If, in the postchaise-and-four days, any record was kept of the number of runaway1 couples who were overtaken before the matrimonial knot could be tied, time has failed to preserve those statistics for us. From all which can be learned, however, it seems difficult to avoid the conclusion that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred angry parents and disgusted guardians2 might as well have saved their money and spared their cattle.
Given a few hours’ start, swift horses, and sound linch-pins, who could hope to overtake the fugitives3? Most probably irate4 elders started 125in pursuit prompted by two motives,—one because it looked well to follow, even though the chase was useless,—the other because it gave them something to do. No reason, beyond these, presents itself sufficient to account for all the wild racing5 and chasing that was carried on at one period of the world’s history.
To a more matter-of-fact generation, it seems unintelligible6 why old gentlemen, and still older ladies, should have risen at unwonted hours, and started off in frantic8 and hopeless pursuit of a pair of fleeing lovers, when they might just as well have had out their “second sleep” in peace, and awaited intelligence beside the domestic hearth9, instead of posting, at considerable inconvenience and expense, over bleak10 moorland roads, to obtain the same identical news.
Riding as fast as his horse could take him, to Kilcurragh, Mr. John Riley had, like other enemies of “Love’s young Dream,” only two ideas in his mind—to discover the fugitives, and to punish the male offender11.
Riding back, extremely slowly, from that 126undesirable seaport12, after verifying the fact of two persons answering to the description of Nettie and her companion having left Kilcurragh the previous evening by “that fastsailing steamship,” so the proprietors13 worded their bills, ‘Finn McCoul,’ he felt much like one who, having gone out fox-hunting, has seen no fox to hunt—who, having taken his gun to shoot, has started nothing whereat to fire.
Although no vessel14 followed the ‘Finn McCoul’ for three days, when the ‘Saint Patrick,’ then peacefully lying alongside a Scotch15 quay16, would steam in the pleasant eventide down the Bay, on her way to that narrow channel which divides one people from another, it was quite practicable for Mr. Riley to have chartered some description of ship—say, even a collier—to take him, in swift pursuit, to the Land of Cakes. That is to say, it would have been practicable had Mr. Riley possessed17 enough of this world’s wealth to pay his expenses; but the young man had no money to speak of, and supposing the case 127different, it is improbable that he would have thrown away bank-notes so foolishly.
No; the evil was done. All the yachts in creation could not make a better of it now. She had run away with him; she, an O’Hara, connected with many and many a good family, with one of those wicked, dissolute, shameless Bradys, who had for years and years been casting off from them bit by bit, shred18 after shred, the mantle19 of family respectability in which they had once been proud to wrap themselves.
She had gone off, blue eyes, pink cheeks, golden hair, demure20 looks, with a man of notoriously bad character, with whom she had scarcely a chance of happiness; but that was her concern, and now hers only. They were gone where, at all events, matrimony was very easy. That, in itself, was a good feature in the case, since, if he did not intend to marry the girl, why should he take her to a land where unions, very hard to break, were very easily formed.
When he returned to the few ancestral acres 128the extravagance of his progenitors21 had left him, it would be time enough to require that a more binding22 marriage, according to Irish ideas, than a mere23 acknowledgment of Nettie being his wife should take place. On the whole, she having elected to elope, perhaps it was quite as well things were as they were. There had been no scene; his horsewhip was available for further service; society would be satisfied that, so far as a Brady could mean or do rightly, Daniel of that name had meant rightly by, and done rightly to, Nettie O’Hara. A grave scandal had been averted24 by Mr. Brady’s choice of a honeymoon25 route; nevertheless, Mr. Riley felt disappointed.
If a man go out to fight, it is intelligible7 that he should lament26 finding no enemy to encounter. To have ridden all those long miles, and found nothing to do at the end of the journey, was enough to try the patience of a more patient individual than John Riley. His common sense told him it was well; his Irish sense felt disgusted. He should have to return to his father, and, in answer to his expectant “Well?” reply,—
129“They started for Scotland yesterday, and as I could not swim across the channel, here I am, no further forward than I was when I left.”
Still it was better.
John could not help acknowledging this as he gave his horse to Colonel Perris’ man, and in answer to the Colonel’s inquiry27 whether he had any news of his cousin, answered,—
“Oh! it is all right. They left by the Scotch steamer last night. She might have written, though, I think, and saved me the ride.”
And the same to Mrs. Mynton and Mrs. Lefroy, whom he met on his way to the Parade, and to Miss Riley, who said she “never could have believed it of Nettie, never!” adding, “it is very hard on me at my age,” to which, with a shake of her poor old head and brown front—people had not then arrived at that pitch of modern civilisation28, grey false hair—she appended,
“Ah! girls were very different when I was young—very.”
Considering the miles of time that stretched behind the period of her youth and of her age, 130John Riley might be excused if he muttered to himself that it was improbable she could have the smallest memory of what girls had been like at the remote epoch29 referred to.
Somehow the intense dreariness30 and patched poorness of that sad house had never impressed the young man with such a feeling of compassion31 for Nettie as he experienced when he found himself once more on the Parade, with the sea glittering and dancing at his feet. The faded carpets, the dingy32 paint, the darned table-covers, the spindle-legged tables, the dark, high-backed chairs, were fitting accessories to the picture which, years and years afterwards, remained in his memory of a feeble, palsied, half-doting old woman, who kept mumbling33 and maundering on, concerning the girls of her far away youth, and the ingratitude34 of Nettie, who had made, in her desperation, such a leap in the dark.
“It was a miserable35 home for any young thing,” said John compassionately36 to Mrs. Hartley, “and no future to look forward to except that of being a teacher. I never was 131very fond of Nettie, but upon my word I do not think I ever felt so sorry for anybody as I did for the little girl to-day—thinking of what a life hers must have been.”
“I was always fond of Nettie,” Mrs. Hartley remarked, “and have always been sorry for her—I am more sorry for her now, however. She has taken a step in haste, which I feel certain she will repent37 at her leisure, through every hour of her future life.”
This was at dinner—twice in that one day had John Riley to avail himself of the widow’s abundant hospitality. He knew he could not thus make sure of that of Mr. Moffat—who although an Englishman, a Liberal, and abundantly blessed with this world’s goods, liked friends to come after dinner, and to go away before supper, for which reason his daughter’s suitor usually paid his visits soon after breakfast, soon after luncheon—a very meagre meal indeed at Bayview, as in many of the houses across the Channel even to this day—or immediately after dinner, when he often had a cup of tea all alone with Grace in that pleasant 132drawing-room opening on the terrace-walk which commanded so wide and fair a view of the ever-changing sea.
He wished to have that cup of tea with Grace this evening—the Nettie who might have disturbed their tête-à-tête would, he knew, never disturb another at Bayview. He intended to ask Grace one question, and then, why then he meant to ride back through the night to his own home—a happy man or a disappointed according to the answer she made.
The consciousness of the throw he meant to make did not tend to render Mr. Riley an entertaining guest; and Mrs. Hartley, noticing his abstraction, said, as he rose from table, remarking it was quite time he was on the road again,—
“You are going to try your fortune this evening.”
“I am; how did you guess that?”
“Never mind, I did guess it.”
“Wish me success,” he said in a low tone, eagerly seizing her hands.
133“I wish you success,” she answered slowly. “If you take care of yourself, you will develope into one of the worthiest38 men I ever knew.”
“I will try to be worthy39 of your good opinion, however it may be,” he said with a certain grateful softness in his tone, and then, suddenly loosing the lady’s hands, he stooped and kissed her.
“Have you gone crazy, John?” she asked, settling her cap, which the young man’s demonstrativeness had disarranged.
“A thousand pardons,” he entreated40; “I could not help it—forgive me,” and he went—straight, strong, young, erect41 out into the evening, leaving her to think of the boy baby she had borne and lost thirty long years before—thirty long years.
Out into the evening—round to Colonel Perris’ stable, where his horse stood, nose deep in manger, hunting after any stray oats he might hitherto have failed to find.
“Take him aisy, Mister John, the first couple of mile,” advised the groom42; “he has 134been aiting ever since you left him. It’s my belief them kinats[2] at Kilcurragh niver giv’ the dumb baste43 bite or sup barrin’ a wisp of hay and a mouthful of wather. Ride him aisy, giv’ him his time, or ye’ll break his win’; but, then, what can I tell ye about horse cattle ye don’t know already? And shure ye have the night, God bless it, before ye—and thank ye yer honour, and long life to yerself,” and he pocketed the coin Mr. Riley gave him, and held open the gate for the gentleman, never adding, as John noticed, a word of hope for Nettie.
2. Anglicè—misers, skinflints.
Courteous44 were those Kingslough people, courteous and partial to saying pleasant things high and low amongst them, but any thought or mention of the Bradys tried their complaisance45.
There was no hope for Nettie. John Riley, taking his horse at a walk past Glendare Terrace, and so, making his way out of the long straggling town, felt popular opinion had already given up her case as hopeless.
135She had chosen her lot; Kingslough felt the wisest course it could pursue, in the interest of itself and Nettie, was to ignore the probabilities of what that lot might be.
A great scandal had occurred—a scandal so great that, prone46 as Kingslough was to gossip, it felt disposed to maintain silence over the affair.
In slight illnesses people love to talk over the symptoms and exaggerate the danger, but when the sickness becomes mortal, there ensues a disinclination to speak of it. Silence succeeds to speech, when once the solemn steps of the great conqueror47 are heard crossing the threshold. It is the same when a sore trouble menaces. In the presence of that enemy, even those whose happiness or misery48 is in no way concerned in his approach are fain to keep silence—and silence Kingslough maintained accordingly about the sad faux pas Nettie O’Hara had made.
But as yet Grace Moffat scarcely grasped the length and the breadth and the depth of the pit her old companion had dug so carefully for her future.
136“Have you found her, have you brought her back?” Grace asked eagerly as he entered.
“There is only one person who can bring her back now,” he answered, “and that is her husband. They went to Scotland yesterday.”
“Oh, Nettie! What could you have been thinking of?” exclaimed the girl.
“I suppose it is the old story, and that she was fond of him,” Mr. Riley replied.
“You have seen Mrs. Hartley,—what does she say?”
“What can she say? what can anybody say? what is the use of saying anything? Nettie has done that which cannot be undone50, and we must only hope the match may turn out better than we expect. She has chosen Mr. Brady and left her friends, and she will have to make the best of Mr. Brady, if there be any best about him, for the remainder of her life.”
“I think you are extremely heartless,” said Grace indignantly.
“I do not mean to be so,” he replied. “If 137I could help Nettie out of this scrape, I would spare no pains in the matter. But there is no help, Grace. We cannot remake Brady, neither can we undo49 the fact of her having gone off with a man who has no one solitary51 quality to recommend him beyond his good looks.”
At this point John Riley stopped suddenly and walked towards the window, while Grace busied herself with the tea-equipage.
The same thought had occurred to both of them. Other people besides Nettie O’Hara might be influenced by good looks, and, as has previously52 been remarked, Grace’s lover did not realize her ideal of manly53 beauty.
“Where is your cousin, Grace?” asked Mr. Riley, after a moment’s pause.
“Gone to spend the evening with Mrs. Mervyn.” It was a matter of common occurrence for the worthy lady who presided over Mr. Moffat’s establishment to spend the evening with some one or other of her numerous friends. She had a predilection54 also for paying morning visits and receiving morning 138visitors, so that Grace’s time was more frequently at her own sole disposal than might have been considered quite desirable had Grace happened to be different to what she was.
But although the young lady’s manners were much less demure than those of her former friend and companion, she was really a much wiser and more prudent55 girl than Nettie. She might have wandered alone along the world’s wide road, and still come to no harm by the way.
Poor or rich, it would not have mattered to Grace. No man could ever have made a fool of her. She had her faults, but lack of pride and self-respect were not to be classed among them.
A girl to be greatly desired for a wife; a girl who would develope into a woman safely to be trusted with a man’s happiness and a man’s honour; a girl loyal, faithful, true. She was all this and more; and John Riley knew her worth, and would have served as long as Jacob did for Rachael, to gain her in the end.
139“Grace,” he began after a moment’s pause, “will you finish your tea and come out into the garden? I want to speak to you.”
“What do you want to say?”
“I have something particular to ask.”
“What is it?”
“Come out and I will tell you.”
“Tell me now.”
“Cannot you guess?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, “I can guess; but do not ask. Let us remain friends, as we have always been.”
“That is impossible,” he said, “we must either be more than friends, or—”
“Or,” she repeated.
“Strangers,” he finished, and there ensued a dead silence which he suddenly broke by exclaiming vehemently57, “Grace, you cannot, you must not refuse me; I have loved you all my life. I never remember the time when I did not love you. I do not ask you to marry me yet, not until I have something to offer 140you besides myself, I only want you to say, ‘John, I will be your wife some day, and I will care for nobody else till you come back to claim me.’”
She was as white now as she had been red before.
“Let us go out,” she said, laying her hand on his arm and leading him through the French window on to the terrace-walk. There was no hope; he knew it, he felt it, felt it in the touch of her hand, saw it in the expression of her face. “Why did you thrust this pain upon yourself and me?” she asked reproachfully. “Did not you know I could never marry you? Have not you heard me say a hundred times over, that I should never marry anybody? We have always been good friends, why cannot we remain good friends still? I will forget what you said just now, and you must try to forget it too.”
“Must I?” he answered, “well, the time will come when I shall forget even that, but not until I am dead, Grace. So long as life and memory remain, I shall never forget you,” 141and he took the hand which lay on his arm, and held it tightly for a moment, then suddenly releasing it, he went on,—
“It was not always so; there was a time, and that not very long past, when you could not have stabbed me to the heart as you have done to-night. I do not say you ever loved me much, but you were young, and I believed you might learn to love me more; but there is no use in talking about that now, the new love has ousted58 out the old. You can never be more than a friend to me; that is the phrase, is it not? But somebody else may be nearer and dearer than the man who has cared for no one but you—no one else, Grace, all his life.”
“I do not understand you,” she began, but he interrupted her.
“Mr. Somerford and I are nothing to each other,” she interposed eagerly.
“Are not, perhaps, but most probably will be hereafter,” he retorted. “I know he is the sort of fellow girls go wild about.”
142“I have not gone wild about him,” said Grace indignantly. “Are you mad, John, or do you think I am, to imagine Lord Glendare’s nephew could ever possibly want to marry me?”
“I imagine your fortune would be extremely acceptable to a man who has not a sixpence, at all events,” was the almost brutal60 answer. Disappointed lovers are not usually over careful about what they say, and this one proved no honourable61 exception to the rule.
“The same remark might apply to other men who have not a sixpence either,” observed the young lady bitterly; “to Mr. John Riley, for instance.”
He was calm in a moment, hating himself for the words he had uttered, almost hating her for the retort those words induced.
“Say no more, Grace,” he answered; “you need not drive the knife any farther home—it has gone deep enough already,” and he turned, and would have left her, but Grace followed, crying out,—
“I did not mean it—I did not, really; only you provoked me.”
143“You meant, however, that you would not marry, that you would not engage yourself to me,” he said, stopping, and looking mournfully and reproachfully at her in the gathering62 twilight63.
“I am very sorry,” she was beginning, but he interrupted her.
“Never mind being sorry. I shall be sad and sorry enough for both. You did mean it then, Grace; you meant truly that you could never come to love me, never while the winds blow and the dews fall.”
“I do care for you,” she said softly.
“Ay, but not as I want to be cared for,” he replied. “Well, you cannot help it, I suppose, and I—but that does not matter.”
It was over; he was gone: she stood alone on the terrace. Strewed64 around were cistus leaves; through the silence she could hear the sobbing65 of the waves as they washed in upon the shore.
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1
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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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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offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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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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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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baste
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| v.殴打，公开责骂 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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52
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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55
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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56
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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58
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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59
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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60
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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61
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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62
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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63
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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64
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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65
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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