The deep mourning was supposed, by all save a few, to be worn for Sir Thomas Chandos. When Mrs. Chandos appeared in her widow's garb7, people at first treated it as one of her eccentricities8, but the truth got to be known in time. They put me into mourning too; and it was done in this way.
"Would you not like to wear it?" Sir Harry9 said to me the day he came home. "I think, as you are in the house, one of us, it might be well; also as my future wife. What do you say, Anne? Would you object?"
"Indeed I would not object: I should like to wear it. I will order----" and there the state of the case occurred to me, and I sat down in consternation10.
I had not a shilling in the world. I had no money, either for mourning or for my wedding clothes. The exceeding incongruity11 of this order of affairs with my position as the future Lady Chandos, struck on me with shame and dismay. What would they all think of me? What reflections of meanness might even the servants not cast upon me? Tears of mortification12 filled my eyes, nearly dropped upon my burning cheeks.
"What's the matter, Anne?"
"I have no money."
Sir Harry laughed. "Don't cry over that, my darling. You'll have so much soon, you wont13 know what to do with it. Tell my mother of your dilemma14."
I did not. Perhaps he did. In the afternoon Hill came to my room with Lady Chandos's dressmaker; and in two days my black things were home.
The first visitor we had at the house--and he arrived the day I put my mourning on--was Monsieur de Mellissie, looking very ill. Of course he had come after his wife, having started the instant he was able to travel. A somewhat stormy interview ensued between them; but she spoke15 like one accustomed to have things her own way, and he appeared rather meek16 beside her. He had arrived with the view of taking her back to France; she vowed17 and protested that she was not going home yet awhile--that all the steamers plying18 between the two countries should not drag her; her mamma was about to spend some time at Brighton or Scarborough, as might be agreed up on, and she purposed accompanying her: she wanted recruiting as well as other people.
Lady Chandos stepped forward to the rescue, her compassion19 awakened20 for the poor, sick, evidently suffering man. The first thing, he must go to bed and be nursed, she said; they would talk of plans afterwards. Monsieur de Mellissie was really too ill to dispute the mandate21; neither did he feel inclined to do it: after his hurried journey from Paris, bed seemed as a very haven22 of rest.
They left the room, followed by Lady Chandos, and the next to appear was the agent, Mr. Dexter. He came in, rubbing his hot face as usual. Not that the weather put him into a heat to-day, but the news he brought.
Mr. Edwin Barley23 had gone away. Mr. Edwin Barley's servant had called upon him with a cheque for a twelve-month's rent and taxes, and an intimation that his master would not occupy the house again. Mr. Dexter might make what use he pleased of it. If there were any dilapidations for which Mr. Edwin Barley was legally responsible, they would be paid for on the amount being sent to him at the Oaks.
"Gone away, has he?" cried Sir Harry.
"Gone clean away, sir, bag and baggage," replied Mr. Dexter, who seemed not able to get over the surprising fact. "It's the oddest thing I ever knew. The furniture--it was only hired, as you may remember, Sir Harry--is already being removed out of the house. A strange whim24, to be red-hot for a place one month, and run away from it the next!"
"Very," said Sir Harry, quietly.
"I suppose the truth is, he found the house so different from his own place, the Oaks, that he couldn't reconcile himself to stop in it," resumed Mr. Dexter, talking as fast as ever. "A magnificent place that, his servant tells me. He has another, too, close by it, that he keeps up as well. I pressed the question on the servant--a most respectable man, quite superior, Sir Harry--what could be taking his master away; but he said he didn't know, unless it might be that he was disappointed at finding the shooting here so poor. The preserves at the Oaks are hardly to be matched in the kingdom. Any way, Sir Harry, he's gone, whatever may have taken him."
As Mr. Dexter went out of the room, disburdened of his news, Sir Harry came to the window where I sat at work, laid his hand upon my head, and made me look up at him.
"Is that little heart of yours relieved by the tidings?"
"Yes; oh, yes. I have not dreaded25 Mr. Edwin Barley so much the last few days; but I am glad he is gone. I was always fearing that he might apply for some power that would enable him legally to take me hence."
"In that case I must have got legal power on my side in the shape of a special licence, and married you romantically in the great drawing-room at twelve at night, and so made you secure in that way. I think even now it may be safer, Anne, not to delay the ceremony long."
I looked up in consternation, believing he really thought there might still be danger, and met the expression in his eyes. Mine fell on my work again. I began sewing fast.
"Don't you think Monsieur de Mellissie looks very ill, Sir Harry?"
"I do; but low fever reduces a man greatly. When are you going to leave off the 'Sir?' 'Sir Harry' is worse than 'Mr. Chandos' was."
"But what can I call you?"
"I was christened Harry."
"I shall learn it in time," I answered, shyly, "through hearing the others say it."
"Anne, do you know what poor George said the last night of his life?" he asked, after a pause.
"No. Was it about me?"
"It was about you: when you were the little thing he met at Hallam. He said you were a sweet, loveable child: truthful26, honest, and good. I think you are the same still."
I bent27 my blushing face: praises were so sweet from him. Sir Harry suddenly clasped me to him with a deep sound--quite a cry of love; and I had to kneel down afterwards and hunt for my needle.
A few mornings subsequent to this, the post brought a packet addressed to Sir Harry Chandos. When I saw it was Mr. Edwin Barley's handwriting, my heart failed me. Sir Harry read it twice over; glanced at me, and put it in his pocket. Monsieur de Mellissie was considerably28 better; the change of air and scene had almost restored him. He did not yet get up to breakfast. I, Emily, and her brother took it alone. Plans had been under discussion for some days. Sir Harry's marriage was already talked of openly.
"Mamma says it will be Scarborough," observed Emily, following out the train of thought she had been pursuing while Sir Harry read his letter. "She shall go there for a month, and get to Heneage Grange for Christmas. Ethel goes with her of course, and so shall I. Alfred also; she has been inviting29 him. And you, Anne--where do you go?"
I could not tell. I had neither money nor friends. Except the Miss Barlieus.
"Where are you going, Anne? Don't you hear me?" she cried, with some impatience30. "Even if mamma remained at Chandos, you could not, under the same roof with Harry. It would be out of all precedent31, you know. The world would talk."
"Wouldn't it?" put in Sir Harry. But I thought he was laughing at her.
"Where are you to be married? I mean, from whose house?" she asked, looking straight at me.
"From--Miss Barlieu's," I suggested, humbly32, feeling now very humble33 my share of everything was altogether.
Emily gave a scream. "From Miss Barlieu's! Sir Harry Chandos take his wife from them? Well, you have notions of things, Anne Hereford. You ought to be married from Keppe-Carew."
"There is no one at Keppe-Carew now. Arthur Carew is a boy at school."
"Oh well, I wash my hands of it," said Emily; "I suppose mamma will have to arrange it all. Look here, Anne; I mean to be a frequent visitor at Chandos, so I give you fair warning."
It was on my lips to say she would be always welcome, when Sir Harry spoke: telling her she might probably find that mamma had arranged it; all that was necessary to be arranged. She flew upstairs to ask, and Sir Harry turned to me.
Oh, what wonderful news he had to tell! That old saying I spoke of but a few pages back was nothing to it. I sat and listened as one in a vast maze--and when Sir Harry showed me the letter, I read it twice over, as he had done, before knowing whether or not to believe it.
Mr. Edwin Barley had made over to me the amount of money left by Selina, with the full interest thereon at five per cent, up to the present date. He frankly34 stated that the mystery of the lost will had now been cleared up: it had been (contrary to his own opinion) abstracted, and, as he found, burnt. He did not give any hint as to the culprit; with all his sins, he was too much of a gentleman to do that: I could acknowledge it now that my prejudices were partially35 removed: but we felt sure (and knew it later) that it was Charlotte Delves36. This money he had caused to be settled on me to my exclusive use and benefit. He informed Sir Harry that the first instalment of the half-yearly interest was waiting to be drawn by me.
"So you are an heiress, after all," said Sir Harry, laughing. "You can buy your wedding dress."
But I did not laugh. I was thinking how I had misjudged Mr. Edwin Barley. I had thought him so hard and unjust a man! Hard, he might be: but strictly37 just.
"I should like to write and thank him."
"Certainly. Write when you like, and what you like. I shall answer his letter. It contains something more, that I have not shown you."
"Am I not to see it?"
For answer Sir Harry folded the letter back, and placed a postscript38 before me. It seemed to me more amazing than the other.
"Should my niece, Anne Hereford, find herself less happy as Lady Chandos--your wife--than she expects to be, and wish for a refuge, my house will be open to her. If she enters it, whether in the present year or in those long to come, she will be treated in every way as my own child; and be very amply provided for at my death."
"Do you expect you will require a refuge?"
His eyes were gleaming with merriment as he spoke it--a whole lifetime of loving affection in their depths. If mine unconsciously looked back their great and tender trust, it was not my fault. But a vision of sometime meeting Edwin Barley and thanking him for this new kindness; of making some little atonement for my past hatred40, so far as words of gratitude41 could atone39, rose within me as a vision.
The following week we quitted Chandos for Scarborough--all of us, except Sir Harry. There were many things to be done to the house, improvements and alterations42, and he remained to superintend them. He spent Christmas with us at Heneage Grange: it was a smaller place than Chandos, very open, very pretty, and belonged to Lady Chandos for life. I was to remain and be married from thence; Lady Chandos so decided43 it.
The winter had passed, the spring had come, before I saw Chandos again. I was then in Harry's carriage: alone with him; his dear wife, his wife of only a day or two. Chandos was very far from Heneage Grange, and we had taken the journey easily, travelling post.
I saw it as we turned round from the avenue; and did not know it: so different was it now in its light and gay appearance from the gloomy place of the previous autumn. The trees, some of them cut down, were budding into the fresh green of spring; the flowers were opening in their parterres; the birds sang joyously44; the once closed and barred windows were open cheerily to the warm sun. All things spoke of hope for us, as if nature had arrayed herself expressly in her brightest colours.
I saw the servants in their gala clothes, with their glad faces of greeting, coming forth45 to welcome us, Hickens at their head, and Lizzy Dene with her bunches of black curls. The tears rained over my eyes, and Harry turned to me.
"My darling, what is grieving you?"
"Joy, I think. There is a promise of so much happiness that I cannot realize it, can scarcely believe in it. My past life has been nothing but loneliness; can you wonder at my almost doubting the great blessings46 showered upon me now? Harry!"--and I looked down with a shy whisper--"it seems that I never, never can be sufficiently47 grateful to God."
"We will try to be so, Anne. Sufficiently, no; but just a little, as He shall give us aid for. What has been your life, compared to the suffering of mine?--and He has lifted it from me."
He bent his head, I know in prayer. Prayer never to forget the great mercies given. The carriage stopped at the door, and he helped me out.
Once more in the old hall; but it had light now, and bright painted windows, and all sorts of beautiful things. Hill came forward. It was a surprise. Lady Chandos had despatched her there, to superintend for our reception, lending her to Chandos for a week.
"Welcome, my Lady; welcome home."
My Lady! I think it was the first time I had been addressed so, and glanced at Harry. He had me on his arm, and was leading me into the oak-parlour! The dear oak-parlour! We might have to keep state at times, but that would ever be his favourite room and mine.
"Harry, how beautiful it all is! Do you know who I should like to ask to come and see us first of all?"
"Well!" he said, smiling.
"Miss Annette Barlieu."
"And so we will."
Harry came into my dressing-room that night, with an open Bible in his hand. He made me sit down by him while he read a chapter aloud; and I found it was to be his usual custom morning and evening. It was that chapter in Deuteronomy where the following verses occur; and I knew why he had chosen it:--
"And it shall be, when the Lord thy God shall have brought thee into the land which he sware unto thy fathers, to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, to give thee great and goodly cities which thou buildedst not,
"And houses full of all good things, which thou filledst not, and wells digged, which thou diggedst not, vineyards and olive-trees which thou plantedst not; when thou shalt have eaten and be full;
"Then beware lest thou forget the Lord, which brought thee forth out of the land of Egypt, from the house of bondage48.
"Thou shalt fear the Lord thy God, and serve him . . . . And thou shalt do that which is right and good in the sight of the Lord, that it may be well with thee.
"And it shall be our righteousness, if we observe to do all these commandments before the Lord thy God, as he hath commanded us."
"Amen!" said Harry, softly, as he closed the book, carrying it with him from the room.
And I knelt down alone to say my prayers, my heart full to overflowing49 with a sense of its great blessings, and lifted up in thankfulness to Heaven.
THE END.
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收听单词发音
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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15
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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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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28
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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31
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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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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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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delves
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的第三人称单数 ) | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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41
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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42
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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43
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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45
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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46
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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47
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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48
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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