“No doubt it will be very hard to make papa understand.” This was said by Gertrude to her new lover a few days after that order had been given that the lover should be sent away from Merle Park. The purport1 of the order in all its severity had not been conveyed to Captain Batsby. The ladies had felt — Gertrude had felt very strongly — that were he informed that the master of the house demanded his absence he would take himself off at once. But still something had to be said — and something done. Captain Batsby was, just at present, in a matrimonial frame of mind. He had come to Merle Park to look for a wife, and, as he had missed one, was, in his present mood, inclined to take another. But there was no knowing how long this might last. Augusta had hinted that “something must be done, either with papa’s consent or without it”. Then there had come the conversation in which Gertrude acknowledged the existing difficulty. “Papa, too, probably, would not consent quite at once.”
“He must think it very odd that I am staying here,” said the Captain.
“Of course it is odd. If you could go to him and tell him everything!” But the Captain, looking at the matter all round, thought that he could not go to Sir Thomas and tell him anything. Then she began gently to introduce the respectable clergyman at Ostend. It was not necessary that she should refer at length to the circumstances under which she had studied the subject, but she gave Captain Batsby to understand that it was one as to which she had picked up a good deal of information.
But the money! “If Sir Thomas were made really angry, the consequences would be disastrous,” said the Captain. But Gertrude was of a different way of thinking. Her father was, no doubt, a man who could be very imperious, and would insist upon having his own way as long as his own way was profitable to him. But he was a man who always forgave.
“If you mean about the money,” said Gertrude, I am quite sure that it would all come right.” He did mean about the money, and was evidently uneasy in his mind when the suggested step was made manifest to him. Gertrude was astonished to see how long and melancholy2 his face could become. “Papa was never unkind about money in his life,” said Gertrude. “He could not endure to have any of us poor.”
On the next Saturday Sir Thomas again came down, and still found his guest at Merle Park. We are now a little in advance of our special story, which is, or ought to be, devoted3 to Ayala. But, with the affairs of so many lovers and their loves, it is almost impossible to make the chronicle run at equal periods throughout. It was now more than three weeks since Ayala went to Stalham, and Lady Albury had written to the Captain confessing something of her sin, and begging to be forgiven. This she had done in her anxiety to keep the Captain away. He had not answered his sister-in-law’s letter, but, in his present frame of mind, was not at all anxious to finish up the hunting season at Stalham. Sir Thomas, on his arrival, was very full of Tom’s projected tour. He had arranged everything — except in regard to Tom’s own assent4. He had written to New York, and had received back a reply from his correspondent assuring him that Tom should be made most heartily5 welcome. It might be that Tom’s fighting propensities6 had not been made known to the people of New York. Sir Thomas had taken a berth7 on board of one of the Cunard boats, and had even gone so far as to ask the Captain to come down for a day or two to Merle Park. He was so much employed with Tom that he could hardly afford time and consideration to Captain Batsby and his affairs. Nevertheless he did ask a question, and received an answer with which he seemed to be satisfied. “What on earth is that man staying here for?” he said to his wife.
“He is going on Friday,” replied Lady Tringle, doubtingly — almost as though she thought that she would be subjected to further anger because of this delay. But Sir Thomas dropped the subject, and passed on to some matter affecting Tom’s outfit8. Lady Tringle was very glad to change the subject, and promised that everything should be supplied befitting the hottest and coldest climates on the earth’s surface.
“She sails on the nineteenth of April.” said Sir Thomas to his son.
“I don’t think I could go as soon as that, Sir,” replied Tom, whining9.
“Why not? There are more than three weeks yet, and your mother will have everything ready for you. What on earth is there to hinder you?”
“I don’t think I could go — not on the nineteenth of April.”
“Well then, you must. I have taken your place, and Firkin expects you at New York. They’ll do everything for you there, and you’ll find quite a new life. I should have thought you’d have been delighted to get away from your wretched condition here.”
“It is wretched,” said Tom; but I’d rather not go quite so soon.”
“Why not?”
“Well, then — ”
“What is it, Tom? It makes me unhappy when I see you such a fool.”
“I am a fool! I know I am a fool!”
“Then make a new start of it. Cut and run, and begin the world again. You’re young enough to forget all this.”
“So I would, only — ”
“Only what?”
“I suppose she is engaged to that man Stubbs! If I knew it for certain then I would go. If I went before, I should only come back as soon as I got to New York. If they were once married and it were all done with I think I could make a new start.”
In answer to this his father told him that he must go on the nineteenth of April, whether Ayala were engaged or disengaged, married or unmarried — that his outfit would be bought, his cabin would be ready, circular notes for his use would be prepared, and everything would be arranged to make his prolonged tour as comfortable as possible; but that if he did not start on that day all the Tringle houses would be closed against him, and he would be turned penniless out into the world. “You’ll have to learn that I’m in earnest,” said Sir Thomas, as he turned his back and walked away. Tom took himself off to reflect whether it would not be a grand thing to be turned penniless out into the world — and all for love!
By the early train on Monday Sir Thomas returned to London, having taken little or no heed11 of Captain Batsby during his late visit to the country. Even at Merle Park Captain Batsby’s presence was less important than it would otherwise have been to Lady Tringle and Mrs Traffick, because of the serious nature of Sir Thomas’s decision as to his son. Lady Tringle perhaps suspected something. Mrs Traffick, no doubt, had her own ideas as to her sister’s position; but nothing was said and nothing was done. Both on the Wednesday and on the Thursday Lady Tringle went up to town to give the required orders on Tom’s behalf. On the Thursday her elder daughter accompanied her, and returned with her in the evening. On their arrival they learnt that neither Captain Batsby nor Miss Gertrude had been seen since ten o’clock; that almost immediately after Lady Tringle’s departure in the morning Captain Batsby had caused all his luggage to be sent into Hastings; and that it had since appeared that a considerable number of Miss Gertrude’s things were missing. There could be no doubt that she had caused them to be packed up with the Captain’s luggage. “They have gone to Ostend, mamma,” said Augusta. “I was sure of it, because I’ve heard Gertrude say that people can always get themselves married at Ostend. There is a clergyman there on purpose to do it.”
It was at this time past seven o’clock, and Lady Tringle when she heard the news was so astounded13 that she did not at first know how to act. It was not possible for her to reach Dover that night before the night boat for Ostend should have started — even could she have done any good by going there. Tom was in such a condition that she hardly dared to trust him; but it was settled at last that she should telegraph at once to Sir Thomas, in Lombard Street, and that Tom should travel up to London by the night train.
On the following morning Lady Tringle received a letter from Gertrude, posted by that young lady at Dover as she passed through on her road to Ostend. It was as follows:
DEAR MAMMA ,
You will be surprised on your return from London to find that we have gone. After much thinking about it we determined14 it would be best, because we had quite made up our mind not to be kept separated. Ben was so eager about it that I was obliged to yield. We were afraid that if we asked papa at once he would not have given his consent. Pray give him my most dutiful love, and tell him that I am sure he will never have occasion to be ashamed of his son-in-law. I don’t suppose he knows, but it is the fact that Captain Batsby has about three thousand a year of his own. It is very different from having nothing, like that wretch10 Frank Houston, or, for that matter, Mr Traffick. Ben was quite in a position to ask papa, but things had happened which made us both feel that papa would not like it just at present. We mean to be married at Ostend, and then will come back as soon as you and papa say that you will receive us. In the meantime I wish you would send some of my clothes after me. Of course I had to come away with very little luggage, because I was obliged to have my things mixed up with Ben’s. I did not dare to have my boxes brought down by the servants. Could you send me the green silk in which I went to church the last two Sundays, and my pink gauze, and the grey poplin? Please send two or three flannel15 petticoats, as I could not put them among his things, and as many cuffs16 and collars as you can cram17 in. I suppose I can get boots at Ostend, but I should like to have the hat with the little brown feather. There is my silk jacket with the fur trimming; I should like to have that. I suppose I shall have to be married without any regular dress, but I am sure papa will make up my trousseau to me afterwards. I lent a little lace fichu to Augusta; tell her I shall so like to have it.
Give papa my best love, and Augusta, and poor Tom, and accept the same from your affectionate daughter,
GERTRUDE
“I suppose I must not add the other name yet.”
Sir Thomas did not receive the telegram till eleven o’clock, when he returned from dinner, and could do nothing that night. On the next morning he was disturbed soon after five o’clock by Tom, who had come on the same errand. “Idiots!” exclaimed Sir Thomas, What on earth can they have gone to Ostend for? And what can you do by coming up?”
“My mother thought that I might follow them to Ostend.”
“They wouldn’t care for you. No one will care for you until you have got rid of all this folly18. I must go. Idiots! Who is to marry them at Ostend? If they are fools enough to want to be married, why shouldn’t they get married in England?”
“I suppose they thought you wouldn’t consent.”
“Of course I shan’t consent. But why should I consent a bit more because they have gone to Ostend? I don’t suppose anybody ever had such a set of fools about him as I have.” This would have been hard upon Tom had it not been that he had got beyond the feeling of any hardness from contempt or contumely. As he once said of himself, all sense of other injury had been washed out of him by Ayala’s unkindness.
On that very day Sir Thomas started for Ostend, and reached the place about two o’clock. Captain Batsby and Gertrude had arrived only during the previous night, and Gertrude, as she had been very sick was still in bed. Captain Batsby was not in bed. Captain Batsby had been engaged since an early hour in the morning looking for that respectable clergyman of the Church of England of whose immediate12 services he stood in need. By the time that Sir Thomas had reached Ostend he had found that no such clergyman was known in the place. There was a regular English clergyman who would be very happy to marry him — and to accept the usual fees — after the due performance of certain preliminaries as ordained19 by the law, and as usual at Ostend. The lady, no doubt, could be married at Ostend, after such preliminaries — as she might have been married also in England. All this was communicated by the Captain to Gertrude — who was still very unwell — at her bedroom door. Her conduct during this trying time was quite beyond reproach — and also his — as Captain Batsby afterwards took an opportunity of assuring her father.
“What on earth, Sir, is the meaning of all this?” said Sir Thomas, encountering the man who was not his son-in-law in the sitting-room20 of the hotel.
“I have just run away with your daughter, Sir Thomas. That is the simple truth.”
“And I have got the trouble of taking her back again.”
“I have behaved like a gentleman through it all, Sir Thomas,” said the Captain, thus defending his own character and the lady’s.
“You have behaved like a fool. What on earth am I to think of it, Sir? You were asked down to my house because you gave me to understand that you proposed to ask my niece, Miss Dormer, to be your wife; and now you have run away with my daughter. Is that behaviour like a gentleman?”
“I must explain myself.”
“Well, Sir?” Captain Batsby found the explanation very difficult; and hummed and hawed a great deal. “Do you mean to say that it was a lie from beginning to end about Miss Dormer?” Great liberties of speech are allowed to gentlemen whose daughters have been run away with, and whose hospitality has been outraged21.
“Oh dear no. What I said then was quite true. It was my intention. But — but —.” The perspiration22 broke out upon the unhappy man’s brow as the great immediate trouble of his situation became clear to him. “There was no lie — no lie at all. I beg to assure you, Sir Thomas, that I am not a man to tell a lie.”
“How has it all been, then?”
“When I found how very superior a person your daughter was!”
“It isn’t a month since she was engaged to somebody else,” said the angry father, forgetting all propriety23 in his indignation.
“Gertrude?” demanded Captain Batsby.
“You are two fools. So you gave up my niece?”
“Oh dear yes, altogether. She didn’t come to Merle Park, you know. How was I to say anything to her when you didn’t have her there?”
“Why didn’t you go away then, instead of remaining under a false pretence24? Or why, at any rate, didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“And what would you have me to do now?” asked Captain Batsby.
“Go to the d — “ said Sir Thomas, as he left the room, and went to his daughter’s chamber25.
Gertrude had heard that her father was in the house, and endeavoured to hurry herself into her clothes while the interview was going on between him and her father. But she was not yet perfectly26 arrayed when her father burst into her room. “Oh, papa,” she said, going down on her knees, “you do mean to forgive us?”
“I mean to do nothing of the kind. I mean to carry you home and have you locked up.”
“But we may be married!”
“Not with my leave. Why didn’t you come and ask if you wanted to get yourselves married? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We were ashamed.”
“What has become of Mr Houston, whom you loved so dearly?”
“Oh, papa!”
“And the Captain was so much attached to Ayala!”
“Oh, papa!”
“Get up, you stupid girl. Why is it that my children are so much more foolish than other people’s? I don’t suppose you care for the man in the least.”
“I do, I do. I love him with all my heart.”
“And as for him — how can he care for you when it is but the other day he was in love with your cousin?”
“Oh, papa!”
“What he wants is my money, of course.”
“He has got plenty of money, papa.”
“I can understand him, fool as he is. There is something for him to get. He won’t get it, but he might think it possible. As for you, I cannot understand you at all. What do you expect? It can’t be for love of a hatchet-faced fellow like that, whom you had never seen a fortnight ago.”
“It is more than a month ago, papa.”
“Frank Houston was, at any rate, a manly27-looking fellow.”
“He was a scoundrel,” said Gertrude, now standing28 up for the first time.
“A good-looking fellow was Frank Houston; that at least may be said for him,” continued the father, determined to exasperate29 his daughter to the utmost. “I had half a mind to give way about him, because he was a manly, outspoken30 fellow, though he was such an idle dog. If you’d gone off with him, I could have understood it — and perhaps forgiven it,” he added.
“He was a scoundrel!” screamed Gertrude, remembering her ineffectual attempts to make her former lover perform this same journey.
“But this fellow! I cannot bring myself to believe that you really care for him.”
“He has a good income of his own, while Houston was little better than a beggar.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Sir Thomas, because there will be something for you to live upon. I can assure you that Captain Batsby will never get a shilling of my money. Now, you had better finish dressing32 yourself, and come down and eat your dinner with me if you’ve got any appetite. You will have to go back to Dover by the boat tonight.”
“May Ben dine with us?” asked Gertrude, timidly. Ben may go to the d —. At any rate he had better not show himself to me again,” said Sir Thomas.
The lovers, however, did get an opportunity of exchanging a few words, during which it was settled between them that as the young lady must undoubtedly33 obey her father’s behests, and return to Dover that night, it would be well for Captain Batsby to remain behind at Ostend. Indeed, he spoke31 of making a little tour as far as Brussels, in order that he might throw off the melancholy feelings which had been engendered34. “You will come to me again, Ben,” she said. Upon this he looked very grave. “You do not mean to say that after all this you will desert me?”
“He has insulted me so horribly!”
“What does that signify? Of course he is angry. If you could only hear how he has insulted me.”
“He says that you were in love with somebody else not a month since.”
“So were you, Ben, for the matter of that.” He did, however, before they parted, make her a solemn promise that their engagement should remain an established fact, in spite both of father and mother.
Gertrude, who had now recovered the effects of her seasickness35 — which, however, she would have to encounter again so very quickly — contrived37 to eat a hearty38 dinner with her father. There, however, arose a little trouble. How should she contrive36 to pack up the clothes which she had brought with her, and which had till lately been mixed with the Captain’s garments? She did, however, at last succeed in persuading the chamber-maid to furnish her with a carpet-bag, with which in her custody39 she arrived safely on the following day at Merle Park.
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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exasperate
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| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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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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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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seasickness
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| n.晕船 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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