Marion turned lazily on her pillow, dimly aware that something unusual had happened. For a few seconds she lay inert4, then heaved a great sigh of content. She remembered. She threw her arms out on the coverlet and smiled. Springing out of bed, she drew back the window curtains and opened the lattice.
A short time later a figure in a white cotton gown, with blue ribbons in her hair, stole lightly downstairs.
It was Marion's loved duty to make the toast for her father's morning tankard. A confused sound of voices came from the kitchen as she crossed the hall, and ceased suddenly as she opened the kitchen door. Two of the serving girls and a milking maid were there; it was easy for Marion to see from their faces that she had been the subject of their chatter5.
'Marnin', Mistress Marion!' came in chorus. The girls stood and stared in a stupid sort of way, their great rosy6 hands wedged on their hips7, sleeves and petticoats tucked up for work.
'Us 'as just heard, Mistress Marion, as you be a-gooin' away to London,' said one of them, after a pause. They stared afresh.
'Us ain't niver zeen afore a lady as wor a-gooin' to London, Mistress,' respectfully remarked the milking maid.
A ripple8 of laughter ran over Marion's face as she stood, her back to the girls, cutting a piece of bread at the trencher. Evidently she was to be a nine days' wonder. For that matter, she had the promise of being a nine days' wonder to herself. 'Is it I?' ran her thoughts. 'Is it really I?' And if the domestics stared now, what would they do when she came back with new gowns and laces, and her hair dressed in a new way; and, she hoped, that indefinable something in her manner that had made them gape9 at Mistress Keziah, and peep out of doorways10 at her, their fingers on their lips?
Until her going was decided11 on, she did not know how much her aunt's talk had awakened12 a desire to see the world of men and women. Now she was going to see it, as Elise had said—plays, music, the Court. She smiled as she trimmed her piece of bread. Then the voice of one of the wenches roused her to a forgotten sense of duty.
'A bain't niver——'
'Zora,' said Marion, swinging round, 'it is past five o'clock. I can hear Spotty now calling to be milked. You must remember that the cows don't know I'm going to London.'
'Ees fay, so un do sure, Mistress Marion. A told Spotty meself. First thing a did, Mistress. I says to she, I says: "Do ee know Mistress Marion be a-goin' to London?" And her kind of said: "'Er bain't, now, sure!" her did. I allus tells Spotty. A told un when Simon Jibber come a-court——'
'Zora, go at once to your work! Millie and Sue, if you haven't anything to do, I must inquire of Mrs. Curnow of your duties.'
There were no hearers left for the end of Marion's sentence, and it was fortunate for them, for with her last words in came the housekeeper13 from the dairy, carrying a great bowl of clotted14 cream.
Her father's toast made, her own breakfast of bread and milk partaken of, Marion set herself to the little duties of the day. Elise, she learned from the housekeeper, was in the throes of one of her periodic headaches, concerning which, it must be confessed, our fair Marion was rather unsympathetic. The young mistress of Garth had never known what it was to be ailing15. For all her delicate cheeks, she was as healthy and robust16 as Zora herself. She got slightly impatient about Elise's migraine, and when the sufferer emerged from her retirement17, full of the petulance18 that generally succeeded her attacks, Marion, in her mental poise19 of perfect health, did not find it easy to make allowances. Indeed, the only quarrels that rose between them, the only swift, straight-out blows Marion had ever been known to give, seemed to be reserved for these occasions.
Marion went dutifully to her friend's room, and talked with her a few minutes, feeling as usual her impatience20 arise at Elise's martyr-like tones. Presently, saying she must confer with the housekeeper about the dinner, she went below again.
Dinner was at twelve o'clock, as was the custom of the day, and supper came at five or six. At nine o'clock the household was abed, for it was considered a shameful21 thing not to be up with the sun. These two meals being the sole fare for the day, were of a generous order, and Marion thought it nothing unusual when the housekeeper told off on her fingers the items for dinner: a dish of prawns22, a marrow-bone pie (and the good things that went into that pie!), a pair of fat fowls23, a fore-quarter of lamb, and a sirloin of beef; a spiced pudding with brandy sauce, a gooseberry pie, and some little tarts24 made with conserve25, that Victoire had introduced to the household.
Having satisfied herself that the cooking was in a satisfactory way, Marion went into the still-room, to see to the straining of her gooseberry wine. About ten o'clock she mounted to her own chamber26 and shut the door. A serious business was now afoot. The early joy of the morning had subsided27 to an under-current of secret pleasure, but even that bade fair to be destroyed when she turned out the contents of her clothes chest. Her going had been settled by the Admiral for Thursday. To-day was Tuesday. There was no time even for Victoire's skilful28 fingers—and Victoire was better than most sempstresses or tailors—to make her another gown. Marion turned over the laces that had been her mother's, the ribbons that were her sole ornament29. Her best embroidered30 bodice she looked at with a dissatisfied air, and then sought her father, who was casting up accounts at his desk.
'Father,' she said somewhat ruefully, 'I had no idea what a great many things I haven't got. I don't know what Aunt Constance will think of such a niece.'
The Admiral considered his daughter at length. ''Tis certainly a problem, but I should not mind laying long odds32 Aunt Constance will find her niece fair to middling. For the rest, her father is taking her, and he has a purse heavy enow to stand a new gown, I trow. Now take your hat and come across to the far pasture with me. I hear Sukey's got a fine calf33.'
Dinner time passed, and still Elise did not leave her chamber. Marion went again to her door, and finding she was asleep sought her own room. She seated herself at her chamber window, a piece of lace and a mending needle in her hand.
It had been an eventful week, a week unequalled in her simple life; it had opened with the bustle34 of her Aunt Keziah's departure; a prodigious35 bustle that, for the lady had elected to travel in state, with six horses to her coach, a couple of out-riders and her page on the step. Marion and Zacchary had ridden on either side the chariot as far as Lostwithiel, and Marion felt she would always have an affectionate memory of the fine old head thrust from the coach as she had turned her chestnut36 homeward. Coming back, the house had seemed for the first time somewhat lacking. Wearisome as her demands on her niece's liberty had been, the old lady had nevertheless brought an added interest to the girl's quiet life, and, as she had intended, successfully sown the seeds of unrest.
The next day Marion had met Roger on the headland, and later saved him from the folly37 of championing Jack38 Poole. Then had come the letter, the dazzling, bewildering prospect39 of her aunt's house in far-away London opening inviting40 doors to her. How Roger had scoffed41 at the idea! Marion smiled and sighed in the same breath. She felt great uneasiness at the thought of leaving Roger, so headstrong and foolish, to act as he chose, to mix himself up with all the rebel factions42 of the county if the fancy pleased him.
She stitched away at her lace, a look of unusual gravity on her face. Her thoughts had now wandered to Elise; and in spite of the kindly43 feelings Elise's later behaviour had evoked44 in her, she could not dispel45 the sense of foreboding her words at supper had aroused. Nor could she quite forgive her. Roger had been the playmate and sole companion of her childhood for many years before Elise came to Garth. The bond of the boy-and-girl intimacy46 was of a far stronger nature than the tie of friendship between herself and Elise. In fact, if Roger had not gone away to school and left her sorrowing and lonely, it is probable that the friendship between herself and the French girl would never have ripened47 at all.
Memories of her childhood days with Roger came up from the early years; the thought of his unswerving loyalty48, when she had done things he did not like and he had taken the blame himself; of the boats they had builded together and sailed on the duck-pond; of the hours he had sat by her in the window seat, when she was learning her stitches, and talked and told her stories—always of the sea; of the battles they had had concerning the riding of the colts—'You see, Mawfy,'—she could see him now, a clumsy, thick-set figure of a boy, his sturdy legs planted apart—'you haven't got a brother except me, and your father's no good at riding now, poor old man, so I've got to look after you. And I shan't let you ride Starlight till I've tried him better. If he's going to throw somebody—and he looks like it—I'd rather he threw me than you. I know just how to fall on a place where it doesn't hurt. And you don't. It's no good saying you do, or anything of that sort. I just shan't let you ride Starlight.'
Then, when she had argued and sulked: 'You look much nicer when you're smiling, Mawfy. You've got such a funny face.'
'My hair lies down, any way!' was her unfailing retort on personal questions, 'and I don't look like a heathen black-a-moor.'
Marion laid down her needle, with tears not far from the smile in her eyes as she remembered. In Roger's black thatch49 of hair there had always been a lock somewhere about the crown stiff as a broom handle, which defied all efforts at persuasion50 on the fond mother's part. One day Marion had taken a piece of dough51 from Curnow's kneading-pan, and plastered it in a thick cake over the unruly patch. The dough had hardened and refused to be removed, and Roger had gone about many days wearing this tonsure52. In the end (the day being Saturday, and the question of church arising) Marion had worked at the stiff cake and brought it off, plentifully53 set with hairs, at the sight of which her own tears had dropped.
'Never mind, Mawfy,' Roger had said, between his yells, 'I don't really mind. And perhaps you'll be pretty some day. But I don't care if all my hair stands up. I knew a sailor who wore all his hair standing54 up. Harder than mine.'
'Oh, Roger, Roger!' said Marion softly, her needle suspended as she stared out over the garden. 'What a dear child you were!'
Then, uncomfortable fact, Roger had grown up. Each time he had come back from Blundell's he had been different: rougher, noisier, not knowing what to do with his strength that was coming on him, given to saying and doing awkward things; with a loudly voiced scorn for girls (in Elise's presence) that disappeared when the two were together; for Marion was Marion, and, like his mother (and no other) set apart in his boyish thoughts.
And all through his growing youth, toughening every year just as an ivy55 stem toughens and becomes a tree trunk, ran that one desire to be a sailor. Thwarted56, it had merely bent57 another way, and grown stouter58 for the opposition59. That the thwarting60 was not good for the boy, Marion knew instinctively61, as her father knew from experience, and failed not to say so to Mrs. Trevannion. 'You're wrong, Ma'am,' he had said, striking the stones of the Manor62 porch with his stick. 'Roger's got a sailor's blood, and he'll go to sea. If you won't let him go, he'll run away.'
'No,' said the lady quietly, 'he won't do that. He has promised.'
The old Salt Eagle glared under his pent-house brows. 'Women are queer folk. To make a lad promise that, and continually bid him to wait, knowing all the time you have not the slightest intention of ever letting him go! You will have only yourself to thank if he flings himself hot-headed, in desperation, into some political bother. We live in sorry times, and the country's seething63 underneath64 like one of yonder Dartmoor bogs65 beneath its cap of green slime. And a boy who is discontented is easily drawn67 into trouble. And now I'll bid you good day, Ma'am.'
And so the old sailor had stumped68 off, with sorrow in his heart under his rage. He had never had a son, but had fate been kinder to him, he would have been proud of a boy like Roger Trevannion.
Her father's fears were Marion's also, and in the light of experience had been amply justified69. That 'miserable70 rising,' as the Admiral described the Monmouth Rebellion, had stirred the green smooth surface of the bog66 of unrest, and the black depths still bubbled. The Lord Chief-Justice Jeffreys had come out to the West to hold his 'Bloody71 Assize,' the punishment meted72 out by Kirke's Lambs after the battle of Sedgemoor not being deemed sufficient. Jeffreys, doing his work of extermination73 of the rebels, with one ear listening to the desires of his own foul74 heart, and the other bent on distant Whitehall, whence James II. smiled approval and murmured encouragement, saw to it that his work was well done. His spies were everywhere, from the White Horse of the Danes in the Mendips to the fishing coves75 of Land's End. And the net he cast in this way was of the finest mesh76. Cornwall was mainly Protestant, and it was more on the grounds of dislike for a monarch77 who insisted on the observance of the Catholic religion, than allegiance to the youth who led the Protestant rebellion against him, that some of their numbers flocked to Monmouth's standard. The Westerners had had ample cause to rue31 the day before ever Judge Jeffreys set out on his tour of death. The rebellion had failed, their young lads dying with it in the marshes78 of Sedgemoor; and Monmouth, their hero and hope, had fled for a coward, and earned the reward of his deeds. And now their lusty cries of: 'God bless the Protestant Duke!' had given way to the silence of unreasoning fear. The country folk had not time to dry their eyes for their sons who would never return, before they were opened wide in horror at this new danger for those who were left. The danger menaced (and touched) high and low alike. Men talking in taverns79 or at the cross roads on the events of the rising, talking, as they thought, with friends, were haled up the next day and hanged, for the love they bore to Monmouth. It was not necessary even, in some cases, that they should speak the word that showed they were against the Catholic king; a look sufficed; they hanged just the same. Here and there a man who was suspected was found rich enough to pay the Lord Chief-Justice the price of his life. But not many were so fortuned; and before the assize in the West was over, men had learned to distrust their lifelong friends, and to be afraid, going home at night, of their own shadows; and women stilled their crying children with the merest whisper of Jeffreys' name.
Jeffreys had returned to London with his triumphant80 tale of some hundreds hanged, and many more sold as slaves to the Plantations81, and for such loyal service to the Crown had been made the Lord High Chancellor82 of England.
It had been mainly owing to the Admiral's influence and well-known loyalist views that Garth had escaped suspicion; escaped, that is to say, with the exception of Jack Poole, who, working in a shipwright's yard at Lyme when Monmouth landed, and with plenty of enthusiasm to spare for any cause, such as smuggling83 or rioting, that ran against authority, joined the lads of Lyme, was taken (not in action) by the loyalists, clapped into jail at Bodmin, and now, in Bodmin again, was awaiting his trial.
Roger had taken no part at all in the rebellion, but his sense of loyalty to his friends would always outride his discretion84, as Marion had proved. And she might not always be there to stay his folly.
She sighed, and was laying her work aside, when a quick step sounded on the terrace, and there was a ringing hail.
'Marion, are you there? Curnow said she thought you were above.'
Marion looked out at her casement85. Roger was standing just below looking out at the moment on the shrubbery where two of the stable dogs were trespassing86. The youth was, as usual, hatless, and the black head was in reach of Marion's fingers as she leaned out. Roger was aware of a sudden tug87 near the crown of his head.
'Aie! Aie!' he said, swinging round. 'I thought you'd forgotten that. It still stands up—always will.' The brown eyes looked up affectionately. 'Do you remember that dough cake?'
'I had just been thinking of it, and how I cried when the hair came out. It certainly looks queer, Roger. Let us hope you will begin to grow bald just there first.'
'Most probably I shall grow bald all round it, and leave it upstanding. Never mind. I say, Mawfy, I've——'
'Don't speak so loudly,' said Marion in sudden contrition88. 'I had forgotten, Elise has a headache.'
Roger made a slight grimace89. 'Put on your habit, and come for a ride,' he said softly. ''Tis my last chance. I hear you are going Thursday. And to-morrow I must go down country about some sheep.'
'Good,' said Marion. 'I will only be five minutes. Will you ask Zacchary to saddle the grey?'
As they rode out of the courtyard and turned their horses towards the downs, Marion gave one of her sudden chuckles90. 'Do you remember Starlight,' she said, 'and the fights we used to have about my riding him?'
'I remember. He was a vicious brute91. I was always glad I bullied92 you on that score. What has made you remember Starlight?'
'I had a thinking fit this afternoon,' said Marion, 'and all sorts of things came back to me. Things we did when we were children.'
'Ay,' said Roger. 'Do you remember——' And the two went off together on a journey of reminiscences that lasted them, with breathless intervals93 when the ground tempted94 a gallop95, for close on an hour. The memory of that ride lived long with Marion; in talking of their childhood they had become children again.
On a windy ridge96 some dozen miles from the house they paused to breathe their horses. Marion looked across the land, all touched with tender green, to the distant Channel.
'I wish Aunt Constance had asked me to visit her at any time but the spring,' she said suddenly. 'And I can't conceive how I shall endure many weeks without the smell of the sea.'
It was the first mention of her approaching journey. The merry, boyish look went out of Roger's face. 'I hate the idea of your going,' he said moodily97. 'Who is going to look after you in London, and see that you don't ride Starlight?' A smile came and went, but there was a lingering sadness in his eyes.
'There won't be any chance of riding, I suppose,' said Marion.
'And I hate London, too,' added the young countryman. 'All the troubles in England are brewed98 first of all in Whitehall.' He looked hard at his companion for a moment, and then back to the distant sea. 'How long are you going to stay?' he asked abruptly99.
'I don't know,' said Marion lightly. 'A long time—years perhaps.'
Roger's brows drew together. 'And you have never seen your Aunt Constance. What is Sir John Fairfax like? Who is going to look after you?' he said again.
'I don't know—Roger!' Marion turned in her saddle to face him. 'The point is much more: who is going to look after you!'
Roger smiled. 'I do need leading strings100 and a pinafore, of course.'
Marion's glance ran affectionately over the young giant. 'But really, you know, Roger, I have been rather unhappy about you since the other day at Poole's cottage. If it hadn't been for me, you'd have been in Bodmin gaol101 now.'
'As well there as anywhere,' replied the youth, his gaze out to sea.
'The nearest road to a vessel102 of your own lies not through Bodmin gaol. See, Roger, will you promise me to—to be careful?'
The brown eyes looked steadily103 into the grey ones.
'Careful of what?'
'Why—not to get mixed up in some foolish affair for which you really care nothing.'
Roger roused himself with a laugh. 'I think you have got from the Admiral that trick of turning the tables. Here I was just going to ask you the same thing.'
'I'm not likely to bestir myself about political affairs, sir.'
'I hope not. But seriously, Mawfy, I do not like the whole affair—your going, I mean. Your father cannot stay long with you, and then you will be with strangers. Will you promise to let me know if you should be in any need?'
Marion smiled indulgently, then sobered, and looked broodingly across the land again. 'Oh Roger!' she cried impulsively104, not thinking at all of herself, only conscious of the little boy grown big at her side. 'I could wish it were all over, and I were back again. I'm afraid for you. Something is going to happen. For days I've had a foreboding. I always know when a storm is coming, and in the same way I know now——'
She pulled herself up. It was not her way to talk at random105 of her innermost feelings.
'Nonsense, nonsense!' said Roger briskly. 'Nothing ever happens unless you let it. You had a foreboding when I went to Blundell's. And what happened? Nothing! Oh yes—Elise came.'
They looked at each other in silence. Then Roger smiled. 'Come, Mawfy, 'tis my last half hour.'
He gathered his reins106. 'I'll race you to the first pasture.'
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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gape
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doorways
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decided
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awakened
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housekeeper
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clotted
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ailing
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robust
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retirement
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petulance
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poise
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impatience
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shameful
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prawns
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fowls
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tarts
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conserve
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chamber
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subsided
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skilful
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ornament
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embroidered
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rue
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odds
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calf
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bustle
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prodigious
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chestnut
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folly
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jack
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prospect
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inviting
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scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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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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44
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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45
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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46
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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47
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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49
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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50
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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51
dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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52
tonsure
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| n.削发；v.剃 | |
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53
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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54
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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55
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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56
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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57
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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58
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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59
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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60
thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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61
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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62
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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63
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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64
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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65
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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66
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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67
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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68
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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70
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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72
meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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74
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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75
coves
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| n.小海湾( cove的名词复数 )；家伙 | |
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76
mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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77
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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78
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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79
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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81
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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82
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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83
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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84
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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85
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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86
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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87
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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88
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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89
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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90
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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91
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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92
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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94
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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95
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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96
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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97
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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98
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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99
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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100
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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101
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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102
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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103
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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104
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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105
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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106
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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