Of the home letters I will not speak — they could have no interest except for myself; but Milly’s are links in the story of a life. She wrote to me as freely as she had talked to me, pouring out all her thoughts and fancies with that confiding1 frankness which was one of the most charming attributes of her mind. For some time the letters contained nothing that could be called news; but late in September there came one which seemed to me to convey intelligence of some importance.
‘You will be grieved to hear, my darling Mary,’ she wrote, after a little playful discussion of my own affairs, ‘that my stepmother and I are no nearer anything like a real friendship than we were when you left us. What it is that makes the gulf2 between us, I cannot tell; but there is something, some hidden feeling in both our minds, I think, which prevents our growing fond of each other. She is very kind to me, so far as perfect non-interference with my doings, and a gracious manner when we are together, can go; but I am sure she does not like me. I have surprised her more than once looking at me with the strangest expression — a calculating, intensely thoughtful look, that made her face ten years older than it is at other times. Of course there are times when we are thrown together alone — though this does not occur often, for she and my father are a most devoted3 couple, and spend the greater part of every day together — and I have noticed at those times that she never speaks of her girlhood, or of any part of her life before her marriage. All that came before seems a blank page, or a sealed volume that she does not care to open. I asked some trifling4 question about her father once, and she turned upon me almost angrily.
“I do not care to speak about him, Milly,” she said; “he was not a good father, and he is best forgotten. I never had a real friend till I met my husband.”
‘There is one part of her character which I am bound to appreciate. I believe that she is really grateful and devoted to papa, and he certainly seems thoroughly5 happy in her society. The marriage had the effect which I felt sure it must have — it has divided us two most completely; but if it has made him happy, I have no reason to complain. What could I wish for beyond his happiness?
‘And now, Milly, for my news. Julian Stormont has been here, and has asked me to be his wife.
‘He came over last Saturday afternoon, intending to stop with us till Monday morning. It was a bright warm day here, and in the afternoon he persuaded me to walk to Cumber6 Church with him. You remember the way we drove through the wood the day we went to the Priory, I daresay; but there is a nearer way than that for foot passengers, and I think a prettier one — a kind of cross-cut through the same wood. I consented willingly enough, having nothing better to do with myself, and we had a pleasant walk to church, talking of all kinds of things. As we returned Julian grew very serious, and when we were about half way upon our journey, he asked me if I could guess what had brought him over to Thornleigh. Of course I told him that I concluded he had come as he usually did — for rest and change after the cares of business, and to talk about business affairs with papa.
‘He told me he had come for something more than that. He came to tell me that he had loved me all his life; that there was nothing my father would like better than our union if it could secure my happiness, as he hoped and believed it might.
‘I think you know, Mary, that no idea of this kind had ever entered my mind. I told Julian this, and told him that, however I might esteem7 him as my cousin, he could never be nearer or dearer to me than that. The change in his face when he heard this almost frightened me. He grew deadly pale, but I am certain it was anger rather than disappointment that was uppermost in his mind. I never knew until then what a hard cruel face it could be.
“Is this irrevocable, Emily?” he asked, in a cold firm voice; “is there no hope that you will change your mind by and by?”
“No, Julian; I am never likely to do that.”
“There is some one else, then, I suppose,” he said.
“No, indeed, there is no one else.”
“Highly complimentary8 to me!” he cried, with a harsh laugh.
‘I was very sorry for him, in spite of that angry look.
“Pray don’t imagine that I do not appreciate your many high qualities, Julian,” I said, “or that I do not feel honoured by your preference for me. No doubt there are many women in the world better deserving your regard than I am, who would be able to return it.”
“Thank you for that little conventional speech,” he cried with a sneer9. “A man builds all his hopes of happiness on one woman, and she coolly shatters the fabric10 of his life, and then tells him to go and build elsewhere. I daresay there are women in the world who would condescend11 to marry me if I asked them, but it is my misfortune to care only for one woman. I can’t transfer my affection, as a man transfers his capital from one form of investment to another.”
‘We walked on for some time in silence. I was determined12 not to be angry with him, however ungraciously he might speak to me; and when we were drawing near home, I begged that we might remain friends still, and that this unfortunate conversation might make no difference between us. I told him I knew how much my father valued him, and that it would distress13 me deeply if he deserted14 Thornleigh on my account.
“Friends!” he replied, in an absent tone; “yes, we are still friends of course, and I shall not desert Thornleigh.”
‘He seemed gayer than usual that evening after dinner. Whether the gaiety was assumed in order to hide his depression, or whether he was really able to take the matter lightly, I cannot tell. Of course I cannot shut out of my mind the consideration that a marriage with me would be a matter of great worldly advantage to Julian, who has nothing but the salary he receives from my father, and who by such a marriage would most likely secure immediate15 possession of the business, in which he is already a kind of deputy principal.
‘I noticed that my stepmother was especially kind to Julian this evening, and that she and he sat apart in one of the windows for some time talking to each other in a low confidential16 tone, while my father took his after-dinner nap. I wonder whether he told her of our interview that afternoon?
‘He went back to Shields early next morning, and bade me good-bye quite in his usual manner; so I hoped he had forgiven me; but the affair has left an unpleasant feeling in my mind, a sort of vague dread17 of some trouble to arise out of it in the future. I cannot forget that hard cruel look in my cousin’s face.
‘When he was gone, Mrs. Darrell began to praise him very warmly, and my father spoke18 of him in the same tone. They talked of him a good deal as we lingered over our breakfast, and I fancied there was some intention with regard to me in the minds of both — they seem indeed to think alike upon every subject. Dearly as I love my father, this is a point upon which even his influence could not affect me. I might be weak and yielding upon every other question, never upon this.
‘And now let me tell you about my friend Peter, Rebecca Thatcher19’s half-witted grandson. You know how painfully we were both struck by the poor fellow’s listless hopeless manner when we were at the cottage on the moor20. I thought of it a great deal afterwards, and it occurred to me that our head-gardener might find work for him in the way of weeding, and rolling the gravel21 paths, and such humble22 matters. Brook23 is a good kind old man, and always ready to do anything to please me; so I asked him the question one day in August, and he promised that when he next wanted extra hands Peter Thatcher should be employed, “Though I don’t suppose I shall ever make much of him, miss,” he said; “but there’s naught24 I wouldn’t do to please you.”
‘Well, my dear Mary, the boy came, and has done so well as quite to surprise Brook and the other two gardeners. He has an extraordinary attachment25 to me, and nothing delights him so much as to wait upon me when I am attending to my ferns, a task I always perform myself, as you know. To see this poor boy, standing26 by with a watering-pot in one hand, and a little basket of dead leaves in the other, watching me as breathlessly as if I were some great surgeon operating upon a patient, would make you smile; but I think you could scarcely fail to be touched by his devotion. He tells me that he is so happy at Thornleigh, and he begins to look a great deal brighter already. The men say he is indefatigable27 in his work, and worth two ordinary boys. He is passionately28 fond of flowers, and I have begun to teach him the elements of botany. It is rather slow work impressing the names of the plants upon his poor feeble brain; but he is so anxious to learn, and so proud of being taught, that I am well repaid for my trouble.’
Milly was very anxious that I should spend Christmas at Thornleigh; but it was by that time nearly a year since I had seen the dear ones at home, and ill as my dear father could afford any addition to his expenses, he wished me to spend my holidays with him; and so it was arranged that I should return to Warwickshire, much to my dear girl’s regret.
The holiday was a very happy one; and, before it was over, I received a letter from Milly, telling me that Mr. and Mrs. Darrell were going abroad for some months, and asking me to cut short my term at Albury Lodge29, and come to Thornleigh as her companion, at a salary which I thought a very handsome one.
The idea of exchanging the dull monotony of Miss Bagshot’s establishment for such a home as Thornleigh, with the friend I loved as dearly as a sister, was more than delightful30 to me, to say nothing of a salary which would enable me to buy my own clothes and leave a margin31 for an annual remittance32 to my father. I talked the subject over with him, and he wrote immediately to Miss Bagshot, requesting her to waive33 the half-year’s notice of the withdrawal34 of my services, to which she was fairly entitled. This she consented very kindly35 to do; and instead of going back to Albury Lodge, I went to Thornleigh.
Mr. and Mrs. Darrell had started for Paris when I arrived, and the house seemed very empty and quiet. My dear girl came into the hall to receive me, and led me off to her pretty sitting-room36, where there was a bright fire, and where, she told me, she spent almost the whole of her time now.
‘And are you really pleased to come to me, Mary?’ she asked, when our first greetings were over.
‘More than pleased, my darling. It seems almost too bright a life for me. I can hardly believe in it yet.’
‘But perhaps you will seen get as tired of Thornleigh as ever you did of Albury Lodge. It will be rather a dull kind of life, you know; only you and I and the old servants.’
‘I shall never feel dull with you, Milly. But tell me how all this came about. How was it you didn’t go abroad with Mr. and Mrs. Darrell?’
‘Ah, that is rather strange, isn’t it? The truth of the matter is, that Augusta did not want me to go with them. She does not like me, Mary, that is the real truth, through she affects to be very fond of me, and has contrived37 to make my father think she is so. What is there that she cannot make him think? She does not like me; and she is never quite happy or at her ease when I am with her. She had been growing tired of Thornleigh for some time when the winter began; and she looked so pale and ill, that my father got anxious about her. The doctor here treated her in the usual stereotyped38 way, and made very light of her ailments39, but recommended change of air and scene. Papa proposed going to Scarborough; but somehow or other Augusta contrived to change Scarborough into Paris, and they are to spend the winter and spring there, and perhaps go on to Germany in the summer. At first papa was very anxious to take me with them; but Augusta dropped some little hints — it would interrupt my studies, and unsettle me, and so on. You know I am rather proud, Mary, so you can imagine I was not slow to understand her. I said I would much prefer to stay at Thornleigh, and proposed immediately that you should come to me and be my companion, and help me on with my studies.’
‘My dearest, how good of you to wish that!’
‘It was not at all good. I think you are the only person in the world who really cares for me, now that I have lost papa — for I have lost him, you see, Mary; that becomes more obvious every day. Well, dear, I had a hard battle to fight. Mrs. Darrell said you were absurdly young for such a position, and that I required a matronly person, able to direct and protect me, and take the management of the house in her absence, and so on; but I said that I wanted neither direction nor protection; that the house wanted no other management than that of Mrs. Bunce the housekeeper40, who has managed it ever since I was a baby; and that if I could not have Mary Crofton, I would have no one at all. I told papa what an indefatigable darling you were, and how conscientiously41 you would perform anything you promised to do. So, after a good deal of discussion, the matter was settled; and here we are, with the house all to ourselves, and the prospect42 of being alone together for six months to come.’
I asked her if she had seen much of Mr. Stormont since that memorable43 Sunday afternoon.
‘He has been here twice,’ she said, ‘for his usual short visit from Saturday afternoon till Monday morning, and he has treated me just as if that uncomfortable interview had never taken place.’
We were very happy together in the great lonely house, amongst old servants, who seemed to take a pleasure in waiting on us. We spent our mornings and evenings in Milly’s sitting-room, and took our meals in a snug44 prettily-furnished breakfast-room on the ground-floor. We read together a great deal, going through a systematic45 course of study of a very different kind from the dry labours at Albury Lodge. There was a fine old library at Thornleigh, and we read the masters of English and French prose together with unflagging interest and pleasure. Besides all this, Milly worked hard at her music, and still harder at her painting, which was a real delight to her.
Mr. Collingwood the rector, and his family, came to see us, and insisted on our visiting them frequently in a pleasant unceremonious manner; and we had other invitations from Milly’s old friends in the neighbourhood of Thornleigh.
There were carriages at our disposal, but we did not often use them. Milly preferred walking; and we used to take long rambles46 together whenever the weather was favourable47 — rambles across the moor, or far away over the hills, or deep into the wood between Thornleigh and Cumber.
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1
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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2
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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3
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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4
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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5
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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6
cumber
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| v.拖累，妨碍；n.妨害；拖累 | |
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7
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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8
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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10
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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11
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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12
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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13
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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14
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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15
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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16
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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17
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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18
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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19
thatcher
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| n.茅屋匠 | |
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20
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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21
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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22
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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23
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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24
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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25
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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26
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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27
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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28
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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29
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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30
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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31
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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32
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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33
waive
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| vt.放弃，不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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34
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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35
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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36
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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37
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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38
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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39
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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40
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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41
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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42
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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43
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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44
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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45
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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46
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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47
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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