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The Bertrams
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"Psha, Mr. Bertram! what nonsense! I can't conceive that any woman can ever be worth looking at on board a ship – much less such a one as I! I know you're dying to get home."
"I might be if I had a home."
"Is your home with that uncle of yours?" She had heard so much of his family; but he had as yet spoken to her no word about Caroline. "I wonder what he would say if he could see you now leaning here and talking to me."
"If he has any knowledge of human nature, he would say that I was a very happy fellow."
"And are you?" As she asked him, she looked up into his face with such an arch smile that he could not find it in his heart to condemn her.
"What will you think of my gallantry if I say no?"
"I hate gallantry; it is all bosh. I wish I were a man, and that I could call you Bertram, and that you would call me Cox."
"I would sooner call you Annie."
"Would you? But that wouldn't be right, would it?" And her hand, which was still within his arm, was pressed upon it with ever so light a pressure.
"I don't know why it should be wrong to call people by their Christian names. Should you be angry if I called you Annie?"
"That might depend – Tell me this, Mr. Bertram: How many other ladies do you call by their Christian names?"
"A dozen or two."
"I'll be bound you do."
"And may I add you to the number?"
"No, Mr. Bertram; certainly not."
"May I not? So intimate as we have become, I thought – "
"I will not be one of a dozen or two." And as she answered him, she dropped her tone of raillery, and spoke in a low, soft, sweet voice. It sounded so sweet on Bertram's ear.
"But if there be not one – not one other; not one other now – what then, Annie?"
"Not one other now? – Did you say now? Then there has been one."
"Yes; there has been one."
"And she – what of her?"
"It is a tale I cannot tell."
"Not to me? I should not like you the less for telling me. Do tell me." And she pressed her hand again upon his arm. "I have known there was something that made you unhappy."
"Have you?"
"Oh, yes. I have long known that. And I have so wished to be a comfort to you – if I could. I, too, have had great suffering."
"I am sure you have."
"Ah! yes. I did not suffer less because he had been unkind to me." And she put her handkerchief to her eyes, and then brought her hand again upon his arm. "But tell me of her – your one. She is not your one now – is she, Mr. Bertram?"
"No, Annie; not now."
"Is she – ?" And she hesitated to ask whether the lady were dead, or married to some one else. It might, after all, only be a lovers' quarrel.
"I drove her from me – and now she is a wife."
"Drove her from you! Alas! alas!" said Mrs. Cox, with the sweetest emphasis of sympathy. But the result of her inquiries was not unsatisfactory to her.
"I don't know why I should have told you this," said he.
"I am so glad you have," she replied.
"But now that I have told you – "
"Well – "
"Now may I call you Annie?"
"You have done so two or three times."
"But may I?"
"If it please you, you may." And the words, though whispered very low, fell clearly upon his ear.
"Dearest Annie!"
"But I did not say you might call me that."
"But you are."
"Am I?"
"Dearest – all but she. Will that make you angry with me?"
"No, not angry; but – "
"But what?"
She looked up at him, pouting with her lip. There was a half-smile on her mouth, and half a tear in her eyes; and her shoulder leant against him, and her heart palpitated. She had never been so beautiful, never so attractive.
"But what – ? What would you say, Annie?"
"I would say this. – But I know you will think me very bold."
"I shall not think you too bold if you will say the truth."
"I might be if I had a home."
"Is your home with that uncle of yours?" She had heard so much of his family; but he had as yet spoken to her no word about Caroline. "I wonder what he would say if he could see you now leaning here and talking to me."
"If he has any knowledge of human nature, he would say that I was a very happy fellow."
"And are you?" As she asked him, she looked up into his face with such an arch smile that he could not find it in his heart to condemn her.
"What will you think of my gallantry if I say no?"
"I hate gallantry; it is all bosh. I wish I were a man, and that I could call you Bertram, and that you would call me Cox."
"I would sooner call you Annie."
"Would you? But that wouldn't be right, would it?" And her hand, which was still within his arm, was pressed upon it with ever so light a pressure.
"I don't know why it should be wrong to call people by their Christian names. Should you be angry if I called you Annie?"
"That might depend – Tell me this, Mr. Bertram: How many other ladies do you call by their Christian names?"
"A dozen or two."
"I'll be bound you do."
"And may I add you to the number?"
"No, Mr. Bertram; certainly not."
"May I not? So intimate as we have become, I thought – "
"I will not be one of a dozen or two." And as she answered him, she dropped her tone of raillery, and spoke in a low, soft, sweet voice. It sounded so sweet on Bertram's ear.
"But if there be not one – not one other; not one other now – what then, Annie?"
"Not one other now? – Did you say now? Then there has been one."
"Yes; there has been one."
"And she – what of her?"
"It is a tale I cannot tell."
"Not to me? I should not like you the less for telling me. Do tell me." And she pressed her hand again upon his arm. "I have known there was something that made you unhappy."
"Have you?"
"Oh, yes. I have long known that. And I have so wished to be a comfort to you – if I could. I, too, have had great suffering."
"I am sure you have."
"Ah! yes. I did not suffer less because he had been unkind to me." And she put her handkerchief to her eyes, and then brought her hand again upon his arm. "But tell me of her – your one. She is not your one now – is she, Mr. Bertram?"
"No, Annie; not now."
"Is she – ?" And she hesitated to ask whether the lady were dead, or married to some one else. It might, after all, only be a lovers' quarrel.
"I drove her from me – and now she is a wife."
"Drove her from you! Alas! alas!" said Mrs. Cox, with the sweetest emphasis of sympathy. But the result of her inquiries was not unsatisfactory to her.
"I don't know why I should have told you this," said he.
"I am so glad you have," she replied.
"But now that I have told you – "
"Well – "
"Now may I call you Annie?"
"You have done so two or three times."
"But may I?"
"If it please you, you may." And the words, though whispered very low, fell clearly upon his ear.
"Dearest Annie!"
"But I did not say you might call me that."
"But you are."
"Am I?"
"Dearest – all but she. Will that make you angry with me?"
"No, not angry; but – "
"But what?"
She looked up at him, pouting with her lip. There was a half-smile on her mouth, and half a tear in her eyes; and her shoulder leant against him, and her heart palpitated. She had never been so beautiful, never so attractive.
"But what – ? What would you say, Annie?"
"I would say this. – But I know you will think me very bold."
"I shall not think you too bold if you will say the truth."
Другие электронные книги автора Anthony Trollope
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Классная книга. Очень многое объясняет, что скрытое реально происходит в человеке