At Brinton she spent hours in her mother’s garden, where she had grown up, where she considered that she was training for old age, since she meant not to depend on whist. She loved the place as, had she been a good Catholic, she would have loved the smell of her parish church; and indeed there was in her passion for flowers something of the respect of a religion. They seemed to her the only things in the world that really respected themselves, unless one made an exception for Nutkins, who had been in command all through her mother’s time, with whom she had had a real friendship and who had been affected13 by their pure example. He was the person left in the world with whom on the whole she could speak most intimately of the dead. They never had to name her together—they only said “she”; and Nutkins freely conceded that she had taught him everything he knew. When Beatrice and Muriel said “she” they referred to Mrs. Churchley. Adela had reason to believe she should never marry, and that some day she should have about a thousand a year. This made her see in the far future a little garden of her own, under a hill, full of rare and exquisite14 things, where she would spend most of her old age on her knees with an apron15 and stout16 gloves, with a pair of shears17 and a trowel, steeped in the comfort of being thought mad.
One morning ten days after her scene with Godfrey, on coming back into the house shortly before lunch, she was met by Miss Flynn with the notification that a lady in the drawing-room had been waiting for her for some minutes. “A lady” suggested immediately Mrs. Churchley. It came over Adela that the form in which her penalty was to descend18 would be a personal explanation with that misdirected woman. The lady had given no name, and Miss Flynn hadn’t seen Mrs. Churchley; nevertheless the governess was certain Adela’s surmise19 was wrong.
“Is she big and dreadful?” the girl asked.
Miss Flynn, who was circumspection20 itself, took her time. “She’s dreadful, but she’s not big.” She added that she wasn’t sure she ought to let Adela go in alone; but this young lady took herself throughout for a heroine, and it wasn’t in a heroine to shrink from any encounter. Wasn’t she every instant in transcendent contact with her mother? The visitor might have no connexion whatever with the drama of her father’s frustrated21 marriage; but everything to-day for Adela was part of that.
Miss Flynn’s description had prepared her for a considerable shock, but she wasn’t agitated22 by her first glimpse of the person who awaited her. A youngish well-dressed woman stood there, and silence was between them while they looked at each other. Before either had spoken however Adela began to see what Miss Flynn had intended. In the light of the drawing-room window the lady was five-and-thirty years of age and had vivid yellow hair. She also had a blue cloth suit with brass24 buttons, a stick-up collar like a gentleman’s, a necktie arranged in a sailor’s knot, a golden pin in the shape of a little lawn-tennis racket, and pearl-grey gloves with big black stitchings. Adela’s second impression was that she was an actress, and her third that no such person had ever before crossed that threshold.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve come for,” said the apparition25. “I’ve come to ask you to intercede26.” She wasn’t an actress; an actress would have had a nicer voice.
“To intercede?” Adela was too bewildered to ask her to sit down.
“With your father, you know. He doesn’t know, but he’ll have to.” Her “have” sounded like “’ave.” She explained, with many more such sounds, that she was Mrs. Godfrey, that they had been married seven mortal months. If Godfrey was going abroad she must go with him, and the only way she could go with him would be for his father to do something. He was afraid of his father—that was clear; he was afraid even to tell him. What she had come down for was to see some other member of the family face to face—“fice to fice,” Mrs. Godfrey called it—and try if he couldn’t be approached by another side. If no one else would act then she would just have to act herself. The Colonel would have to do something—that was the only way out of it.
What really happened Adela never quite understood; what seemed to be happening was that the room went round and round. Through the blur27 of perception accompanying this effect the sharp stabs of her visitor’s revelation came to her like the words heard by a patient “going off” under ether. She afterwards denied passionately28 even to herself that she had done anything so abject29 as to faint; but there was a lapse30 in her consciousness on the score of Miss Flynn’s intervention31. This intervention had evidently been active, for when they talked the matter over, later in the day, with bated breath and infinite dissimulation32 for the school-room quarter, the governess had more lurid33 truths, and still more, to impart than to receive. She was at any rate under the impression that she had athletically34 contended, in the drawing-room, with the yellow hair—this after removing Adela from the scene and before inducing Mrs. Godfrey to withdraw. Miss Flynn had never known a more thrilling day, for all the rest of it too was pervaded35 with agitations36 and conversations, precautions and alarms. It was given out to Beatrice and Muriel that their sister had been taken suddenly ill, and the governess ministered to her in her room. Indeed Adela had never found herself less at ease, for this time she had received a blow that she couldn’t return. There was nothing to do but to take it, to endure the humiliation37 of her wound.
At first she declined to take it—having, as might appear, the much more attractive resource of regarding her visitant as a mere38 masquerading person, an impudent39 impostor. On the face of the matter moreover it wasn’t fair to believe till one heard; and to hear in such a case was to hear Godfrey himself. Whatever she had tried to imagine about him she hadn’t arrived at anything so belittling40 as an idiotic41 secret marriage with a dyed and painted hag. Adela repeated this last word as if it gave her comfort; and indeed where everything was so bad fifteen years of seniority made the case little worse. Miss Flynn was portentous42, for Miss Flynn had had it out with the wretch43. She had cross-questioned her and had not broken her down. This was the most uplifted hour of Miss Flynn’s life; for whereas she usually had to content herself with being humbly44 and gloomily in the right she could now be magnanimously and showily so. Her only perplexity was as to what she ought to do—write to Colonel Chart or go up to town to see him. She bloomed with alternatives—she resembled some dull garden-path which under a copious45 downpour has begun to flaunt46 with colour. Toward evening Adela was obliged to recognise that her brother’s worry, of which he had spoken to her, had appeared bad enough to consist even of a low wife, and to remember that, so far from its being inconceivable a young man in his position should clandestinely47 take one, she had been present, years before, during her mother’s lifetime, when Lady Molesley declared gaily48, over a cup of tea, that this was precisely49 what she expected of her eldest50 son. The next morning it was the worst possibilities that seemed clearest; the only thing left with a tatter of dusky comfort being the ambiguity51 of Godfrey’s charge that her own action had “done” for him. That was a matter by itself, and she racked her brains for a connecting link between Mrs. Churchley and Mrs. Godfrey. At last she made up her mind that they were related by blood; very likely, though differing in fortune, they were cousins or even sisters. But even then what did the wretched boy mean?
Arrested by the unnatural52 fascination53 of opportunity, Miss Flynn received before lunch a telegram from Colonel Chart—an order for dinner and a vehicle; he and Godfrey were to arrive at six o’clock. Adela had plenty of occupation for the interval54, since she was pitying her father when she wasn’t rejoicing that her mother had gone too soon to know. She flattered herself she made out the providential reason of that cruelty now. She found time however still to wonder for what purpose, given the situation, Godfrey was to be brought down. She wasn’t unconscious indeed that she had little general knowledge of what usually was done with young men in that predicament. One talked about the situation, but the situation was an abyss. She felt this still more when she found, on her father’s arrival, that nothing apparently55 was to happen as she had taken for granted it would. There was an inviolable hush56 over the whole affair, but no tragedy, no publicity57, nothing ugly. The tragedy had been in town—the faces of the two men spoke23 of it in spite of their other perfunctory aspects; and at present there was only a family dinner, with Beatrice and Muriel and the governess—with almost a company tone too, the result of the desire to avoid publicity. Adela admired her father; she knew what he was feeling if Mrs. Godfrey had been at him, and yet she saw him positively58 gallant59. He was mildly austere60, or rather even—what was it?—august; just as, coldly equivocal, he never looked at his son, so that at moments he struck her as almost sick with sadness. Godfrey was equally inscrutable and therefore wholly different from what he had been as he stood before her in the park. If he was to start on his career (with such a wife!—wouldn’t she utterly61 blight62 it?) he was already professional enough to know how to wear a mask.
Before they rose from table she felt herself wholly bewildered, so little were such large causes traceable in their effects. She had nerved herself for a great ordeal63, but the air was as sweet as an anodyne64. It was perfectly65 plain to her that her father was deadly sore—as pathetic as a person betrayed. He was broken, but he showed no resentment66; there was a weight on his heart, but he had lightened it by dressing67 as immaculately as usual for dinner. She asked herself what immensity of a row there could have been in town to have left his anger so spent. He went through everything, even to sitting with his son after dinner. When they came out together he invited Beatrice and Muriel to the billiard-room, and as Miss Flynn discreetly68 withdrew Adela was left alone with Godfrey, who was completely changed and not now in the least of a rage. He was broken too, but not so pathetic as his father. He was only very correct and apologetic he said to his sister: “I’m awfully69 sorry you were annoyed—it was something I never dreamed of.”
She couldn’t think immediately what he meant; then she grasped the reference to her extraordinary invader70. She was uncertain, however, what tone to take; perhaps his father had arranged with him that they were to make the best of it. But she spoke her own despair in the way she murmured “Oh Godfrey, Godfrey, is it true?”
“I’ve been the most unutterable donkey—you can say what you like to me. You can’t say anything worse than I’ve said to myself.”
“My brother, my brother!”—his words made her wail71 it out. He hushed her with a movement and she asked: “What has father said?”
He looked very high over her head. “He’ll give her six hundred a year.”
“Ah the angel!”—it was too splendid.
“On condition”—Godfrey scarce blinked—“she never comes near me. She has solemnly promised, and she’ll probably leave me alone to get the money. If she doesn’t—in diplomacy—I’m lost.” He had been turning his eyes vaguely72 about, this way and that, to avoid meeting hers; but after another instant he gave up the effort and she had the miserable73 confession74 of his glance. “I’ve been living in hell.”
“My brother, my brother!” she yearningly75 repeated.
“I’m not an idiot; yet for her I’ve behaved like one. Don’t ask me—you mustn’t know. It was all done in a day, and since then fancy my condition; fancy my work in such a torment76; fancy my coming through at all.”
“Thank God you passed!” she cried. “You were wonderful!”
“I’d have shot myself if I hadn’t been. I had an awful day yesterday with the governor; it was late at night before it was over. I leave England next week. He brought me down here for it to look well—so that the children shan’t know.”
“He’s wonderful too!” Adela murmured.
“Wonderful too!” Godfrey echoed.
“Did she tell him?” the girl went on.
“She came straight to Seymour Street from here. She saw him alone first; then he called me in. That luxury lasted about an hour.”
“Poor, poor father!” Adela moaned at this; on which her brother remained silent. Then after he had alluded77 to it as the scene he had lived in terror of all through his cramming78, and she had sighed forth79 again her pity and admiration80 for such a mixture of anxieties and such a triumph of talent, she pursued: “Have you told him?”
“Told him what?”
“What you said you would—what I did.”
Godfrey turned away as if at present he had very little interest in that inferior tribulation81. “I was angry with you, but I cooled off. I held my tongue.”
She clasped her hands. “You thought of mamma!”
“Oh don’t speak of mamma!” he cried as in rueful tenderness.
It was indeed not a happy moment, and she murmured: “No; if you had thought of her—!”
This made Godfrey face her again with a small flare82 in his eyes. “Oh then it didn’t prevent. I thought that woman really good. I believed in her.”
“Is she very bad?”
“I shall never mention her to you again,” he returned with dignity.
“You may believe I won’t speak of her! So father doesn’t know?” the girl added.
“Doesn’t know what?”
“That I said what I did to Mrs. Churchley.”
“I shall find out,” said Adela. “But what had Mrs. Churchley to do with it?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He appeared—though but after an instant—to know exactly why. “Oh you take things so beastly hard—you make such rows.” Adela covered her face with her hands and he went on: “What I wanted was comfort—not to be lashed85 up. I thought I should go mad. I wanted Mrs. Churchley to break it to father, to intercede for me and help him to meet it. She was awfully kind to me, she listened and she understood; she could fancy how it had happened. Without her I shouldn’t have pulled through. She liked me, you know,” he further explained, and as if it were quite worth mentioning—all the more that it was pleasant to him. “She said she’d do what she could for me. She was full of sympathy and resource. I really leaned on her. But when you cut in of course it spoiled everything. That’s why I was so furious with you. She couldn’t do anything then.”
Adela dropped her hands, staring; she felt she had walked in darkness. “So that he had to meet it alone?”
“Dame!” said Godfrey, who had got up his French tremendously.
Muriel came to the door to say papa wished the two others to join them, and the next day Godfrey returned to town. His father remained at Brinton, without an intermission, the rest of the summer and the whole of the autumn, and Adela had a chance to find out, as she had said, whether he knew she had interfered86. But in spite of her chance she never found out. He knew Mrs. Churchley had thrown him over and he knew his daughter rejoiced in it, but he appeared not to have divined the relation between the two facts. It was strange that one of the matters he was clearest about—Adela’s secret triumph—should have been just the thing which from this time on justified87 less and less such a confidence. She was too sorry for him to be consistently glad. She watched his attempts to wind himself up on the subject of shorthorns and drainage, and she favoured to the utmost of her ability his intermittent88 disposition89 to make a figure in orchids90. She wondered whether they mightn’t have a few people at Brinton; but when she mentioned the idea he asked what in the world there would be to attract them. It was a confoundedly stupid house, he remarked—with all respect to her cleverness. Beatrice and Muriel were mystified; the prospect91 of going out immensely had faded so utterly away. They were apparently not to go out at all. Colonel Chart was aimless and bored; he paced up and down and went back to smoking, which was bad for him, and looked drearily92 out of windows as if on the bare chance that something might arrive. Did he expect Mrs. Churchley to arrive, did he expect her to relent on finding she couldn’t live without him? It was Adela’s belief that she gave no sign. But the girl thought it really remarkable93 of her not to have betrayed her ingenious young visitor. Adela’s judgement of human nature was perhaps harsh, but she believed that most women, given the various facts, wouldn’t have been so forbearing. This lady’s conception of the point of honour placed her there in a finer and purer light than had at all originally promised to shine about her.
She meanwhile herself could well judge how heavy her father found the burden of Godfrey’s folly94 and how he was incommoded at having to pay the horrible woman six hundred a year. Doubtless he was having dreadful letters from her; doubtless she threatened them all with hideous95 exposure. If the matter should be bruited96 Godfrey’s prospects97 would collapse98 on the spot. He thought Madrid very charming and curious, but Mrs. Godfrey was in England, so that his father had to face the music. Adela took a dolorous99 comfort in her mother’s being out of that—it would have killed her; but this didn’t blind her to the fact that the comfort for her father would perhaps have been greater if he had had some one to talk to about his trouble. He never dreamed of doing so to her, and she felt she couldn’t ask him. In the family life he wanted utter silence about it. Early in the winter he went abroad for ten weeks, leaving her with her sisters in the country, where it was not to be denied that at this time existence had very little savour. She half expected her sister-in-law would again descend on her; but the fear wasn’t justified, and the quietude of the awful creature seemed really to vibrate with the ring of gold-pieces. There were sure to be extras. Adela winced100 at the extras. Colonel Chart went to Paris and to Monte Carlo and then to Madrid to see his boy. His daughter had the vision of his perhaps meeting Mrs. Churchley somewhere, since, if she had gone for a year, she would still be on the Continent. If he should meet her perhaps the affair would come on again: she caught herself musing101 over this. But he brought back no such appearance, and, seeing him after an interval, she was struck afresh with his jilted and wasted air. She didn’t like it—she resented it. A little more and she would have said that that was no way to treat so faithful a man.
They all went up to town in March, and on one of the first days of April she saw Mrs. Churchley in the Park. She herself remained apparently invisible to that lady—she herself and Beatrice and Muriel, who sat with her in their mother’s old bottle-green landau. Mrs. Churchley, perched higher than ever, rode by without a recognition; but this didn’t prevent Adela’s going to her before the month was over. As on her great previous occasion she went in the morning, and she again had the good fortune to be admitted. This time, however, her visit was shorter, and a week after making it—the week was a desolation—she addressed to her brother at Madrid a letter containing these words: “I could endure it no longer—I confessed and retracted102; I explained to her as well as I could the falsity of what I said to her ten months ago and the benighted103 purity of my motives104 for saying it. I besought105 her to regard it as unsaid, to forgive me, not to despise me too much, to take pity on poor perfect papa and come back to him. She was more good-natured than you might have expected—indeed she laughed extravagantly106. She had never believed me—it was too absurd; she had only, at the time, disliked me. She found me utterly false—she was very frank with me about this—and she told papa she really thought me horrid107. She said she could never live with such a girl, and as I would certainly never marry I must be sent away—in short she quite loathed108 me. Papa defended me, he refused to sacrifice me, and this led practically to their rupture109. Papa gave her up, as it were, for me. Fancy the angel, and fancy what I must try to be to him for the rest of his life! Mrs. Churchley can never come back—she’s going to marry Lord Dovedale.”
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impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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calamitous
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| adj.灾难的，悲惨的；多灾多难；惨重 | |
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reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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athletically
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| adv.竞赛地，运动比赛地，具运动员风范地 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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belittling
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的现在分词 ) | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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54
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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55
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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56
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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57
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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58
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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60
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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62
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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63
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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67
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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71
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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yearningly
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| 怀念地，思慕地，同情地； 渴 | |
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76
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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80
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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81
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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82
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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88
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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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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90
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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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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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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bruited
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| v.传播（传说或谣言）( bruit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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98
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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99
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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100
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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102
retracted
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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103
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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104
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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105
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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106
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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107
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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108
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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109
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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