the others who will be staying there. Do you know my cousin Marcia?"
"Miss Amherst? Yes. She is very handsome, but too statuesque to please me."
"Am I better-looking?"
"Ten thousand times."
"And Philip Shadwell; he is my cousin also. Do you know him?"
"Very intimately. He is handsome also, but of a dark Moorish34 sort of beauty. Not a popular man, by any means. Too reserved,—cold,—I don't know what it is. Have you any other cousins?"
"Not on my mother's side. Grandpa had but three children, you know,—my mother, and Philip's mother, and Marcia's father: he married an Italian actress, which must have been a terrible mésalliance, and yet Marcia is made much of, while I am not even recognized. Does it not sound unfair?"
"Unaccountable. Especially as I have often heard your mother was his favorite child!"
"Perhaps that explains his harshness. To be deceived by one we love engenders35 the bitterest hatred36 of all. And yet how could he hate poor mamma? John says she had the most beautiful, lovable face."
"I can well believe it," replied he, gazing with undisguised admiration37 upon the perfect profile beside him.
"And Marcia will be an heiress, I suppose?"
"She and Philip will divide everything, people say, the place, of course, going to Philip. Lucky he! Any one might envy him. You know they both live there entirely38, although Marcia's mother is alive and resides somewhere abroad. Philip was in some dragoon regiment39, but sold out about two years ago: debt, I fancy, was the cause, or something like it."
"No, thank you; I very much prefer her cousin. Besides, I should have no chance, as she and Philip are engaged to each other: they thought it a pity to divide the twenty thousand pounds a year. Do you know, Molly, I never knew what it was to covet40 my neighbor's goods until I met you? so you have that to answer for; but it does seem hard that one man should be so rich, and another so poor."
"Are you poor, Teddy?"
"Very. Will that make you like me less?"
"Probably it will make me like you more," replies she, with a bewitching smile, stroking down the hand that supports the obnoxious41 umbrella (the other is supporting herself) almost tenderly. "It is only the very nicest men that haven't a farthing in the world. I have no money either, and if I had I could not keep it: so we are well met."
"But think what a bad match you are making," says he, regarding her curiously42. "Did you never ask yourself whether I was well off, or otherwise?"
"Never!" with a gay laugh. "If I were going to marry you next week or so, it might occur to me to ask the question; but everything is so far away, what does it signify? If you had the mines of Golconda, I should not like you a bit better than I do."
"My own darling! Oh, Molly, how you differ from most girls one meets. Now, in London, once they find out I am only the third son, they throw me over without warning, and generally manage to forget the extra dance they had promised, while their mothers look upon me, and such as me, as a pestilence43. And you, sweetheart, you never once asked me how much a year I had!"
"You have your pay, I suppose?" says Molly, doubtfully. "Is that much?"
"Very handsome," replies he, laughing; "a lieutenant's pay generally is. But I have something besides that; about as much as most fellows would spend on their stabling. I have precisely44 five hundred and fifty pounds a year, neither more nor less, and I owe two hundred pounds. Does not that sound tempting45? The two hundred pounds I owe don't count, because the governor will pay up that; he always does in the long run; and I haven't asked him for anything out of the way now for fully18 eight months." He says this with a full consciousness of his own virtue46.
"I call five hundred and fifty pounds a year a great deal," says Molly, with a faint ring of disappointment in her tone. "I fancied you downright poor from what you said. Why, you might marry to-morrow morning on that."
"So I might," agrees he, eagerly; "and so I will. That is, not to-morrow, exactly, but as soon as ever I can."
"Perhaps you will," says Molly, slowly; "but, if so, it will not be me you will marry. Bear that in mind. No, we won't argue the matter: as far as I am concerned it doesn't admit of argument." Then recurring47 to the former topic: "Why, John has only seven hundred pounds, and he has all the children and Letitia and me to provide for, and he keeps Lovat—that is the eldest48 boy—at a very good school as well. How could you call yourself poor, with five hundred pounds a year?"
"It ought to be six hundred and fifty pounds; but I thought it a pity to burden myself with superfluous49 wealth in my palmy days, so I got rid of it," says he, laughing.
"Well, yes, I suppose so."
"Cards?"
"No, horses. It was in India,—stupid part, you know, and nothing to do. Potts suggested military races, and we all caught at it. And—and I didn't have much luck, you know," winds up Luttrell, ingenuously51.
"I don't like that young man," says Molly, severely52. "You are always talking of him, and he is my idea of a ne'er-do-weel. Your Mr. Potts seems never to be out of mischief53. He is the head and front of every offense54."
"Are you talking of Potts?" says her lover, in grieved amazement55. "A better fellow never stepped. Nothing underhand about Potts. When you see him you will agree with me."
"I will not. I can see him in my mind's eye already. I know he is tall, and dark, and insinuating56, and, in fact, a Mephistopheles."
Luttrell roars.
"Oh, if you could but see Potts!" he says. "He is the best fellow in the world, but—— He ought to be called Rufus: his hair is red, his face is red, his nose is red, he is all red," finishes Tedcastle, with a keen enjoyment57 of his friend's misfortunes.
"Poor man," kindly58; "I forgive him his small sins; he must be sufficiently59 punished by his ugliness. Did you like being in India?"
"Pretty well. At times it was rather slow, and our regiment has somehow gone to the dogs of late. No end of underbred fellows have joined, with quite too much the linen-draper about them to be tolerated."
"How sad! Your candor60 amazes me. I thought every soldier made it a point to be enthusiastic over his brother soldiers, whether by being so he lied or not."
"Then look upon me as an exception. The fact is, I grew rather discontented about three years ago when my greatest chum sold out and got married. You have no idea how lost a fellow feels when that happens. But for Potts I might have succumbed61."
"Potts! what a sweet name it is!" says Molly, mischievously62.
"What's in a name?" with a laugh. "He was generally called Mrs. Luttrell, we were so much together: so his own didn't matter. But I missed Penthony Stafford awfully63."
"And Mrs. Penthony, did you like her?"
"Lady Stafford, you mean? Penthony is a baronet. Yes, I like her immensely, and the whole affair was so peculiar64. You won't believe me when I tell you that, though they have now been married for three years, her husband has never seen her."
"But that would be impossible."
"It is a fact for all that. Shall I tell you the story? Most people know it by this, I think: so I am breaking no faith by telling it to you."
"Never mind whether you are or not," says Molly: "I must and will hear it now."
"Well, to begin with, you must understand that she and her husband are first cousins. Have you mastered that fact?"
"Though not particularly gifted, I think I have. I rather flatter myself I could master more than that," says Molly, significantly, giving his ear a pinch, short but sharp.
"She is also a cousin of mine, though not so near. Well, about three years ago, when she was only Cecil Hargrave, and extremely poor, an uncle of theirs died, leaving his entire property, which was very considerable, between them, on the condition that they should marry each other. If they refused, it was to go to a lunatic asylum65, or a refuge for dogs, or something equally uninteresting."
"He would have made a very successful lunatic himself, it seems to me. What a terrible condition!"
"Now, up to this they had been utter strangers to each other, had never even been face to face, and being told they must marry whether they liked it or not, or lose the money, they of course on the spot conceived an undying hatred for each other. Penthony even refused to see his possible wife, when urged to do so, and Cecil, on her part, quite as strenuously66 opposed a meeting. Still, they could not make up their minds to let such a good property slip through their fingers."
"It was hard."
"Things dragged on so for three months, and then, Cecil, being a woman, was naturally the one to see a way out of it. She wrote to Sir Penthony saying, if he would sign a deed giving her a third of the money, and promising67 never to claim her as his wife, or interfere68 with her in any way, beyond having the marriage ceremony read between them, she would marry him."
"And he?" asks Molly, eagerly, bending forward in her excitement.
"Why, he agreed, of course. What was it to him? he had never seen her, and had no wish to make her acquaintance. The document was signed, the license69 was procured70. On the morning of the wedding, he looked up a best man, and went down to the country, saw nothing of his bride until a few minutes before the service began, when she entered the room covered with so thick a veil that he saw quite as little of her then, was married, made his best bow to the new Lady Stafford, and immediately returning to town, set out a few days later for a foreign tour, which has lasted ever since. Now, is not that a thrilling romance, and have I not described it graphically71?"
"The 'Polite Story-teller' sinks into insignificance72 beside you: such a flow of language deserves a better audience. But really, Teddy, I never heard so extraordinary a story. To marry a woman, and never have the curiosity to raise her veil to see whether she was ugly or pretty! It is inconceivable! He must be made of ice."
"He is warm-hearted, and one of the jolliest fellows you could meet. Curiously enough, from a letter he wrote me just before starting he gave me the impression that he believed his wife to be not only plain, but vulgar in appearance."
"And is she?"
"She is positively73 lovely. Rather small, perhaps, but exquisitely74 fair, with large laughing blue eyes, and the most fetching manner. If he had raised her veil, I don't believe he would ever have gone abroad to cultivate the dusky nigger."
"What became of her,—'poor maid forlorn?'"
"She gave up 'milking the cow with the crumpled75 horn,' and the country generally, and came up to London, where she took a house, went into society, and was the rage all last season."
"Why did you not tell him how pretty she was?" impatiently.
"Because I was in Ireland at the time on leave, and heard nothing of it until I received that letter telling of the marriage and his departure. I was thunderstruck, you may be sure, but it was too late then to interfere. Some one told me the other day he is on his way home."
"'When Greek meets Greek' we know what happens," says Molly. "I think their meeting will be awkward."
"Don't fall in love with her, Teddy."
"How can I, when you have put it out of my power? There is no room in my heart for any one but Molly Bawn. Besides, it would be energy wasted, as she is encased in steel. A woman in her equivocal position, and possessed76 of so much beauty, might be supposed to find it difficult to steer77 her bark safely through all the temptations of a London season; yet the flattery she received, and all the devotion that was laid at her feet, touched her no more than if she was ninety, instead of twenty-three."
"Yet what a risk it is! How will it be some day if she falls in love? as they say all people do once in their lives."
"Why, then, she will have her mauvais quart-d'heure, like the rest of us. Up to the present she has enjoyed her life to the utmost, and finds everything couleur de rose."
"Would it not be charming," says Molly, with much empressement, "if, when Sir Penthony comes home and sees her, they should both fall in love with each other?"
"Charming, but highly improbable. The fates are seldom so propitious78. It is far more likely they will fall madly in love with two other people, and be unhappy ever after."
"Oh, cease such raven's croaking," says Molly, laying her hand upon his lips. "I will not listen to it. Whatever the Fates may be, Love, I know, is kind."
"Is it?" asks he, wistfully. "You are my love—are you kind?"
"And you are my lover," returns Molly. "And you most certainly are not kind, for that is the third time you have all but run that horrid79 umbrella into my left eye. Surely, because you hold it up for your own personal convenience is no reason why you should make it an instrument of torture to every one else. Now you may finish picking those strawberries without me, for I shall not stay here another instant in deadly fear of being blinded for life."
With this speech—so flagrantly unjust as to render her companion dumb—she rises, and catching80 up her gown, runs swiftly away from him down the garden-path, and under the wealthy trees, until at last the garden-gate receives her in its embrace and hides her from his view.
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1
ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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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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longing
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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precipitately
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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slays
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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inmates
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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odiously
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| Odiously | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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engenders
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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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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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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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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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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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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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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graphically
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| adv.通过图表；生动地，轮廓分明地 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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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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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple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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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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