Four o'clock on the Tuesday afternoon, and the train momentarily expected in from London. A few people had collected on the platform: waiting for friends who were coming by it, or else intending to go on by it themselves. Amidst them was a young and lovely lady, who attracted some attention. Strangers wondered who she was: one or two knew her for the lady of Foxwood Court, wife of Sir Karl Andinnian.
There had been a flower-show at Basham that day: and Lady Andinnian, as may be remembered, had promised to attend it with the family of General Lloyd, taking luncheon5 with them first. But when the morning came, she heartily6 wished she had not made the engagement. Sir Karl had not returned to accompany her. Miss Blake declared that she could not spare the time for it: for it happened to be a Saint's Day, and services prevailed at St. Jerome's. Another check arose: news was brought in from the coachman that one of the horses had been slightly hurt in shoeing, and the carriage could not be used that day.
Upon that, Lady Andinnian said she must go by train: for it would never have occurred to her to break her promise.
"I think, Theresa, you might manage to go with me," she said.
Miss Blake, calculating her hours, found she had two or three to spare in the middle of the day, and agreed to do so: provided she might be allowed to leave Mrs. Lloyd's when luncheon was over and not be expected to go to the town-hall. "You will only be alone in returning, for just the few minutes that you are in the train, Lucy," she said. "The Lloyds will see you into it, and your servants can have a fly waiting for you at Foxwood Station." This programme had been carried out: and here was Lucy waiting for the four o'clock train at Basham, surrounded by General Lloyd and part of his family.
It came steaming slowly in. Adieux were interchanged, and Lucy was put into what is called the ladies' carriage. Only one lady was in it besides herself; some one travelling from London. They looked at each other with some curiosity, sitting face to face. It was but natural; both were young, both were beautiful.
"What lovely hair! and what charming blue eyes! and what a bright delicate complexion7!" thought Lucy. "I wonder who she is."
"I have never in all my life seen so sweet a face!" thought the other traveller. "Her eyes are beautiful: and there's, such a loving sadness in them! And what a handsome dress!--what style altogether!"
Lucy's dress was a rich silk, pearl grey in colour; her bonnet8 white; her small parasol was grey, covered with lace, its handle of carved ivory. She looked not unlike a bride. The other lady wore black silk, a straw bonnet, and black lace veil thickly studded with spots; which veil she had put back as if for air, just after quitting Basham; and she had with her several small parcels. Why or wherefore neither of them knew, but each felt instinctively9 attracted by the appearance of the other.
They were nearing Foxwood Station--it was but about eight minutes' distance from Basham--when Lucy, in changing her position, happened to throw down a reticule bag which had lain beside her. Both of them stooped to pick it up.
"Oh, I beg your pardon! I ought to have moved it when you got in," said the stranger, placing it on her own side amidst her parcels. And Lucy, on her part, apologised for having thrown it down.
It served to break the ice of reserve: and for the next remaining minute or two they talked together. By the stranger beginning to gather together her parcels, Lucy saw she was preparing to get out at Foxwood.
"Are you about to make a stay in this neighbourhood?" she asked.
"For the present."
"It is a very charming spot. We hear the nightingales every evening."
"You are staying in it too, then?"
"Yes. It is my home."
The train came to a stand-still, and they got out. Foxwood station, after the manner of some other small rural stations, had its few buildings on one side only: the other was open to the high road, and to the fields beyond. In this road, drawn10 up close to the station, was a waiting fly, its door already open. The stranger, carrying some of her parcels, went straight up to it, supposing it was there for hire, and was about to get in.
"Beg pardon, ma'am," said the driver, "this here fly's engaged."
She, seemed vexed11, disappointed: and looked up at him. "Are you sure?" she asked. Lucy was standing12 close by and heard.
"It's brought here, ma'am, for the Lady Andinnian."
"For whom?" she cried, her voice turning to sharpness with its haste; her face, through her veil, changing to a ghastly white.
The driver stared at her: he thought it was all temper. Lucy looked, too, unable to understand, and slightly coloured.
"For whom did you say the fly was brought?" the lady repeated.
"For Lady Andinnian of Foxwood Court," explained the man in full. "I shouldn't go to tell a untruth about it."
"Oh I--I misunderstood," she said, her voice dropping, her look becoming suddenly timid as a hare's: and in turning away with a sudden movement, she found herself face to face with Lucy. At that same moment, a tall footman with a powdered head--who had strayed away in search of amusement, and strayed a little too far--came bustling13 up to his mistress.
"This is your fly, my lady."
By which the stranger knew that the elegant girl she had travelled with and whose sweet face was then close to her own, was the young Lady Andinnian. Her own white face flushed again.
"I--I beg your pardon," she said. "I did not know you were Sir Karl Andinnian's wife. The fly, I thought, was only there for hire."
Before Lucy could make any answer, she had disappeared from the spot, and was giving some of her parcels to a porter. Lucy followed.
"Can I offer to set you down anywhere? The fly is certainly waiting for me, but--there is plenty of room."
"Oh thank you, no. You are very kind: but--no! I can walk quite well. I am obliged to you all the same."
The refusal was spoken very emphatically; especially the last No. Without turning again, she rapidly walked from the station, the porter carrying her parcels.
"I wonder who she is?" murmured Lucy aloud, looking back as she was about to enter the fly, her powdered servant standing to bow her in. For she saw that there was no luggage, save those small parcels, and was feeling somewhat puzzled.
"It is Mrs. Grey, my lady; she who lives at the Maze15."
Had the footman, Giles, said it was an inhabitant of the world of spirits, Lucy would not have felt more painfully and disagreeably startled. She! And she, Lucy, had sat with her in the same carriage and talked to her on pleasant terms of equality! She, Mrs. Grey! Well, Theresa was right: the face would do for an angel's.
"Why, my dear Lady Andinnian, how pale you look! It's the heat, I suppose."
Lucy, half bewildered, her senses seeming to have gone she knew not whither, found herself shaking hands with the speaker, Miss Patchett: an elderly and eccentric lady who lived midway between the station and the village of Foxwood. Lucy mechanically asked her if she had come in the train.
"Yes," answered Miss Patchett. "I've been to London to engage a housemaid. And I am tired to death, my dear, and the London streets were like fire. I wish I was at home without having to walk there."
"Let the fly take you."
"It's hardly worth while, my dear: it's not far. And it would be taking you out of the way."
"Not many yards out of it. Step in, Miss Patchett."
The old lady stepped in, Lucy following her; Giles taking his place by the driver. Miss Patchett was set down at her house, and then the horse's head was turned round in the direction of Foxwood Court. The old lady had talked incessantly16; Lucy had comprehended nothing. St. Jerome's absurd little bell was being swayed and tinkled17 by Tom Pepp, but Lucy had not given it a second glance, although it was the first time she had had the gratification of seeing and hearing it.
"I could almost have died, rather than it should have happened," she thought, her face burning now at the recollection of the encounter with Mrs. Grey, so mortifying18 to every good feeling within her. "How white she turned--how sharply she spoke14--when they told her the fly was there for Lady Andinnian! And to think that I should have offered to set her down! To think it! Perhaps those parcels contained things that Karl bought for her in London!"
The fly, bowling19 on, was nearing the Maze gate. Lucy's fascinated gaze was, in spite of herself, drawn to it. A middle-aged20 woman servant had opened it and was receiving the parcels from the porter. Mrs. Grey had her purse out, paying him. As she put the coin into his hand, she paused to look at Lady Andinnian. It was not a rude look, but one that seemed full of eager interest. Lucy turned her eyes the other way, and caught a full view of Mr. Smith, the agent. He was stretched out at one of his sitting-room21 windows, surveying the scene with undisguised curiosity. Lucy sank into the darkest corner of the fly, and flung her hands over her burning face.
"Was any position in the world ever so painful as mine?" she cried with a rising sob22. "How shall I live on, and bear it?"
The fly clattered23 in by the lodge24 gate and drew up at the house. Hewitt appeared at the door, and Giles stood for his mistress to alight.
"Has Sir Karl returned, Hewitt?" questioned Lucy.
"Not yet, my lady."
She stood for a moment in thought, then gave orders for the fly to wait, and went indoors. An idea had arisen that if she could get no comfort whispered to her, she should almost go out of her mind. Her aching heart was yearning25 for it.
"Hewitt, I shall go and see poor Miss Sumnor. I should like to take her a little basket of strawberries and a few of Maclean's best flowers. Will you see to it for me, and put them in the fly?"
She tan up stairs. She put off her robes alone, and came down in one of her cool muslins and a straw bonnet as plain as Mrs. Grey's. Hewitt had placed the basket of strawberries--some of the large pine-apple beauties that the Court was famous for--in the fly, a sheet of tissue paper upon them, and some lovely hothouse flowers on the paper. Lucy got in; told the footman she should not require his attendance; and was driven away to the vicarage.
"Am I to wait for you, my lady?" asked the driver, as he set her down with her basket of fruit and flowers.
"No, thank you; I shall walk home."
Margaret was lying alone as usual, her face this afternoon a sad one. Lucy presented her little offering; and when the poor lonely invalid26 saw the tempting27, luscious28 fruit, smelt29 the sweet perfume of the gorgeous flowers, the tears came into her eyes.
"You have brought all this to brighten me, Lucy. How good you are! I have had something to try me to-day, and was in one of my saddest moods."
The tears and the admission tried Lucy sorely. Just a moment she struggled with herself for composure, and then gave way. Bursting into a flood of grief, the knelt down and hid her face on Margaret's bosom30.
"Oh Margaret, Margaret, you cannot have as much to try you as I have!" she cried out in her pain. "My life is one long path of sorrow; my heart is breaking. Can't you say a word to comfort me?"
Margaret Sumnor, forgetting as by magic all sense of her own trouble, tried to comfort her. She touched her with her gently caressing31 hand; she whispered soothing32 words, as one whispers to a child in sorrow: and Lucy's sobs33 exhausted34 themselves.
"My dear Lucy, before I attempt to say anything, I must ask you a question. Can you tell me the nature of your sorrow?"
But Lucy made no reply.
"I see. It is what you cannot speak of."
"It is what I can never speak of to you or to any one, Margaret. But oh, it is hard to bear."
"It seems so to you, I am sure, whatever it may be. But in the very darkest trial and sorrow there is comfort to be found."
"Not for me," impetuously answered Lucy. "I think God has forgotten me."
"Lucy, hush35! You know better. The darkest cloud ever o'ershadowing the earth, covers a bright sky. We see only the cloud, but the brightness is behind it; in time it will surely show itself and the cloud will have rolled away. God is above all. Only put your trust in Him."
Lucy was silent. There are times when the heart is so depressed36 that it admits not of comfort; when even sympathy cannot touch it. She bent37 her face in her hands and thought. Look out where she would, there seemed no refuge for her in the wide world. Her duty and the ills of life laid upon her seemed to be clashing with each other. Margaret had preached to her of patiently bearing, of resignation to Heaven's will, of striving to live on, silently hoping, and returning good for evil. But there were moments when the opposite course looked very sweet, and this moment was one. But one thought always held her back when this retaliation38, this revenge appeared most tempting--should she not repent39 of it in the future?
"Lucy, my dear," broke in the invalid's voice, always so plaintive40, "I do not pretend to fathom41 this trouble of yours. It is beyond me.
I can only think it must be some difference between you and your husband----"
"And if it were?" interrupted Lucy, recklessly.
"If it were! Why then, I should say to you, above all things, bear. You do not know, you cannot possess 'any idea of the bitter life Of a woman at real issue with her husband. I know a lady--but she does not live in these parts, and you have never heard of her--who separated from her husband. She and my own mother were at school together, and she married young and, it was thought, happily. After a time she grew jealous of her husband; she had cause for it: he was altogether a gay, careless man, fond of show and pleasure. For some years she bore a great deal in silence, the world knowing nothing of things being wrong between them. Papa could tell you more about this time than I: I was but a little child. How he and my mother, the only friends who were in her confidence, urged her to go on bearing with what patience she might, and trusting to God to set wrong things right. For a long while she listened to them; but there came a time when she allowed exasperation42 to get the better of her; and the world was astonished by hearing that she and her husband had agreed to separate. Ah Lucy! it was then that her life of real anguish43 set in. Just at first, for a few weeks or so, perhaps months, she was borne up by the excitement of the thing, by the noise it made in the world, by the gratification of taking revenge on her husband--by I know not what. But as the long months and the years went on, and all excitement, I may almost say all interest in life, had faded, she then saw what she had done. She was a solitary44 woman condemned45 to an unloved and solitary existence, and she repented46 her act with the whole force of her bitter and lonely heart. Better, Lucy, that she had exercised patience, and trusted in God; better for her own happiness."
"And what of her now?" cried Lucy, eagerly.
"Nothing. Nothing but what I tell you. She lives away her solitary years, not a day of them passing but she wishes to heaven that that one fatal act of hers could be recalled--the severing47 herself from her husband."
"And he, Margaret?"
"He? For aught I know to the contrary, he has been as happy since as he was before; perhaps, in his complete freedom, more so. She thought, poor woman, to work out her revenge upon him; instead of that, it was on herself she worked it out. Men and women are different. A separated man--say a divorced man if you like--can go abroad; here, there, and everywhere; and enjoy life without hindrance48, and take his pleasure at will: but a woman, if she be a right-minded woman, must stay in her home-shell, and eat her heart away."
Lucy Andinnian sighed. It was no doubt all too true.
"I have related this for your benefit, Lucy. My dear little friend, at all costs, stay with your husband."
"I should never think of leaving him for good as that other poor woman did," sobbed49 Lucy. "I should be dead of grief in a year."
"True. Whatever your cross may be, my dear--and I cannot doubt that it is a very sharp and heavy one--take it up as bravely as you can, and bear it. No cross, no crown."
Some of the school children came in for a lesson in fine
work--stitching and gathering--and Lady Andinnian took her departure. She had not gained much comfort; she was just as miserable50 as it was possible to be.
The church bell was going for the five o'clock evening service. Since the advent51 of St. Jerome's, Mr. Sumnor had opened his church again for daily service, morning and evening. This, however, was a Saint's day. A feeling came over poor Lucy that she should like to sob out her heart in prayer to God; and she slipped in. Not going down the aisle52 to their own conspicuous53 pew, but into an old-fashioned, square, obscure thing near the door, that was filled on Sundays with the poor, and hidden behind a pillar. There, unseen, unsuspected, she knelt on the floor, she lifted up her heart on high, sobbing54 silent sobs of agony, bitter tears raining from her eyes; asking God to hear and help her; to help her to bear.
She sat out the service and grew composed enough to join in it. The pillar hid her from the clergyman's view; nobody noticed that she was there. So far as she could see, there were not above half-a-dozen people in the church. In going out, Mr. Sumnor and Mr. Moore's sister, Aunt Diana, came up to join her.
"I did not know you were in church, Lady Andinnian," said the clergyman.
"The bell was going when I left your house: I had been to see Margaret: so I stepped in," she replied. "But what a very small congregation!"
"People don't care to attend on week-days, and that's the truth," put in Miss Moore--a middle-aged, stout55 lady, with her brown hair cut short and a huge flapping hat on. "And the young folks are all off to that blessed St. Jerome's. My nieces are there; I know it; and so are your two daughters, Mr. Sumnor. More shame for them!"
"Ay," sighed Mr. Sumnor, whose hair and face were alike grey, and his look as sad as his tone. "Their running to St. Jerome's, as they do, is nothing less, in my eyes, than a scandal. I don't know what is to be the end of it all."
"End of it all," echoed Aunt Diana, in her strong-minded voice. "Why, the end will be nothing but a continuation of the folly56; or perhaps worse--Rome, or a convent, or something of that kind. I truly believe, Mr. Sumnor, that heaven above was never so mocked before, since the world began, as it is now by this semblance57 of zeal58 in boys and girls for religious services and worship. The true worship of a Christian59, awakened60 to his state of sin and to the need he has of God's forgiveness and care, of Christ's love, is to be revered--but that is totally different from this business at Jerome's. This is hollow at the core; born of young men's and young girls' vanity. Does all the flocking thither61 come of religion, think you? Not it."
"Indeed no," said Mr. Sumnor.
"And therefore I say it is a mockery of true religion, and must be a sin in the sight of heaven. They run after Mr. Cattacomb himself: nothing else. I went to St. Jerome's myself this morning; not to say my prayers; just to watch my nieces and see what was going on. They had all sorts of ceremonies and foolish folly: three of the girls had been there beforehand, confessing to the Reverend Guy: and there was he, performing the service and turning up the tails of his eyes."
"O Miss Diana," involuntarily exclaimed Lucy, hardly knowing whether to laugh or reprove.
"It is true, Lady Andinnian. Mr. Sumnor here knows it is. Why does Cattacomb go through his service with all that affectation? Of course the girls like it: but they are little fools, all of them; they'd think anything right that was done by him. I fancy the young man has some good in him; I acknowledge it; but he is eaten up with vanity, and lives in the incense62 offered by these girls. Ah well, it's to be hoped they will all, priest and children, come to their senses sometime."
She turned into her home as she spoke, after wishing them good-bye. Lucy stayed to shake hands with the clergyman.
"Miss Diana is given to expressing herself strongly, but she is right in the main," said Mr. Sumnor. "St. Jerome's is giving me a great deal of trouble and sorrow just now, in more ways than one. But we have all something to bear," he added, after a pause. "All. Sometimes I think that the more painful it is, the more God is caring for us. Fare you well, my dear young lady. Give my kind regards to Sir Karl."
Lucy walked homewards, a feeling of peace insensibly diffusing63 itself over her afflicted64 soul. The clergyman's words had touched her.
Verses of Holy Writ65 and thoughts connected with them kept rising in her mind like messages of consolation66. In her misery67, she felt how very weak and weary she was; that there was nothing for her but to resign herself to Heaven's protecting hand, as a helpless child. The cry for it broke out involuntarily from her lips.
"Lord, I am oppressed. Undertake for me!"
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收听单词发音
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1
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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trolleys
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| n.（两轮或四轮的）手推车( trolley的名词复数 )；装有脚轮的小台车；电车 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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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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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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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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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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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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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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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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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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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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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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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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diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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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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