Outside, beyond the broad sweep of lawn, the quiet English countryside lay bathed in the evening light: a river gleaming in the foreground, woods clothed in freshest verdure, and rugged1 hills running back through gradations of softening2 color into the distance. Inside, a ray of sunlight stretched across the polished floor, and gleams of brightness rested on the rows of books and somber3 paneling. Brantholme was old, but modern art had added comfort and toned down its austerity; and George, fresh from the northern snow peaks, was conscious of its restful atmosphere.
In the meanwhile, he was listening for a footstep. Sylvia, he had been told, would be with him in two or three minutes; he had already been expecting her for a quarter of an hour. This, however, did not surprise him: Sylvia was rarely punctual, and until she married Marston, he had been accustomed to await her pleasure.
She came at length, clad in a thin black dress that fitted her perfectly4; and he rose and stood looking at her while his heart beat fast. Sylvia was slight of figure, but curiously5 graceful6, and her normal expression was one of innocent candor7. The somber garments emphasized the colorless purity of her complexion8; her hair was fair, and she had large, pathetic blue eyes. Her beauty was somehow heightened by a hint of fragility: in her widow's dress she looked very forlorn and helpless; and the man yearned9 to comfort and protect her. It did not strike him that she had stood for some moments enduring his compassionate10 scrutiny12 with exemplary patience.
"It's so nice to see you, George," she said. "I knew you would come."
He thrilled at the assurance; but he was not an effusive13 person. He brought a chair for her.
"I started as soon as I got your note," he answered simply. "I'm glad you're back again."
He did not think it worth while to mention that he had with difficulty crossed a snow-barred pass in order to save time, and had left a companion, who resented his desertion, in the wilds; but Sylvia guessed that he had spared no effort, and she answered him with a smile.
"Your welcome's worth having, because it's sincere."
Those who understood Sylvia best occasionally said that when she was unusually gracious it was a sign that she wanted something; but George would have denied this with indignation.
"If it wouldn't be too painful, you might tell me a little about your stay in Canada," he said by and by. "You never wrote, and"—he hesitated—"I heard only once from Dick."
Dick was her dead husband's name, and she sat silent a few moments musing14, and glancing unobtrusively at George. He had not changed much since she last saw him, on her wedding-day, though he looked a little older, and rather more serious. There were faint signs of weariness which she did not remember in his sunburned face. On the whole, however, it was a reposeful15 face, with something in it that suggested a steadfast16 disposition17. His gray eyes met one calmly and directly; his brown hair was short and stiff; the set of his lips and the contour of his jaw18 were firm. George had entered on his thirtieth year. Though he was strongly made, his appearance was in no way striking, and it was seldom that his conversation was characterized by brilliancy. But his friends trusted him.
"It's difficult to speak of," Sylvia began. "When, soon after our wedding, Dick lost most of his money, and said that we must go to Canada, I felt almost crushed; but I thought he was right." She paused and glanced at George. "He told me what you wished to do, and I'm glad that, generous as you are, he wouldn't hear of it."
George looked embarrassed.
"I felt his refusal a little," he said. "I could have spared the money, and I was a friend of his."
He had proved a staunch friend, though he had been hardly tried. For several years he had been Sylvia's devoted19 servant, and an admirer of the more accomplished20 Marston. When the girl chose the latter it was a cruel blow to George, for he had never regarded his comrade as a possible rival; but after a few weeks of passionate11 bitterness, he had quietly acquiesced21. He had endeavored to blame neither; though there were some who did not hold Sylvia guiltless. George was, as she well knew, her faithful servant still; and this was largely why she meant to tell him her tragic22 story.
"Well," she said, "when I first went out to the prairie, I was almost appalled23. Everything was so crude and barbarous—but you know the country."
George merely nodded. He had spent a few years in a wheat-growing settlement, inhabited by well-bred young Englishmen. The colony, however, was not conducted on economic lines; and when it came to grief, George, having come into some property on the death of a relative, returned to England.
"Still," continued Sylvia, "I tried to be content, and blamed myself when I found it difficult. There was always so much to do—cooking, washing, baking—one could seldom get any help. I often felt worn out and longed to lie down and sleep."
"I can understand that," said George, with grave sympathy. "It's a very hard country for a woman."
He was troubled by the thought of what she must have borne for it was difficult to imagine Sylvia engaged in laborious24 domestic toil25. It had never occurred to him that her delicate appearance was deceptive26.
"Dick," she went on, "was out at work all day; there was nobody to talk to—our nearest neighbor lived some miles off. I think now that Dick was hardly strong enough for his task. He got restless and moody27 after he lost his first crop by frost. During that long, cruel winter we were both unhappy: I never think without a shudder28 of the bitter nights we spent sitting beside the stove, silent and anxious about the future. But we persevered29; the next harvest was good, and we were brighter when winter set in. I shall always be glad of that in view of what came after." She paused, and added in a lower voice:
"You heard, of course?"
"Very little; I was away. It was a heavy blow."
"I couldn't write much," explained Sylvia. "Even now, I can hardly talk of it—but you were a dear friend of Dick's. We had to burn wood; the nearest bluff30 where it could be cut was several miles away; and Dick didn't keep a hired man through the winter. It was often very cold, and I got frightened when he drove off if there was any wind. It was trying to wait in the quiet house, wondering if he could stand the exposure. Then one day something kept him so that he couldn't start for the bluff until noon; and near dusk the wind got up and the snow began to fall. It got thicker, and I could not sit still. I went out now and then and called, and was driven back, almost frozen, by the storm. I could scarcely see the lights a few yards away; the house shook. The memory of that awful night will haunt me all my life!"
She broke off with a shiver, and George looked very compassionate.
"I think," he said gently, "you had better not go on." "Ah!" replied Sylvia, "I must grapple with the horror and not yield to it; with the future to be faced, I can't be a coward. At last I heard the team and opened the door. The snow was blinding, but I could dimly see the horses standing31 in it. I called, but Dick didn't answer, and I ran out and found him lying upon the load of logs. He was very still, and made no sign, but I reached up and shook him—I couldn't believe the dreadful thing. I think I screamed; the team started suddenly, and Dick fell at my feet. Then the truth was clear to me."
A half-choked sob33 broke from her, but she went on.
"I couldn't move him; I must have gone nearly mad, for I tried to run to Peterson's, three miles away. The snow blinded me, and I came back again; and by and by another team arrived. Peterson had got lost driving home from the settlement. After that, I can't remember anything; I'm thankful it is so—I couldn't bear it!"
Then there was silence for a few moments until George rose and gently laid his hand on her shoulder.
"My sympathy's not worth much, Sylvia, but it's yours," he said. "Can
I help in any practical way?"
Growing calmer, she glanced up at him with tearful eyes.
"I can't tell you just yet; but it's a comfort to have your sympathy.
Don't speak to me for a little while, please."
He went back to his place and watched her with a yearning34 heart, longing35 for the power to soothe36 her. She looked so forlorn and desolate37, too frail38 to bear her load of sorrow.
"I must try to be brave," she smiled up at him at length. "And you are my trustee. Please bring those papers I laid down. I suppose I must talk to you about the farm."
It did not strike George that this was a rather sudden change, or that there was anything incongruous in Sylvia's considering her material interests in the midst of her grief. After examining the documents, he asked her a few questions, to which she gave explicit39 answers.
"Now you should be able to decide what must be done," she said finally; "and I'm anxious about it. I suppose that's natural."
"You have plenty of friends," George reminded her consolingly.
Sylvia rose, and there was bitterness in her expression.
"Friends? Oh, yes; but I've come back to them a widow, badly provided for—that's why I spent some months in Montreal before I could nerve myself to face them." Then her voice softened40 as she fixed41 her eyes on him. "It's fortunate there are one or two I can rely on."
Sylvia left him with two clear impressions: her helplessness, and the fact that she trusted him. While he sat turning over the papers, his cousin and co-trustee came in. Herbert Lansing was a middle-aged42 business man, and he was inclined to portliness. His clean-shaven and rather fleshy face usually wore a good-humored expression; his manners were easy and, as a rule, genial43.
"We must have a talk," he began, indicating the documents in George's hand. "I suppose you have grasped the position, even if Sylvia hasn't explained it. She shows an excellent knowledge of details."
There was a hint of dryness in his tone that escaped George's notice.
"So far as I can make out," he answered, "Dick owned a section of a second-class wheat-land, with a mortgage on the last quarter, some way back from a railroad. The part under cultivation44 gives a poor crop."
"What would you value the property at?"
George made a rough calculation.
"I expected something of the kind," Herbert told him. "It's all Sylvia has to live upon, and the interest would hardly cover her dressmaker's bills." He looked directly at his cousin. "Of course, it's possible that she will marry again."
"She must never be forced to contemplate45 it by any dread32 of poverty,"
George said shortly.
"How is it to be prevented?"
George merely looked thoughtful and a little stern. Getting no answer,
Herbert went on:
"So far as I can see, we have only two courses to choose between. The first is to sell out as soon as we can find a buyer, with unfortunate results if your valuation's right; but the second looks more promising46. With immigrants pouring into the country, land's bound to go up, and we ought to get a largely increased price by holding on a while. To do that, I understand, the land should be worked."
"Yes. It could, no doubt, be improved; which would materially add to its value."
"I see one difficulty: the cost of superintendence might eat up most of the profit. Wages are high on the prairie, are they not?"
George assented47, and Herbert continued:
"Then a good deal would depend on the man in charge. Apart from the question of his honesty, he would have to take a thorough interest in the farm."
"He would have to think of nothing else, and be willing to work from sunrise until dark," said George. "Successful farming means determined48 effort in western Canada."
"Could you put your hands upon a suitable person?"
"I'm very doubtful. You don't often meet with a man of the kind we need in search of an engagement at a strictly49 moderate salary."
"Then it looks as if we must sell out now for enough to provide Sylvia with a pittance50."
"That," George said firmly, "is not to be thought of!"
There was a short silence while he pondered, for his legacy51 had not proved an unmixed blessing52. At first he had found idleness irksome, but by degrees he had grown accustomed to it. Though he was still troubled now and then by an idea that he was wasting his time and making a poor use of such abilities as he possessed53, it was pleasant to feel that, within certain limits, he could do exactly as he wished. Life in western Canada was strenuous54 and somewhat primitive55; he was conscious of a strong reluctance56 to resume it; but he could not bear to have Sylvia, who had luxurious57 tastes, left almost penniless. There was a way in which he could serve her, and he determined to take it. George was steadfast in his devotion, and did not shrink from a sacrifice.
"It strikes me there's only one suitable plan," he said. "I know something about western farming. I wouldn't need a salary; and Sylvia could trust me to look after her interests. I'd better go out and take charge until things are straightened up, or we come across somebody fit for the post."
Herbert heard him with satisfaction. He had desired to lead George up to this decision, and he suspected that Sylvia had made similar efforts. It was not difficult to instil58 an idea into his cousin's mind.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "the suggestion seems a good one; though it's rather hard on you, if you really mean to go."
"That's decided," was the brief answer.
"Then, though we can discuss details later, you had better give me legal authority to look after your affairs while you are away. There are those Kaffir shares, for instance; it might be well to part with them if, they go up a point or two."
"I've wondered why you recommended me to buy them," George said bluntly.
Herbert avoided a direct answer. He now and then advised George, who knew little about business, in the management of his property, but his advice was not always disinterested59 or intended only for his cousin's benefit.
"Oh," he replied, "the cleverest operators now and then make mistakes, and I don't claim exceptional powers of precision. It's remarkably60 difficult to forecast the tendency of the stock-market."
George nodded, as if satisfied.
"I'll arrange things before I sail, and I'd better get off as soon as possible. Now, suppose we go down and join the others."
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1
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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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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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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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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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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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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50
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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51
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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52
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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53
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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54
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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58
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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