Amelius left Mrs. Farnaby, troubled by emotions of confusion and alarm, which he was the last man living to endure patiently. Her extraordinary story of the discovered daughter, the still more startling assertion of her solution to leave the house, the absence of any plain explanation, the burden of secrecy1 imposed on him — all combined together to irritate his sensitive nerves. “I hate mysteries,” he thought; “and ever since I landed in England, I seem fated to be mixed up in them. Does she really mean to leave her husband and her niece? What will Farnaby do? What will become of Regina?”
To think of Regina was to think of the new repulse2 of which he had been made the subject. Again he had appealed to her love for him, and again she had refused to marry him at his own time.
He was especially perplexed3 and angry, when he reflected on the unassailably strong influence which her uncle appeared to have over her. All Regina’s sympathy was with Mr. Farnaby and his troubles. Amelius might have understood her a little better, if she had told him what had passed between her uncle and herself on the night of Mr. Farnaby’s return, in a state of indignation, from the lecture. In terror of the engagement being broken off, she had been forced to confess that she was too fond of Amelius to prevail on herself to part with him. If he attempted a second exposition of his Socialist5 principles on the platform, she owned that it might be impossible to receive him again as a suitor. But she pleaded hard for the granting of a pardon to the first offence, in the interests of her own tranquillity6, if not in mercy to Amelius. Mr. Farnaby, already troubled by his commercial anxieties, had listened more amiably7, and also more absently, than usual; and had granted her petition with the ready indulgence of a preoccupied8 man. It had been decided9 between them that the offence of the lecture should be passed over in discreet10 silence. Regina’s gratitude11 for this concession12 inspired her sympathy with her uncle in his present state of suspense13. She had been sorely tempted4 to tell Amelius what had happened. But the natural reserve of her character — fortified14, in this instance, by the defensive15 pride which makes a woman unwilling16, before marriage, to confess her weakness unreservedly to the man who has caused it — had sealed her lips. “When he is a little less violent and a little more humble,” she thought, “perhaps I may tell him.”
So it fell out that Amelius took his way through the streets, a mystified and an angry man.
Arrived in sight of the hotel, he stopped, and looked about him.
It was impossible to disguise from himself that a lurking17 sense of regret was making itself felt, in his present frame of mind, when he thought of Simple Sally. In all probability, he would have quarrelled with any man who had accused him of actually lamenting18 the girl’s absence, and wanting her back again. He happened to recollect19 her artless blue eyes, with their vague patient look, and her quaint20 childish questions put so openly in so sweet a voice — and that was all. Was there anything reprehensible21, if you please, in an act of remembrance? Comforting himself with these considerations, he moved on again a step or two — and stopped once more. In his present humour, he shrank from facing Rufus. The American read him like a book; the American would ask irritating questions. He turned his back on the hotel, and looked at his watch. As he took it out, his finger and thumb touched something else in his waistcoat-pocket. It was the card that Regina had given to him — the card of the cottage to let. He had nothing to do, and nowhere to go. Why not look at the cottage? If it proved to be not worth seeing, the Zoological Gardens were in the neighbourhood — and there are periods in a man’s life when he finds the society that walks on four feet a welcome relief from the society that walks on two.
It was a fairly fine day. He turned northward22 towards the Regent’s Park.
The cottage was in a by-road, just outside the park: a cottage in the strictest sense of the word. A sitting-room23, a library, and a bedroom — all of small proportions — and, under them a kitchen and two more rooms, represented the whole of the little dwelling24 from top to bottom. It was simply and prettily25 furnished; and it was completely surrounded by its own tiny plot of garden-ground. The library especially was a perfect little retreat, looking out on the back garden; peaceful and shady, and adorned26 with bookcases of old carved oak.
Amelius had hardly looked round the room, before his inflammable brain was on fire with a new idea. Other idle men in trouble had found the solace27 and the occupation of their lives in books. Why should he not be one of them? Why not plunge28 into study in this delightful29 retirement30 — and perhaps, one day, astonish Regina and Mr. Farnaby by bursting on the world as the writer of a famous book? Exactly as Amelius, two days since, had seen himself in the future, a public lecturer in receipt of glorious fees — so he now saw himself the celebrated31 scholar and writer of a new era to come. The woman who showed the cottage happened to mention that a gentleman had already looked over it that morning, and had seemed to like it. Amelius instantly gave her a shilling, and said, “I take it on the spot.” The wondering woman referred him to the house-agent’s address, and kept at a safe distance from the excitable stranger as she let him out. In less than another hour, Amelius had taken the cottage, and had returned to the hotel with a new interest in life and a new surprise for Rufus.
As usual, in cases of emergency, the American wasted no time in talking. He went out at once to see the cottage, and to make his own inquiries32 of the agent. The result amply proved that Amelius had not been imposed upon. If he repented33 of his bargain, the gentleman who had first seen the cottage was ready to take it off his hands, at a moment’s notice.
Going back to the Hotel, Rufus found Amelius resolute34 to move into his new abode35, and eager for the coming life of study and retirement. Knowing perfectly36 well before-hand how this latter project would end, the American tried the efficacy of a little worldly temptation. He had arranged, he said, “to have a good time of it in Paris”; and he proposed that Amelius should be his companion. The suggestion produced not the slightest effect; Amelius talked as if he was a confirmed recluse37, in the decline of life. “Thank you,” he said, with the most amazing gravity; “I prefer the company of my books, and the seclusion38 of my study.” This declaration was followed by more selling-out of money in the Funds, and by a visit to a bookseller, which left a handsome pecuniary39 result inscribed40 on the right side of the ledger41.
On the next day, Amelius presented himself towards two o’clock at Mr. Farnaby’s house. He was not so selfishly absorbed in his own projects as to forget Mrs. Farnaby. On the contrary, he was honestly anxious for news of her.
A certain middle-aged42 man of business has been briefly43 referred to, in these pages, as one of Regina’s faithful admirers, patiently submitting to the triumph of his favoured young rival. This gentleman, issuing from his carriage with his card-case ready in his hand, met Amelius at the door, with a face which announced plainly that a catastrophe44 had happened. “You have heard the sad news, no doubt?” he said, in a rich bass45 voice attuned46 to sadly courteous47 tones. The servant opened the door before Amelius could answer. After a contest of politeness, the middle-aged gentleman consented to make his inquiries first. “How is Mr. Farnaby? No better? And Miss Regina? Very poorly, oh? Dear, dear me! Say I called, if you please.” He handed in two cards, with a severe enjoyment48 of the melancholy49 occasion and the rich bass sounds of his own voice. “Very sad, is it not?” he said, addressing his youthful rival with an air of paternal50 indulgence. “Good morning.” He bowed with melancholy grace, and got into his carriage.
Amelius looked after the prosperous merchant, as the prancing51 horses drew him away. “After all,” he thought bitterly, “she might be happier with that rich prig than she could be with me.” He stepped into the hall, and spoke52 to the servant. The man had his message ready. Miss Regina would see Mr. Goldenheart, if he would be so good as to wait in the dinning-room.
Regina appeared, pale and scared; her eyes inflamed53 with weeping. “Oh, Amelius, can you tell me what this dreadful misfortune means? Why has she left us? When she sent for you yesterday, what did she say?”
In his position, Amelius could make but one answer. “Your aunt said she thought of going away. But,” he added, with perfect truth, “she refused to tell me why, or where she was going. I am quite as much at a loss to understand her as you are. What does your uncle propose to do?”
Mr. Farnaby’s conduct, as described by Regina, thickened the mystery — he proposed to do nothing.
He had been found on the hearth-rug in his dressing-room; having apparently54 been seized with a fit, in the act of burning some paper. The ashes were discovered close by him, just inside the fender. On his recovery, his first anxiety was to know if a letter had been burnt. Satisfied on this point, he had ordered the servants to assemble round his bed, and had peremptorily55 forbidden them to open the door to their mistress, if she ever returned at any future time to the house. Regina’s questions and remonstrances56, when she was left alone with him, were answered, once for all, in these pitiless terms:—“If you wish to deserve the fatherly interest that I take in you, do as I do: forget that such a person as your aunt ever existed. We shall quarrel, if you ever mention her name in my hearing again.” This said, he had instantly changed the subject; instructing Regina to write an excuse to “Mr. Melton” (otherwise, the middle-aged rival), with whom he had been engaged to dine that evening. Relating this latter event, Regina’s ever-ready gratitude overflowed57 in the direction of Mr. Melton. “He was so kind! he left his guests in the evening, and came and sat with my uncle for nearly an hour.” Amelius made no remark on this; he led the conversation back to the subject of Mrs. Farnaby. “She once spoke to me of her lawyers,” he said. “Do they know nothing about her?”
The answer to this question showed that the sternly final decision of Mr. Farnaby was matched by equal resolution on the part of his wife.
One of the partners in the legal firm had called that morning, to see Regina on a matter of business. Mrs. Farnaby had appeared at the office on the previous day, and had briefly expressed her wish to make a small annual provision for her niece, in case of future need. Declining to enter into any explanation, she had waited until the necessary document had been drawn58 out; had requested that Regina might be informed of the circumstance; and had then taken her departure in absolute silence. Hearing that she had left her husband, the lawyer, like every one else, was completely at a loss to understand what it meant.
“And what does the doctor say?” Amelius asked next.
“My uncle is to be kept perfectly quiet,” Regina answered; “and is not to return to business for some time to come. Mr. Melton, with his usual kindness, has undertaken to look after his affairs for him. Otherwise, my uncle, in his present state of anxiety about the bank, would never have consented to obey the doctor’s orders. When he can safely travel, he is recommended to go abroad for the winter, and get well again in some warmer climate. He refuses to leave his business — and the doctor refuses to take the responsibility. There is to be a consultation59 of physicians tomorrow. Oh, Amelius, I was really fond of my aunt — I am heart-broken at this dreadful change!”
There was a momentary60 silence. If Mr. Melton had been present, he would have said a few neatly61 sympathetic words. Amelius knew no more than a savage62 of the art of conventional consolation63. Tadmor had made him familiar with the social and political questions of the time, and had taught him to speak in public. But Tadmor, rich in books and newspapers, was a powerless training institution in the matter of small talk.
“Suppose Mr. Farnaby is obliged to go abroad,” he suggested, after waiting a little, “what will you do?”
Regina looked at him, with an air of melancholy surprise. “I shall do my duty, of course,” she answered gravely. “I shall accompany my dear uncle, if he wishes it.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It is time he took his medicine,” she resumed; “you will excuse me, I am sure.” She shook hands, not very warmly — and hastened out of the room.
Amelius left the house, with a conviction which disheartened him — the conviction that he had never understood Regina, and that he was not likely to understand her in the future. He turned for relief to the consideration of Mr. Farnaby’s strange conduct, under the domestic disaster which had befallen him.
Recalling what he had observed for himself, and what he had heard from Mrs. Farnaby when she had first taken him into her confidence, he inferred that the subject of the lost child had not only been a subject of estrangement64 between the husband and wife, but that the husband was, in some way, the person blamable for it. Assuming this theory to be the right one, there would be serious obstacles to the meeting of the mother and child, in the mother’s home. The departure of Mrs. Farnaby was, in that case, no longer unintelligible65 — and Mr. Farnaby’s otherwise inexplicable66 conduct had the light of a motive67 thrown on it, which might not unnaturally68 influence a hard-hearted man weary alike of his wife and his wife’s troubles. Arriving at this conclusion by a far shorter process than is here indicated, Amelius pursued the subject no further. At the time when he had first visited the Farnabys, Rufus had advised him to withdraw from closer intercourse69 with them, while he had the chance. In his present mood, he was almost in danger of acknowledging to himself that Rufus had proved to be right.
He lunched with his American friend at the hotel. Before the meal was over Mrs. Payson called, to say a few cheering words about Sally.
It was not to be denied that the girl remained persistently70 silent and reserved. In other respects the report was highly favourable71. She was obedient to the rules of the house; she was always ready with any little services that she could render to her companions; and she was so eager to improve herself, by means of her reading-lessons and writing-lessons, that it was not easy to induce her to lay aside her book and her slate72. When the teacher offered her some small reward for her good conduct, and asked what she would like, the sad little face brightened, and the faithful creature’s answer was always the same —“I should like to know what he is doing now.” (Alas for Sally!—“he” meant Amelius.)
“You must wait a little longer before you write to her,” Mrs. Payson concluded, “and you must not think of seeing her for some time to come. I know you will help us by consenting to this — for Sally’s sake.”
Amelius bowed in silence. He would not have confessed what he felt, at that moment, to any living soul — it is doubtful if he even confessed it to himself. Mrs. Payson, observing him with a woman’s keen sympathy, relented a little. “I might give her a message,” the good lady suggested —“just to say you are glad to hear she is behaving so well.”
“Will you give her this?” Amelius asked.
He took from his pocket a little photograph of the cottage, which he had noticed on the house-agent’s desk, and had taken away with him. “It is my cottage now,” he explained, in tones that faltered73 a little; “I am going to live there; Sally might like to see it.”
“Sally shall see it,” Mrs. Payson agreed —“if you will only let me take this away first.” She pointed74 to the address of the cottage, printed under the photograph. Past experience in the Home made her reluctant to trust Sally with the address in London at which Amelius was to be found.
Rufus produced a huge complex knife, out of the depths of which a pair of scissors burst on touching75 a spring. Mrs. Payson cut off the address, and placed the photograph in her pocket-book. “Now,” she said, “Sally will be happy, and no harm can come of it.”
“I’ve known you, ma’am, nigh on twenty years,” Rufus remarked. “I do assure you that’s the first rash observation I ever heard from your lips.”
Book the Seventh.
The Vanishing Hopes
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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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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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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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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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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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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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparently
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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remonstrances
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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neatly
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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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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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71
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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72
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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73
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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74
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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75
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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