“Do you remember the ilexes in the Villa Conti?” he said. “It was about this time, was it not?”
“It was on the second of June,” said Alice, hastily. She was half vexed24 that the day had not been marked by him as by her.{417} “Oh, yes, I remember every twig25, I think,” she said, with a smile. “The second of June was on a Sunday this year. I think I cried nearly all day, for it seemed as if you never would come. And not to know where you were, or how you were, all these four dreary26, dreary years!——”
What could Colin do? He pressed the hand that clung to his arm, and answered as he best could, touched ever more and more with that tenderness of remorse21 towards the woman who loved him. “You know it was not any fault of mine. It was your father who sent me away.”
“Yes, I know,” said Alice; “it was that always that kept me up, for I knew you would not change. Poor papa! he has had such dreadful lessons. Mrs. Meredith, you know, and the poor little children! I used to think, if God would only have taken me, and left them who were so happy——”
And here there was a little pause, for Alice had some tears to brush away, and Colin, ever more and more touched, could not but offer such consolations27 as were natural under the circumstances. And it was Alice who resumed at length, with the simple certainty natural to her mind.
“I see now that it was all for the best,” she said; “God has been so good to us. Oh, Colin, is it not true about His mysterious ways?—and that everything works together for good, though it may seem hard at the time.”
Perhaps Colin found it difficult to answer this question; perhaps, not being absorbed by his own happiness, he could not but wonder over again if poor Mrs. Meredith and her children who were dead, would have seen that working of Providence28 in the same light as Alice did. But then this was not a subject to be discussed between two lovers; and, if it was not Providence who had seized upon him in the midst of his thoughtless holiday, and brought him back to the bonds of his youth, and changed all his prospects29 in the twinkling of an eye, what was it? Not the heathen Fate, taking a blind vengeance30 upon Folly31, which was a harder thing to think of than the ways, however mysterious, of God. These were not thoughts to be passing through a man’s mind at such a moment; and Colin avoided the answer which was expected of him, and plunged32 into more urgent affairs.
“I must go away,” he said; “do not look reproachful, Alice. I do not mean to continue my holiday after this. It seems to me we have waited a great deal too long already,” Colin went on with a smile, which he felt to be forced, but which had no such effect upon Alice. “Now that the obstacles are removed I can{418}not consent to any longer delay; and you know I have a house to take you to now, which I had not in the old times.”
“You had always Ramore,” said Alice; and the way in which she said it proved to him still once more that, though he had put her out of his mind, Alice had forgotten nothing he had ever said to her. She spoke33 of the farmer’s homely34 house not as of a place which she heard some vague talk of so many years ago, but as a home for which she had been longing35. “And your mother!” said Alice; “if you had the most beautiful house in the world, I want you to take me there first of all; I want you to take me to her.”
It will be seen from this that Alice did not think there was anything to be deprecated in Colin’s haste. She accepted it as most reasonable, and the thing that was to be looked for. She thought it natural that he should be reluctant to lose sight of her again, as she, for her part, was very reluctant to lose sight of him; and thus they went on to make all their necessary arrangements. In this close and tender interview, as he saw ever more and more how Alice depended upon him, how real the link between them had been to her even during those long years of separation, and how, in her perfect good faith and simplicity36, she considered him, and all belonging to him, as hers, Colin himself came to consider it the most natural and unquestionable conclusion. The pain in his heart softened37, his reluctance38 seemed to melt away. Alice had more beauty at this time of her life than ever she had had before. Her weakness, and the charm of that hidden love which had been so long working in her, and which had now brightened into the fullest blossom, had given an expression hitherto wanting to her eyes. She was more individual and distinct by right of having kept and hoarded39 that individual attachment40 in her heart, in defiance41 of everything that could be done against it; and now in Colin’s presence, believing as she did with that confidence which can be born only of love, in his entire interest in everything connected with her, her timidity disappeared, and she hourly gained interest and character. All this had its effect upon Colin so long as the two were together straying through the avenue, crossing the bars of shade and the rays of sunshine, listening to the birds singing overhead and to the rustle42 of the summer leaves. But it was harder work when they went indoors again, when Mr. Meredith’s anxious face appeared, and the grave countenance43 of Lauderdale, carefully cleared of all anxiety, and become, so far as that was possible, altogether inexpressive. Colin was of so uncertain a mood that{419} the very absence of all question in Lauderdale’s eyes jarred upon him, though he could not have borne to be interrogated44. He was high-fantastical beyond all previous precedent45 at that moment; and the readers of this history are aware that already, at various periods of his life, it had happened to him to be fantastical enough. The conversation and confidences of the avenue broke clean off when the party were all assembled within. Alice could not say anything before her father of her weariness and waiting, or it would have sounded like a reproach; and Colin, for his part, could not utter a word about his intentions or prospects to any ears but hers. He could speak to her, and she, who accepted everything said without any question, found nothing wanting in his words; and that was already a new link between them; but before her father and his own friend he was dumb. He could not even talk to Lauderdale as he had talked to him four years ago at Frascati; and yet he resented that Lauderdale did not ask him any questions. From which it will be seen that nothing could well be less manageable and reasonable than the state of Colin’s mind at this moment, when the most important decision of his life was being made.
That evening it was he who sought an interview with Mr. Meredith. It was very clear, in every point of view, that everything should be arranged with the least delay possible. “I have served half as long as Jacob did,” Colin said, with a smile, which, however, was far from being the radiant smile of a happy lover; and Alice’s father, who was not by any means so confident of Colin’s love as Alice was, was so much concerned that his daughter should not lose the happiness which meant not only happiness but life and strength as well, that he did not venture to make any objections. Neither did the poor man resent the insult, when Colin repeated with mildness, yet with steadiness, his determination to receive nothing from him. Alice had something of her own, which came to her from her mother, the little revenue which Arthur had once had his share of, and on which the two had lived at Frascati: but beyond that, Colin, always superlative, would have none of the rich man’s fortune, which was soiled, as he thought, with fraud and cruelty. Whether this accusation47 was just or unjust, poor Mr. Meredith, who was a kind father, swallowed it without saying anything, and consented to all his future son-in-law’s requirements. Colin had made up his mind to leave Holmby at once, to hasten back to Afton, and make all the preparations necessary to receive his bride; and the marriage was fixed48 to{420} take place very shortly—in August, when Colin could take up again his broken thread of holiday. All this was arranged between the two as an absolute matter of business, requiring no expression of sentiment. If Mr. Meredith thought the young man a little cold and stern, and swallowed that sentiment as he had swallowed the other, after all, perhaps, it was best that in discussing what was a business matter even a bridegroom should talk in a business way. And, then, Alice was unquestionably satisfied, and had regained49 some colour on her cheek, and some elasticity50 in her step. She had never been consumptive, like Arthur. Her illness was a kind of hopelessness, a lingering languor51, which was quite as capable of killing52 her as if it had been a legitimate53 disease; and this was a malady54 from which, to all appearance, only Colin and a happy life could deliver her. Under these circumstances, therefore, it was natural that Mr. Meredith, though a little wounded, and even a little alarmed, by the new son-in-law, who meant to have everything his own way, consented to his wishes, being anxious, above all things, to preserve his daughter. He caressed55 and petted Alice all the more when his consent had been made known to her, with a kind of faint idea, in his ignorance, that all the indulgences which had surrounded her would be at an end when she put herself under the power of this abrupt15 and imperious young man. As for Alice, she looked from her father to her betrothed56 with a serenity57 and confidence so profound that it went to Colin’s heart. “She has been used to be taken care of all her life,” her father said, as fathers generally say, but with an odd forgetfulness, for the moment, that Colin knew something about that. “I hope you will be very good to her.”
Alice opened her soft lips at this, to give vent46 to a little ring of laughter so soft that it did not wound even the fantastical delicacy58 of her Bayard. To doubt Colin seemed to her not so much wrong as absurd, out of all reason. She said, half under her breath, “He has taken care of me before now”—and, to relieve herself of that which she could not express to her father without blaming him, it was to Lauderdale she turned. “You made me feel as if I were a princess,” she said to him, and held out her hand to the friend who was looking on with an anxiety so intense that it precluded59 speech. As for Colin, in the high state of irritation60 in which he was, the very silence with which Lauderdale pressed the little hand of Alice between his own aggravated61 and exasperated62 him. Why did not he say something? Why did he not look him, the bridegroom, straight{421} in the eyes, and ask, “Are not you happy?” Had he done so, Colin would have taken it as the direst and most unpardonable offence; but, in the disturbed state of his heart and mind, he resented the very absence of the question. A man must have some one to bear the brunt of his discontent when things go wrong with him, and in the meantime there was nobody but Lauderdale to take this necessary part.
Accordingly, when all was settled, and when it was finally arranged that Colin should leave Holmby next morning and make haste home, to commence his preparations, it was of his own accord that he invited Lauderdale to join him in the avenue for half an hour’s talk. The wind had fallen, and the night was very still, but it was almost as dark as on the previous evening, and the gloom had this advantage, that they could not see each other’s faces, which was all the better under the circumstances. They had walked almost all the length of the avenue before Colin spoke, and then it was to this effect.
“Lauderdale, look here. I am going home, and leaving you in the lurch63. We are not going to Windermere together, as we meant to do. You see, I have things more important in hand. What I want to say is, that you are not to think yourself bound by me. I see no reason why you should return because a—a good fortune so unexpected has come to me.”
“Do you mean that you want me to go my ways?” said Lauderdale. “With me there is little need to speak in parables64. Say plain out if you would rather be your lane. I am no a man to take offence—not from you.”
“Good heavens!” said Colin, in his impatience65, “why should you or any one take offence? What I tell you is the plainest statement of the case. I have to go home, but you are not obliged to go home. And why should you break off your excursion for me?”
“If I was minding about the excursion,” said Lauderdale, “I would go on. You aye make so much account of yourselves, you callants. As for Windermere, I’m no bigoted66, but if it’s mair worth seeing than our ain lochs it would be a wonder to me. I’m no for parting company. It’s aye been my way of thinking, that even a railroad, seen with four een, was better than the bonniest country in the world, seen with two only. We’ll go hame, Colin, if you have no objections, you and me.”
And then there was a silence, and the two friends went on together side by side in the darkness, without a word to each other. Between them the ordinary words of congratulation{422} would have sounded like mockery, and the one divined too clearly the condition of the other to know what to say. Lauderdale, however, knew Colin so well that he knew silence to be as dangerous as speech.
“I have an awfu’ desire in my mind,” he said at length; “no doubt it’s daftlike, but that is no extraordinary. I would like to do something with my hands to please her, now we’ve found her. I’m no rich, and, what’s an awful deal worse, I’m no much for anything but talk—and maybe she has an inkling of that. What was that yon lad Browning says about Raphael’s sonnets67 and Dante’s picture? I’m of that opinion mysel’. I would like to do something with my hands that was nae fit work for the like of me, just to please her; if it was naething better than the things they whittle68 with their knives away yonder among the Alps,” said Lauderdale; and even in the darkness Colin could see the little flourish of his arm with which he had the habit of indicating the never-to-be-forgotten region “away yonder.” “Have patience a moment till I’ve done speaking,” he went on; “I’ve been thinking I would like to take a good day’s work at the Manse garden. It’s as innocent a thing in its way to plant flowers as to write verses. So I’m saying I’ll go home with you, if you’ve nae objections,” said Lauderdale. He came to a conclusion so suddenly, that Colin, who had gradually yielded to the influence of the familiar tranquillising voice, came to a sudden pause when he stopped short. Lauderdale paused too in his walk when his friend did so, though without knowing why. It was indifferent to him whether he kept walking or stood still; his mind went on pursuing its leisurely69 meditations70 all the same.
But Colin’s heart was full. He grasped Lauderdale’s arm without knowing it, with that sudden impulse of saying something which sometimes comes upon people who must not say what is in their hearts. “Come!” he said, with a little choking in his voice, “we will do that day’s work together; for I suppose there never was gain, however great, but had loss in it,” said Colin. Perhaps he did not know very well himself what he meant, but even these vague words were a little ease to him in their way. And then they went indoors, and the long day came to an end.
This was how the holiday excursion terminated. They left Holmby next morning, and went home again; neither one nor the other thinking any more of the Church Reformation, or of the “Tracts for the Times.” When Colin found his MS. in his writing-case when he opened it on the night of his arrival at{423} Ramore to write to Alice, he looked at it with a little wonder, as if it had been a fossil of an early formation unexpectedly disinterred among the fragments of daily use and wont71. And then he returned it to his pocket, with something that looked like a very clumsy attempt at a smile. There are points of view from which a good-sized tree or a shepherd’s cottage may blot72 out a mountain; and everybody knows how easily that is accomplished73 on the moral horizon, where a tiny personal event can put the greatest revolution in the background. It would be too long to tell the wonder and admiration74 and perplexed75 joy of the Mistress when she heard of the accident which had put an end to her son’s journey. Her joy was perplexed, because there was always a shadow which she could not decipher upon Colin’s countenance; and, even if her mother’s pride would have permitted her to consult Lauderdale on such a subject, or to suffer either him or herself to suppose for a moment that he could know more about her boy than she did, Lauderdale’s lips were sealed. Colin stayed only a night at Ramore to let his family know what was going to happen, and then he hurried to Afton, still accompanied by his friend. They talked of almost everything in the world during that journey, except of the preparations they were going to make, and the change that was to follow; but Colin’s great ambition, and the important changes he meant to work in his native Church and country, had little part in their discussions. At such a moment, when it is next to impossible to a man to talk of what he is thinking of, it is such a wonderful relief for him to escape into metaphysics; and, fortunately, in that department of human investigation76, there are still so many questions to discuss.
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1
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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exasperates
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| n.激怒，触怒( exasperate的名词复数 )v.激怒，触怒( exasperate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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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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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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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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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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49
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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62
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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63
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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64
parables
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| n.（圣经中的）寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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65
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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66
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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67
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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68
whittle
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| v.削（木头），削减；n.屠刀 | |
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69
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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70
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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71
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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72
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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73
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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74
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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75
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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76
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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