As Mrs. Cleeve turned the page, she chanced to look up, and saw in her daughter a symptom of shivering.
"Lucy! My darling, surely you are not shivering again!"
"N--o, I think not," was the hesitating answer. "The fire is getting dull, mamma."
Mrs. Cleeve stirred the fire into brightness, and then brought a warm shawl of chenille silk, and folded it over Lucy's shoulders. And yet the August sun was shining on the world, and the blue skies were dark with heat.
The cruel pain that the separation from Karl Andinnian had brought to Lucy, was worse than any one thought for. She was perfectly1 silent over it, bearing all patiently, and so gave no sign of the desolation within. Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve said in private how reasonable Lucy was, and how well she was forgetting the young man. Miss Blake felt sure that she had never really cared for him: that the love had been all child's play. All through the month of June Lucy had gone about wherever they chose to take her: to flower-shows, and promenades3, and dances, and picnics. She talked and laughed in society as others did; and no mortal wizard or witch could have divined she was suffering from the effects of a love-fever, that had been too rudely checked.
Very shortly she was to suffer from a different fever: one that sometimes proves to be just as difficult of cure. In spite of the gaiety and the going-out, Lucy seemed to be somewhat ailing4: her appetite failed, and she grew to feel tired at nothing. In July these symptoms had increased, and she was palpably ill. The medical man called in, pronounced Miss Cleeve to be suffering from a slight fever, combined with threatenings of ague. The slight fever grew into a greater one, and then became intermittent5. Intervals6 of shivering coldness would be succeeded by intervals of burning heat; and they in their turn by intense prostration7. The doctor said Miss Cleeve must have taken cold; probably, he thought, had sat on damp grass at some picnic. Lucy was very obedient. She lay in bed when they told her to lie, and got up when they told her to get up, and took all the medicine ordered without a word, and tried to take the food. The doctor, at length, with much self-gratulation, declared the fever at an end; and that Miss Cleeve might come out of her bedroom for some hours in the day. Miss Cleeve did so come: but somehow she did not gain strength, or improve as she ought to have done. Seasons of chilling coldness would be upon her still, the white cheeks would sometimes be bright with a very suspicious-looking dash of hectic8. It would take time to re-establish her, said the doctor with a sigh: and that was the best he could make of it.
Whether Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve would have chosen to speak much before their daughter of the lover she had been obliged to resign, cannot be said. Most probably not. But circumstances over which they had no control led to its being done. When, towards the close of June, the news of that strange tragedy enacted9 by Adam Andinnian broke upon the world, all the world was full of it. Not a visitor, calling to see them, but went over the marvellous wonders of the tale in Lucy's hearing, and, as it seemed to her, for her own special benefit. The entirely10 unprovoked (as was at first said and supposed) nature of the crime; the singular fact that it should have been committed the very day of his assuming his rank amidst the baronetage of the kingdom; the departure of Mrs. Andinnian on the journey that he ought to have taken, and the miserable11 thought, so full of poignancy12 to the Andinnian family, that if he had gone, the calamity13 could not have happened; the summons to the young lieutenant14 at Winchester, his difficulty with the telegram, and his arrival at night to find what had happened at the desolate15 house! All these facts, and very many more details, some true, some untrue, were brought before Lucy day after day. To escape them was impossible, unless she had shut herself up from society, for men and women's mouths were full of them; and none had the least suspicion that the name of Andinnian was more than any other name to Lucy Cleeve. It was subsequent to this, you of course understand, that she became ill. During this period, she was only somewhat ailing, and was going about just as other people went.
The subject--it has been already said--did not die out quickly. Before it was allowed to do so, there came the trial; and that and its proceedings16 kept it alive for many a day more. But that the matter altogether bore an unusual interest, and that a great deal of what is called romance, by which public imagination is fed, encompassed17 it, was undeniable. The step in rank attained18 by Lieutenant Andinnian, his captaincy, was dismissed and re-discussed as though no man had ever taken it before. So that, long ere the period now arrived at, August, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve talked of the Andinnian affairs before their daughter with as little thought of reticence19 as they would have given to the most common questions of everyday life, and perhaps had nearly forgotten that there had ever been a cause why they should observe it.
A word of Miss Blake. That the perfidy--she looked upon it as such--of Lieutenant Andinnian in regard to herself, was a very bitter blow and tried her heart nearly as the separation was trying Lucy's, may at once be admitted. Nothing, in the world or out of it, would have persuaded her that the young man did not at an early period love her, that he would have ultimately married her but for the stepping in between them of Lucy Cleeve: and there lay a very angry and bitter feeling against Lucy at the bottom of her heart. Not against Mr. Andinnian. The first shock over, she quite exonerated20 him, and threw all the weight of blame on Lucy. Is it not ever so--that woman, in a case of rivalry21 such as this, detests22 and misjudges the woman, and exempts23 the man?
But Miss Blake had a very strict conscience. In one of more gentle and tender nature, this would have been an admirable thing; in her, whose nature was exceptionally hard, it might cause her to grow into something undesirably24 stern. There was a chance for her yet. Underlying25 her every thought, word, action, her witty26 sallies in
the ball-room, her prayers in church, remained ever the one faint hope--that Karl Andinnian would recover his senses and return to his first allegiance. If this ever came to pass, and she became Mrs. Andinnian, the little kindness existing in Theresa Blake's nature would assert itself. For, though she was very just, or strove to be, she was not kind.
With this strict conscience, Miss Blake could not encourage her
ill-feeling towards Lucy. On the contrary, she put it resolutely27 from her, and strove to go on her way in a duteous course of life and take up her own sorrow as a kind of appointed cross. All very well, this, so far as it went: but there was one dreadful want ever making itself heard--the want to fill the aching void in her lonely heart. After a disappointment to the affections, all women feel this need; and none unless they have felt it, can know or imagine the intense need of it. When the heart has been filled to the uttermost with a beloved object, every hour of the day gladdened with his sight, every dream of the night rejoicing with the thought of the morning's renewed meeting, and he is compulsorily29 snatched away for ever, the awful blank left is almost worse than death. Every aim and end and hope in life seems to have died suddenly out, leaving only a vacuum: a vacuum that tells of nothing but pain. But for finding some object which the mind can take up and concentrate itself upon, there are women who could go mad. Miss Blake found hers in religion.
Close upon that night when you saw Mr. Andinnian and Lucy Cleeve pacing together the garden of the Reverend Mr. Blake's rectory, Mr. Blake was seized with a fit. The attack was not in itself very formidable, but it bore threatening symptoms for the future. Perfect rest was enjoined30 by his medical attendants, together with absence from the scene of his labours. As soon, therefore, as he could be moved, Mr. Blake departed; leaving his church in the charge of his many-years curate, and of a younger man who was hastily engaged to assist him. This last was a stranger in the place, the Reverend Guy Cattacomb. Now, singular to say, but it was the fact, immediately after Mr. Blake's departure, the old curate was incapacitated by an attack of very serious illness, and he also had to go away for rest and change. This left the church wholly in the hands of the new man, Mr. Cattacomb. And this most zealous31 but rather mistaken divine, at once set about introducing various changes in the service; asking nobody's permission, or saying with your leave, or by your leave.
The service had hitherto been conducted reverently33, plainly, and
with thorough efficiency. The singing was good; the singers--men and boys--wore white surplices: in short, all things were done decently and in order: and both Mr. Blake and his curate were excellent preachers. To the exceeding astonishment34 of the congregation, Mr. Cattacomb swooped35 down upon them the very first Sunday he was left to himself, with what they were pleased to term "vagaries36." Vagaries they undoubtedly37 were, and not only needless ones, but such as were calculated to bring a wholesome38 and sound Protestant church into disrepute. The congregation remonstrated39, but the Reverend Guy persisted. The power for the time being, lay in his hands, and he used it after his own heart.
"Man, proud man, dressed in a little brief authority,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven as make the
angels weep."
How applicable are those lines of Shakespeare's to some of the
overzealous young divines of the present day!
The progress of events in Mr. Blake's church need not be traced. It is enough to say that the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb--whose preaching was no better than the rest of him: a quarter of an hour's rant40, of which nobody could make any sense at all--emptied the church. Nearly all the old congregation left it. In their places a sprinkling of young people began to frequent it. We have had examples of these things. The Reverend Guy led, and his flock (almost the whole of them ardent41 young girls of no experience) followed. There were banners and processions, and images of saints and angels, and candlesticks and scrolls42 and artificial flowers, and thrown-up incense43, and soft mutterings coming from nowhere, and all kinds of odd services at all kinds of hours,
and risings-up and sittings-down, and bowings here and bowings there, and private confessions44 and public absolutions. Whether the worship, or, in fact, the church itself was meant to represent the Roman Catholic faith or the Protestant no living soul could tell. It was ultra-foolish--that is really the only name for it--and created some scandal. People took to speak of its frequenters slightingly and disrespectfully as "Mr. Cattacomb and his tail." The tail being the ardent young ladies who were never away from his heels.
Never a one amidst them more ardent than Miss Blake. In the Rev2. Guy and his ceremonies she found that outlet45 for the superfluous46 resources of her heart that Karl Andinnian had left so vacant. Ten times a day, if the church had ten services, or scraps47 of services, was Miss Blake to be seen amid the knot of worshippers. At early morning she went to Matins; at sunset she went to Vespers. Once a week she was penned up in a close box which the Reverend Guy had put up as a confessional, confessing her sins. Some ladies chose the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb as their father priest in this respect; some chose his friend and coadjutor the Reverend Damon Puff48: a very zealous young man also, whom the former had appointed to his assistance. One confessional box was soon found quite insufficient49, and a second was introduced. Lookers-on began to wonder what would come next. Miss Blake did not neglect the claims of society in her new call to devotion; so that, what with the world and what with the church, she had but little spare time on her hands. It was somewhat unusual to see her, as now, seated quietly at her needle. The work was some beauteous silken embroidery50, destined51 to cover a cushion for Mr. Cattacomb's reverend knees to rest upon when at his private devotions. The needle came to a sudden pause.
"I wonder if I am wrong," she exclaimed, after regarding attentively52 the leaf that had been growing under her hands. "Mrs. Cleeve, do you think the leaves to this rose should be brown? I fancy they ought to be green."
"Do not ask me anything about it, Theresa."
Mrs. Cleeve's answer wore rather a resentful accent. The fact was, both herself and Colonel Cleeve were sadly vexed53 at Miss Blake's wholesale54 goings in for the comprehensive proceedings of Mr. Cattacomb. They had resigned their pew in the church themselves, and now walked regularly to the beautiful services in the cathedral. Colonel Cleeve remonstrated with Miss Blake for what he called her folly55. He told her that she was making herself ridiculous; and that these ultra innovations could but tend to bring religion itself into disrepute. It will therefore be understood that Mrs. Cleeve, knowing what the embroidery was destined for, did not regard it with approbation56.
"Theresa, if I thought my dear child, here, Lucy, would ever make the spectacle of herself that you and those other girls are doing, I should weep with sorrow and shame."
"Well I'm sure!" cried Miss Blake. "Spectacle!"
"What else is it To see a parcel of brainless girls running after Guy Cattacomb and that other one--Puff? Their mothers ought to know better than to allow it. God's pure and reverent32 and holy worship is one thing; this is quite another."
Lucy asked for some of the cooling beverage57 that stood near: her mouth felt always parched58. As her mother brought it to her, Lucy pressed her hand and looked up in her face with a smile. Mrs. Cleeve knew that it was as much as to say "There is no fear of me."
Colonel Cleeve came in as the glass was being put down. He looked somewhat anxiously at his daughter: he was beginning to be uneasy that she did not gain strength more quickly.
"How do you feel now, my dear?"
"Only a little cold, papa."
"Dear me--and it is a very hot day!" remarked the colonel, wiping his brows, for he had been walking fast.
"Is there any news stirring in the town?" asked Mrs. Cleeve.
"Nothing particular. Captain Andinnian has sold out. He could not do anything else under the circumstances."
"It is a dreadful blight59 upon the young man's career!" said Mrs. Cleeve.
"There was no help for it, Lucinda. Had he been a general he must have done the same. A man who has a brother working in chains, cannot remain an officer in the Queen's service. Had the brother been hanged, I think the Commander-in-chief would have been justified60 in cashiering Captain Andinnian, if he had not taken the initiative," added the colonel, who was very jealous of his order.
Miss Blake turned with a flush of emotion. This news fell on her heart like lead. Her first thought when the colonel spoke61 had been--If he has left the army, there will be nothing to bring him again to Winchester.
"Captain Andinnian cannot be held responsible for what his brother did," she said.
"Of course not," admitted the colonel.
"Neither ought it to be visited upon him."
"The worst of these sad things, you see, Theresa, is, that they are visited upon the relatives: and there's no preventing it. Captain Andinnian must go through life henceforth as a marked man; in a degree as a banned one: liable to be pointed28 at by every stranger as a man who has a brother a convict."
There was a pause. The last word grated on their ears. Miss
Blake inwardly winced62 at it: should she become the wife of Karl Andinnian----
"Will Sir Adam be sent to Australia?" asked Mrs. Cleeve of her husband, interrupting Theresa's thoughts.
"No. To Portland Island. It is said he is already there."
"I wonder what will become of his money? His estate, and that?"
"Report runs that he made it all over to his mother before the trial. I don't know how far that may be true. Well, it is a thousand pities for Captain Andinnian," summed up the colonel: "he was a very nice young fellow."
They might have thought Lucy, sitting there, her face covered by her hand, was asleep, so still was she. Presently, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve were called away to receive some visitors; and Miss Blake began folding her silks and white satin in tissue paper, for the hour of some service or other was at hand. Halting for a moment at the fire to shake the ends of silk from her gown into the hearth63, she glanced at Lucy.
"Suppose you had been married to Karl Andinnian, Lucy!"
"Well?"
"What an awful fate it would have been for you!"
"I should only have clung to him the closer, Theresa," was the low answer. And it must be premised that neither Lucy nor any one else had the slightest notion of Miss Blake's regard for Karl.
Miss Blake glanced at her watch. She had two minutes yet. She turned and stood before Lucy. In her unselfish judgment--and she did try to judge unselfishly always--a union with Captain Andinnian now, though she herself might stoop to put up with it in her great love, would be utterly64 beneath Lucy Cleeve.
"You--you do not mean to imply that you would marry Captain Andinnian, as things are?"
"I would. My father and mother permitting."
"You unhappy girl! Where's your pride?"
"I did not say I was going to do it, Theresa. You put an imaginary proposition; one that is altogether impossible, and I replied to that. I do not expect ever to see Karl Andinnian again in this world."
Something in the despairing accent touched Miss Blake, in spite of her wild jealousy65. "You seem very poorly to-day, Lucy," she gently said. "Are you in pain?"
"No," replied Lucy, with a sigh: "not in pain. But I don't seem to get much better, do I, Theresa? I wish I could, for papa and mamma's sake."
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1
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ailing
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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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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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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15
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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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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exonerated
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exempts
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undesirably
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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compulsorily
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| 强迫地，强制地 | |
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enjoined
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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insufficient
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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53
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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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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60
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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61
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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62
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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64
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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