After the funeral, Lady Ushant returned to the house at the request of her nephew, who declared his purpose of remaining at Hoppet Hall for the present. She expostulated with him and received from him an assurance that he would take up his residence as squire3 at Bragton as soon as he married a wife,—should he ever do so. In the meantime he could, he thought, perform his duties from Hoppet Hall as well as on the spot. As a residence for a bachelor he preferred, he said, Hoppet Hall to the park. Lady Ushant yielded and returned once again to her old home,—the house in which she had been born,—and gave up her lodgings4 at Cheltenham. The word that he said about his possible marriage set her mind at work, and induced her to put sundry5 questions to him. "Of course you will marry?" she said.
"Men who have property to leave behind them usually do marry, and as I am not wiser than others, I probably may do so. But I will not admit that it is a matter of course. I may escape yet."
"I do hope you will marry. I hope it may be before I die, so that I may see her."
"And disapprove6 of her, ten to one."
"Certainly I shall not if you tell me that you love her."
"Then I will tell you so,—to prevent disagreeable results."
"I am quite sure there must be somebody that you like, Reginald," she said after a pause.
"Are you? I don't know that I have shown any very strong preference. I am not disposed to praise myself for many things, but I really do think that I have been as undemonstrative as most men of my age."
"Still I did hope—"
"What did you hope?"
"I won't mention any name. I don't think it is right. I have observed that more harm than good comes of such talking, and I have determined7 always to avoid it. But—." Then there was another pause. "Remember how old I am, Reginald, and when it is to be done give me at any rate the pleasure of knowing it." Of course he knew to whom she alluded8, and of course he laughed at her feeble caution. But he would not say a word to encourage her to mention the name of Mary Masters. He thought that he was sure that were the girl free he would now ask her to be his wife. If he loved any one it was her. If he had ever known a woman with whom he thought it would be pleasant to share the joy and labours of life, it was Mary Masters. If he could imagine that any one constant companion would be a joy to him, she would be that person. But he had been distinctly informed that she was in love with some one, and not for worlds would he ask for that which had been given to another. And not for worlds would he hazard the chance of a refusal. He thought that he could understand the delight, that he could thoroughly9 enjoy the rapture10, of hearing her whisper with downcast eyes, that she could love him. He had imagination enough to build castles in the air in which she reigned11 as princess, in which she would lie with her head upon his bosom12 and tell him that he was her chosen prince. But he would hardly know how to bear himself should he ask in vain. He believed he could love as well as Lawrence Twentyman, but he was sure that he could not continue his quest as that young man had done.
When Lady Ushant had been a day or two at the house she asked him whether she might invite Mary there as her guest,—as her perpetual guest.—"I have no objection in life," he said;—"but take care that you don't interfere13 with her happiness."
"Because of her father and sisters?" suggested the innocent old lady.
"'Has she a father, has she a mother;
Or has she a dearer one still than all other?'"
said Reginald laughing.
"Perhaps she has."
"Then don't interfere with her happiness in that direction. How is she to have a lover come to see her out here?"
"Why not? I don't see why she shouldn't have a lover here as well as in Dillsborough. I don't object to lovers, if they are of the proper sort;—and I am sure Mary wouldn't have anything else." Reginald told her she might do as she pleased and made no further inquiry14 as to Mary's lovers.
A few days afterwards Mary went with her boxes to Bragton,—Mrs. Masters repeating her objections, but repeating them with but little energy. Just at this time a stroke of good fortune befell the Masters family generally which greatly reduced her power over her husband. Reginald Morton had spent an hour in the attorney's office, and had declared his purpose of restoring Mr. Masters to his old family position in regard to the Bragton estate. When she heard it she felt at once that her dominion15 was gone. She had based everything on the growing inferiority of her husband's position, and now he was about to have all his glory back again! She had inveighed16 against gentlemen from the day of her marriage,—and here he was, again to be immersed up to his eyes in the affairs of a gentleman. And then she had been so wrong about Goarly, and Lord Rufford had been so much better a client! And ready money had been so much more plentiful17 of late, owing to poor John Morton's ready-handed honesty! She had very little to say about it when Mary packed her boxes and was taken in Mr. Runciman's fly to Bragton.
Since the old days, the old days of all, since the days to which Reginald had referred when he asked her to pass over the bridge with him, she had never yet walked about the Bragton grounds. She had often been to the house, visiting Lady Ushant; but she had simply gone thither18 and returned. And indeed, when the house had been empty, the walk from Dillsborough to the bridge and back had been sufficient exercise for herself and her sisters. But now she could go whither she listed and bring her memory to all the old spots. With the tenacity19 as to household matters which characterised the ladies of the country some years since, Lady Ushant employed all her mornings and those of her young friend in making inventories20 of everything that was found in the house; but her afternoons were her own, and she wandered about with a freedom she had never known before. At this time Reginald Morton was up in London and had been away nearly a week. He had gone intending to be absent for some undefined time, so that Lady Ushant and Mrs. Hopkins were free from all interruption. It was as yet only the middle of March and the lion had not altogether disappeared; but still Mary could get out. She did not care much for the wind; and she roamed about among the leafless shrubberies, thinking,—probably not of many things,—meaning always to think of the past, but unable to keep her mind from the future, the future which would so soon be the present. How long would it be before the coming of that stately dame21? Was he in quest of her now? Had he perhaps postponed22 his demand upon her till fortune had made him rich? Of course she had no right to be sorry that he had inherited the property which had been his almost of right;—but yet, had it been otherwise, might she not have had some chance? But, oh, if he had said a word to her, only a word more than he had spoken already,—a word that might have sounded like encouragement to others beside herself, and then have been obliged to draw back because of the duty which he owed to the property,—how much worse would that have been! She did own to herself that the squire of Bragton should not look for his wife in the house of a Dillsborough attorney. As she thought of this a tear ran down her cheek and trickled24 down on to the wooden rail of the little bridge.
"There's no one to give you an excuse now, and you must come and walk round with me," said a voice, close to her ear.
"Oh, Mr. Morton, how you have startled me!"
"Is there anything the matter, Mary?" said he, looking up into her face.
"Only you have startled me so."
"Has that brought tears into your eyes?"
"Well,—I suppose so," she said trying to smile. "You were so very quiet and I thought you were in London."
"So I was this morning, and now I am here. But something else has made you unhappy."
"No; nothing."
"I wish we could be friends, Mary. I wish I could know your secret. You have a secret."
"No," she said boldly.
"Is there nothing?"
"What should there be, Mr. Morton!"
"Tell me why you were crying."
"I was not crying. Just a tear is not crying. Sometimes one does get melancholy25. One can't cry when there is any one to look, and so one does it alone. I'd have been laughing if I knew that you were coming."
"Come round by the kennels26. You can get over the wall;—can't you?"
"Oh yes."
"And we'll go down the old orchard27, and get out by the corner of the park fence." Then he walked and she followed him, hardly keeping close by his side, and thinking as she went how foolish she had been not to have avoided the perils28 and fresh troubles of such a walk. When he was helping29 her over the wall he held her hands for a moment and she was aware of unusual pressure. It was the pressure of love,—or of that pretence30 of love which young men, and perhaps old men, sometimes permit themselves to affect. In an ordinary way Mary would have thought as little of it as another girl. She might feel dislike to the man, but the affair would be too light for resentment31. With this man it was different. He certainly was not justified32 in making the slightest expression of factitious affection. He at any rate should have felt himself bound to abstain33 from any touch of peculiar34 tenderness. She would not say a word. She would not even look at him with angry eyes. But she twitched35 both her hands away from him as she sprang to the ground. Then there was a passage across the orchard,—not more than a hundred yards, and after that a stile. At the stile she insisted on using her own hand for the custody36 of her dress. She would not even touch his outstretched arm. "You are very independent," he said.
"I have to be so."
"I cannot make you out, Mary. I wonder whether there is still anything rankling37 in your bosom against me."
"Oh dear no. What should rankle38 with me?"
"What indeed;—unless you resent my—regard."
"I am not so rich in friends as to do that, Mr. Morton."
"I don't suppose there can be many people who have the same sort of feeling for you that I have."
"There are not many who have known me so long, certainly."
"You have some friend, I know," he said.
"More than one I hope."
"Some special friend. Who is he, Mary?"
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Morton." She then thought that he was still alluding39 to Lawrence Twentyman.
"Tell me, Mary."
"What am I to tell you?"
"Your father says that there is some one."
"Papa!"
"Yes;—your father."
Then she remembered it all;—how she had been driven into a half confession40 to her father. She could not say there was nobody. She certainly could not say who that some one was. She could not be silent, for by silence she would be confessing a passion for some other man,—a passion which certainly had no existence. "I don't know why papa should talk about me," she said, "and I certainly don't know why you should repeat what he said."
"But there is some one?" She clenched41 her fist, and hit out at the air with her parasol, and knit her brows as she looked up at him with a glance of fire in her eye which he had never seen there before. "Believe me, Mary," he said;—"if ever a girl had a sincere friend, you have one in me. I would not tease you by impertinence in such a matter. I will be as faithful to you as the sun. Do you love any one?"
"Yes," she said turning round at him with ferocity and shouting out her answer as she pressed on.
"Who is he, Mary?"
"What right have you to ask me? What right can any one have? Even your aunt would not press me as you are doing."
"My aunt could not have the same interest. Who is he, Mary?"
"I will not tell you."
He paused a few moments and walked on a step or two before he spoke23 again. "I would it were I," he said.
"What!" she ejaculated.
"I would it were I," he repeated.
One glance of her eye stole itself round into his face, and then her face was turned quickly to the ground. Her parasol which had been raised drooped42 listless from her hand. All unconsciously she hastened her steps and became aware that the tears were streaming from her eyes. For a moment or two it seemed to her that all was still hopeless. If he had no more to say than that, certainly she had not a word. He had made her no tender of his love. He had not told her that in very truth she was his chosen one. After all she was not sure that she understood the meaning of those words "I would it were I." But the tears were coming so quick that she could see nothing of the things around her, and she did not dare even to put her hand up to her eyes. If he wanted her love,—if it was possible that he really wished for it,—why did he not ask for it? She felt his footsteps close to hers, and she was tempted43 to walk on quicker even than before. Then there came the fingers of a hand round her waist, stealing gradually on till she felt the pressure of his body on her shoulders. She put her hand up weakly, to push back the intruding44 fingers,—only to leave it tight in his grasp. Then,—then was the first moment in which she realized the truth. After all he did love her. Surely he would not hold her there unless he meant her to know that he loved her. "Mary," he said. To speak was impossible, but she turned round and looked at him with imploring45 eyes. "Mary,—say that you will be my wife."
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1
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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3
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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5
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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6
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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7
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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10
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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11
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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12
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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13
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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14
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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15
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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16
inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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18
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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19
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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20
inventories
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| n.总结( inventory的名词复数 )；细账；存货清单（或财产目录）的编制 | |
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21
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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22
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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23
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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24
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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25
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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26
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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27
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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28
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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29
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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30
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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31
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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32
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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33
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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34
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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35
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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36
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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37
rankling
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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38
rankle
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| v.（怨恨，失望等）难以释怀 | |
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39
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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40
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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41
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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44
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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45
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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