Ida made her way back to the Embankment somehow, hardly knowing where she was going or what she was going to do. The airy castle which she had built for herself had fallen about her ears, and she was left standing1 amidst the ruins. Wendover Abbey, wealth, position, independence, the world’s respect, were all as far from her as they had been a month ago. Her sense of disappointment was keen, but not so keen as the sense of her self-abasement. Her own character stood revealed, to herself in all its meanness — its sordid2 longing3 for worldly wealth — its willingness to stoop to falsehood in the pursuit of a woman’s lowest aim, a good establishment. Seen in the light of abject4 failure, the scheme of her life seemed utterly5 detestable. Success would have gilded6 everything. As the wife of the rich Brian she would have done her duty in all wifely meekness7 and obedience8, and would have gone down to the grave under the comforting delusion9 that she had in no wise forfeited10 honour or self-respect. Cheated, duped, degraded, she now felt all the infamy11 implied in her willingness to marry a man for whom she cared not a straw.
‘Oh, it was cruel, iniquitous,’ she said to herself, as she hurried along the dusty pavement, impelled12 by agitated13 thoughts, ‘to trade upon my weakness — my misery14 — to see me steeped to the lips in odious15 poverty, and to tempt16 me with the glitter of wealth. I never pretended to love him — never — thank God for that! I let him tell me that he loved me, and I consented to be his wife; but I pretended no love on my side. Thank God for that! He cannot say that I lied to him.’
She hurried along, citywards, following the stream of people, and found herself presently in broad, busy Queen Victoria Street, with all the traffic hastening by her, staring helplessly at the cabs, and omnibuses, waggons17, carriages streaming east and west under the murky18 London sky, vaguely19 wondering what she was to do next.
He — her husband — had asked her if she were going back to her father, and she had said ‘Yes.’ Indeed it was the only course open to her. She must go home and face the situation, and accept any paternal20 reproof21 that might be offered her. She had lost a day. No doubt Miss Pew’s indictment22 would have arrived before her; and she would have to explain her conduct to father and step-mother. But the little white-walled house near Dieppe was the only shelter the universe held for her, and she must go there.
‘Wendover Abbey!’ she repeated to herself. I the mistress of Wendover Abbey! That was too good a joke, ‘Why did I not see the folly23 of such a dream? But it was just like other dreams. When one dreams one is a queen, or that one can fly, there is no consciousness of the absurdity24 of the thing.’
She stood staring at the omnibuses till the conductor of one that was nearly empty murmured invitingly25 in her ear, ‘London Bridge?’
It was the place to which she wanted to go. She nodded to the man, who opened his door and let her in.
She was at the station at a quarter to four, and the train for Newhaven did not leave till seven — a long dismal26 stretch of empty time to be lived through. But she could not improve her situation by going anywhere else. The station, with its dingy27 waiting-rooms and garish28 refreshment29-room, was as good an hotel for her as any other. She was faint for want of food, having taken nothing since her apology for breakfast at seven o’clock.
‘Can one get a cup of tea here?’ she asked of the dry-as-dust matron in charge of the waiting-room; whereupon the matron good-naturedly offered to fetch her some tea.
‘If you would be so kind,’ she faltered30, too exhausted31 to speak above a whisper; ‘I don’t like going into that crowded refreshment-room.’
‘No, to be sure — not much used to travelling alone, I daresay. You will be better when you’ve had a cup of tea.’
The tea, with a roll and butter, revived exhausted nature. Ida paid for this temperate32 refreshment, went to the booking-office, made some inquiries33 about her ticket, and bought herself a book at the stall, wherewith to beguile34 the time and to distract her mind from brooding on its own miseries35.
She felt it was a frightful36 extravagance as she paid away two of Miss Cobb’s shillings for Bulwer’s ‘Caxtons;’ but she felt also that to live through those three tedious hours without such aid would be a step on the road to a lunatic asylum37.
Armed with her book, she went back to the waiting-room, settled herself in a corner of the sofa, and remained there absorbed, immovable; while travellers came and went, all alike fussy38, flurried, and full of their own concerns — not one of them stopping to notice the pale, tired-looking girl reading in the remotest corner of the spacious39 room.
A somewhat stormy passage brought the boat which carried Ida and her fortunes to straggling, stony40, smelly Dieppe, now abandoned to its native population, and deprived of that flavour of fashion which pervades41 its beach in the brighter months of August and September. The town looked gray, cold, and forbidding in the bleak42 October morning, when Ida found herself alone amidst its stoniness43, the native population only just beginning to bestir itself in the street above the quay44, and making believe, by an inordinate45 splashing and a frantic46 vehemence47 in the use of birch-brooms, to be the cleanest population under the sun; an assertion of superiority somewhat belied48 by an all-pervading odour of decomposed49 vegetable matter, a small heap of which refuse, including egg-shells and fishy50 offal — which the town in the matutinal cleansing51 process offered up to the sun-god as incense52 upon an altar — lay before every door, to be collected by the local scavenger53 at his leisure, or to be blown about and disseminated54 by the winds of heaven.
Alone upon the stony quay, in the freshness and chilliness55 of early morning, Ida took temporary refuge in the humblest café she could find, where a feeble old woman was feebly brooming the floor, and where there was no appearance of any masculine element. Here she expended56 another of Miss Cobb’s shillings upon a cup of coffee and a roll. She had spent five and twenty shillings for her second-class ticket. The debt to Miss Cobb now amounted to a sovereign and a half; and Ida Palliser thought of it with an aching sense of her own helplessness to refund57 so large a sum. Yesterday morning, believing herself about to become the wife of a rich man, she had thought what fun it would be to send ‘Cobby’ a five-pound note in the prettiest of ivory purses from one of those shops in the street yonder.
She drank her coffee slowly, not anxious to hasten the hour of a home-coming which could not be altogether pleasant. She was as fond of her father as adverse58 circumstances had allowed her to be; she adored her half-brother, and was not unkindly disposed towards her step-mother. But to go back to them penniless, threadbare, disgraced — go back to be a burden upon their genteel poverty. That was bitter.
She had made up her mind to walk to Les Fontaines rather than make any further inroad upon Miss Cobb’s purse for coach-hire. What was she that she should be idle or luxurious59, or spare the labour of her young limbs? She went along the narrow stony street where the shops were only now being opened, past the wide market where the women were setting out their stalls in front of the fine old church, and where Duguesclin, heroic and gigantic, defied the stormy winds that had ruffled60 his sculptured hair.
Two years and a half ago it had been a treat to her to walk in that market-place, hanging on her father’s arm, to stand in the sombre stillness of that solemn cathedral, while the organ rolled its magnificent music along the dusky aisles61. They two had chaffered for fruit at those stalls, laughing gaily62 with the good-tempered countrywomen. They had strolled on the beach and amused themselves economically, from the outside, with the diversions of the établissement. An afternoon in Dieppe had meant fun and holiday-making. Now she looked at the town with weary eyes, and thought how dull and shabby it had grown.
The walk to Les Fontaines, along a white dusty road, seemed interminable. If she had not been told again and again that it was only four miles from the town to the village, she would have taken the distance for eight — so long, so weary, seemed the way. There were hills in the background, hills right and left of her, orchards63, glimpses of woodland — here and there a peep of sea — pretty enough road to be whirled along in a comfortable carriage with a fast horse, but passing flat, stale, and unprofitable to the heavy-hearted pedestrian.
At last the little straggling village, the half-dozen new houses — square white boxes, which seemed to have been dropped accidentally in square enclosures of ragged64 garden — white-walled penitentiaries65 on a small scale, deriving66 an air of forced liveliness from emerald-green shutters67, here a tree, and there a patch of rough grass, but never a flower — for the scarlet68 geraniums in the plaster vases on the wall of the grandest of the mansions69 had done blooming, and beyond scarlet geraniums on the wall the horticultural taste of Les Fontaines had never risen. The old cottages, with heavy thatched roofs and curious attic70 windows, with fruit trees sprawling71 over the walls, and orchards in the rear, were better than the new villas72; but even these lacked the neatness and picturesque73 beauty of an English cottage in a pastoral landscape. There was a shabby dustiness, a barren, comfortless look about everything; and the height of ugliness was attained74 in the new church, a plastered barn, with a gaudily75 painted figure of our Blessed Lady in a niche76 above the door, all red and blue and gold, against the white-washed wall.
Ida thought of Kingthorpe — the rustic77 inn with its queer old gables, shining lattices, quaint78 dovecots, the green, the pond, with its willowy island, the lovely old Gothic church — solid, and grave, and gray — calm amidst the shade of immemorial yews79. The country about Les Fontaines was almost as pretty as that hilly region between Winchester and Romsey; but the English village was like a gem80 set in the English landscape, while the French village was a wart81 on the face of a smiling land.
‘Why call it Les Fontaines?’ Ida wondered, in her parched82 and dusty weariness. ‘It is the dryest village I ever saw; and I don’t believe there is anything like a fountain within a mile.’
Her father’s house was one of the white boxes with green shutters. It enjoyed a dignified83 seclusion84 behind a plaster wall, which looked as if anyone might knock it down in very wantonness. The baby-boy had varied85 the monotony of his solitary86 sports by picking little bits out of it. There was a green door opening into this walled forecourt or garden, but the door was not fastened, so Ida pushed it open and went in. The baby-boy, now a sturdy vagabond of five years old, was digging an empty flower-bed. He caught sight of his sister, and galloped87 off into the house before she could take him in her arms, shouting, ‘Maman, une dame88 — une dame! lady, lady, lady!’ exercising his lungs upon both those languages which were familiar to his dawning intelligence.
His mother came out at his summons, a pretty, blue-eyed woman with an untidy gown and towzley hair, aged89 and faded a little since Ida had seen her.
‘Oh, Ida,’ she said, kissing her step-daughter heartily90 enough, despite her reproachful tone, ‘how could you go on so! We have had such a letter from Miss Pew. Your father is awfully91 cut up. And we were expecting you all yesterday. He went to Dieppe to meet the afternoon boat. Where have you been since Tuesday?’
‘I slept at the lock-house with a nice civil woman, who gave me a night’s lodging,’ said Ida, somewhat embarrassed by this question.
‘But why not have come home at once, dear?’ asked the step-mother mildly. She always felt herself a poor creature before her Juno-like daughter.
‘I was flurried and worried — hardly knew what I was doing for the first few hours after I left Mauleverer; and I let the time slip by till it was too late to think of travelling yesterday,’ answered Ida. ‘Old Pew is a demon92.’
‘She seems to be a nasty, unkind old thing,’ said Mrs. Palliser; ‘for, after all, the worst she can bring against you is flirting93 with your friend’s cousin. I hope you are engaged to him, dear; for that will silence everybody.’
‘No, I am not engaged to him — he is nothing to me,’ answered Ida, crimsoning94; ‘I never saw him, except in Fr?ulein’s company. Neither you nor my father would like me to marry a man without sixpence.’
‘But in Miss Pew’s letter she said you declared you were engaged to Mr. Wendover of the Abbey, a gentleman of wealth and position. She was wicked enough to say she did not believe a word you said; but still, Ida, I do hope you were not telling falsehoods.’
‘I hardly knew what I said,’ replied Ida, feeling the difficulties of her position rising up on every side and hemming95 her in. She had never contemplated96 this kind of thing when she repudiated97 her marriage and turned her face homewards. ‘She maddened me by her shameful98 attack, talking to me as if I were dirt, degrading me before the whole school. If you had been treated as I was you would have been beside yourself.’
‘I might have gone into hysterics,’ said Mrs. Palliser, ‘but I don’t think I should have told deliberate falsehoods: and to say that you were engaged to a rich man when you were not engaged, and the man hasn’t a sixpence, was going a little too far. But don’t fret100, dear,’ added the step-mother, soothingly101, as the tears of shame and anger — anger against fate, life, all things — welled into Ida’s lovely eyes. ‘Never mind. We’ll say no more about it. Come upstairs to your own room — it’s Vernie’s day-nursery now, but you won’t mind that, I know — and take off your hat. Poor thing, how tired and ill you look!’
‘I feel as if I was going to be ill and die, and I hope I am,’ said Ida, petulantly102.
‘Don’t, dear; it’s wicked to say such a thing as that. You needn’t be afraid of your poor pa; he takes everything easily.’
‘Yes, he is always good. Where is he?’
‘Not up yet. He comes down in time for his little déje?ner à la fourchette. Poor fellow, he had to get up so early in India.’
Captain Palliser had for the last seven years been trying to recover those arrears103 of sleep incurred104 during his Eastern career. He had been active enough under a tropical sky, when his mind was kept alive by a modicum105 of hard work and a very wide margin106 of sport — pig-sticking, peacock-shooting, paper-chases, all the delights of an Indian life. But now, vegetating107 on a slender pittance108 in the semi-slumberous idleness of Les Fontaines, he had nothing to do and nothing to think about; and he was glad to shorten his days by dozing109 away the fresher hours of the morning, while his wife toiled110 at the preparation of that elaborate meal which he loved to talk about as tiffin.
Poor little Mrs. Palliser made strenuous111 efforts to keep the sparsely112 furnished dusty house as clean and trim as it could be kept; but her life was a perpetual conflict with other people’s untidiness.
The house was let furnished, and everything was in the third-rate French style — inferior mahogany and cheap gilding113, bare floors with gaudy114 little rugs lying about here and there, tables with flaming tapestry115 covers, chairs cushioned with red velvet116 of the commonest kind, sham99 tortoiseshell clock and candelabra on the dining-room chimney-piece, alabaster117 clock and candelabra in the drawing-room. There was nothing home-like or comfortable in the house to atone118 for the smallness of the rooms, which seemed mere119 cells to Ida after the spaciousness120 of Mauleverer Manor121 and The Knoll122. She wondered how her father and mother could breathe in such rooms.
That bed-chamber to which Mrs. Palliser introduced her step-daughter was even a shade shabbier than the rest of the house. The boy had run riot here, had built his bricks in one corner, had stabled a headless wooden horse and cart in another, and had scattered123 traces of his existence everywhere. There were his little Windsor chair, the nurse-girl’s rocking chair, a battered124 old table, a heap of old illustrated125 newspapers, and torn toy-books.
‘You won’t mind Vernon’s using the room in the day, dear, will you?’ said Mrs. Palliser, apologetically. ‘It shall be tidied for you at night.’
This meant that in the daytime Ida would have no place for retreat, no nook or corner of the house which she might call her own. She submitted meekly126 even to this deprivation127, feeling that she was an intruder who had no right to be there.
‘I should like to see my father soon,’ she said, with a trembling lip, stooping down to caress128 Vernon, who had followed them upstairs.
He was a lovely, fair-haired boy, with big candid129 blue eyes, a lovable, confiding130 child, full of life and spirits and friendly feeling towards all mankind and the whole animal creation, down to its very lowest forms.
‘You shall have your breakfast with him,’ said Mrs. Palliser, feeling that she was conferring a great favour, for the Captain’s breakfast was a meal apart. ‘I don’t say but what he’ll be a little cross to you at first; but you must put up with that. He’ll come round afterwards.’
‘He has not seen me for two years and a half,’ said Ida, thinking that fatherly affection ought to count for something under such circumstances.
‘Yes, it’s only two years and a half,’ sighed Mrs. Palliser, ‘and you were to have stayed at Mauleverer Manor three years. Miss Pew is a wicked old woman to cheat your father out of six months’ board and tuition. He paid her fifty pounds in one lump when he articled you — fifty pounds — a heap of money for people in our position; and here you are, come back to us like a bad penny.’
‘I am very sorry,’ faltered Ida, reddening at that unflattering comparison. ‘But I worked very hard at Mauleverer, and am tolerably experienced in tuition. I must try to get a governess’s situation directly, and then I shall be paid a salary, and shall be able to give you back the fifty pounds by degrees.’
‘Ah, that’s the dreadful part of it all,’ sighed Mrs. Palliser, who was very seldom in the open air, and had that despondent131 view of life common to people who live within four narrow walls. ‘Goodness knows how you are ever to get a situation without references. Miss Pew says you are not to refer to her; and who else is there who knows anything of you or your capacity?’
‘Yes, there is some one else. Bessie Wendover and her family.’
‘The people you went to visit in Hampshire. Ah! there went another five pounds in a lump. You have been a heavy expense to us, Ida. I don’t know whether anyone wanting to employ you as a governess would take such a reference as that. People are so particular. But we must hope for the best, and in the meantime you can make yourself useful at home in taking care of Vernon and teaching him his letters. He is dreadfully backward.’
‘He is an angel,’ said Ida, lifting the cherub132 in her arms, and letting the fair, curly head nestle upon her shoulder. ‘I will wait upon him like a slave. You do love me, don’t you, pet?’
‘Ess, I love ‘oo, but I don’t know who ‘oo is. Connais pas,’ said Vernon, shaking his head vehemently133.
‘I am your sister, darling, your only sister.’
‘My half-sister,’ said Vernon. ‘Maman said I had a half-sister, and she was naughty. Dites donc, would a whole sister be twice as big as you?’
Thus in his baby language, which may be easier imagined than described, gravely questioned the boy.
‘I am your sister, dearest, heart and soul. There is no such thing as half-love or half-sisterhood between us. You should not have talked to him like that, mother,’ said Ida, turning her reproachful gaze upon her step-mother, who was melted to tears.
‘Your father was so upset by Miss Pew’s letter,’ she murmured apologetically. ‘To pay fifty pounds for you, and for it to end in such humiliation134 as that. You must own that it was hard for us.’
‘It was harder for me,’ said Ida; ‘I had to stand up and face that wicked woman, who knew that I had done no wrong, and who wreaked135 her malignity136 upon me because I am cleverer and better-looking than ever she was in her life.’
‘I must go and make your father’s omelette,’ said the stepmother, ‘while you tidy yourself for breakfast. I think there’s some water on the washstand, and Vernon shall bring you a clean towel.’
The little fellow trotted137 out after his mother, and trotted back presently with the towel — one towel, which was about in proportion to the water-jug and basin. Ida shuddered138, remembering the plentitude of water and towels at The Knoll. She made her toilet as well as she could, with the scantiest139 materials, as she might have done on board ship; shook and brushed the shabby gray cashmere — her wedding gown, she thought, with a bitter smile — before she put it on again, and then went down the bare narrow deal staircase, superb in all the freshness of her youth and beauty, which neither care nor poverty could spoil.
Captain Palliser was pacing up and down his little dining parlour, looking flurried and anxious. He turned suddenly as Ida entered, and stood staring at her.
‘By Jove, how handsome you have grown!’ he said, and then he look her in his arms and kissed her. ‘But you know, my dear, this is really too bad,’ he went on in a fretful tone,’ to come back upon us like a bad penny.’
‘That is what my step-mother said just now.’
‘My dear, how can one help saying it, when it’s the truth? After my paying fifty pounds, don’t you know, and thinking that you were comfortably disposed of for the next three years, and that at the expiry of the term Miss Pew would place you in a gentleman’s family, where you would receive from sixty to a hundred per annum, according to your acquirements — those were her very words — to have you sent back to us like this, in disgrace, and to be told that you had been carrying on in an absurd way with a young man on the bank of a river. It is most humiliating. And now my wife tells me the young man has not a sixpence which makes the whole thing so very culpable140.’
‘Please let me tell you the extent of my iniquity141, father, and then you can judge what right Miss Pew had to expel me.’
Whereupon Ida quietly described her afternoon promenades142 upon the river-path, with the Fr?ulein always in her company, and how her friend’s cousin had been permitted to walk up and down with them.
‘Nobody supposes there was any actual harm,’ replied Captain Palliser, ‘but you must have been perfectly143 aware that you were acting144 foolishly — that this kind of thing was a violation145 of the school etiquette146. Come, now, you knew Miss Pew would disapprove147 of such goings on, did you not?’
‘Well, yes, no doubt I knew old Pew would be horrified148. Perhaps it was the idea of that which gave a zest149 to the thing.’
‘Precisely! and you never thought of my fifty pounds, and you ran this risk for the sake of a young man without a penny, who never could be your husband.’
Ida grew scarlet and then deadly pale.
‘There, don’t look so distressed150, child. I must try to forget my fifty pounds, and to think of your future career. It is a deuced awkward business — here come the omelette and the coffee — an escapade of this kind is always cropping up against a girl in after life — sit down and make yourself comfortable — capital dish of kidneys — the world is so small; and of course every pupil at Mauleverer Manor will gabble about this business. No mushrooms! — what is the little woman thinking about?’
Captain Palliser seated himself, and arranged his napkin under his chin, French fashion. His features were of that aquiline151 type which seems to have been invented on purpose for army men. His eyes were light blue, like his boy’s — Ida’s dark eyes were a maternal152 inheritance — his hair was auburn, sprinkled with gray, his moustache straw-colour and with a carefully trained cavalry153 droop154. His clothes and boots were perfect of their kind, albeit155 they had seen good wear. He had been heard to declare that he had rather wear feathers and war-paint, like a red Indian, than a coat made by a third-rate tailor. He was tall and inclining to stoutness156, broad-shouldered, and with an easy carriage and a nonchalant air, which were not without their charm. He had what most people called a patrician157 look — that is to say the air of never having done anything useful in the whole course of his existence — not such a patrician as a Palmerston, a Russell, a Derby, or a Salisbury, but the ideal lotus-eating aristocrat158, who dresses, drives, and dines and gossips through a languid existence.
The Captain’s career in the East had not been particularly brilliant. His lines had not lain in great battles or stirring campaigns. Except during the awful episode of the Mutiny, when he was still a young man, he had seen little active service. His life, since his return from India, had been a blank.
His mind, never vigorous, had rusted159 slowly in the slow monotony of his days. He had come to accept the rhythmical160 ebb161 and flow of life’s river as all-sufficient for content. Breakfast and dinner were the chief events of his life — if it was well with these it was well with him.
There was a rustic tavern162 where in summer a good many people came to dine, either in the house or the garden, and in a room adjoining the kitchen there was a small French billiard-table with very big balls. Here the Captain played of an evening with the habitués of the place, and was much looked up to for his superior skill. An occasional drive into Dieppe on the banquette of the diligence, and a saunter by the sea, was his only other amusement.
His daughter poured out his coffee, and ministered to his various wants as he breakfasted, eating with but little appetite herself, albeit the fare was excellent.
Captain Palliser talked in a desultory163 way as he ate, not often looking up from his plate, but meandering165 on. Happily for Ida, who had been reduced to the lowest stage of self-abasement by her welcome, he said no more about Miss Pew or his daughter’s gloomy prospects166. It was not without a considerable mental effort that he was able to bring his thoughts to bear upon other people’s business. He had strained his mind a good deal during the last twenty-four hours, and he was very glad to relax the tension of the bow.
‘Rather a dull kind of life for a man who has been used to society — eh, Ida?’ he murmured, as he ate his omelette; ‘but we contrive167 to rub on somehow. Your step-mother likes it, and the boy likes it — wonderful healthy air, don’t you know — no smoke — no fogs — only three miles from the sea, as the crow flies. It suits them, and it’s cheap — a paramount168 consideration with a poor devil on half-pay; and in the season there are some of the best people in Europe to be seen at the établissement.’
‘I suppose you go to Dieppe often in the season, father?’ said Ida, pleased to find he had dropped Miss Pew and the governess question.
‘Well, yes; I wander in almost every fine day.’
‘You don’t walk?’ exclaimed Ida, surprised at such activity in a man of his languid temper.
‘Oh, no; I never walk. I just wander in — on the diligence-or in, a return fly. I wander in and look about me a little, and perhaps take a cup of coffee with a friend at the H?tel des Bains. There is generally some one I know at the Bains or the Royal. Ah, by-the-bye whom, do you think I saw there a fortnight ago?’
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ answered Ida; ‘I know so few of your friends.’
‘No, of course not. You never saw Sir Vernon Palliser, but you’ve heard me talk about him.’
‘Your rich brother, the wicked old baronet in Sussex, who never did you a kindness in his life?’
‘My dear, old Sir Vernon has been dead two years.’
‘I never heard of his death.’
‘No, by-the-bye. It wasn’t worth while worrying you about it, especially as we could not afford to go into mourning. Your step-mother fretted169 about that dreadfully, poor little woman; as if it could matter to her, when she had never seen the man in her life. She said if one had a baronet in one’s family one ought to go into mourning for him. I can’t understand the passion some women have for mourning. They are eager to smother170 themselves in crape at the slightest provocation171, and for a mean old beggar like Vernon, who never gave me a sixpence. But as I was saying, these two young fellows turned up the other day in front of the H?tel des Bains.’
‘Which two young fellows, my dear father? I haven’t the faintest idea of whom you are talking,’ protested Ida, who found her father’s conversation very difficult to follow.
‘Why, Sir Vernon, of course — the present Sir Vernon and his brother Peter: ugly name, isn’t it, Ida? but there has always been a Peter in the family; and as a rule,’ added Captain Palliser, growing slower and dreamier of speech as he fell into reminiscences of the past —‘as a rule the Peter Pallisers have gone to the dogs. There was Major Palliser — fought in the Peninsula — knew George the Fourth — married a very pretty woman and beat her — died in the Bench.’
‘Tell me about the present Sir Vernon,’ asked Ida, more interested in the moving, breathing life of to-day than in memories of the unknown dead. ‘Is he nice?’
‘He is a fine, broad-shouldered young fellow — seven or eight and twenty. No, not handsome — my brother Vernon was never distinguished172 for beauty, though he had all the markings of race. There is nothing like race, Ida; you see it in a man’s walk; you hear it in every tone of a man’s voice.’
‘Dear father, I was asking about this particular Sir Vernon,’ urged Ida, with a touch of impatience173, unaccustomed to this slow meandering talk.
‘And I was telling you about him,’ answered the Captain, slightly offended. His little low-born wife never hurried and hustled174 his thoughts in this way. She was content to sit at his feet, and let him meander164 on for hours. True that she did not often listen, but she was always respectful. ‘I was remarking that Sir Vernon is a fine young fellow, and likely to live to see himself a great-grandfather. His brother, too, is nearly as big and healthy — healthy to a degree. The breakfast I saw those two young men devour175 at the hotel would have made your hair stand on end. But, thank heaven, I have never been the kind of man to wait for dead men’s shoes.’
‘I see,’ said Ida. ‘If these boys had been sickly and had died young, you would have succeeded to the baronetcy.’
‘To the baronetcy and to the estate in Sussex, which is a very fine estate, worth eight thousand a year.’
‘Then, of course, they are strong, and likely to live to the age of Methuselah!’ exclaimed Ida, with a laugh of passing bitterness. ‘Who ever heard of luck coming our way? It is not in our race to be fortunate.’
The shame and agony of her own failure to win fortune were still strong upon her.
‘Who knows what might happen?’ said the Captain, with amiable176 listlessness. ‘I have never allowed my thoughts to dwell upon the possibilities of the future; yet it is a fact that, so long as those young men remain unmarried, there are only two lives between me and wealth. They feel the position themselves; for when Sir Vernon came over here to lunch, he patted my boy on the head and said, in his joking way, “If Peter and I had fallen down a crevasse177 the other day in the Oberland, this little chap would have been heir to Wimperfield.”’
‘No doubt Sir Vernon and his brother will marry and set up nurseries of their own within the next two or three years,’ said Ida, carelessly. Eager as she had been to be rich during those two and a half bitter years in which she had so keenly felt the sting of poverty, she was not capable of seeing her way to fortune through the dark gate of death.
‘Yes, I daresay they will both marry,’ replied Captain Palliser, gravely, folding his napkin and whisking an accidental crumb178 off his waistcoat. ‘Young men always get drifted into matrimony. If they are rich all the women are after them, If they are poor — well, there is generally some woman weak enough to prefer dual179 starvation to bread and cheese and solitude180. Vernon told me he had no idea of marriage. He and his brother are both rovers — fond of mountain-climbing, yachting, every open-air amusement.’
‘Did you see much of them while they were at Dieppe?’
‘They only stayed three days. They walked over here to lunch, put the poor little woman in a fluster181 — although they were very pleasant and easy about everything — invited me to dinner, tipped the boy munificently182, and went off by the night-boat, bound straight for Wimperfield and the partridges. Very fine partridge shooting at Wimperfield! Vernon asked me to go across with him and stay at the old place for a week or two; but my sporting days are over. I can’t get up early; and I can’t walk in shooting-boots. Besides, the little woman would have fretted if I had left her alone so long.’
‘But the change would have done you good, father.’
‘No, my dear; any change of habits would worry me. I have dropped into my groove183 and I must stay in it. What a pity you were not here when your cousins called! Who knows what might have happened? Vernon might have fallen over head and ears in love with you.’
‘Don’t, father!’ cried Ida, with absolute pain in her voice. ‘Don’t talk about marrying for money. There is nothing in life so revolting, so degrading. Be sure, it is a sin which always brings its own punishment.’
‘My dear,’ said the Captain, gravely, ‘there are so many love-matches which bring their own punishment, that I am inclined to believe that marrying for money is a virtue184 which ought to ensure its own reward. You may depend, if we could get statistics upon the subject, one would find that after ten years’ marriage the couples who were drawn185 together by prudential motives186 are just as fond of each other as those more romantic pairs who wedded187 for love. A decade of matrimony rounds a good many sharp angles, and dispels188 a good many illusions.’
收听单词发音 |
1
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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4
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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7
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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8
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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9
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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10
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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12
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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14
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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15
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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16
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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17
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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18
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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19
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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20
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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21
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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22
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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23
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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25
invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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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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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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28
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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29
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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30
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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31
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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32
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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33
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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34
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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35
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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36
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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37
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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38
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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40
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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41
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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43
stoniness
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| 冷漠，一文不名 | |
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44
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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45
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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46
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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47
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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48
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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49
decomposed
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| 已分解的，已腐烂的 | |
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50
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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51
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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52
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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53
scavenger
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| n.以腐尸为食的动物，清扫工 | |
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54
disseminated
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| 散布，传播( disseminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
chilliness
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| n.寒冷，寒意，严寒 | |
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56
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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57
refund
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| v.退还，偿还；n.归还，偿还额，退款 | |
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58
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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59
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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60
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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61
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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62
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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63
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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64
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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65
penitentiaries
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| n.监狱( penitentiary的名词复数 ) | |
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66
deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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67
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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68
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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69
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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70
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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71
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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72
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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73
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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74
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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75
gaudily
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| adv.俗丽地 | |
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76
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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77
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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78
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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79
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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80
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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81
wart
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| n.疣，肉赘；瑕疵 | |
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82
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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83
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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84
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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85
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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86
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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87
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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88
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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89
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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90
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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91
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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92
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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93
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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94
crimsoning
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| 变为深红色（crimson的现在分词形式） | |
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95
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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96
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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97
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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98
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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99
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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100
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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101
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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102
petulantly
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103
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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104
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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105
modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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106
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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107
vegetating
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| v.过单调呆板的生活( vegetate的现在分词 )；植物似地生长；（瘤、疣等）长大 | |
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108
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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109
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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110
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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111
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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112
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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113
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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114
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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115
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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116
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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117
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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118
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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119
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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120
spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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121
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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122
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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123
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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124
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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126
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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127
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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128
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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129
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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130
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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131
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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132
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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133
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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134
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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135
wreaked
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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137
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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138
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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139
scantiest
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| adj.（大小或数量）不足的，勉强够的( scanty的最高级 ) | |
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140
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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141
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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142
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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143
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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144
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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145
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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146
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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147
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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149
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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151
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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152
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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153
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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154
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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155
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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156
stoutness
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| 坚固，刚毅 | |
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157
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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158
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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159
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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161
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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163
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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164
meander
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| n.河流的曲折，漫步，迂回旅行；v.缓慢而弯曲地流动，漫谈 | |
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165
meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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166
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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167
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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169
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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170
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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171
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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172
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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173
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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174
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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175
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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176
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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177
crevasse
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| n. 裂缝，破口；v.使有裂缝 | |
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178
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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179
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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180
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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181
fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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182
munificently
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183
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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184
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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185
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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186
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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187
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
dispels
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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