THERE was no obstacle to the speedy departure of Romayne and his wife from Vange Abbey. The villa1 at Highgate — called Ten Acres Lodge2, in allusion3 to the measurement of the grounds surrounding the house — had been kept in perfect order by the servants of the late Lady Berrick, now in the employment of her nephew.
On the morning after their arrival at the villa, Stella sent a note to her mother. The same afternoon, Mrs. Eyrecourt arrived at Ten Acres — on her way to a garden-party. Finding the house, to her great relief, a modern building, supplied with all the newest comforts and luxuries, she at once began to plan a grand party, in celebration of the return of the bride and bridegroom.
“I don’t wish to praise myself,” Mrs. Eyrecourt said; “but if ever there was a forgiving woman, I am that person. We will say no more, Stella, about your truly contemptible4 wedding — five people altogether, including ourselves and the Lorings. A grand ball will set you right with society, and that is the one thing needful. Tea and coffee, my dear Romayne, in your study; Coote’s quadrille band; the supper from Gunter’s, the grounds illuminated5 with colored lamps; Tyrolese singers among the trees, relieved by military music — and, if there are any African or other savages6 now in London, there is room enough in these charming grounds for encampments, dances, squaws, scalps, and all the rest of it, to end in a blaze of fireworks.”
A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and stopped the further enumeration7 of attractions at the contemplated8 ball. Stella had observed that her mother looked unusually worn and haggard, through the disguises of paint and powder. This was not an uncommon9 result of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s devotion to the demands of society; but the cough was something new, as a symptom of exhaustion10.
“I am afraid, mamma, you have been overexerting yourself,” said Stella. “You go to too many parties.”
“Nothing of the sort, my dear; I am as strong as a horse. The other night, I was waiting for the carriage in a draught11 (one of the most perfect private concerts of the season, ending with a delightfully12 naughty little French play)— and I caught a slight cold. A glass of water is all I want. Thank you. Romayne, you are looking shockingly serious and severe; our ball will cheer you. If you would only make a bonfire of all those horrid13 books, you don’t know how it would improve your spirits. Dearest Stella, I will come and lunch here to-morrow — you are within such a nice easy drive from town — and I’ll bring my visiting-book, and settle about the invitations and the day. Oh, dear me, how late it is. I have nearly an hour’s drive before I get to my garden party. Good-by, my turtle doves good-by.”
She was stopped, on the way to her carriage, by another fit of coughing. But she still persisted in making light of it. “I’m as strong as a horse,” she repeated, as soon as she could speak — and skipped into the carriage like a young girl.
“Your mother is killing14 herself,” said Romayne.
“If I could persuade her to stay with us a little while,” Stella suggested, “the rest and quiet might do wonders for her. Would you object to it, Lewis?”
“My darling, I object to nothing — except giving a ball and burning my books. If your mother will yield on these two points, my house is entirely15 at her disposal.”
He spoke16 playfully — he looked his best, since he had separated himself from the painful associations that were now connected with Vange Abbey. Had “the torment17 of the Voice” been left far away in Yorkshire? Stella shrank from approaching the subject in her husband’s presence, knowing that it must remind him of the fatal duel18. To her surprise, Romayne himself referred to the General’s family.
“I have written to Hynd,” he began. “Do you mind his dining with us to-day?”
“Of course not!”
“I want to hear if he has anything to tell me — about those French ladies. He undertook to see them, in your absence, and to ascertain19 —” He was unable to overcome his reluctance20 to pronounce the next words. Stella was quick to understand what he meant. She finished the sentence for him.
“Yes,” he said, “I wanted to hear how the boy is getting on, and if there is any hope of curing him. Is it —” he trembled as he put the question —“Is it hereditary21 madness?”
Feeling the serious importance of concealing22 the truth, Stella only replied that she had hesitated to ask if there was a taint24 of madness in the family. “I suppose,” she added, “you would not like to see the boy, and judge of his chances of recovery for yourself?”
“You suppose?” he burst out, with sudden anger. “You might be sure. The bare idea of seeing him turns me cold. Oh, when shall I forget! when shall I forget! Who spoke of him first?” he said, with renewed irritability25, after a moment of silence. “You or I?”
“It was my fault, love — he is so harmless and so gentle, and he has such a sweet face — I thought it might soothe26 you to see him. Forgive me; we will never speak of him again. Have you any notes for me to copy? You know, Lewis, I am your secretary now.”
So she led Romayne away to his study and his books. When Major Hynd arrived, she contrived27 to be the first to see him. “Say as little as possible about the General’s widow and her son,” she whispered.
The Major understood her. “Don’t be uneasy, Mrs. Romayne,” he answered. “I know your husband well enough to know what you mean. Besides, the news I bring is good news.”
Romayne came in before he could speak more particularly. When the servants had left the room, after dinner, the Major made his report.
“I am going to agreeably surprise you,” he began. “All responsibility toward the General’s family is taken off our hands. The ladies are on their way back to France.”
Stella was instantly reminded of one of the melancholy28 incidents associated with her visit to Camp’s Hill. “Madame Marillac spoke of a brother of hers who disapproved29 of the marriage,” she said. “Has he forgiven her?”
“That is exactly what he has done, Mrs. Romayne. Naturally enough, he felt the disgrace of his sister’s marriage to such a man as the General. Only the other day he heard for the first time that she was a widow — and he at once traveled to England. I bade them good-by yesterday — most happily reunited — on their journey home again. Ah, I thought you would be glad, Mrs. Romayne, to hear that the poor widow’s troubles are over. Her brother is rich enough to place them all in easy circumstances — he is as good a fellow as ever lived.”
“Have you seen him?” Stella asked, eagerly.
“I have been with him to the asylum30.”
“Does the boy go back to France?”
“No. We took the place by surprise, and saw for ourselves how well conducted it was. The boy has taken a strong liking31 to the proprietor32 — a bright, cheerful old man, who is teaching him some of our English games, and has given him a pony33 to ride on. He burst out crying, poor creature, at the idea of going away — and his mother burst out crying at the idea of leaving him. It was a melancholy scene You know what a good mother is — no sacrifice is too great for her. The boy stays at the asylum, on the chance that his healthier and happier life there may help to cure him. By-the-way, Romayne, his uncle desires me to thank you —”
“Hynd! you didn’t tell the uncle my name?”
“Don’t alarm yourself. He is a gentleman, and when I told him I was pledged to secrecy34, he made but one inquiry35 — he asked if you were a rich man. I told him you had eighteen thousand a year.”
“Well?”
“Well, he set that matter right between us with perfect taste. He said: ‘I cannot presume to offer repayment36 to a person so wealthy. We gratefully accept our obligation to our kind unknown friend. For the future, however, my nephew’s expenses must be paid from my purse.’ Of course I could only agree to that. From time to time the mother is to hear, and I am to hear, how the boy goes on. Or, if you like, Romayne — now that the General’s family has left England — I don’t see why the proprietor might not make his report directly to yourself.”
“No!” Romayne rejoined, positively37. “Let things remain as they are.”
“Very well. I can send you any letters that I may receive from the asylum. Will you give us some music, Mrs. Romayne? Not to-night? Then let us go to the billiard-room; and as I am the worst of bad players, I will ask you to help me to beat your accomplished38 husband.”
On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Eyrecourt’s maid arrived at Ten Acres with a note from her mistress.
“Dearest Stella — Matilda must bring you my excuses for to-day. I don’t in the least understand it, but I seem to have turned lazy. It is most ridiculous — I really cannot get out of bed. Perhaps I did do just a little too much yesterday. The opera after the garden party, and a ball after the opera, and this tiresome39 cough all night after the ball. Quite a series, isn’t it? Make my apologies to our dear dismal40 Romayne — and if you drive out this afternoon, come and have a chat with me. Your affectionate mother, Emily Eyrecourt. P. S.— You know what a fidget Matilda is. If she talks about me, don’t believe a word she says to you.”
Stella turned to the maid with a sinking heart.
“Is my mother very ill?” she asked.
“So ill, ma’am, that I begged and prayed her to let me send for a doctor. You know what my mistress is. If you would please to use your influence —”
“I will order the carriage instantly, and take you back with me.”
Before she dressed to go out, Stella showed the letter to her husband. He spoke with perfect kindness and sympathy, but he did not conceal23 that he shared his wife’s apprehensions41. “Go at once,” were his last words to her; “and, if I can be of any use, send for me.”
It was late in the evening before Stella returned. She brought sad news.
The physician consulted told her plainly that the neglected cough, and the constant fatigue42, had together made the case a serious one. He declined to say that there was any absolute danger as yet, or any necessity for her remaining with her mother at night. The experience of the next twenty-four hours, at most, would enable him to speak positively. In the meantime, the patient insisted that Stella should return to her husband. Even under the influence of opiates, Mrs. Eyrecourt was still drowsily43 equal to herself. “You are a fidget, my dear, and Matilda is a fidget — I can’t have two of you at my bedside. Good-night.” Stella stooped over her and kissed her. She whispered: “Three weeks notice, remember, for the party!”
By the next evening the malady44 had assumed so formidable an aspect that the doctor had his doubts of the patient’s chance of recovery. With her husband’s full approval, Stella remained night and day at her mother’s bedside.
Thus, in a little more than a month from the day of his marriage, Romayne was, for the time, a lonely man again.
The illness of Mrs. Eyrecourt was unexpectedly prolonged. There were intervals45 during which her vigorous constitution rallied and resisted the progress of the disease. On these occasions, Stella was able to return to her husband for a few hours — subject always to a message which recalled her to her mother when the chances of life or death appeared to be equally balanced. Romayne’s one resource was in his books and his pen. For the first time since his union with Stella he opened the portfolios46 in which Penrose had collected the first introductory chapters of his historical work. Almost at every page the familiar handwriting of his secretary and friend met his view. It was a new trial to his resolution to be working alone; never had he felt the absence of Penrose as he felt it now. He missed the familiar face, the quiet pleasant voice, and, more than both, the ever-welcome sympathy with his work. Stella had done all that a wife could do to fill the vacant place; and her husband’s fondness had accepted the effort as adding another charm to the lovely creature who had opened a new life to him. But where is the woman who can intimately associate herself with the hard brain-work of a man devoted47 to an absorbing intellectual pursuit? She can love him, admire him, serve him, believe in him beyond all other men — but (in spite of exceptions which only prove the rule) she is out of her place when she enters the study while the pen is in his hand. More than once, when he was at work, Romayne closed the page bitterly; the sad thought came to him, “Oh, if I only had Penrose here!” Even other friends were not available as a resource in the solitary48 evening hours. Lord Loring was absorbed in social and political engagements. And Major Hynd — true to the principle of getting away as often as possible from his disagreeable wife and his ugly children — had once more left London.
One day, while Mrs. Eyrecourt still lay between life and death, Romayne found his historical labors49 suspended by the want of a certain volume which it was absolutely necessary to consult. He had mislaid the references written for him by Penrose, and he was at a loss to remember whether the book was in the British Museum, in the Bodleian Library, or in the Bibliotheque at Paris. In this emergency a letter to his former secretary would furnish him with the information that he required. But he was ignorant of Penrose’s present address. The Lorings might possibly know it — so to the Lorings he resolved to apply.
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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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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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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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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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...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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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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