A buoyant temperament3 is of all moral qualities the most precious, in this respect; it is the one force in us—when virtuous4 resolution proves insufficient—which resists by instinct the stealthy approaches of despair. “I shall only cry,” Emily thought, “if I stay at home; better go out.”
Observant persons, accustomed to frequent the London parks, can hardly have failed to notice the number of solitary5 strangers sadly endeavoring to vary their lives by taking a walk. They linger about the flower-beds; they sit for hours on the benches; they look with patient curiosity at other people who have companions; they notice ladies on horseback and children at play, with submissive interest; some of the men find company in a pipe, without appearing to enjoy it; some of the women find a substitute for dinner, in little dry biscuits wrapped in crumpled6 scraps7 of paper; they are not sociable8; they are hardly ever seen to make acquaintance with each other; perhaps they are shame-faced, or proud, or sullen9; perhaps they despair of others, being accustomed to despair of themselves; perhaps they have their reasons for never venturing to encounter curiosity, or their vices10 which dread11 detection, or their virtues12 which suffer hardship with the resignation that is sufficient for itself. The one thing certain is, that these unfortunate people resist discovery. We know that they are strangers in London—and we know no more.
And Emily was one of them.
Among the other forlorn wanderers in the Parks, there appeared latterly a trim little figure in black (with the face protected from notice behind a crape veil), which was beginning to be familiar, day after day, to nursemaids and children, and to rouse curiosity among harmless solitaries13 meditating14 on benches, and idle vagabonds strolling over the grass. The woman-servant, whom the considerate doctor had provided, was the one person in Emily’s absence left to take care of the house. There was no other creature who could be a companion to the friendless girl. Mrs. Ellmother had never shown herself again since the funeral. Mrs. Mosey could not forget that she had been (no matter how politely) requested to withdraw. To whom could Emily say, “Let us go out for a walk?” She had communicated the news of her aunt’s death to Miss Ladd, at Brighton; and had heard from Francine. The worthy15 schoolmistress had written to her with the truest kindness. “Choose your own time, my poor child, and come and stay with me at Brighton; the sooner the better.” Emily shrank—not from accepting the invitation—but from encountering Francine. The hard West Indian heiress looked harder than ever with a pen in her hand. Her letter announced that she was “getting on wretchedly with her studies (which she hated); she found the masters appointed to instruct her ugly and disagreeable (and loathed17 the sight of them); she had taken a dislike to Miss Ladd (and time only confirmed that unfavorable impression); Brighton was always the same; the sea was always the same; the drives were always the same. Francine felt a presentiment18 that she should do something desperate, unless Emily joined her, and made Brighton endurable behind the horrid19 schoolmistress’s back.” Solitude20 in London was a privilege and a pleasure, viewed as the alternative to such companionship as this.
Emily wrote gratefully to Miss Ladd, and asked to be excused.
Other days had passed drearily21 since that time; but the one day that had brought with it Cecilia’s letter set past happiness and present sorrow together so vividly22 and so cruelly that Emily’s courage sank. She had forced back the tears, in her lonely home; she had gone out to seek consolation23 and encouragement under the sunny sky—to find comfort for her sore heart in the radiant summer beauty of flowers and grass, in the sweet breathing of the air, in the happy heavenward soaring of the birds. No! Mother Nature is stepmother to the sick at heart. Soon, too soon, she could hardly see where she went. Again and again she resolutely24 cleared her eyes, under the shelter of her veil, when passing strangers noticed her; and again and again the tears found their way back. Oh, if the girls at the school were to see her now—the girls who used to say in their moments of sadness, “Let us go to Emily and be cheered”—would they know her again? She sat down to rest and recover herself on the nearest bench. It was unoccupied. No passing footsteps were audible on the remote path to which she had strayed. Solitude at home! Solitude in the Park! Where was Cecilia at that moment? In Italy, among the lakes and mountains, happy in the company of her light-hearted friend.
The lonely interval25 passed, and persons came near. Two sisters, girls like herself, stopped to rest on the bench.
They were full of their own interests; they hardly looked at the stranger in mourning garments. The younger sister was to be married, and the elder was to be bridesmaid. They talked of their dresses and their presents; they compared the dashing bridegroom of one with the timid lover of the other; they laughed over their own small sallies of wit, over their joyous1 dreams of the future, over their opinions of the guests invited to the wedding. Too joyfully26 restless to remain inactive any longer, they jumped up again from the seat. One of them said, “Polly, I’m too happy!” and danced as she walked away. The other cried, “Sally, for shame!” and laughed, as if she had hit on the most irresistible27 joke that ever was made.
Emily rose and went home.
By some mysterious influence which she was unable to trace, the boisterous28 merriment of the two girls had roused in her a sense of revolt against the life that she was leading. Change, speedy change, to some occupation that would force her to exert herself, presented the one promise of brighter days that she could see. To feel this was to be inevitably29 reminded of Sir Jervis Redwood. Here was a man, who had never seen her, transformed by the incomprehensible operation of Chance into the friend of whom she stood in need—the friend who pointed16 the way to a new world of action, the busy world of readers in the library of the Museum.
Early in the new week, Emily had accepted Sir Jervis’s proposal, and had so interested the bookseller to whom she had been directed to apply, that he took it on himself to modify the arbitrary instructions of his employer.
“The old gentleman has no mercy on himself, and no mercy on others,” he explained, “where his literary labors30 are concerned. You must spare yourself, Miss Emily. It is not only absurd, it’s cruel, to expect you to ransack31 old newspapers for discoveries in Yucatan, from the time when Stephens published his ‘Travels in Central America’—nearly forty years since! Begin with back numbers published within a few years—say five years from the present date—and let us see what your search over that interval will bring forth32.”
Accepting this friendly advice, Emily began with the newspaper-volume dating from New Year’s Day, 1876.
The first hour of her search strengthened the sincere sense of gratitude33 with which she remembered the bookseller’s kindness. To keep her attention steadily34 fixed35 on the one subject that interested her employer, and to resist the temptation to read those miscellaneous items of news which especially interest women, put her patience and resolution to a merciless test. Happily for herself, her neighbors on either side were no idlers. To see them so absorbed over their work that they never once looked at her, after the first moment when she took her place between them, was to find exactly the example of which she stood most in need. As the hours wore on, she pursued her weary way, down one column and up another, resigned at least (if not quite reconciled yet) to her task. Her labors ended, for the day, with such encouragement as she might derive36 from the conviction of having, thus far, honestly pursued a useless search.
News was waiting for her when she reached home, which raised her sinking spirits.
On leaving the cottage that morning she had given certain instructions, relating to the modest stranger who had taken charge of her correspondence—in case of his paying a second visit, during her absence at the Museum. The first words spoken by the servant, on opening the door, informed her that the unknown gentleman had called again. This time he had boldly left his card. There was the welcome name that she had expected to see—Alban Morris.
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1
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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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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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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solitaries
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| n.独居者，隐士( solitary的名词复数 ) | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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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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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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