A mellow4, bright morning. The pleasant sun, so prolific5 of his bounties6 that year, was making the earth glad with his renewed light, and many a heart with it. Not so Lucy's: it seemed to her that never a gleam of gladness could illumine hers again. She sat in her room, partly dressed, after a night of much sleeplessness7. What sleep she had was disturbed, as usual, by dreams tinged9 with the unpleasantness of her waking thoughts. A white wrapper enfolded her, and Aglaé was doing her hair. The woman saw how weary and spiritless her mistress was becoming; but not a suspicion of the true cause suggested itself, for Lucy and her husband took care to keep up appearances, and guarded their secret well. Aglaé attempted to say a word now and again, but received no encouragement: Lucy was buried in a reverie.
"We are growing more estranged10 day by day," ran her thoughts. "He went to London yesterday, and never said why; never gave me the least explanation. After he came home at night, and had taken something to eat, he went out again. To the Maze, of course."
"Will my lady please to have her hair in rolls or in plats this morning?"
"As you please, Aglaé." And, the weary answer given, her thoughts ran on again.
"I fancy Theresa had seen him go there. I can't help fancying it. She had all her severe manner on when she came in last night, but was so pityingly kind to me. And I could bear all so much better if she would not be pitiful. It was past ten. That poor Mrs. Bell is likely to die, and Theresa had been to read to her. I kept hoping she would go to bed, and she did not. Is it wrong of me to sit up, I wonder, to see what time he comes in--would Margaret say it was? She got her silks and her work about, and I had mine. He has hardly ever been so late as last night. It was half-past eleven. What right has she to keep him, or he to stay? He said, in a light, indifferent kind of tone, by way of excuse, that he had been talking with Smith, and the time slipped by unheeded. Theresa drew in her lips till she seemed to have none at all, and gave him just one scornful glance. Yes: she had certainly seen him go in elsewhere, and she knew that the excuse was not true. I took my candle, and came up here--and have had one of my most wretched nights again--and neither I nor Aglaé could find that book that comforts me. It was very cruel of Karl to marry me: and yet--and yet--would I be unmarried if I could? Would I break even from this distressing11 life, if it involved a separation for ever? I fear not. The not seeing him day by day would be a worse fate even than this is."
"Did my lady think to ask Sir Karl whether he had put away that book that is missing?" interposed Aglaé, quite unconscious that her lady had not seen Sir Karl since the book was missed, any more than she herself had: and moreover that he was not likely to see it.
"I have not asked him yet. Perhaps I took it downstairs yesterday."
"Which robe, my lady?"
"The Swiss muslin."
Aglaé left her when she was ready, and Lucy took her Bible for a few minutes, and said her prayers. Never did prayers ascend13 from a more wrung14 or troubled heart. The book she had mislaid was one of those little gems15 of consolation16 that can only be estimated in need. It had been given to Lucy by Miss Sumnor.
She stood a few minutes at the open window, gazing at the sunny morning. The variegated17 leaves of the changing trees--getting, alas18! bare as Lucy's heart felt--the smooth lawn, which Maclean was rolling, the still bright flowers, the sunlight glittering on the lodge19. All these fair things were hers; and yet, she could enjoy them not.
She went down: putting away all the sadness from her face that she could put, and looking in her pretty dress as fair as the sunshine. Hewitt came in with the coffee, and Lucy took her place at table. They never waited for Miss Blake. St. Jerome's was exacting20, and Mr. Cattacomb somewhat uncertain as to the precise time at which he let out his flock. Hewitt went across the lawn to tell his master, who was talking to Maclean, that the breakfast was ready.
Karl came in through the open doors of the window. She glanced up and hid her eyes again: the more attractive he looked--and he always did look attractive--the greater her sense of pain. The fresh air was sweet and pleasant, and a good fire burnt in the grate.
"Good morning, Lucy."
She put down the sugar-tongs to give him her hand, and wished him good morning in a tone that no eavesdropper22 could have found fault with. They were quite civil to each other; nay23, courteous24; their intercourse25 much like that of true friends, or a brother and sister. After playing so long at this for the sake of keeping up appearances to their household and the world, it had become quite easy--a thing of habit.
"What shall I give you?" he asked.
"An egg, please."
"Maclean thinks that fir-tree is dying."
"Which fir-tree?"
"The large one by the ferns. He wants to root it up and make a bed there. What do you think?"
"I don't mind how it it. Is your coffee sweet enough?"
"Yes."
Hewitt appeared with the letters. Two for Miss Blake, one for Lady Andinnian, none for Sir Karl. Lucy read hers; glad of the help it afforded to occupation: for she did but toy with her breakfast, having little appetite now.
"It is from mamma," said Lucy. "She is going to stay with my aunt in London. I suppose you did not call on Lady Southal yesterday?"
"I? No."
"You have promised to do so for some time past."
"But I have not been able. When the mind is harassed26 with worry and business, social calls get put aside. Is Mrs. Cleeve well?"
"Yes, and papa better. He is going to stay at home himself. They desire to be remembered to you."
Karl bent27 his head in acknowledgment. And thus, talking indifferently of this and that, the meal came to an end. Karl asked his wife if she would go out to look at the fir-tree, and hear what Maclean said--he was always scrupulous28 in consulting her wishes as the Court's mistress. She brought her parasol at once.
Karl held out his arm, and she took it. As they went down the steps, Miss Blake appeared. They waited to greet her, and to shake hands.
"You must want your breakfast, Theresa. There are two letters for you on the table. Oh, and I have heard from mamma. She is going to stay with Aunt Southal in London."
Lucy took Karl's arm again, and they went off with the gardener. Miss Blake probably did want her breakfast; but she spared a minute or two to look after them.
"I wonder if anyone was ever so great a hypocrite?" ran her comment. "And to think that I once believed him to be the most noble and best of men. He dared to speak disparagingly29 of that pure saint, Mr. Cattacomb, the other day. Good patience! what contrasts there are in the world! And the same Heaven made them both, and permits both! One cannot understand it here. As to Lucy--but I wash my hands of her."
Lucy was soon back again. Miss Blake had but read her letters, and begun her breakfast. Karl had passed into his own room.
The morning wore on. Theresa went out again; Karl was shut up and then he went out; Lucy was left in the house alone. It was usually so. She had given her orders, and no earthly thing else remained to do--save let her heart prey30 upon itself. When she had gone pretty nearly out of her mind, she put her bonnet31 on, and betook herself to Mrs. Whittle32, the widow of the man who had died suddenly at the station in the summer. Passing out at the extreme gate of the Court, Lucy had but to skirt the wood, and in three minutes was at the cottage: one of a row.
She had taken to come here when she was very particularly miserable33--as she felt this day. For the lesson it read to her was most salutary, acting21 as a kind of tonic34. That this poor woman was slowly dying, there could not be much doubt of. She had been in ill health before her husband's death, and the blow struck too severely35 on the weakened frame. But for Karl and his wife the family must have taken refuge in the workhouse. Lucy went in and sat down on a low wooden stool. Mrs. Whittle, about to-day, was in the easy-chair, sent to her from the Court, her three little girls around her, the eldest36 eight years of age. Two younger children, boys, played on the floor.
"I am teaching them to sew, ma'am," she said to Lucy. "Bessy has got her hand pretty well into it; but the other two haven't. When I lie awake at nights, my lady, and think how little it is they know of any sort of labour yet, and how soon I may be taken from them, and be able to teach no more, my heart fails me. I can only set on to cry, and to pray God to forgive me all my short-comings."
The tears had come into her eyes, and were falling down her hectic37 cheeks. She had been very pretty once, but the face was wasted now. Lucy's eyelashes were wet.
"But I think you look better, Mrs. Whittle. And as to short-comings--we all might own to those."
"It seems to me that I could have brought them on better if I'd known what was coming, ma'am. Until that night when my husband was carried home on a shutter38, I had not had a thought of death, as being likely to concern any of us at home here. And now the time seems to be coming to an end, and I'm leaving them, and they know nothing."
"I hope you will get better yet," said Lucy.
"I don't think so, ma'am. I should like to if I could. The very distress12 that is upon me about my children seems as if it kept me back. Nobody can know what it is to leave a family of young children to the world, till they come to it themselves. There's a dreadful yearning40 upon me always, my lady, an aching like, at the thought of it. Mr. Sumnor, he is very good and kind, and he comes here, and tells me about heaven, and how free from care I shall be, once I get to it. But oh, ma'am, when I must leave these little ones here, with nobody to say a word to keep them from the world's bad ways, how do I know that they will ever get to heaven?"
The woman had never spoken out as she was speaking to-day. Generally she had seemed calm and resigned--to get well, or to die. Lucy was intensely sorry for her. She would take-herself to task for being so miserable with this real distress close at hand, and for at least the rest of the day allow it to read her a salutary lesson.
Passing in at the small gate again, she made her way to the acacia tree and sat down under it, letting her parasol fall to the ground. Karl, who was at home again, could see her from his window, but he did not attempt to go to her. And so she idled away the morning in weariness.
Theresa appeared at luncheon41; but Sir Karl did not. Lucy remembered that a parcel she was expecting from London ought to be at the station (only an autumn mantle42) and thought she would go in the pony-chaise for it. Anything for a change for a break in her monotonous43 life. So the chaise was ordered, and the groom44 to drive it. It came round, and she was getting in when Karl approached.
"Are you going to drive yourself, Lucy?"
"Oh no. Robert is coming."
"I will go, then. We shall not want you, Robert."
"But I was only going to the station," she said.
"To the station?"
"I think my new mantle may be there."
He drove off, turning towards the station. The mantle was not there: and Karl continued his drive as far as Basham. They said very little to one another. Just a remark on the scenery, or on any object passing: nothing more. Karl pulled up at the saddler's shop, to give some direction about a set of harness they were making for him. Just as he got into the chaise again, somebody passed and took off his hat, with a "Good afternoon, Sir Karl."
It was Mr. Tatton. Karl wondered what he was doing in Basham. Of course, the detective might be there for fifty things, totally unconnected with his profession: but nevertheless the sight of him awoke uneasiness in Karl's mind. When a heavy dread39 lies upon us, the most trifling45 event will serve to stir up suspicion and augment46 fear.
Karl drove home again, and Lucy went up to her little sitting-room47. She was owing a letter to Mrs. Cleeve, but held back from writing it. Great though her affection was for her mother, she hated now to write. It was so impossible to fill up a letter--as it seemed to Lucy--and yet guard her secret. She could not say "Karl and I are doing this;" or "Karl and I are doing the other:" and yet if she did not say something of this kind of their home life, or mention his name, her fancy suggested that it would look strange, and might arouse doubt. Conscience makes us cowards. She might have sent a letter that day, saying, "I have just got home from a drive with Karl;" and "Karl and I decided48 this morning to have that old fir-tree by the rocks dug up;" and it would be quite true: but Lucy in her strict integrity so disliked the deceit the words would imply, that she shrank from writing them.
Footsteps on the gravel49 below: his footsteps: and she went to the window to glance out. Yes, he was going straight down the gravel walk, and through the large gates. Going where? Her heart beat a little quicker as the question crept in. To the Maze? The query50 was always suggesting itself now.
He turned that way--and that was all she could tell, for the trees hid the road from her view. He might be going to his agent's; he might be going to some part or other of his estate; but to Lucy's jealous mind the probability seemed perfectly51 clear that his destination was that shut-in house, which she had already begun to hate so much. And yet--she believed that he did not go in by day-time. Lucy wondered whether Fair Rosamund, who had disturbed the peace of her queen, was half as fair as this Rosamund, now turning her own poor heart to sickness.
More footsteps on the gravel: merry tongues, light laughter. Lucy looked out again. Some of the young ladies from the village had called for Theresa, and they were now going on to St. Jerome's. For laughter such as that, for the real lightness of heart that must be its inevitable52 accompaniment, Lucy thought she would have bartered53 a portion of her remaining life.
Aglaé came in, her hands and arms full of clouds of tulle and blue ribbon.
"Look here, my lady--these English modistes have no taste at all. They can't judge. They send this heavy satin ribbon, saying it is the fashion, and they put it in every part of the beautiful light robe, so that you cannot tell which is robe, the tulle, or the ribbon. My lady is not going to wear that, say I; an English modiste might wear it, but my young lady never. So I take the ribbons off."
Lucy looked round listlessly. What did all these adornments matter to her? Karl never seemed to see now what she was dressed in: and if he had seen, he would not have cared.
"But what is it you are asking me, Aglaé?"
"I would ask my lady to let me put just a quarter of as much ribbon on: and silk ribbon, not satin. I have some silk in the house, and this satin will come in for a heavier robe."
"Do whatever you like, Aglaé."
"That's well," said Aglaé. "But I wish my lady would not show herself quite so indifferent," added the woman to herself as she withdrew. "She could not care less if she were the old grandmother."
The afternoon passed to its close, Lucy reading a bit and working a bit to beguile54 the time. Whether the book or the work lay before her, her mind was alike far away, brooding over the trouble that could never leave it. Then she went down to dinner in her evening dress of silk. No stranger was present: only herself, Karl, and Theresa. It was generally thus: neither she nor he had spirits to bring guests about them often. Theresa told them of a slight accident that had happened at the station that afternoon, and it served for a topic of conversation. Dinner was barely over when Miss Diana Moore called in. She was not given to time her visits ceremoniously; but she was always welcome, for Karl and Lucy both liked her. Miss Diana generally gave them the news of the place, and she began now. In some inexplicable55 manner the conversation turned on the Maze. At least, something was said that caused the place to be incidentally mentioned, and it served to draw Miss Diana's thoughts to what they might otherwise not have reverted56 to.
"The senseless geese that people are!" she cried. "Did you hear of that ghost story that arose about the Maze?"
Karl bit his lip. Lucy looked at Miss Diana: she had heard nothing.
"Mother Jinks told me to my face the other day that there could not be a doubt it was Mr. Throcton's son haunting it. My brother--Mr. Moore--had seen it, she said, as well as Nurse Chaffen: a gentleman in evening dress, who appeared to them and vanished away again. She believed it, too."
"I fancy it has been rather more materially accounted for," put in Miss Blake, not at all sorry of the opportunity to give a side fling at Sir Karl.
"Well, what I hear people have found out now is, that the ghost was only Sir Karl Andinnian, who had called in there after or before his dinner," said Miss Diana, laughing. "What do you say to it, Sir Karl?"
Sir Karl did not know what to say. On the one hand it was most essential to do away, if possible, With the impression that any strange gentleman had been at the Maze; on the other, he did not care to admit that he paid evening visits there. Of the two evils, however, the last was the least.
"It may have been myself, Miss Diana. I cannot say, I'm sure. I remember I went over one evening, and stayed a few minutes."
"But it was while Mrs. Grey was ill with fever."
"Just so. I went to enquire57 after her."
"Well, I suppose it was you, then: I asked William about it, but he is as close as wax when he likes, and professed58 not to know what I was talking of. One thing is clear, that he could not have recognised you, Sir Karl. It was nearly dark, I believe. That little baby at the Maze is very delicate."
"By the way, Miss Diana, talking of such people, what does Mr. Moore think of poor Whittle's widow?" asked Sir Karl. "My wife says she is very ill."
The conversation was turned--Sir Karl's object in speaking. Miss Diana talked of Mrs. Whittle, and then went on to other subjects.
But it will be readily seen how cruelly these and similar incidents tried Lucy Andinnian. Had an angel come down from heaven to assure her the gentleman in evening attire59 was not Sir Karl, she would have refused to believe it. Nay, he had, so to say, confessed it--in her presence.
Miss Diana departed. Karl went out with her, and did not come in again. Lucy knew he had gone to the Maze. She went up to her room, and stood there in the dark watching for his return. It was nearly ten when he appeared: he had been spending all that time with her rival!
Even so. Sir Karl had spent it at the Maze. As the autumn evenings grew darker, he could go over earlier and come away earlier. Lucy wondered whether this state of things was to last for ever, and how much longer she could continue to bear and make no sign.
To her weary bed again went she. To the anguish60 of her outraged61 heart; to her miserable, sleepless8 hours, and her still more miserable dreams. Jealousy as utterly62 mistaken and foundationless has too often inflicted63 torment64 lively as this.
It is a "green-eyed monster, which doth make the food it feeds on."
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1
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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3
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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4
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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6
bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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7
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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8
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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9
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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11
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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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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13
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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14
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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15
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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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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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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28
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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disparagingly
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| adv.以贬抑的口吻，以轻视的态度 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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31
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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whittle
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| v.削（木头），削减；n.屠刀 | |
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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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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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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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38
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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40
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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41
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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42
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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44
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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45
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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46
augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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47
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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48
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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49
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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50
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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51
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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53
bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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55
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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56
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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57
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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58
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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59
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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60
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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62
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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63
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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64
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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