"Did you think I was lost, Lucy?"
She suffered her hand to touch his; for Hewitt and the tall footman, Giles, were standing2 in the hall, looking on. Sir Karl saw how red her eyes were.
"I meant to have returned by an earlier train; but as I had the day before me I took the opportunity of seeing after a few things I wished to purchase--and the time slipped on," said Karl. "How have you been, Lucy?"
"Oh, quite well, thank you."
"Whom do you think I travelled down with, Lucy? My old friend, Lamprey. He had to come to Basham on some matter of business: so I have brought him here to dinner. Make haste," he added, as she turned to the staircase: "I think it must be ready."
"I will be down directly," she answered.
Aglaé was waiting; and in five minutes Lucy came down again, dressed. Captain Lamprey was introduced to her--for it happened that they had not been personally acquainted when at Winchester---and gave her his arm into the dining-room. Miss Blake fell to Karl.
But in Lucy's heart-sickness, she could scarcely be cheerful. Her tell-tale eyes were heavy; there arose ever and anon one of those rising sobs3 of the breath that speak most unmistakably of hidden grief: and altogether Captain Lamprey felt somewhat disappointed in Lady Andinnian. He remembered how beautiful Lucy Cleeve used to be: he had heard of the renewed gaiety of heart her marriage with Karl brought her: but he saw only a sad woman, who was evidently not too happy, and whose beauty was marred4 by sadness and paleness. Karl was more cheerful than usual; and Miss Blake seemed not to tire of inquiring after Winchester and its people. But in the midst of all his observations, Captain Lamprey never suspected that there was anything but perfect cordiality between Sir Karl and his wife. And the dinner came to an end.
After coffee, Captain Lamprey set off to walk to Basham. Karl went out with him, to put him in the right road and accompany him part of it. Miss Blake had gone to Vespers. Lucy was alone.
It seemed to her to be dull everywhere; especially dull indoors, and she stepped out to the lawn: turning back almost immediately to get a shawl for her shoulders, in obedience5 to an injunction of her husband's. On the Sunday evening, when he found her sitting out of doors without one, he had fetched one at once, and begged her not to be imprudent or to forget her ague-fever of the previous year. She remembered this now and went back for the shawl. Some wives, living in estrangement6 from their husbands, might have studiously set his commands at naught7, and have risked ague, or what not, rather than obey them. Not so Lucy Andinnian. She was meek8 and gentle by nature. Moreover, in spite of the ill-feeling he had caused to rise up between them, in spite of her sense of wrong and insult, she loved him in her heart, and could not help it, as truly as ever. Visions would steal over her in unguarded moments, of the present trouble being hushed to rest; of all that was amiss being done away with, and she and he reconciled and at peace again. Unhappily for the demands of pride, of self-assertion, Lucy was by no means one of your high-spirited and strong-minded heroines, who rashly overlook all interests to indulge in reprisals9 and revenge.
She folded the shawl about her--one of substantial white silk
crape--as carefully as Karl could have folded it; and she stayed, she knew not how long, in the open air. Pacing the lawn; sitting amidst the flowers; standing under the shade of the trees; always in deep thought. The nightingale sang, and the tears gathered in her eyes as she listened to the strain. "What a sweet place this would be to live in," thought Lucy, "if only we could but have peace with it!"
But the nightingale's song and the oppressive thoughts, together with the falling dusk, brought back all her low spirits again. "There will never be any more happiness for me in this world, never, never," she sighed, and the tears were dropping as she went up to her own room.
By and by Sir Karl returned. Not seeing his wife downstairs, he went up and knocked at the door of her little sitting-room10. He had not had an opportunity of speaking a private word to her since his return. There came no answer, and he entered. The room was empty; but as he stood for a moment in the deep silence of twilight11, the sound of sobs in Lucy's bedchamber smote12 his ear. He knocked at it.
"Lucy!"
She had indeed once more given way to all the abandonment of grief. Which was very foolish: but perhaps its indulgence brought a kind of relief, and indeed her spirit was very sore. The knock startled her: but she had not heard the call.
"Who's there?" she asked, stepping to the door and stifling13 her sobs as she best could.
"I want to speak to you, Lucy."
She dried her eyes, and unlocked the door, and made believe to be calmly indifferent, as she stepped into the sitting-room.
"I beg your pardon, Sir Karl. I was busy, and did not hear you."
"You are looking very ill, Lucy," he said, with grieved concern. "I thought so when I first saw you this afternoon. Then, as now, your eyes were red with weeping."
She strove for calmness; she prayed for it. Her determination had been taken to bury in haughty14 silence all she had learnt of the London journey, its despicable deceit, and insult to her. She could not have spoken of it; no, not even to reproach him and to bring his shame home to him: it would have inflicted16 too much humiliation17 on her sensitive spirit. Besides, he must know what she suffered as well as she did.
"I have had rather a tiring day," she answered, leaning sideways against the open window. "There was the elaborate luncheon18 with General and Mrs. Lloyd, and the flower-show afterwards. The weather was very warm and oppressive."
"That may account for your being tired and not looking well: but not for the weeping, Lucy. As I stood here waiting for you to answer my knock, I heard your sobs."
"Yes," she said, rather faintly, feeling how useless it would be to deny that there had been some weeping. "I get a little low-spirited sometimes in the evening."
"But why? wherefore?"
"Is life so pleasant with us just now that I can always be gay, think you!" she retorted, after a pause, and her voice took a tone of resentment19.
"But the unpleasantness is of your making; not mine. You know it, Lucy."
"Then--then it is right that I should be the one to suffer," was her impatient answer--for his words were trying her almost beyond endurance. "Let it go so: I do not wish to speak of it further."
Karl was standing at the opposite corner of the window, facing her, his arms folded. On his part he was beginning to be a little out of patience too, with what he deemed her unreasonable20 caprice. For a few moments there was silence.
"What I want to tell you is this, Lucy. My visit to London was connected with that wish which you seem to have so much at
heart--though I cannot exactly understand why----"
"I have no wish at heart," she resentfully interrupted.
"Nay21, but hear me. The wish you expressed to me I think you must have at heart, since on its fulfilment you say depends our reconciliation22. I speak of the removal of--of the tenants23 of the Maze24," he added, half breaking down, in his sensitive hesitation25. "Since my conversation with you on Saturday, during which, if you remember, this stipulation26 of yours was made, there occurred, by what I should call, a singular chance, only that I do not believe anything is chance that affects our vital interests in this life--there occurred to me a slight circumstance by which I thought I saw a possibility of carrying out your wish----"
"You said then that it was your wish also," again interrupted Lucy. "Or affected27 to say it."
"Your wish for it cannot be as hearty28 as mine," he impulsively29 answered. "I pray for it night and day."
And Lucy could not well mistake the emotional earnestness. She believed him there.
"Well, I thought I saw a chance of it," he resumed, "and I went to get some information, that I fancied might help me, from Plunkett and Plunkett--"
"Is it fitting that you should give these details to me?" she haughtily30 interposed.
"I wish you to understand that I am doing my best. Plunkett and Plunkett could not give me the information: but they directed me to some people where I might obtain it. To enable me to see one of these people, I had to stay in town all night; and that was the reason of my not getting home."
Lucy had taken a spray of jessamine from her waistband, and stood pulling it to pieces, listening with an air of indifference31.
"I do not really know more than I did before I went to town, as to whether or not the Maze can be left empty," he went on. "But I have a good hope of it. I think I may be able to accomplish it, though perhaps not quite immediately. It may take time."
"As you please, of course," answered Lucy coldly. "It is nothing to me."
Karl Andinnian had one of the sweetest tempers in the world, and circumstances had taught him patience and endurance. But he felt grieved to his very heart at her cutting indifference, and for once his spirit rebelled against it.
"Lucy, how dare you treat me so? What have I done to deserve it from you? You must know and see what a life of tempest and apprehension32 mine is. There are moments when I feel that I could welcome death, rather than continue to live it."
She was not ungenerous. And, as he so spoke15, it struck her that, whatever her wrongs, she had been petty and ungracious to him now. And perhaps--Heaven knew--he was really striving to rid himself of Mrs. Grey as earnestly as she could wish it. Her countenance33 softened34.
"I am as a man tied down in a net from which there is no extrication," he resumed with increased emotion. "My days are so full of care that I envy the poor labourers at work by the road-side, and wish I was one of them--anything in the world, good or bad, but what that world calls me--Sir Karl Andinnian. And my wife, whom I have loved with my heart's best love, and whom I might have fondly hoped would pity my strait and comfort me--she turns against me. God forgive you for your harshness, Lucy."
The reproaches wrung35 her heart terribly. In the moment's repentance36, she believed she had judged him more hardly than he deserved. Her tone was gentle, her eyes had tears in them.
"I have to bear on my side too, Karl. You forget that."
No, he did not forget it. But the temporary anger was pre-eminent just then. A hot retort was on his lips; when the sight of her face, sad with its utter sorrow, struck on every generous chord he possessed37, and changed his mood to pity. He crossed over and took her unresisting hands in his.
"Forgive my words, Lucy: you tried me very much. We have both something to forgive each other."
She could not speak; sobs were rising in her throat. Karl bent38 forward and kissed her passionately39.
"Need we make life worse for one another than it is?" he asked.
"I cannot help it," she sobbed40. "Don't blame me, for I cannot help it."
"Suppose I take the matter into my own hands, Lucy, and say you shall help it."
"You will not do that," she said, the implied threat restoring her coldness and calmness, though her face turned as pale as the blossoms of the jessamine. "Things are bad enough as they are, but that would make them worse. I should leave your home for good and all--and should have to say why I do so."
She knew how to subdue41 him. This exposure, if she carried it out, might cost his brother's safety. Karl, feeling his helplessness most bitterly, dropped her hands, and went back to his post at the opposite side of the window.
"I have not said quite all I wish to say," he began, in a voice from which emotion had passed. "As I had the day in London before me, I thought I would look after a pony42-chaise for you, Lucy, and I found a beauty. It will be home in a day or two."
"But you have not bought it?"
"Yes, I have."
"Oh, I'm sorry! I did not want one. But it was very kind of you to think of me, Karl," she added in her gratitude43.
"And there's a pretty pony to match: a small, quiet, gentle creature. I hope you will like him. I cannot have you running about the place on foot, making yourself ill with the heat."
"Thank you; thank you. But I never drove in my life. I fear I should be a coward."
"I will drive you until you get used to him. That is, if you will permit me. Lucy, believe me, amidst all my care and trouble, your happiness lies next my heart."
On his way to leave the room, he stopped and shook hands with her: perhaps as an earnest of his friendliness44. Theresa Blake, walking on the lawn beneath, had seen them conversing45 together at the window. She thought a taste of Jane Shore's pillory46 might not have been amiss for bringing Lady Andinnian to her senses.
Presently Lucy went down and had tea with Theresa, presiding herself at the cups and saucers by moonlight--for there was little light of day left. Sir Karl did not appear. He was in his room on the other side the house, holding some colloquy47 with Hewitt.
"I am going to have a pony-chaise, Theresa."
"Oh, indeed," returned Miss Blake, who seemed in rather a crusty humour. "I thought I heard you say that you did not require one."
"Perhaps I may be glad of it, for all that. At any rate, Sir Karl has bought it, pony, and chaise, and all; and they will be down this week."
Miss Blake's face was a scornful one just then, in her condemnation48 of wrong-doing. "He bribes49 her into blindness," was the thought that ran through her mind.
"Why are your eyes so red and heavy, Lucy? They were so at dinner."
"My eyes red!" artfully responded Lucy. "Are they? Well, I have had rather a tiring day, Theresa; and it has been so very hot, you know. You ought to have waited for the flower-show. It was one of the best I ever saw."
"Yes, I should have liked it."
"I took home poor Miss Patchett in my fly, from the station," went on Lucy, who seemed to be running from one topic to another, perhaps to divert attention from herself. "She had been to London to engage a servant, and looked ready to drop with the heat. Did you ever know it so hot before, Theresa?"
"I think not. Not for a continuancy. Is Sir Karl going to take any tea? There's nothing else so refreshing50 these sultry evenings."
"He says tea only makes him hotter," returned Lucy with a smile. "Ring the bell, please, Theresa: you are nearer to it than I am."
Giles appeared, in answer, and was sent by Lucy to inquire whether his master would take tea, or not. The message brought forth51 Karl. The moon was shining right on the table.
"I'll drink a cup of tea if you will put in plenty of milk to cool it," said he. "How romantic you look here, sitting in the moonlight! Thank you, Lucy."
"We are glad to do without lights so long as we can in this weather," observed Miss Blake. "They make the room warmer."
He drank the tea standing, and went back again. Lucy sent the tray away, and presently ordered the lights. She then ensconced herself in an easy chair with one of the romances Karl had brought her on the Saturday: and Miss Blake strolled out of doors.
At first Lucy held the book upside-down. Then she read a page three times over, and could not comprehend it. Ah, it was of no use, this playing at light-hearted ease. She might keep up the farce52 tolerably well before people; but when alone with herself and her misery53, it was a senseless mockery.
Leaving the book behind her, she went wandering about from room to room. The windows of all were put open, to catch what little air there might be. As she stood in one of the unlighted rooms, Sir Karl passed along the terrace. She drew back lest he should see her, and heard him go into the lighted drawing-room and call her.
"Lucy!"
Not a word would she answer. She just stood back against the wall in the dark beyond the curtain, and kept still. He went out again, and began pacing the opposite path in the shade cast by the overhanging trees. Lucy watched him. Suddenly he plunged54 in amidst the trees, and she heard one of the private gates open and close.
"He is gone there," she said, the pulses of her heart quickening and her face taking a ghastly tinge55 in the moonlight.
Miss Blake, who had been also lingering in the garden, in some of its shaded nooks and corners, her thoughts busy with Guy Cattacomb and with certain improvements that reverend man was contemplating56 to introduce at St. Jerome's, had also seen Sir Karl, and watched his stealthy exit. She immediately glided57 to another of the small private gates of egress58, cautiously opened it, and looked out.
"Yes, I thought so: he is off to the Maze," she mentally cried, as she saw Sir Karl, who had crossed the road, walking towards that secluded59 spot, and keeping close against the opposite hedge. The moonlight was flung pretty broadly upon the road to-night, but the dark hedge served to screen him in a degree. Miss Blake's eyes were keen by moonlight or by daylight. She watched him pass under the trees at the entrance: she watched him open the gate, and enter. And Miss Blake, religious woman that she was, wondered that the skies did not drop down upon such a monster in human shape; she wondered that the same pure air from heaven could be permitted to be breathed by him and by that earthly saint, The Reverend Guy.
Some few of us, my readers, are judging others in exactly the same mistaken manner now: and have no more suspicion that we are wrong and they right than Miss Theresa Blake had.
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1
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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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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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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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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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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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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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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40
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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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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50
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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52
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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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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54
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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55
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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56
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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57
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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58
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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