Mr. Waldershare was delighted when the great secret was out, and he found that the ministry1 intended to dissolve, and not resign. It was on a Monday that Lord John Russell made this announcement, and Waldershare met Endymion in the lobby of the House of Commons. “I congratulate you, my dear boy; your fellows, at least, have pluck. If they lose, which I think they will, they will have gained at least three months of power, and irresponsible power. Why! they may do anything in the interval2, and no doubt will. You will see; they will make their chargers consuls3. It beats the Bed–Chamber Plot, and I always admired that. One hundred days! Why, the Second Empire lasted only one hundred days. But what days! what excitement! They were worth a hundred years at Elba.”
“Your friends do not seem quite so pleased as you are,” said Endymion.
“My friends, as you call them, are old fogies, and want to divide the spoil among the ancient hands. It will be a great thing for Peel to get rid of some of these old friends. A dissolution permits the powerful to show their power. There is Beaumaris, for example; now he will have an opportunity of letting them know who Lord Beaumaris is. I have a dream; he must be Master of the Horse. I shall never rest till I see Imogene riding in that golden coach, and breaking the line with all the honours of royalty4.”
“Mr. Ferrars,” said the editor of a newspaper, seizing his watched-for opportunity as Waldershare and Endymion separated, “do you think you could favour me this evening with Mr. Sidney Wilton’s address? We have always supported Mr. Wilton’s views on the corn laws, and if put clearly and powerfully before the country at this junction5, the effect might be great, perhaps even, if sustained, decisive.”
Eight-and-forty hours and more had elapsed since the conversation between Endymion and Lady Montfort; they had not been happy days. For the first time during their acquaintance there had been constraint6 and embarrassment7 between them. Lady Montfort no longer opposed his views, but she did not approve them. She avoided the subject; she looked uninterested in all that was going on around her; talked of joining her lord and going a-fishing; felt he was right in his views of life. “Dear Simon was always right,” and then she sighed, and then she shrugged8 her pretty shoulders. Endymion, though he called on her as usual, found there was nothing to converse9 about; politics seemed tacitly forbidden, and when he attempted small talk Lady Montfort seemed absent—and once absolutely yawned.
What amazed Endymion still more was, that, under these rather distressing10 circumstances, he did not find adequate support and sympathy in his sister. Lady Roehampton did not question the propriety11 of his decision, but she seemed quite as unhappy and as dissatisfied as Lady Montfort.
“What you say, dearest Endymion, is quite unanswerable, and I alone perhaps can really know that; but what I feel is, I have failed in life. My dream was to secure you greatness, and now, when the first occasion arrives, it seems I am more than powerless.”
“Dearest sister! you have done so much for me.”
“Nothing,” said Lady Roehampton; “what I have done for you would have been done by every sister in this metropolis12. I dreamed of other things; I fancied, with my affection and my will, I could command events, and place you on a pinnacle13. I see my folly14 now; others have controlled your life, not I—as was most natural; natural, but still bitter.”
“Dearest Myra!”
“It is so, Endymion. Let us deceive ourselves no longer. I ought not to have rested until you were in a position which would have made you a master of your destiny.”
“But if there should be such a thing as destiny, it will not submit to the mastery of man.”
“Do not split words with me; you know what I mean; you feel what I mean; I mean much more than I say, and you understand much more than I say. My lord told me to ask you to dine with us, if you called, but I will not ask you. There is no joy in meeting at present. I feel as I felt in our last year at Hurstley.”
“Oh! don’t say that, dear Myra!” and Endymion sprang forward and kissed her very much. “Trust me; all will come right; a little patience, and all will come right.”
“I have had patience enough in life,” said Lady Roehampton; “years of patience, the most doleful, the most dreary15, the most dark and tragical16. And I bore it all, and I bore it well, because I thought of you, and had confidence in you, and confidence in your star; and because, like an idiot, I had schooled myself to believe that, if I devoted17 my will to you, that star would triumph.”
So, the reader will see, that our hero was not in a very serene18 and genial19 mood when he was buttonholed by the editor in the lobby, and, it is feared, he was unusually curt20 with that gentleman, which editors do not like, and sometimes reward with a leading article in consequence, on the character and career of our political chief, perhaps with some passing reference to jacks-inoffice, and the superficial impertinence of private secretaries. These wise and amiable21 speculators on public affairs should, however, sometimes charitably remember that even ministers have their chagrins22, and that the trained temper and imperturbable23 presence of mind of their aides-decamp are not absolutely proof to all the infirmities of human nature.
Endymion had returned home from the lobby, depressed24 and dispirited. The last incident of our life shapes and colours our feelings. Ever since he had settled in London, his life might be said to have been happy, gradually and greatly prosperous. The devotion of his sister and the eminent25 position she had achieved, the friendship of Lady Montfort, and the kindness of society, who had received him with open arms, his easy circumstances after painful narrowness of means, his honourable26 and interesting position—these had been the chief among many other causes which had justly rendered Endymion Ferrars a satisfied and contented27 man. And it was more than to be hoped that not one of these sources would be wanting in his future. And yet he felt dejected, even to unhappiness. Myra figured to his painful consciousness only as deeply wounded in her feelings, and he somehow the cause; Lady Montfort, from whom he had never received anything but smiles and inspiring kindness, and witty28 raillery, and affectionate solicitude29 for his welfare, offended and estranged30. And as for society, perhaps it would make a great difference in his position if he were no longer a private secretary to a cabinet minister and only a simple clerk; he could not, even at this melancholy31 moment, dwell on his impending32 loss of income, though that increase at the time had occasioned him, and those who loved him, so much satisfaction. And yet was he in fault? Had his decision been a narrow-minded and craven one? He could not bring himself to believe so—his conscience assured him that he had acted rightly. After all that he had experienced, he was prepared to welcome an obscure, but could not endure a humiliating position.
It was a long summer evening. The House had not sat after the announcement of the ministers. The twilight33 lingered with a charm almost as irresistible34 as among woods and waters. Endymion had been engaged to dine out, but had excused himself. Had it not been for the Montfort misunderstanding, he would have gone; but that haunted him. He had not called on her that day; he really had not courage to meet her. He was beginning to think that he might never see her again; never, certainly, on the same terms. She had the reputation of being capricious, though she had been constant in her kindness to him. Never see her again, or only see her changed! He was not aware of the fulness of his misery35 before; he was not aware, until this moment, that unless he saw her every day life would be intolerable.
He sat down at his table, covered with notes in every female handwriting except the right one, and with cards of invitation to banquets and balls and concerts, and “very earlies,” and carpet dances—for our friend was a very fashionable young man—but what is the use of even being fashionable, if the person you love cares for you no more? And so out of very wantonness, instead of opening notes sealed or stamped with every form of coronet, he took up a business-like epistle, closed only with a wafer, and saying in drollery36, “I should think a dun,” he took out a script receipt for 20,000 pounds consols, purchased that morning in the name of Endymion Ferrars, Esq. It was enclosed in half a sheet of note-paper, on which were written these words, in a handwriting which gave no clue of acquaintanceship, or even sex: “Mind—you are to send me your first frank.”
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1
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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consuls
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| 领事( consul的名词复数 )； （古罗马共和国时期）执政官 （古罗马共和国及其军队的最高首长，同时共有两位，每年选举一次） | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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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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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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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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chagrins
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| v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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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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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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33
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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34
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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