Persons who knew anything about the Rosemont ménage—and the persons who did meant all resident within an area of twenty miles of that place, and a considerable number outside the area indicated—were aware that as a rule on those rare occasions when Lady Glendare honoured Ireland with her presence, the Hon. Mrs. Somerford “availed herself” of so favourable1 an opportunity for visiting her friends.
Lady Glendare and her hon. sister-in-law did not in all respects agree as sisters-in-law should. To state the case fairly, they hated 145each other. This undesirable2 frame of mind is not uncommon3 even in much lower circles, but perhaps civilized4 and decorous and socially polite hatred5 never attained6 a stronger growth than between the countess and her husband’s brother’s wife.
Lady Glendare was certainly right in stating that they were not sisters-in-law, since rigidly7 they could not be called such near relatives.
“She is the widow of my late brother-in-law,” was the form of speech in which Lady Glendare liked to describe Mrs. Somerford’s position; “and as she is fearfully poor, poorer even than the Somerfords’ widows have usually been (and that is indeed indicating a deeper depth of poverty than most people can imagine), Lord Glendare allows her to live at Rosemont with that great boy of hers, who does nothing, literally8 nothing. How it will all end I cannot imagine. He has no fortune, no profession, he has no chance there of marrying. Better have apprenticed9 him to some trade,” and at this juncture10, her 146ladyship, who having come from a noble stock who boasted a longer pedigree and a more encumbered11 rent-roll than the Glendares, always made it a rule to speak pityingly and depreciatingly of her husband and his family, was wont12 to fold her white hands and look up to the ceiling with that pathetic and saintlike expression of countenance14 which a great painter having beheld15, has perpetuated16 in a portrait, copies of which are to be seen in old-fashioned scrap-books and amateur portfolios17 to this day.
Lord Glendare had married late in life, middle age for him was over when he led to the hymeneal altar his beautiful, youthful, and accomplished18 bride. On the other hand, the Hon. Robert Somerford had married early, comparatively speaking, and the son he left was many years older than Lord Trevor, heir-apparent to the Glendare title and estates. Thus Mrs. Somerford was Lady Glendare’s senior, and though a sensible woman and a hard, she had been younger, and she would have liked to remain so. As that was impossible, 147she could have wished all other wives and daughters a shade older than herself. As that likewise was impossible, Mrs. Somerford felt slightly dissatisfied with the arrangements of Providence19, both as regarded the matter of age and other questions.
Further, Lady Glendare had been a celebrated20 beauty; the traditions of her beauty would endure, Mrs. Somerford knew, to the last days of her life. Even yet she was a very lovely woman, possessed21 of an exquisite22 figure, of a gracious and graceful23 manner, a woman who had but to come, to see, or rather to be seen, and to conquer. She took the citadels24 of men’s hearts by storm; at sound of her voice, at sight of her smile, the battlements tottered25, the walls fell. Virtue26, as represented by Mrs. Somerford, was no doubt an estimable and discreet27 matron, but virtue felt its very existence ignored when Lady Glendare, concerning whose prudence28 doubts had been expressed, the straightlacedness of whose morals people more than suspected, sat in the same room with it.
148All this, and the facts of her being my lady, of her first-born having the prospect29 of inheriting an estate which, encumbered though it might be, was still an estate, attached to a sufficiently30 old and well-known title, proved gall31 and wormwood to Mrs. Somerford; but, on the other hand, there were bitter drops in Lady Glendare’s cup poured into it by Mrs. Somerford.
In the first place, if Lady Glendare were beautiful, Mrs. Somerford was clever. Without her good looks the countess would have been a nonentity32. Without any good looks to speak of, had Mrs. Somerford’s lot been that of an earl’s wife, society must have acknowledged her talents. Added to this, she was, as Lady Glendare put the matter, the widow of a younger brother, and it is to be questioned whether an angel could under such circumstances have given entire satisfaction to the women of her husband’s family.
Mrs. Somerford not being an angel, gave none to the countess.
Again, Mrs. Somerford affected33 an austere34 149sort of religion, and the countess had an uneasy feeling that consequently, despite her unpleasant manner, in this world, her sister-in-law might have a better chance than herself of happiness in the next.
Expressed heterodoxy even amongst men was rare in those days. People did not perhaps think so much about religion as they do now; but when they thought about it at all they believed—ay, even people like the Glendares—that there was something in it; something they would have to face certainly, and arrange if they could, once the evil days came, when doctor and lawyers and clergymen would be the only society they could possibly entertain.
To Lady Glendare the idea of that last sleep in Ballyknock Abbey was inexpressibly revolting. Hating Ireland as she did, the thought of a certain village church, black with age, in a vault35 beneath which dozens of her progenitors36 lay, seemed a desirable resting-place by comparison; but even that was a possibility my lady shivered to contemplate37.
150Then if it were true, as Mrs. Somerford asserted, that it mattered not to her where her mortal remains38 were laid, what an immeasurable advantage the widow possessed! A woman to whose lips the verse of a hymn39 or an appropriate text occurred whenever her eyes opened, could never feel afraid of awaking in the night. She might be disagreeable, but she could have no sins to repent40 of. Mrs. Somerford’s manner always seemed to imply that, though she spoke41 of herself generally as a miserable42 sinner, she merely did so out of a feeling of delicacy44 towards others.
She was not as the Glendares, every action of her life seemed to assert; and she made Lady Glendare, who, if a sinner, was also a very weak woman, feel her moral and mental deficiencies at every turn.
For all these reasons, and for many more, which it would require much time to specify45, Mrs. Somerford found it, as a rule, convenient to visit her friends when Lord and Lady Glendare visited Ireland.
151Every rule has its exception, however, and at the particular time when the reader is first requested to visit Rosemont, it was intimated to Mrs. Somerford that if she and her son could make it convenient to remain at “home,” so Lady Glendare civilly phrased it, she and the earl would consider it as a personal favour.
“They want me and Robert,” decided46 the widow, with a proud smile. “They want us to help them with the voters.”
And the widow was right. Her brother-in-law was anxious on the subject of the impending47 election, and his agent had ventured to hint that Mr. Somerford was very popular, and that his presence and request might possibly be the means of influencing many votes.
Nay48, he went farther; he insinuated49 that eventually, perhaps, his lordship might find it expedient50 to put forward his nephew in the Liberal interest, and suggested that it would be therefore prudent51 to keep Mr. Somerford well before the constituents52, and remind them how close were the ties that bound him at once to them and the noble house of Glendare.
152To the earl the southern part of the county, for which a Glendare nominee53 had sat for seven successive Parliaments, and with few exceptions, for Parliaments almost countless54 before that, was the only thing in Ireland for which he cared.
Had any person except the Marquis of Ardmorne offered him a large sum, a liberal amount for Rosemont and the other residences he owned in Ireland, together with the Glendare lands, the Glendare tenantry, the Glendare rights of wood, moor55, and game, and mineral, to say nothing of shore rights and manorial56 rights, and rights appertaining to fisheries, Lord Glendare would—had cutting off the entail57 been possible—have sold them all, Ballyknock Abbey and the remains of his ancestors included.
But he would not have sold his interest in the county. Every man has his toy, if we could only discover where he hides away the plaything; and it was not possible for one to be long in Lord Glendare’s company without guessing that the family seat was to him the 153only one thing besides money and his children for which he really cared.
He was very fond of all his children excepting Lord Trevor, but it is problematical whether in the event having been necessary of a choice between his family seat and his parental58 feelings, he would not have sacrificed them to that Moloch in whose fires had been already consumed money, friendship, reputation, honour, happiness, self-respect.
A pack of hounds could have been kept for a portion of the money that seat had cost. Even the Jews might have uplifted their grasping hands in amazement59 had the sum the return of a Glendare nominee meant been presented to them in round figures.
Agents had groaned60 over, tenants61 had sunk under it, not an agent on the property for scores of years who did not curse each election as it took place with a vehemence62 of denunciation in comparison to which all the comminations hurled63 at the heads of Israelitish and Christian64 creditors65 faded into mere43 commonplace ejaculations of impiety66.
154One agent, indeed—the gentleman who had the direction of Lord Glendare’s affairs, and management of his property at the period when Kingslough was introduced at high noon—had ventured, soon after the earl’s accession, to remark that in his opinion the seat was more trouble than it was worth, whereupon his patron turned upon him like a demon67 and saluted68 his ears with such a storm of vehement69 invective70 and vile71 insinuations, that the agent left the house, vowing72 one day or other he would have his revenge on the passionate73 nobleman.
True, next day, Lord Glendare sent for and actually apologized to him, and a hollow truce74 was concluded; and employer and employed, to the outer world, seemed better friends than ever, but Mr. Dillwyn did not forget, neither did the earl quite forgive.
So far as a man of his temperament75 and habits could keep a watch on his agent, Lord Glendare kept one on Mr. Dillwyn, and Mr. Dillwyn, who had his own very good reasons for imagining that Mrs. Somerford acted on emergency as spy for the absent earl—devoted 155his energies to outwitting that clever lady, and, all things considered, succeeded tolerably well in his endeavour.
A master-stroke of genius, however, was that letter to the earl containing the suggestion mentioned previously76. It did not, perhaps, make the widow believe in him, but it caused her to reflect that perhaps her interests and his might not be so antagonistic77 as she at one time supposed. She had her hopes and her projects, and both centred in Robert. Besides, her vanity was flattered. Mr. Dillwyn had at last recognized her presence as a power.
And she was a power, if a disagreeable one. A woman competent to advise, direct, and assist a beautiful fool like her sister-in-law.
“I shall be somebody yet amongst the Glendares,” thought she, triumphantly78, “and Robert very soon shall be a great somebody.” And all the time Mr. Dillwyn was weaving his webs, laying his plans, arranging his plots.
When the Glendare shipwreck80 came, as come he knew it would, he had no intention of finding himself on a barren rock, scarce of provisions.
156He meant to stand by the vessel81 to the last. It is more easy, if people could only believe the fact, to do well for oneself pecuniarily82 by apparent loyalty83 than by open treason; but when the crash came, and the rotten timbers floated away over the ocean of men’s memories, he proposed to be found high and safe; high above the waters, safe from their fury.
It was an understood thing that when my lord and my lady took up their temporary residence in Ireland, the rules which governed their English life should be completely reversed; in other words, whatever they did in London, they left undone84 in Ireland; whatever they left undone in London, they were scrupulous85 to perform in the Blessed Isle86.
For instance, in London, they rose in the afternoon and went to bed in the morning; and in Ireland they were called betimes, and retired87 to rest at hours which would, Lady Glendare vainly hoped, restore the once exquisite beauty of her complexion88.
In England they never addressed an inferior save to issue a command, and in Ireland they 157entered into conversation with all sorts and conditions of men, the poorer and raggeder the better; in England they never walked, in Ireland the use of their limbs was restored to them as if by a miracle; in England they were always spending, in Ireland it was a fact that my lady often omitted to carry a purse, while my lord gave away pence and halfpence, but rarely had occasion to change a note.
In England my lord and my lady beheld each other rarely, in Ireland they saw a great deal more of each other than either considered essential to happiness. In England they associated with none save their equals; in Ireland the hearts of very middle-class people, indeed, were made glad by invitations to Rosemont, where they instituted mental comparisons between their own modest homes and an earl’s establishment, which caused them not to think the ways and modes of life “amongst gentlefolks poor or rich,” so different after all.
Only it troubled simple gentlefolks to understand where the money went, as well it might. Some put it down to English extravagance, 158wherein I think an injustice89 was put upon England. Even residents in Ireland have been known to run through incomes and estates with surprising rapidity; but then, open house was kept by them, and half a county ate, drank, lodged90 at their expense. Certainly open house was not kept at Rosemont. Half the rooms were usually shut up, even when my lord and lady visited the ancestral seat.
As for Mrs. Somerford, she and her son contented92 themselves with a mere corner of the earl’s great mansion93. They dined in the library and sat in the music-room.
It would not have suited the widow’s purse to maintain an establishment such as even one-half of Rosemont required to keep in order, so the shutters95 of the principal rooms were generally closed; the gilt96 chairs with their pale blue coverings were shrouded97 in brown holland. The mirrors and the chandeliers were enveloped98 in wraps, the tassels99 of the bellpulls were hid away in bags, as were also those of the curtain-holders. The statuettes were 159dressed in muslins. There were some good pictures on the walls, but no one cared to look at them. Some day, it might be, a new earl should come to his own, who would put life into all these sleeping apartments, people them—let in the sunlight—sweep off the dust; but so far, for generations past, the Glendares had cared nought100 for the place, which a former earl had when the title was still new built large enough to lodge91 a monarch101 and his suite94, as was the fashion formerly102 in Ireland, where once every person who happened to be anybody, found himself over-housed and under-incomed.
When my lady visited Rosemont, she affected a certain west wing called the “garden side” by those employed about the place, and it was so far the garden side of the mansion, that the windows commanded a view of an old-fashioned parterre, and a glass door opened into a piece of pleasure-ground which might have delighted the heart of Mr. Disraeli’s Lady Corisande herself.
There were to be found those old-fashioned flowers one longs for nowadays and never 160finds. There were the plants a false civilization, a perfect subjugation103 of individual taste to the dictum of interested tradesmen, have banished104 beyond our ken105. That garden was the only thing connected with Rosemont my lady loved. There was somewhat of romance about the place—something which reminded her—so my lady said, to her London listeners—of the sweet peace of a convent garden, in that bit of pleasure-ground at Rosemont, enclosed as it was with thick low hedges of privet, amongst which grew roses and passionflowers, and sweet briar and honeysuckle.
Assuredly it was a lovely little nook, where, in the earliest spring, crocuses and snowdrops sprang to life, and following fast in their wake came “pale primroses” and hepaticas, pink and blue, and the many-faced polyanthus and daffodil, a flower whose praises Herrick has not disdained106 to sing.
But it was later on in the golden summer time, that the garden side of Rosemont decked itself in the most gorgeous apparel, not merely in scarlet107, and yellow, and blue, as is now the 161fashion, fleeting108 we may hope, but in every rich and tender colour the Creator of all things beautiful has made to render our earth lovely.
There shone—humbly109 self-asserting—the gentianella in her dark blue robe of velvet110. There were beds where fairy lilies of the valley made melody amongst their luxuriant foliage111; there grew soft harebells, pale blue, transparent112 white; there were flaunting113 tulips, and showy anemones114 and ranunculus, the colours of which dazzled the sight; there were sweet auriculas and climbing honeysuckle, and a perfect wealth of roses—roses that have had their day and disappeared before the great, scentless115, coarse, overgrown monstrosities that demand care and admiration116 from their lovers in the present generation.
Against the walls of the house were trained myrtles, lemon verbenas, alpine117 roses, and the mysterious passion-flower both white and purple. That garden side of Rosemont was certainly, as my lady said, “beautiful exceedingly.”
162Not that the fact of its being beautiful exceedingly would have recommended it to any one of the Glendares except in an abstract and conversational118 manner. They had none of that passionate love of scenery, that almost savage119 fondness for hill and dale, for the wide sea and the foaming120 rivulet121, for snow-crowned mountains and rock-bound coasts, which has served to stipple122 in a background full of romance and sorrow and pathos123 to the figure of many a reckless, extravagant124, wickedly improvident125 Irishman.
But the Glendares were not Irish. They owned the soil, but they were not of it, they had not even that indefinite sort of attachment126 for the land which property usually developes.
They were aliens, every one, not excepting Mr. Robert Somerford, who, though he had managed to secure for himself so much good-will, cared really no more for any blade of grass in the emerald isle than he would have done for roses of Sharon.
He was as adaptable127 as other members of his family had proved themselves under various vicissitudes128 of fortune, but he was also as false.
163Unknown to himself, perhaps, but still, certainly his whole life was a lie—an assumption of qualities he did not possess—of abilities with which nature had not endowed him, of affections forgotten at his birth. It was what they believed him to be, and not what he was, that the lower classes loved. And as regards Grace Moffat? Well, perhaps she too, like her friend Nettie, had admired a handsome face too easily; perhaps the accomplishments129, unusual at that period, Mr. Somerford had cultivated, caught her fancy; perhaps—and this is of the three the more likely solution of the enigma—his close relationship to an earl affected the imagination of a girl born in a land the inhabitants of which believe in a lord as implicitly130 as any Republican who ever breathed.
He was as near the roses as any man could well be who chanced not actually to be among them. He had been born in the purple, though he happened not to be clad in it. He had lived much in Dublin and amongst the gentry131 of the South of Ireland, and his accent was 164softer than that which was obtained in the North—softer, tenderer. It conveyed much whilst saying little.
On the whole, perhaps, Mr. Robert Somerford was not a safe companion for a young lady whom her friends might desire to keep heart-whole; but as regards Grace Moffat, the evil had been wrought132. For her earth held no hero like Lord Glendare’s nephew, for her nature presented no desirable type of man, save one, and that one assumed the shape of Mr. Robert Somerford, who, seated in the room which commanded a view of the garden previously mentioned, was trying, not without success, to win golden opinions from his uncle’s wife.
To Mr. Robert Somerford, Lady Glendare could afford to be gracious, amiable133, kindly-mannered,—in a word, herself. There were many points in his favour, the chief perhaps being that there was not the slightest chance of his ever succeeding to the title and rent-roll of the Glendares. Between him and the earldom stood the young lords, and an elder 165brother of his father, the Honourable134 Cecil Somerford, who lived abroad, and was known by the family generally to have formed some undesirable attachment which rendered a residence in England impossible.
Mr. Robert had thus been preserved from waiting for dead men’s shoes. Eventually he hoped Lord or Lady Glendare, or the Honourable Cecil, or some other friend or member of the noble family to which he belonged, would get him an appointment; meanwhile, it was clearly his interest to make himself as agreeable and useful to his uncle and his uncle’s wife, and accordingly he entered heart and soul into the business of canvassing136 and bribing137 voters which had brought the earl to Ireland just at the time when, as Lady Glendare pathetically put it, “that dear London was pleasanter even than usual.”
But every one knew the opposition138 was likely to be bitter as usual, and more formidable than on previous occasions.
Lord Ardmorne had, of recent years, been purchasing land largely. Farms and estates 166Lord Glendare would have bought, had he only possessed enough money, passed into the hands of his wealthier neighbour. To the north of Glenwellan lay properties and town-lands, hitherto owned by a non-resident Englishman, sinfully indifferent to Whigs and Tories alike, and to how his tenants voted; but he having departed to that very far country where we may humbly hope politics are forgotten, his heirs decided to sell his Irish estates, and Lord Ardmorne became their possessor. This threw a weight into the Tory scale which the Glendare party could not fail to regard with anxiety, and further there was no question but that of late years, Kingslough, their own especial stronghold, had been developing proclivities139 as unpleasant as they were unsuspected. It was doubtful on how many votes the Whigs could certainly reckon even at Kingslough. Already the Glendare star was waning140. My lord had been absent while his rival was present.
Lord Ardmorne was bringing capital into the county, Lord Glendare was draining it 167away; Lord Ardmorne spent part of every year in Ireland, sometimes for years together Ireland never beheld the face of Glendare.
In a word, any one could see the course was not going to be walked over, and Mrs. Somerford had not hesitated to express her opinion to this effect, with a certain triumphant79 bitterness which increased Lady Glendare’s dislike for her. Not that Mrs. Somerford had ever done anything to strengthen the family influence, on the contrary; but then she had, so she modestly put it, no position.
In Lady Glendare’s shoes she could have marched triumphantly to success; this her tone and manner implied, to the intense disgust of the countess.
Hours, so it seemed to her ladyship, had passed since breakfast, as she sat in a low chair near one of the windows, eating strawberries, an operation which displayed to advantage her beautiful hands. Mr. Robert Somerford admired his aunt intensely. She might be passée, but no one could deny she was still a very lovely woman, and to a man of his dreamy 168sensuous nature, there was something marvellously attractive in the easy, almost indolent grace of her slightest movement, in the way in which she made even the eating of strawberries a sight pleasant to behold141.
At a short distance from Lady Glendare, Mrs. Somerford had taken up her position, severely142 industrious143. She was one of those dreadful people who never seem happy unless engaged upon some elaborate piece of work. Making imitation lace chanced to be Mrs. Somerford’s speciality, and as those were the days of veils, long, wide, and white, she was engaged in fabricating one.
To Lady Glendare, who could scarcely have specified144 the difference between the point and the eye of a needle, this industry appeared singularly wearisome and aggravating145, but her husband felt secretly envious146 of his sister-in-law’s resources.
It is not given to every one to do nothing with an exquisite grace; and clad in the snuff-coloured trousers and dark blue frock-coat which it always, for some inscrutable reason, 169pleased him to don when he came to Rosemont, his lordship drumming an irritable147 tattoo148 on the table, was perhaps conscious that he did not form by any means so pleasing a feature in the tableau149 as his wife.
“Ardmorne has given three picnics and two balls,” Mr. Somerford was remarking.
“What a pity we could not have gone to them,” said her ladyship, whilst Lord Glendare muttered audibly a commination service over his neighbour, consisting of two monosyllables.
“It is all very well to say ‘hush,’” retorted her brother-in-law, “but when a fellow like that, wallowing in money as if it were dirt, shows fight on our very doorstep, as I may say, it is enough to make any man swear.”
“I don’t see how swearing can mend the matter,” observed Mrs. Somerford.
Lady Glendare tranquilly151 conveyed another strawberry to her lips; the tattoo grew ominously152 loud; Mrs. Somerford thought it expedient to devote her attention to a particular 170stitch she was executing; Robert Somerford began once more,—
“The question is, with what weapons we can fight him.”
“That is practical, Robert,” said his aunt. “That is precisely153 the observation I have been hoping some one would make. Here am I, exiled to this picturesque154 but barbarous land, willing to do anything if I am only told what is required of me. I have canvassed155 before, I am ready to canvass135 again. I will beg, buy, borrow, or steal votes. I can give balls, I can arrange picnics, though they are a form of entertainment I detest156.”
“If you could only tell one where to get some money,” interrupted the earl.
“Ah! now you ask me something quite beyond my power,” was the calm reply. “Had I ever possessed any inventive genius of that kind, it would have been exhausted157 years since.”
“There is one way in which you might propitiate158 the Kingslough worthies159, however, that would not involve any pecuniary160 outlay,” said 171Mr. Somerford, hastily cutting across the retort his uncle was about to make.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Lady Glendare, raising her eyes and looking at the speaker with a certain languid interest. “How can such a desirable object be compassed in so desirable a manner?”
“If you would honour Kingslough by bathing there, I think we might safely set Ardmorne at defiance,” answered Mr. Somerford, with the lightest touch of mock deference161 in his voice.
“Do you mean bathe in the sea?” asked her ladyship, still toying with the rich, ripe fruit. “I am afraid it would be impossible for me to ‘honour’ Kingslough to that extent. How should you propose my setting about it? I do not see how I could run across the shingle162 after the fashion which prevails in this charming country, with no clothing except a bathing-dress, cloak, and a pair of slippers163, and after a few plunges164 return in like manner. No doubt the spectacle might prove amusing to the bystanders, but it certainly would be anything but agreeable to the performer.”
172“My dear aunt, do you think I should for one moment have asked you, even in jest, to attempt anything of that kind? No I have been considering the matter seriously, and mean precisely what I say, namely, that if you would honour Kingslough so far as to try the effect of sea-bathing on your health, we might calculate on carrying the town and neighbourhood by storm. Any of the inhabitants whose houses are close on the shore, I mean who have back entrances to the sea, would be only too happy to place them at your service, or, what would be a still better plan, make use of Miss Moffat’s bathing-box. It is like a little castle built out on the Lonely Rock. There is always deep water at that point, and the place is fitted up perfectly165, my mother says.”
“Yes, Mr. Moffat has spared no expense,” Mrs. Somerford agreed.
“And who is this Miss Moffat?” asked Lady Glendare.
“She is the only daughter of a gentleman who, although he has the misfortune to care 173very little about politics, still has the good fortune, so far as he does care about politics, to be of our way of thinking.”
“Dillwyn said he was breaking a horse for her,” observed the earl at this juncture.
“Dillwyn only told you that to account for his having so valuable an animal in his possession,” answered Mr. Somerford with sudden heat.
“Do you mean to imply he said that which was perfectly untrue?” asked his uncle.
“Certainly.”
“Now, Robert,” entreated Mrs. Somerford.
“There can be no doubt Mr. Dillwyn would like extremely to get hold of Miss Moffat’s fortune, but—”
“I must listen to this,” exclaimed Lady Glendare. “The conversation is becoming quite interesting. Pray proceed, Robert. Do not be influenced by Mrs. Somerford’s signs of wisdom. Mr. Dillwyn is a dishonest steward166. According to popular belief there has never been an honest one on the property, so that 174is nothing new; but it is new to have an agent in love. Do tell me all about it.”
“I was speaking of Miss Moffat’s fortune,” said Mr. Somerford with an impatient emphasis on the last word.
“Is it large, and is she nice? Why not marry her yourself?” asked her ladyship.
“I trust my son will never marry for money,” said Mrs. Somerford, in accents of dignified167 rebuke168.
“Your son will be a much greater simpleton than I fancy, if he ever marry without it,” remarked Lord Glendare.
“Pray let Robert finish his romance,” entreated her ladyship. “Mr. Dillwyn wishes to marry an heiress, and as I understand your tone, the heiress deserves a better fate, and is conscious of her deserts. Now tell me about her. It she young?”
“Miss Moffat is young,” said Mrs. Somerford, answering for her son. “Concerning her appearance opinions are divided. She has a considerable fortune for a person in her rank of life, and I, for one, think it would give 175rise to jealousy169 and dissatisfaction if Lady Glendare were to single out for special attention the daughter of a gentleman who is not particularly popular, and who has herself, as is well known, been engaged almost from childhood to Mr. John Riley, whose father is an active supporter of Lord Ardmorne.”
The countess rose, put the plate containing her remaining strawberries on a table close at hand, and said,—
“Robert, life becomes serious when your mother touches it. I am going into the park, you can come with me if you like.”
Next moment they were in the old-fashioned garden. A few moments later they were sauntering slowly along a shaded path which led to the more pretentious170 grounds beyond.
“For pity’s sake,” began Lady Glendare, “do not disparage171 Mr. Dillwyn to the earl. He may have all the sins in the decalogue, but he has one virtue,—he refrains from troubling me about the condition of this interesting peasantry. You want to have the 176agency and marry Miss Moffat; Mrs. Somerford wants you to have the agency and not to marry Miss Moffat. My advice is, marry Miss Moffat, and neither hunger nor thirst after the agency. You could never give satisfaction, never; whereas, with this heiress, you might get returned at the next election, and then almost choose your career. We can do nothing for you, I am sorry to say. My sons will require all the influence we can bring to bear to get even a bare living. Who is this unwelcome individual, the fact of whose existence your mother so triumphantly announced? If you are wise, do not let him carry off Miss Moffat.”
There is an advantage one has in dealing172 with selfish people who are not specially173 clever. They show what they want almost at the first move of the game. It may not be in the power of any man to hinder their getting their way, winning their game, but at all events he is not taken unawares. Mr. Somerford, who was, perhaps, not one whit13 cleverer than her ladyship, though he chanced to be more 177plausible, understood clearly what she meant.
She disliked poor relations—she would be glad if he married well—then, when he had helped himself, she and the earl might, perhaps, lift a finger to help him on a little farther.
It was not what he had wished—it was not what he had hoped, but he accepted the position, and answered with an amount of self-depreciation which, coming from Robert Somerford, would have been really touching174, could any one have believed it in the slightest degree true.
“I should not have the slightest chance of success. Report says the young lady has already refused Mr. Riley, heir to one of the loveliest properties in this part of the country, and where he failed it would be useless for me to try. He had every advantage on his side, whilst I have nothing in the world to recommend me except the fact of being related to Lady Glendare.”
178“And that fact you wish me to bring to Miss Moffat’s remembrance?”
“No; for once my mother and I are of one mind. I should not care to owe everything to a wife, however amiable, and I am not quite certain that Miss Moffat’s nature is all sweetness.”
“Gather me that rose, if you please,” said the countess; and whilst the young man performed her bidding, she looked at him with a keen, worldly scrutiny177.
That evening she remarked to Lord Glendare, “Robert does not yet know the precise sum an earl’s nephew is worth in the matrimonial market.”
“I should have thought that a point upon which your ladyship could afford him important information,” was the bitter reply.
“Young people never believe the words 179of experience, and for that reason I maintain a judicious178 silence,” answered the countess calmly. “My opinion, however, is, he will only find out how little there is in a name, even when combined with a brogue and good looks, when he has outlived the latter.”
Mr. Robert Somerford was certainly not of one mind with her ladyship in this matter. Months before, he had given the Moffat question his most serious consideration, and decided that he ought to be able to do better.
Combined with his romantic and musical tendencies, the young man had a perfect knowledge of the value of riches. He was, perhaps, as fond of Grace Moffat as he could be of anything besides himself, but he had no thought of marrying her—yet.
It might be, it might not be. It was all uncertain as the mystic “He loves me, he loves me not;” but on the whole Robert Somerford felt satisfied fate had a higher destiny in store for him than that.
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1
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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3
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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4
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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5
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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6
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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7
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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9
apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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13
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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14
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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15
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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16
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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17
portfolios
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| n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 )；（保险）业务量；（公司或机构提供的）系列产品；纸夹 | |
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18
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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19
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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21
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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22
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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24
citadels
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| n.城堡，堡垒( citadel的名词复数 ) | |
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25
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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26
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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31
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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32
nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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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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37
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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38
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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39
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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40
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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41
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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42
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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43
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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44
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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45
specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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46
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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47
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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48
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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49
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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50
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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51
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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52
constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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53
nominee
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| n.被提名者；被任命者；被推荐者 | |
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54
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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55
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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56
manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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57
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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58
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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59
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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60
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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61
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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62
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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63
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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64
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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65
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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66
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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67
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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68
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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69
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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70
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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71
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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72
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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73
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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74
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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75
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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76
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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77
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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78
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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79
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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80
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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81
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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82
pecuniarily
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| adv.在金钱上，在金钱方面 | |
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83
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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84
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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85
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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86
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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87
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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88
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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89
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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90
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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91
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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92
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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93
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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94
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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95
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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96
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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97
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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98
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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100
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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101
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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102
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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103
subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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104
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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106
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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107
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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108
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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109
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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110
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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111
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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112
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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113
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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114
anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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115
scentless
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| adj.无气味的，遗臭已消失的 | |
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116
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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117
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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118
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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119
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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120
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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121
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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122
stipple
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| v.点画，点描；n.点画；点刻效果 | |
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123
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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adaptable
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| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
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128
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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bribing
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| 贿赂 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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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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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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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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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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canvassed
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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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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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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173
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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174
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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176
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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177
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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