Two days later, Amelius moved into his cottage.
He had provided himself with a new servant, as easily as he had provided himself with a new abode1. A foreign waiter at the hotel — a gray-haired Frenchman of the old school, reputed to be the most ill-tempered servant in the house — had felt the genial2 influence of Amelius with the receptive readiness of his race. Here was a young Englishman, who spoke3 to him as easily and pleasantly as if he was speaking to a friend — who heard him relate his little grievances4, and never took advantage of that circumstance to turn him into ridicule5 — who said kindly6, “I hope you don’t mind my calling you by your nickname,” when he ventured to explain that his Christian7 name was “Theophile,” and that his English fellow servants had facetiously8 altered and shortened it to “Toff,” to suit their insular9 convenience. “For the first time, sir,” he had hastened to add, “I feel it an honour to be Toff, when you speak to me.” Asking everybody whom he met if they could recommend a servant to him, Amelius had put the question, when Toff came in one morning with the hot water. The old Frenchman made a low bow, expressive10 of devotion. “I know of but one man, sir, whom I can safely recommend,” he answered —“take me.” Amelius was delighted; he had only one objection to make. “I don’t want to keep two servants,” he said, while Toff was helping11 him on with his dressing-gown. “Why should you keep two servants, sir?” the Frenchman inquired. Amelius answered, “I can’t ask you to make the beds.” “Why not?” said Toff — and made the bed, then and there, in five minutes. He ran out of the room, and came back with one of the chambermaid’s brooms. “Judge for yourself, sir — can I sweep a carpet?” He placed a chair for Amelius. “Permit me to save you the trouble of shaving yourself. Are you satisfied? Very good. I am equally capable of cutting your hair, and attending to your corns (if you suffer, sir, from that inconvenience). Will you allow me to propose something which you have not had yet for your breakfast?” In half an hour more, he brought in the new dish. “Oeufs a la Tripe12. An elementary specimen13, sir, of what I can do for you as a cook. Be pleased to taste it.” Amelius ate it all up on the spot; and Toff applied14 the moral, with the neatest choice of language. “Thank you, sir, for a gratifying expression of approval. One more specimen of my poor capabilities15, and I have done. It is barely possible — God forbid!— that you may fall ill. Honour me by reading that document.” He handed a written paper to Amelius, dated some years since in Paris, and signed in an English name. “I testify with gratitude16 and pleasure that Theophile Leblond has nursed me through a long illness, with an intelligence and devotion which I cannot too highly praise.” “May you never employ me, sir, in that capacity,” said Toff. “I have only to add that I am not so old as I look, and that my political opinions have changed, in later life, from red-republican to moderate-liberal. I also confess, if necessary, that I still have an ardent17 admiration18 for the fair sex.” He laid his hand on his heart, and waited to be engaged.
So the household at the cottage was modestly limited to Amelius and Toff.
Rufus remained for another week in London, to watch the new experiment. He had made careful inquiries19 into the Frenchman’s character, and had found that the complaints of his temper really amounted to this — that “he gave himself the airs of a gentleman, and didn’t understand a joke.” On the question of honesty and sobriety, the testimony20 of the proprietor21 of the hotel left Rufus nothing to desire. Greatly to his surprise, Amelius showed no disposition22 to grow weary of his quiet life, or to take refuge in perilous23 amusements from the sober society of his books. He was regular in his inquiries at Mr. Farnaby’s house; he took long walks by himself; he never mentioned Sally’s name; he lost his interest in going to the theatre, and he never appeared in the smoking-room of the club. Some men, observing the remarkable24 change which had passed over his excitable temperament25, would have hailed it as a good sign for the future. The New Englander looked below the surface, and was not so easily deceived. “My bright boy’s soul is discouraged and cast down,” was the conclusion that he drew. “There’s darkness in him where there once was light; and, what’s worse than all, he caves in, and keeps it to himself.” After vainly trying to induce Amelius to open his heart, Rufus at last went to Paris, with a mind that was ill at ease.
On the day of the American’s departure, the march of events was resumed; and the unnaturally26 quiet life of Amelius began to be disturbed again.
Making his customary inquiries in the forenoon at Mr. Farnaby’s door, he found the household in a state of agitation27. A second council of physicians had been held, in consequence of the appearance of some alarming symptoms in the case of the patient. On this occasion, the medical men told him plainly that he would sacrifice his life to his obstinacy28, if he persisted in remaining in London and returning to his business. By good fortune, the affairs of the bank had greatly benefited, through the powerful interposition of Mr. Melton. With the improved prospects30, Mr. Farnaby (at his niece’s entreaty) submitted to the doctor’s advice. He was to start on the first stage of his journey the next morning; and, at his own earnest desire, Regina was to go with him. “I hate strangers and foreigners; and I don’t like being alone. If you don’t go with me, I shall stay where I am — and die.” So Mr. Farnaby put it to his adopted daughter, in his rasping voice and with his hard frown.
“I am grieved, dear Amelius, to go away from you,” Regina said; “but what can I do? It would have been so nice if you could have gone with us. I did hint something of the sort; but —”
Her downcast face finished the sentence. Amelius felt the bare idea of being Mr. Farnaby’s travelling companion make his blood run cold. And Mr. Farnaby, on his side, reciprocated31 the sentiment. “I will write constantly, dear,” Regina resumed; “and you will write back, won’t you? Say you love me; and promise to come tomorrow morning, before we go.”
She kissed him affectionately — and, the instant after, checked the responsive outburst of tenderness in Amelius, by that utter want of tact32 which (in spite of the popular delusion33 to the contrary) is so much more common in women than in men, “My uncle is so particular about packing his linen,” she said; “nobody can please him but me; I must ask you to let me run upstairs again.”
Amelius went out into the street, with his head down and his lips fast closed. He was not far from Mrs. Payson’s house. “Why shouldn’t I call?” he thought to himself. His conscience added, “And hear some news of Sally.”
There was good news. The girl was brightening mentally and physically34 — she was in a fair way, if she only remained in the Home, to be “Simple” Sally no longer. Amelius asked if she had got the photograph of the cottage. Mrs. Payson laughed. “Sleeps with it under her pillow, poor child,” she said, “and looks at it fifty times a day.” Thirty years since, with infinitely35 less experience to guide her, the worthy36 matron would have followed her instincts, and would have hesitated to tell Amelius quite so much about the photograph. But some of a woman’s finer sensibilities do get blunted with the advance of age and the accumulation of wisdom.
Instead of pursuing the subject of Sally’s progress, Amelius, to Mrs. Payson’s surprise, made a clumsy excuse, and abruptly37 took his leave.
He felt the need of being alone; he was conscious of a vague distrust of himself, which degraded him in his own estimation. Was he, like characters he had read of in books, the victim of a fatality38? The slightest circumstances conspired39 to heighten his interest in Sally — just at the time when Regina had once more disappointed him. He was as firmly convinced, as if he had been the strictest moralist living, that it was an insult to Regina, and an insult to his own self-respect, to set the lost creature whom he had rescued in any light of comparison with the young lady who was one day to be his wife. And yet, try as he might to drive her out, Sally kept her place in his thoughts. There was, apparently40, some innate41 depravity in him. If a looking-glass had been handed to him at that moment, he would have been ashamed to look himself in the face.
After walking until he was weary, he went to his club.
The porter gave him a letter as he crossed the hall. Mrs. Farnaby had kept her promise, and had written to him. The smoking-room was deserted42 at that time of day. He opened his letter in solitude43, looked at it, crumpled44 it up impatiently, and put it into his pocket. Not even Mrs. Farnaby could interest him at that critical moment. His own affairs absorbed him. The one idea in his mind, after what he had heard about Sally, was the idea of making a last effort to hasten the date of his marriage before Mr. Farnaby left England. “If I can only feel sure of Regina —”
His thoughts went no further than that. He walked up and down the empty smoking-room, anxious and irritable45, dissatisfied with himself, despairing of the future. “I can but try it!” he suddenly decided46 — and turned at once to the table to write a letter.
Death had been busy with the members of his family in the long interval47 that had passed since he and his father left England. His nearest surviving relative was his uncle — his father’s younger brother — who occupied a post of high importance in the Foreign Office. To this gentleman he now wrote, announcing his arrival in England, and his anxiety to qualify himself for employment in a Government office. “Be so good as to grant me an interview,” he concluded; “and I hope to satisfy you that I am not unworthy of your kindness, if you will exert your influence in my favour.”
He sent away his letter at once by a private messenger, with instructions to wait for an answer.
It was not without doubt, and even pain, that he had opened communication with a man whose harsh treatment of his father it was impossible for him to forget. What could the son expect? There was but one hope. Time might have inclined the younger brother to make atonement to the memory of the elder, by a favourable48 reception of his nephew’s request.
His father’s last words of caution, his own boyish promise not to claim kindred with his relations in England, were vividly49 present to the mind of Amelius, while he waited for the return of the messenger. His one justification50 was in the motives51 that animated52 him. Circumstances, which his father had never anticipated, rendered it an act of duty towards himself to make the trial at least of what his family interest could do for him. There could be no sort of doubt that a man of Mr. Farnaby’s character would yield, if Amelius could announce that he had the promise of an appointment under Government — with the powerful influence of a near relation to accelerate his promotion53. He sat, idly drawing lines on the blotting-paper; at one moment regretting that he had sent his letter; at another, comforting himself in the belief that, if his father had been living to advise him, his father would have approved of the course that he had taken.
The messenger returned with these lines of reply:—
“Under any ordinary circumstances, I should have used my influence to help you on in the world. But, when you not only hold the most abominable54 political opinions, but actually proclaim those opinions in public, I am amazed at your audacity55 in writing to me. There must be no more communication between us. While you are a Socialist56, you are a stranger to me.”
Amelius accepted this new rebuff with ominous57 composure. He sat quietly smoking in the deserted room, with his uncle’s letter in his hand.
Among the other disastrous58 results of the lecture, some of the newspapers had briefly59 reported it. Preoccupied60 by his anxieties, Amelius had forgotten this when he wrote to his relative. “Just like me!” he thought, as he threw the letter into the fire. His last hopes floated up the chimney, with the tiny puff61 of smoke from the burnt paper. There was now no other chance of shortening the marriage engagement left to try. He had already applied to the good friend whom he had mentioned to Regina. The answer, kindly written in this case, had not been very encouraging:—
“I have other claims to consider. All that I can do, I will do. Don’t be disheartened — I only ask you to wait.”
Amelius rose to go home — and sat down again. His natural energy seemed to have deserted him — it required an effort to leave the club. He took up the newspapers, and threw them aside, one after another. Not one of the unfortunate writers and reporters could please him on that inauspicious day. It was only while he was lighting62 his second cigar that he remembered Mrs. Farnaby’s unread letter to him. By this time, he was more than weary of his own affairs. He read the letter.
“I find the people who have my happiness at their mercy both dilatory63 and greedy.” (Mrs. Farnaby wrote); “but the little that I can persuade them to tell me is very favourable to my hopes. I am still, to my annoyance64, only in personal communication with the hateful old woman. The young man either sends messages, or writes to me through the post. By this latter means he has accurately65 described, not only in which of my child’s feet the fault exists, but the exact position which it occupies. Here, you will agree with me, is positive evidence that he is speaking the truth, whoever he is.
“But for this reassuring66 circumstance, I should feel inclined to be suspicious of some things — of the obstinate67 manner, for instance, in which the young man keeps himself concealed68; also, of his privately69 warning me not to trust the woman who is his own messenger, and not to tell her on any account of the information which his letters convey to me. I feel that I ought to be cautious with him on the question of money — and yet, in my eagerness to see my darling, I am ready to give him all that he asks for. In this uncertain state of mind, I am restrained, strangely enough, by the old woman herself. She warns me that he is the sort of man, if he once gets the money, to spare himself the trouble of earning it. It is the one hold I have over him (she says)— so I control the burning impatience70 that consumes me as well as I can.
“No! I must not attempt to describe my own state of mind. When I tell you that I am actually afraid of dying before I can give my sweet love the first kiss, you will understand and pity me. When night comes, I feel sometimes half mad.
“I send you my present address, in the hope that you will write and cheer me a little. I must not ask you to come and see me yet. I am not fit for it — and, besides, I am under a promise, in the present state of the negotiations71, to shut the door on my friends. It is easy enough to do that; I have no friend, Amelius, but you.
“Try to feel compassionately72 towards me, my kind-hearted boy. For so many long years, my heart has had nothing to feed on but the one hope that is now being realized at last. No sympathy between my husband and me (on the contrary, a horrid73 unacknowledged enmity, which has always kept us apart); my father and mother, in their time both wretched about my marriage, and with good reason; my only sister dying in poverty — what a life for a childless woman! don’t let us dwell on it any longer.
“Goodbye for the present, Amelius. I beg you will not think I am always wretched. When I want to be happy, I look to the coming time.”
This melancholy74 letter added to the depression that weighed on the spirits of Amelius. It inspired him with vague fears for Mrs. Farnaby. In her own interests, he would have felt himself tempted75 to consult Rufus (without mentioning names), if the American had been in London. As things were, he put the letter back in his pocket with a sigh. Even Mrs. Farnaby, in her sad moments, had a consoling prospect29 to contemplate76. “Everybody but me!” Amelius thought.
His reflections were interrupted by the appearance of an idle young member of the club, with whom he was acquainted. The new-comer remarked that he looked out of spirits, and suggested that they should dine together and amuse themselves somewhere in the evening. Amelius accepted the proposal: any man who offered him a refuge from himself was a friend to him on that day. Departing from his temperate77 habits, he deliberately78 drank more than usual. The wine excited him for the time, and then left him more depressed79 than ever; and the amusements of the evening produced the same result. He returned to his cottage so completely disheartened, that he regretted the day when he had left Tadmor.
But he kept his appointment, the next morning, to take leave of Regina.
The carriage was at the door, with a luggage-laden cab waiting behind it. Mr. Farnaby’s ill-temper vented80 itself in predictions that they would be too late to catch the train. His harsh voice, alternating with Regina’s meek81 remonstrances82, reached the ears of Amelius from the breakfast-room. “I’m not going to wait for the gentleman-Socialist,” Mr. Farnaby announced, with his hardest sarcasm83 of tone. “Dear uncle, we have a quarter of an hour to spare!” “We have nothing of the sort; we want all that time to register the luggage.” The servant’s voice was heard next. “Mr. Goldenheart, miss.” Mr. Farnaby instantly stepped into the hall. “Goodbye!” he called to Amelius, through the open door of the dining-room — and passed straight on to the carriage. “I shan’t wait, Regina!” he shouted, from the doorstep. “Let him go by himself!” said Amelius indignantly, as Regina hurried into the room. “Oh, hush84, hush, dear! Suppose he heard you? No week shall pass without my writing to you; promise you will write back, Amelius. One more kiss! Oh, my dear!” The servant interposed, keeping discreetly86 out of sight. “I beg your pardon, miss, my master wishes to know whether you are going with him or not.” Regina waited to hear no more. She gave her lover a farewell look to remember her by, and ran out.
That innate depravity which Amelius had lately discovered in his own nature, let the forbidden thoughts loose in him again as he watched the departing carriage from the door. “If poor little Sally had been in her place —!” He made an effort of virtuous87 resolution, and stopped there. “What a blackguard a man may be,” he penitently88 reflected, “without suspecting it himself!”
He descended89 the house-steps. The discreet85 servant wished him good morning, with a certain cheery respect — the man was delighted to have seen the last of his hard master for some months to come. Amelius stopped and turned round, smiling grimly. He was in such a reckless humour, that he was even ready to divert his mind by astonishing a footman. “Richard,” he said, “are you engaged to be married?” Richard stared in blank surprise at the strange question — and modestly admitted that he was engaged to marry the housemaid next door. “Soon?” asked Amelius, swinging his stick. “As soon as I have saved a little more money, sir.” “Damn the money!” cried Amelius — and struck his stick on the pavement, and walked away with a last look at the house as if he hated the sight of it. Richard watched the departing young gentleman, and shook his head ominously90 as he shut the door.
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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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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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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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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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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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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temperament
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unnaturally
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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infinitely
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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abruptly
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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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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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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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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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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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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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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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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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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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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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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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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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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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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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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penitently
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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