"I wonder how I am to begin to keep house?" said Lucy with a laugh, when she got up from the breakfast table, her cheeks as bright as the pink summer muslin she wore. "Do I go into the kitchen, Theresa?"
"You go with the cook to the larder," replied Theresa, gravely. "See what provisions remain in it from yesterday, and give your orders accordingly. Shall I go with you this morning, Lady Andinnian?"
"I wish you would! I wish you'd put me in the way of it. In Paris, when I was going to be married, mamma regretted she had not shown me more of housekeeping at home."
"You have, I believe, a careful and honest cook: and that is a great thing for an inexperienced mistress," said Miss Blake.
"As if cooks were ever dishonest in the country!" cried Sir Karl, laughing--and it was the first laugh Miss Blake had heard from his lips. "You must go to your grand London servants for that--making their perquisites2 out of everything, and feeding their friends and the policeman!"
"And then, Karl, when I come back, you will take me about everywhere, won't you?" whispered Lucy, leaning fondly over his shoulder as Miss Blake went on. "I want to see all about the grounds."
He nodded and let his cheek rest for a moment against hers. "Go and order your roast beef. And--Lucy!"
His manner had changed to seriousness. He turned in his chair to face her, his brow flushing as he took her hands.
"You will not be extravagant3, Lucy--" his voice sinking to a whisper lower than hers. "When I told you of that--that trouble, which had fallen upon me and might fall deeper, I said that it would cost me a large portion of my income. You remember?"
"Oh Karl! do you think I could forget? We will live as quietly and simply as you please. It is all the same to me."
"Thank you, my dear wife."
Theresa stood at the open hall door, looking from it while she waited. "I was thinking," she said, when Lady Andinnian's step was heard, "that it really might be cheaper in the end if you took a regular housekeeper4, Lucy, as you are so inexperienced. It would save you a great deal of trouble."
"The trouble's nothing, Theresa; and I should like to learn. I would not think of a housekeeper. I should be afraid of her."
"Oh, very well. As you please, of course. But when you get your whole staff of servants, the house full of them, the controlling of the supplies for so many will very much embarrass you."
"But we don't mean to have our house full of servants, Theresa. We do not care to set up on a grand scale, either of us. Just about as papa and mamma live, will be enough for us indoors."
"Nonsense," said Miss Blake.
"We must have a coachman--Karl thinks he shall take on Sir Joseph's; the man has asked to come--and, I suppose, one footman to help Hewitt, and a groom5. That's all. I think we have enough maids now."
"You should consider that Sir Karl's income is a large one, Lucy," spoke6 Miss Blake in a tone of lofty reproach. "It is absurd to take your papa's scale of living as a guide for yours."
"But Sir Karl does not mean to spend his income: he has a reason for saving it."
"Oh that's another thing," said Miss Blake. "What is his reason?"
The young Lady Andinnian could have punished her rebellious7 tongue. She had spoken the hasty words "he has a reason for saving it" in the heat of argument, without thought. What right, either as a wife or a prudent8 woman, had she to allow allusion9 to it to escape her lips? Her rejoinder was given slowly and calmly.
"My husband is quite right not to begin by spending all his income, Theresa. We should both of us think it needless extravagance. Is this the kitchen? Let us go in here first. I must get acquainted with all my places and people."
The business transacted10, Lucy went out with Karl. Theresa watched them on to the lawn and thence round the house, Lucy in her broad-brimmed straw hat, and her arm within her husband's. Miss Blake then dressed herself and walked rapidly to St. Jerome's. Some faint hope animated11 her that Mr. Cattacomb might have arrived, and be already inaugurating the morning service. But no. St. Jerome's was closely shut, and no Mr. Cattacomb was there.
She retraced12 her steps, lingering to rob the hedges of a wild honeysuckle or a dog-rose. This non-arrival of Mr. Cattacomb began to trouble her, and she could not imagine why, if he were prevented coming, he had not written to say so. Reaching the Maze13, Miss Blake woke up from these thoughts with quite a start of surprise: for the gate was open and a woman servant stood there, holding colloquy14 with the butcher's boy on horseback: a young man in a blue frock, no hat, and a basket on his arm. A aged16" target="_blank">middle-aged15 and very respectable looking servant, but somewhat old-fashioned in her appearance: a spare figure straight up and down, in a black-and-white cotton gown and white muslin cap tied with black ribbon strings17. In her hand was a dish with some meat on it, which she had just received from the basket, and she appeared to be reproaching the boy on the score of the last joint's toughness.
"This hot weather one can't keep nothing properly," said the boy, in apology. "I was to ask for the book, please, ma'am."
"The book!" returned the woman. "Why I meant to have brought it out. Wait there, and I'll get it."
The boy, having perhaps the spirit of restlessness upon him, backed his steed, and turned him round and round in the road like a horse in a mill. Miss Blake saw her opportunity and slipped in unseen. Gliding18 along the path, she concealed19 herself behind a huge tree-trunk near the hedge, until the servant should have come and gone again. Miss Blake soon caught sight of her skirts amid the trees of the maze.
"Here's the book," said she to the boy. "Ask your master to make it up for the month, and I'll pay." And shutting and locking the gate, she retreated into the maze again and disappeared.
When people do covert20 things in a hurry, they can't expect to have all their senses about them, and Miss Blake had probably forgotten that she should be locked in. However--here she was in the position, and must make the best of it.
First of all, she went round the path, intending to see where it led to. It was fenced in by the garden wall, the high hedge and shrubs21 on one side, by the trees of the maze on the other. Suddenly she came to what looked like a low vaulted22 passage built in the maze, which probably communicated with the house: but she could not tell. Its door was fast, and Miss Blake could see nothing.
Pursuing her way along the walk, it brought her round to the entrance gate again, and she remembered Tom Pepp's words about the path going round and round and leading to nowhere. Miss Blake was not one to be daunted23. She had come in to look about her, and she meant to do it. She plunged24 into the maze.
Again had she cause to recall Master Pepp's account,--"Once get into that there maze and you'd never get out again without the clue." Miss Blake began to fear there was only too much truth in it. For a full hour in reality, and it seemed to her like two hours, did she wander about and wander again. She was in the maze and could not get out of it.
She stood against the back of a tree, her face turning hot and cold. It took a great deal to excite that young woman's pulses: but she did not like the position in which she had placed herself.
She must try again. Forward thither25, backward hither, round and about, in and out. No; no escape; no clue; no opening: nothing but the same interminable trees and the narrow paths so exactly like one another.
"What will become of me?" gasped26 Miss Blake.
At that moment a voice very near rose upon her ear--the voice of the servant she had seen. "Yes, ma'am, I'll do it after dinner."
Unconsciously Miss Blake had wandered to the confines of the maze that were close on the house. A few steps further and she could peep out of her imprisonment27.
A small, low, pretty-gabled house of red brick. A sitting-room28 window, large and thrown open, faced Miss Blake; the porch entrance, of which she could get a slanting29 glimpse, fronted a grass-plat, surrounded by most beautiful flower-beds, with a greenhouse at the end. It was a snug30, compact spot, the whole shut in by a high laurel hedge. On the grass stood the woman servant, spreading some bits of linen31 to dry: Miss Blake made them out to be cambric handkerchiefs: her mistress had probably been speaking to her from the porch, and the answer was what she heard. An old man, with either a slight hump on his back or a dreadful stoop, was bending over a distant flower-bed. He wore a wide, yellow straw hat, and a smock-frock similar to that of the butcher's boy, only the latter's was blue and the old man's white. His hair was grey and he appeared to be toothless: but in his prime he must have been tall and powerful. Miss Blake made her comments.
"What an extraordinary solitude32 for a young person to live in! But what choice flowers those look to be! That toothless old man must be the gardener! he looks too aged and infirm for his work. Why
does she live here? There must be more in it than meets the eye. Perhaps----"
The soliloquy was arrested. The door of the sitting-room opened, and a young lady entered. Crossing to the window, she stood looking at something on the table underneath33, in full view of Miss Blake. A fair girl, with a delicate face, soft damask cheeks, blue eyes, and hair that gleamed like threads of light gold.
"Good gracious! how lovely she is!" was Miss Blake's involuntary thought. Could this young girl be Mrs. Grey?
The young lady left the window again. The next minute the keys of a piano were touched. A prelude34 was played softly, and then there rose a verse of those lines in the "Vicar of Wakefield" that you all know so well, the voice of the singer exceedingly melodious35 and simple:
"When lovely woman stoops to folly36,
And finds too late that men betray----"
Miss Blake had never in her life cared for the song, but it bore now a singular charm. Every word was distinct, and she listened to the end. A curious speculation37 crossed her.
Was this young girl singing the lines in character? "Heaven help her then!" cried Miss Blake--for she was not all hardness.
But how was she, herself, to get away? She might remain there unsought for ever. There was nothing for it but boldly showing herself. And, as the servant was then coming back across the lawn with some herbs which she had apparently38 been to gather, Miss Blake wound out of the maze, and presented herself before the woman's astonished eyes.
She made the best excuse she could. Had wandered inside the gate, attracted by the mass of beautiful trees, and lost herself amidst them. After a pause of wondering consideration, the servant understood how it must have been--that she had got in during her temporary absence from the gate when she went to fetch the butcher's book; and she knew what a long while she must have been there.
"I'll let you out," she said. "It's a pity you came in."
Very rapidly the woman walked on through the maze, Miss Blake following her. There were turnings and twistings, amid which the latter strove to catch some clue to the route. In vain. One turning, one path seemed just like another.
"Does your mistress live quite alone here?" she asked of the servant.
"Yes, ma'am," was the reply, more civilly spoken--for, that the servant had been at first much put out by the occurrence, her manner testified. "She's all alone, except for me and my old man."
"Your old man?" exclaimed Miss Blake questioningly.
"My husband," explained the woman, perceiving she was not understood. "He's the gardener."
"Oh, I saw him," said Miss Blake. "But he looks quite too old and infirm to do much."
"He's not as old as he looks--and he has a good deal of work in him still. Of course when a man gets rheumatics, he can't be as active as before."
"How very dull your mistress must be!"
"Not at all, ma'am. She has her birds, and flowers, and music, and work. And the garden she's very fond of: she'll spend hours in the greenhouse over the plants."
"Mrs. Grey, I think I have heard her called."
"Yes, Mrs. Grey."
"Well now--where's her husband?"
"She's not got a hus-- At least,--her husband's not here."
The first part of the answer was begun in a fierce, resentful tone: but at the break the woman seemed to recollect39 herself, and calmed down. Miss Blake was silently observant, pondering all in her inquisitive40 mind.
"Mr. Grey is travelling abroad just now," continued the woman. "Here we are."
Yes, there they were escaped from the maze, the iron gate before them. The woman took a key from her pocket and unlocked it--just as Sir Karl had taken a key from his pocket the previous night. Miss Blake saw now what a small key it was, to undo41 so large a gate.
"Good morning," she said. "Thank you very much. It was exceedingly thoughtless of me to stroll in."
"Good day to you, ma'am."
Very busy was Miss Blake's brain as she went home. The Maze puzzled her. That this young and pretty woman should be living alone in that perfect seclusion42 with only two servants to take care of her, one of them at least old and decrepid, was the very oddest thing she had ever met with. Miss Blake knew the world tolerably well; and, so far as her experience went, a man whose wife was so young and so lovely as this wife, would wish to take her travelling with him. Altogether, it seemed very singular: and more singular still seemed the stealthy and familiar entrance, that she had witnessed, of Sir Karl Andinnian.
Meanwhile, during this bold escapade of Miss Blake's, Lady Andinnian had gone out on a very different expedition. It could not be said that Lucy had no acquaintance whatever at Foxwood before she came to it. She knew the vicar's eldest43 daughter, Margaret, who had occasionally stayed with Mr. and Mrs. Blake at Winchester: the two clergymen were acquainted, having been at college together. On this morning Lucy had started to see Miss Sumnor; walking alone, for Karl was busy. The church, a very pretty one, with a tapering44 spire45, stood in its churchyard, just through the village. The vicarage joined it: a nice house, with a verandah running along the front; a good garden and some glebe land.
On a couch in a shaded room, lay a lady of some thirty, or more, years of age; her face thin, with upright lines between the eyebrows46, telling of long-standing trouble or pain, perhaps of both; her hands busy with some needle-work. Lady Andinnian, who had not given her name, but simply asked to see Miss Sumnor, was shown in. She did not recognize her at the first moment.
"Margaret! It cannot be you."
Margaret Sumnor smiled her sweet, patient smile, and held Lady Andinnian's hand in hers. "Yes it is, Lucy--if I may presume still to call you so. You find me changed. Worn and aged."
"It is true," candidly47 avowed48 Lucy, in the shock to her feelings. "You look altogether different. And yet, it is not three years since we parted. Mrs. Blake used to tell me you were ill, and had to lie down a great deal."
"I lie here always, Lucy. Getting off only at night to go to my bed in the next room. Now and then, if I am particularly well, they draw me across the garden to church in a hand-chair: but that is very seldom. Sit down. Here, close to me."
"And what is the matter with you?"
"It has to do with the spine49, my dear. A bright young girl like you need not be troubled with the complication of particulars. The worst of it is, Lucy, that I shall be as I am for life."
"Oh Margaret!"
Miss Sumnor raised her work again and set a few stitches, as if determined50 not to give way to any kind of emotion. Lady Andinnian's face wore quite a frightened look.
" Surely not for always, Margaret!"
"I believe so. The doctors say so. Papa went to the expense of having a very clever man down from London; but he only confirmed what Mr. Moore had feared."
"Then, Margaret, I think it was a cruel thing to let you know it. Hope and good spirits go so far to help recovery, no matter what the illness may be. Did the doctors tell you?"
"They told my father, not me. I learnt it through--through a sort of accident, Lucy," added Miss Sumnor: who would not explain that it was through the carelessness--to call it by a light name--of her stepmother. "After all, it is best that I should know it. I see it is now, if I did not at the time."
"How it must have tried you!"
"Oh it did; it did. What I felt for months, Lucy, I cannot describe. I had grown to be so useful to my dear father: he had begun to need me so very much; to depend upon me for so many things: and to find that I was suddenly cut off from being of any help to him, to be instead only a burden!--even now I cannot bear to recall it. It was that that changed me, Lucy: in a short while I had gone in looks from a young woman into an aged one."
"No, no, not that. And you have to bear it always!"
"The bearing is light now," said Miss Sumnor, looking up with a happy smile. "One day, Lucy, when I was in a sad mood of distress51 and inward repining, papa came in. He saw a little of what I felt; he saw my tears, for he had come upon me quickly. Down he sat in that very chair that you are sitting in now. 'Margaret, are you realizing that this calamity52 has come upon you from God--that it is His will?' he asked: and he talked to me as he had never talked before. That night, as I lay awake thinking, the new light seemed to dawn upon me. 'It is,
it is God's will,' I said; 'why should I repine in misery53?' Bit by bit, Lucy, after that, the light grew greater. I gained--oh such comfort!--in a few weeks more I seemed to lie right under God's protection; to be, as it were, always in His sheltering Arms: and my life is happier now than I can tell you of, in spite of very many and constant trials."
"And you manage to amuse yourself, I see," resumed Lucy, breaking the pause that had ensued.
"Amuse myself! I can assure you my days are quite busy and useful ones. I sew--as you perceive, resting my elbows on the board; see, this is a pillowcase that I am darning. I read, and can even write a note; I manage the housekeeping; and I have my class of poor children here, and teach them as before. They are ten times more obedient and considerate, seeing me as I am, than when I was in health."
Lucy could readily believe it. "And now tell me, Margaret, what brought this illness on?"
"Nothing in particular. It must have been coming on for years, only we did not suspect it. Do you remember that when at the rectory I never used to run or walk much, but always wanted to sit still, and dear Mrs. Blake would call me idle? It was coming on then. But now, Lucy, let me hear about yourself. I need not ask if you are happy."
Lucy blushed rosy54 red: she was only too happy: and gave an account of her marriage and sojourn55 abroad, promising56 to bring her husband some day soon to see Miss Sumnor. Next, they spoke of the new place--St. Jerome's, and the invalid's brow wore a look of pain.
"It has so grieved papa, Lucy. Indeed, there's no want of another church in the place; even if it were a proper church, there's no one to attend it: our own is too large for the population. Papa is grieved at the movement, and at the way it is being done; it is anything but orthodox. And to think that it should be Theresa Blake who has put it forward!"
"The excuse she makes to us is that she wanted a daily service."
"A year ago papa took to hold daily service, and he had to discontinue it, for no one attended. Very often there would be only himself and the clerk."
"I do not suppose this affair of Theresa's will last," said Lucy, kindly57, as she took her leave, and went home.
Karl was out at luncheon58, but they all three met at dinner: he, Lucy, and Miss Blake. Lucy told him of her visit to Margaret Sumnor, and asked him to go there with her on his return from London, whither he was proceeding59 on the morrow. Miss Blake had not heard of the intention before, and inquired of Sir Karl whether he was going for long.
"For a couple of days; perhaps three," he answered. "I have several matters of business to attend to."
"I think I might as well have gone with you, Karl," said his wife.
"Not this time, Lucy. You have only just come home from travelling, you know, and need repose60."
Miss Blake, having previously61 taken her determination to do it, mentioned, in a casual, airy kind of way, her adventure of the morning: not however giving to the intrusion quite its true aspect, and not saying that she had seen the young lady. She had "strolled accidentally" into the place called the Maze, she said, seeing the gate open, and lost herself. A woman servant came to her assistance and let her out again; but not before she had caught a glimpse of the interior: the pretty house and lawn and flowers, and the infirm old gardener.
To Miss Blake's surprise--or, rather, perhaps not to her surprise--Sir Karl's pale face turned to a burning red. He made her no answer, but whisked his head round to the butler, who stood behind him.
"Hewitt," he cried sharply, "this is not the same hock that we had yesterday."
"Yes, Sir Karl, it is. At least I--I believe it is."
Hewitt took up the bottle on the sideboard and examined it. Miss Blake thought he looked as confused as his master. "He plays tricks with the wine," was the mental conclusion she drew.
Hewitt came round, grave as ever, and filled up the glasses again. Karl began talking to him, about the wine in the cellar: but Miss Blake was not going to let her subject drop.
"Do you know this place that they call the Maze, Sir Karl?"
"Scarcely."
"Or its mistress, Mrs. Grey?"
"I have seen her," shortly replied Karl.
"Oh, have you! When?"
"She wrote me a note relative to some repairs that were required, and I went over."
"Since you were back this time, do you mean?"
"Oh no. It was just after my mother's death."
"Don't you think it very singular that so young a woman should be living there alone?"
"I suppose she likes it. The husband is said to be abroad."
"You have no acquaintance with the people?" persisted Miss Blake.
"Oh dear no."
"And going in with a key from his own pocket!" thought Miss Blake, as she drew in her lips.
"Foxwood and its inhabitants, as I told Lucy, are tolerably strange to me," added Sir Karl. "Lucy, you were talking of Margaret Sumnor. What age is she?"
He was resolute62 in turning the conversation from the Maze: as Miss Blake saw. What was his motive63? All kinds of comical ideas were in her mind, not all of them good ones.
"I'll watch," she mentally said. "In the interests of religion, to say nothing of respectability, I'll watch."
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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perquisites
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| n.（工资以外的）财务补贴( perquisite的名词复数 )；额外收入；（随职位而得到的）好处；利益 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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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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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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allusion
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transacted
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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middle-aged
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aged
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strings
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gliding
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concealed
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covert
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shrubs
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vaulted
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daunted
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plunged
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thither
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gasped
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imprisonment
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sitting-room
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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snug
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linen
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solitude
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underneath
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prelude
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melodious
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folly
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speculation
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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