English
“Tellme,MissWalker!Youknowhowthingsshouldbe.
Whatwouldyousaywasagoodprofessionforayoungmanoftwenty-sixwhohashadnoeducationworthspeakingabout,andwhoisnotveryquickbynature?”
ThespeakerwasCharlesWestmacott,andthetimethissamesummereveninginthetennisground,thoughtheshadowshadfallennowandthegamebeenabandoned.
Thegirlglancedupathim,amusedandsurprised.
“Doyoumeanyourself?”
“Precisely.”
“ButhowcouldItell?”
“Ihavenoonetoadviseme.Ibelievethatyoucoulddoitbetterthananyone.Ifeelconfidenceinyouropinion.”
“Itisveryflattering.”Sheglancedupagainathisearnest,questioningface,withitsSaxoneyesanddroopingflaxenmustache,insomedoubtastowhetherhemightbejoking.
Onthecontrary,allhisattentionseemedtobeconcentrateduponheranswer.
“Itdependssomuchuponwhatyoucando,youknow.
Idonotknowyousufficientlytobeabletosaywhatnaturalgiftsyouhave.”
Theywerewalkingslowlyacrossthelawninthedirectionofthehouse.
“Ihavenone.Thatistosaynoneworthmentioning.IhavenomemoryandIamveryslow.”
“Butyouareverystrong.”
“Oh,ifthatgoesforanything.Icanputupahundred-poundbartillfurtherorders;butwhatsortofacallingisthat?”
SomelittlejokeaboutbeingcalledtothebarflickeredupinMissWalker’smind,buthercompanionwasinsuchobviousearnestthatshestifleddownherinclinationtolaugh.
“Icandoamileonthecinder-trackin4:50andacross-countryin5:20,buthowisthattohelpme?
Imightbeacricketprofessional,butitisnotaverydignifiedposition.
NotthatIcareastrawaboutdignity,youknow,butIshouldnotliketohurttheoldlady’sfeelings.
“Youraunt’s?”
“Yes,myaunt’s.MyparentswerekilledintheMutiny,youknow,whenIwasababy,andshehaslookedaftermeeversince.Shehasbeenverygoodtome.I’msorrytoleaveher.”
“Butwhyshouldyouleaveher?”Theyhadreachedthegardengate,andthegirlleanedherracketuponthetopofit,lookingupwithgraveinterestatherbigwhite-flanneledcompanion.
“It’s,Browning,”saidhe.
“What!”
“Don’ttellmyauntthatIsaidit”—hesankhisvoicetoawhisper—”IhateBrowning.”
ClaraWalkerrippledoffintosuchamerrypealoflaughterthatheforgottheevilthingswhichhehadsufferedfromthepoet,andburstoutlaughingtoo.
“Ican’tmakehimout,”saidhe.“Itry,butheisonetoomany.
Nodoubtitisverystupidofme;Idon’tdenyit.
ButaslongasIcannotthereisnousepretendingthatIcan.
Andthenofcourseshefeelshurt,forsheisveryfondofhim,andlikestoreadhimaloudintheevenings.
Sheisreadingapiecenow‘PippaPasses,’andIassureyou,MissWalker,thatIdon’tevenknowwhatthetitlemeans.Youmustthinkmeadreadfulfool.”
“Butsurelyheisnotsoincomprehensibleasallthat?”shesaid,asanattemptatencouragement.
“Heisverybad.Therearesomethings,youknow,whicharefine.
ThatrideofthethreeDutchmen,andHerveRielandothers,theyareallright.
Buttherewasapiecewereadlastweek.
Thefirstlinestumpedmyaunt,andittakesagooddealtodothat,forsheridesverystraight.‘SetebosandSetebosandSetebos.’Thatwastheline.”
“Itsoundslikeacharm.”
“No,itisagentleman’sname.Threegentlemen,Ithought,atfirst,butmyauntsaysone.Thenhegoeson,‘Thinkethhedwellethinthelightofthemoon.’Itwasaverytryingpiece.”
ClaraWalkerlaughedagain.
“Youmustnotthinkofleavingyouraunt,”shesaid.“Thinkhowlonelyshewouldbewithoutyou.”
“Well,yes,Ihavethoughtofthat.Butyoumustrememberthatmyauntistoallintentshardlymiddle-aged,andaveryeligibleperson.
Idon’tthinkthatherdisliketomankindextendstoindividuals.
Shemightformnewties,andthenIshouldbeathirdwheelinthecoach.
ItwasallverywellaslongasIwasonlyaboy,whenherfirsthusbandwasalive.”
“But,goodgracious,youdon’tmeanthatMrs.Westmacottisgoingtomarryagain?”gaspedClara.
Theyoungmanglanceddownatherwithaquestioninhiseyes.
“Oh,itisonlyaremote,possibility,youknow,”saidhe.
“Still,ofcourse,itmighthappen,andIshouldliketoknowwhatIoughttoturnmyhandto.”
“IwishIcouldhelpyou,”saidClara.“ButIreallyknowverylittleaboutsuchthings.However,Icouldtalktomyfather,whoknowsaverygreatdealoftheworld.”
“Iwishyouwould.Ishouldbesogladifyouwould.”
“ThenIcertainlywill.AndnowImustsaygood-night,Mr.Westmacott,forpapawillbewonderingwhereIam.”
apictureofthecountryside
“Goodnight,MissWalker.”Hepulledoffhisflannelcap,andstalkedawaythroughthegatheringdarkness.
Clarahadimaginedthattheyhadbeenthelastonthelawn,but,lookingbackfromthestepswhichleduptotheFrenchwindows,shesawtwodarkfiguresmovingacrosstowardsthehouse.
AstheycamenearershecoulddistinguishthattheywereHaroldDenverandhersisterIda.
Themurmuroftheirvoicesroseuptoherears,andthenthemusicallittlechild-likelaughwhichsheknewsowell.
“Iamsodelighted,”sheheardhersistersay.“Sopleasedandproud.Ihadnoideaofit.
Yourwordsweresuchasurpriseandajoytome.Oh,Iamsoglad.”
“Isthatyou,Ida?”
“Oh,thereisClara.Imustgoin,Mr.Denver.Good-night!”
Therewereafewwhisperedwords,alaughfromIda,anda“Good-night,MissWalker,”outofthedarkness.
Claratookhersister’shand,andtheypassedtogetherthroughthelongfoldingwindow.
TheDoctorhadgoneintohisstudy,andthedining-roomwasempty.
Asinglesmallredlampuponthesideboardwasreflectedtenfoldbytheplateaboutitandthemahoganybeneathit,thoughitssinglewickcastbutafeeblelightintothelarge,dimlyshadowedroom.
Idadancedofftothebigcentrallamp,butClaraputherhanduponherarm.
“Iratherlikethisquietlight,”saidshe.“Whyshouldwenothaveachat?”
ShesatintheDoctor’slargeredplushchair,andhersistercuddleddownuponthefootstoolatherfeet,glancingupatherelderwithasmileuponherlipsandamischievousgleaminhereyes.
TherewasashadeofanxietyinClara’sface,whichclearedawayasshegazedintohersister’sfrankblueeyes.
“Haveyouanythingtotellme,dear?”sheasked.
Idagavealittlepoutandshrugtohershoulder.
“TheSolicitor-Generalthenopenedthecasefortheprosecution,”saidshe.
“Youaregoingtocross-examineme,Clara,sodon’tdenyit.
Idowishyouwouldhavethatgreysatinfoulardofyoursdoneup.
Withalittletrimmingandanewwhitevestitwouldlookasgoodasnew,anditisreallyverydowdy.”
“Youwerequitelateuponthelawn,”saidtheinexorableClara.
“Yes,Iwasrather.Sowereyou.Haveyouanythingtotellme?”Shebrokeawayintohermerrymusicallaugh.
“IwaschattingwithMr.Westmacott.”
“AndIwaschattingwithMr.Denver.Bytheway,Clara,nowtellmetruly,whatdoyouthinkofMr.Denver?Doyoulikehim?Honestlynow!”
“Ilikehimverymuchindeed.Ithinkthatheisoneofthemostgentlemanly,modest,manlyyoungmenthatIhaveeverknown.
Sonow,dear,haveyounothingtotellme?”
Clarasmootheddownhersister’sgoldenhairwithamotherlygesture,andstoopedherfacetocatchtheexpectedconfidence.
ShecouldwishnothingbetterthanthatIdashouldbethewifeofHaroldDenver,andfromthewordswhichshehadoverheardastheyleftthelawnthatevening,shecouldnotdoubtthattherewassomeunderstandingbetweenthem.
ButtherecamenoconfessionfromIda.Onlythesamemischievoussmileandamusedgleaminherdeepblueeyes.
“Thatgreyfoularddress——”shebegan.
“Oh,youlittletease!Comenow,Iwillaskyouwhatyouhavejustaskedme.DoyoulikeHaroldDenver?”
“Oh,he’sadarling!”
“Ida!”
“Well,youaskedme.That’swhatIthinkofhim.
Andnow,youdearoldinquisitive,youwillgetnothingmoreoutofme;soyoumustwaitandnotbetoocurious.
I’mgoingofftoseewhatpapaisdoing.”
Shesprangtoherfeet,threwherarmsroundhersister’sneck,gaveherafinalsqueeze,andwasgone.
AchorusfromOlivette,sunginherclearcontralto,grewfainterandfainteruntilitendedintheslamofadistantdoor.
ButClaraWalkerstillsatinthedim-litroomwithherchinuponherhands,andherdreamyeyeslookingoutintothegatheringgloom.
Itwasthedutyofher,amaiden,toplaythepartofamother—toguideanotherinpathswhichherownstepshadnotyettrodden.
Sincehermotherdiednotathoughthadbeengiventoherself,allwasforherfatherandhersister.
Inherowneyesshewasherselfveryplain,andsheknewthathermannerwasoftenungraciouswhenshewouldmostwishtobegracious.
Shesawherfaceastheglassreflectedit,butshedidnotseethechangingplayofexpressionwhichgaveititscharm—theinfinitepity,thesympathy,thesweetwomanlinesswhichdrewtowardsherallwhowereindoubtandintrouble,evenaspoorslow-movingCharlesWestmacotthadbeendrawntoherthatnight.
Shewasherself,shethought,outsidethepaleoflove.
ButitwasverydifferentwithIda,merry,little,quick-witted,bright-facedIda.Shewasbornforlove.Itwasherinheritance.Butshewasyoungandinnocent.
Shemustnotbeallowedtoventuretoofarwithouthelpinthosedangerouswaters.
SomeunderstandingtherewasbetweenherandHaroldDenver.
InherheartofheartsClara,likeeverygoodwoman,wasamatch-maker,andalreadyshehadchosenDenverofallmenastheonetowhomshecouldmostsafelyconfideIda.
Hehadtalkedtohermorethanonceontheserioustopicsoflife,onhisaspirations,onwhatamancoulddotoleavetheworldbetterforhispresence.
Sheknewthathewasamanofanoblenature,high-mindedandearnest.
Andyetshedidnotlikethissecrecy,thisdisinclinationuponthepartofonesofrankandhonestasIdatotellherwhatwaspassing.
Shewouldwait,andifshegottheopportunitynextdayshewouldleadHaroldDenverhimselfontothistopic.
Itwaspossiblethatshemightlearnfromhimwhathersisterhadrefusedtotellher.
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