She had indeed been induced to migrate from London to Littlebath by an accident which should not have been allowed to actuate her. She had been ill, and the doctor, with that solicitude4 which doctors sometimes feel for ladies who are well to do in the world, had recommended change of air. Littlebath, among the Tantivy hills, would be the very place for her. There were waters at Littlebath which she might drink for a month or two with great advantage to her system. It was then the end of July, and everybody that was anybody was going out of town. Suppose she were to go to Littlebath in August, and stay there for a month, or perhaps two months, as she might feel inclined. The London doctor knew a Littlebath doctor, and would be so happy to give her a letter. Then she spoke5 to the clergyman of the church she had lately attended in London who also had become more energetic in his assistance since her brother's death than he had been before, and he also could give her a letter to a gentleman of his cloth at Littlebath. She knew very little in private life of the doctor or of the clergyman in London, but not the less, on that account, might their introductions be of service to her in forming a circle of acquaintance at Littlebath. In this way she first came to think of Littlebath, and from this beginning she had gradually reached her decision.
Another little accident, or two other little accidents, had nearly induced her to remain in London—not in Arundel Street, which was to her an odious6 locality, but in some small genteel house in or about Brompton. She had written to the two baronets to announce to them her brother's death, Tom Mackenzie, the surviving brother, having positively7 refused to hold any communication with either of them. To both these letters, after some interval8, she received courteous9 replies. Sir Walter Mackenzie was a very old man, over eighty, who now never stirred away from Incharrow, in Ross-shire. Lady Mackenzie was not living. Sir Walter did not write himself, but a letter came from Mrs Mackenzie, his eldest10 son's wife, in which she said that she and her husband would be up in London in the course of the next spring, and hoped that they might then have the pleasure of making their cousin's acquaintance. This letter, it was true, did not come till the beginning of August, when the Littlebath plan was nearly formed; and Margaret knew that her cousin, who was in Parliament, had himself been in London almost up to the time at which it was written, so that he might have called had he chosen. But she was prepared to forgive much. There had been cause for offence; and if her great relatives were now prepared to take her by the hand, there could be no reason why she should not consent to be so taken. Sir John Ball, the other baronet, had absolutely come to her, and had seen her. There had been a regular scene of reconciliation11, and she had gone down for a day and night to the Cedars12. Sir John also was an old man, being over seventy, and Lady Ball was nearly as old. Mr Ball, the future baronet, had also been there. He was a widower13, with a large family and small means. He had been, and of course still was, a barrister; but as a barrister he had never succeeded, and was now waiting sadly till he should inherit the very moderate fortune which would come to him at his father's death. The Balls, indeed, had not done well with their baronetcy, and their cousin found them living with a degree of strictness, as to small expenses, which she herself had never been called upon to exercise. Lady Ball indeed had a carriage—for what would a baronet's wife do without one?—but it did not very often go out. And the Cedars was an old place, with grounds and paddocks appertaining; but the ancient solitary14 gardener could not make much of the grounds, and the grass of the paddocks was always sold. Margaret, when she was first asked to go to the Cedars, felt that it would be better for her to give up her migration15 to Littlebath. It would be much, she thought, to have her relations near to her. But she had found Sir John and Lady Ball to be very dull, and her cousin, the father of the large family, had spoken to her about little except money. She was not much in love with the Balls when she returned to London, and the Littlebath plan was allowed to go on.
She made a preliminary journey to that place, and took furnished lodgings16 in the Paragon17. Now it is known to all the world that the Paragon is the nucleus18 of all that is pleasant and fashionable at Littlebath. It is a long row of houses with two short rows abutting19 from the ends of the long row, and every house in it looks out upon the Montpelier Gardens. If not built of stone, these houses are built of such stucco that the Margaret Mackenzies of the world do not know the difference. Six steps, which are of undoubted stone, lead up to each door. The areas are grand with high railings. The flagged way before the houses is very broad, and at each corner there is an extensive sweep, so that the carriages of the Paragonites may be made to turn easily. Miss Mackenzie's heart sank a little within her at the sight of all this grandeur20, when she was first taken to the Paragon by her new friend the doctor. But she bade her heart be of good courage, and looked at the first floor—divided into dining-room and drawing-room—at the large bedroom upstairs for herself, and two small rooms for her niece and her maid-servant—at the kitchen in which she was to have a partial property, and did not faint at the splendour. And yet how different it was from those dingy21 rooms in Arundel Street! So different that she could hardly bring herself to think that this bright abode22 could become her own.
"And what is the price, Mrs Richards?" Her voice almost did fail her as she asked this question. She was determined23 to be liberal; but money of her own had hitherto been so scarce with her that she still dreaded24 the idea of expense.
"The price, mem, is well beknown to all as knows Littlebath. We never alters. Ask Dr Pottinger else."
Miss Mackenzie did not at all wish to ask Dr Pottinger, who was at this moment standing25 in the front room, while she and her embryo26 landlady27 were settling affairs in the back room.
"But what is the price, Mrs Richards?"
"The price, mem, is two pound ten a week, or nine guineas if taken by the month—to include the kitchen fire."
Margaret breathed again. She had made her little calculations over and over again, and was prepared to bid as high as the sum now named for such a combination of comfort and splendour as Mrs Richards was able to offer to her. One little question she asked, putting her lips close to Mrs Richards' ear so that her friend the doctor should not hear her through the doorway28, and then jumped back a yard and a half, awe-struck by the energy of her landlady's reply.
"B—— in the Paragon!" Mrs Richards declared that Miss Mackenzie did not as yet know Littlebath. She bethought herself that she did know Arundel Street, and again thanked Fortune for all the good things that had been given to her.
Miss Mackenzie feared to ask any further questions after this, and took the rooms out of hand by the month.
"And very comfortable you'll find yourself," said Dr Pottinger, as he walked back with his new friend to the inn. He had perhaps been a little disappointed when he saw that Miss Mackenzie showed every sign of good health; but he bore it like a man and a Christian30, remembering, no doubt, that let a lady's health be ever so good, she likes to see a doctor sometimes, especially if she be alone in the world. He offered her, therefore, every assistance in his power.
"The assembly rooms were quite close to the Paragon," he said.
"Oh, indeed!" said Miss Mackenzie, not quite knowing the purport32 of assembly rooms.
"And there are two or three churches within five minutes' walk." Here Miss Mackenzie was more at home, and mentioned the name of the Rev33. Mr Stumfold, for whom she had a letter of introduction, and whose church she would like to attend.
Now Mr Stumfold was a shining light at Littlebath, the man of men, if he was not something more than mere34 man, in the eyes of the devout35 inhabitants of that town. Miss Mackenzie had never heard of Mr Stumfold till her clergyman in London had mentioned his name, and even now had no idea that he was remarkable36 for any special views in Church matters. Such special views of her own she had none. But Mr Stumfold at Littlebath had very special views, and was very specially31 known for them. His friends said that he was evangelical, and his enemies said that he was Low Church. He himself was wont37 to laugh at these names—for he was a man who could laugh—and to declare that his only ambition was to fight the devil under whatever name he might be allowed to carry on that battle. And he was always fighting the devil by opposing those pursuits which are the life and mainstay of such places as Littlebath. His chief enemies were card-playing and dancing as regarded the weaker sex, and hunting and horse-racing—to which, indeed, might be added everything under the name of sport—as regarded the stronger. Sunday comforts were also enemies which he hated with a vigorous hatred38, unless three full services a day, with sundry39 intermediate religious readings and exercitations of the spirit, may be called Sunday comforts. But not on this account should it be supposed that Mr Stumfold was a dreary40, dark, sardonic41 man. Such was by no means the case. He could laugh loud. He could be very jovial42 at dinner parties. He could make his little jokes about little pet wickednesses. A glass of wine, in season, he never refused. Picnics he allowed, and the flirtation43 accompanying them. He himself was driven about behind a pair of horses, and his daughters were horsewomen. His sons, if the world spoke truth, were Nimrods; but that was in another county, away from the Tantivy hills, and Mr Stumfold knew nothing of it. In Littlebath Mr Stumfold reigned44 over his own set as a tyrant45, but to those who obeyed him he was never austere46 in his tyranny.
When Miss Mackenzie mentioned Mr Stumfold's name to the doctor, the doctor felt that he had been wrong in his allusion47 to the assembly rooms. Mr Stumfold's people never went to assembly rooms. He, a doctor of medicine, of course went among saints and sinners alike, but in such a place as Littlebath he had found it expedient48 to have one tone for the saints and another for the sinners. Now the Paragon was generally inhabited by sinners, and therefore he had made his hint about the assembly rooms. He at once pointed29 out Mr Stumfold's church, the spire49 of which was to be seen as they walked towards the inn, and said a word in praise of that good man. Not a syllable51 would he again have uttered as to the wickednesses of the place, had not Miss Mackenzie asked some questions as to those assembly rooms.
"How did people get to belong to them? Were they pleasant? What did they do there? Oh—she could put her name down, could she? If it was anything in the way of amusement she would certainly like to put her name down." Dr Pottinger, when on that afternoon he instructed his wife to call on Miss Mackenzie as soon as that young lady should be settled, explained that the stranger was very much in the dark as to the ways and manners of Littlebath.
"What! go to the assembly rooms, and sit under Mr Stumfold!" said Mrs Pottinger. "She never can do both, you know."
Miss Mackenzie went back to London, and returned at the end of a week with her niece, her new maid, and her boxes. All the old furniture had been sold, and her personal belongings52 were very scanty53. The time had now come in which personal belongings would accrue54 to her, but when she reached the Paragon one big trunk and one small trunk contained all that she possessed55. The luggage of her niece Susanna was almost as copious56 as her own. Her maid had been newly hired, and she was almost ashamed of the scantiness57 of her own possessions in the eyes of her servant.
The way in which Susanna had been given up to her had been oppressive, and at one moment almost distressing58. That objection which each lady had to visit the other,—Miss Mackenzie, that is, and Susanna's mamma,—had never been overcome, and neither side had given way. No visit of affection or of friendship had been made. But as it was needful that the transfer of the young lady should be effected with some solemnity, Mrs Mackenzie had condescended59 to bring her to her future guardian's lodgings on the day before that fixed60 for the journey to Littlebath. To so much degradation—for in her eyes it was degradation—Mrs Mackenzie had consented to subject herself; and Mr Mackenzie was to come on the following morning, and take his sister and daughter to the train.
The mother, as soon as she found herself seated and almost before she had recovered the breath lost in mounting the lodging-house stairs, began the speech which she had prepared for delivery on the occasion. Miss Mackenzie, who had taken Susanna's hand, remained with it in her own during the greater part of the speech. Before the speech was done the poor girl's hand had been dropped, but in dropping it the aunt was not guilty of any unkindness. "Margaret," said Mrs Mackenzie, "this is a trial, a very great trial to a mother, and I hope that you feel it as I do."
"Sarah," said Miss Mackenzie, "I will do my duty by your child."
"Well; yes; I hope so. If I thought you would not do your duty by her, no consideration of mere money would induce me to let her go to you. But I do hope, Margaret, you will think of the greatness of the sacrifice we are making. There never was a better child than Susanna."
"I am very glad of that, Sarah."
"Indeed, there never was a better child than any of 'em; I will say that for them before the child herself; and if you do your duty by her, I'm quite sure she'll do hers by you. Tom thinks it best that she should go; and, of course, as all the money which should have gone to him has come to you"—it was here, at this point that Susanna's hand was dropped—"and as you haven't got a chick nor a child, nor yet anybody else of your own, no doubt it is natural that you should wish to have one of them."
"I wish to do a kindness to my brother," said Miss Mackenzie—"and to my niece."
"Yes; of course; I understand. When you would not come up to see us, Margaret, and you all alone, and we with a comfortable home to offer you, of course I knew what your feelings were towards me. I don't want anybody to tell me that! Oh dear, no! 'Tom,' said I when he asked me to go down to Arundel Street, 'not if I know it.' Those were the very words I uttered: 'Not if I know it, Tom!' And your papa never asked me to go again—did he, Susanna? Nor I couldn't have brought myself to. As you are so frank, Margaret, perhaps candour is the best on both sides. Now I am going to leave my darling child in your hands, and if you have got a mother's heart within your bosom61, I hope you will do a mother's duty by her."
More than once during this oration62 Miss Mackenzie had felt inclined to speak her mind out, and to fight her own battle; but she was repressed by the presence of the girl. What chance could there be of good feeling, of aught of affection between her and her ward50, if on such an occasion as this the girl were made the witness of a quarrel between her mother and her aunt? Miss Mackenzie's face had become red, and she had felt herself to be angry; but she bore it all with good courage.
"I will do my best," said she. "Susanna, come here and kiss me. Shall we be great friends?" Susanna went and kissed her; but if the poor girl attempted any answer it was not audible. Then the mother threw herself on the daughter's neck, and the two embraced each other with many tears.
"You'll find all her things very tidy, and plenty of 'em," said Mrs Mackenzie through her tears. "I'm sure we've worked hard enough at 'em for the last three weeks."
"I've no doubt we shall find it all very nice," said the aunt.
"We wouldn't send her away to disgrace us, were it ever so; though of course in the way of money it would make no difference to you if she had come without a thing to her back. But I've that spirit I couldn't do it, and so I told Tom." After this Mrs Mackenzie once more embraced her daughter, and then took her departure.
Miss Mackenzie, as soon as her sister-in-law was gone, again took the girl's hand in her own. Poor Susanna was in tears, and indeed there was enough in her circumstances at the present moment to justify63 her in weeping. She had been given over to her new destiny in no joyous64 manner.
"Susanna," said Aunt Margaret, with her softest voice, "I'm so glad you have come to me. I will love you very dearly if you will let me."
The girl came and clustered close against her as she sat on the sofa, and so contrived65 as to creep in under her arm. No one had ever crept in under her arm, or clung close to her before. Such outward signs of affection as that had never been hers, either to give or to receive.
"My darling," she said, "I will love you so dearly."
Susanna said nothing, not knowing what words would be fitting for such an occasion, but on hearing her aunt's assurance of affection, she clung still closer to her, and in this way they became happy before the evening was over.
This adopted niece was no child when she was thus placed under her aunt's charge. She was already fifteen, and though she was young-looking for her age,—having none of that precocious66 air of womanhood which some girls have assumed by that time,—she was a strong healthy well-grown lass, standing stoutly67 on her legs, with her head well balanced, with a straight back, and well-formed though not slender waist. She was sharp about the shoulders and elbows, as girls are—or should be—at that age; and her face was not formed into any definite shape of beauty, or its reverse. But her eyes were bright—as were those of all the Mackenzies—and her mouth was not the mouth of a fool. If her cheek-bones were a little high, and the lower part of her face somewhat angular, those peculiarities68 were probably not distasteful to the eyes of her aunt.
"You're a Mackenzie all over," said the aunt, speaking with some little touch of the northern burr in her voice, though she herself had never known anything of the north.
"That's what mamma's brothers and sisters always tell me. They say I am Scotchy."
Then Miss Mackenzie kissed the girl again. If Susanna had been sent to her because she had in her gait and appearance more of the land of cakes than any of her brothers and sisters, that at any rate should do her no harm in the estimation of her aunt. Thus in this way they became friends.
On the following morning Mr Mackenzie came and took them down to the train.
"I suppose we shall see you sometimes up in London?" he said, as he stood by the door of the carriage.
"I don't know that there will be much to bring me up," she answered.
"And there won't be much to keep you down in the country," said he. "You don't know anybody at Littlebath, I believe?"
"The truth is, Tom, that I don't know anybody anywhere. I'm likely to know as many people at Littlebath as I should in London. But situated69 as I am, I must live pretty much to myself wherever I am."
Then the guard came bustling70 along the platform, the father kissed his daughter for the last time, and kissed his sister also, and our heroine with her young charge had taken her departure, and commenced her career in the world.
For many a mile not a word was spoken between Miss Mackenzie and her niece. The mind of the elder of the two travellers was very full of thought,—of thought and of feeling too, so that she could not bring herself to speak joyously71 to the young girl. She had her doubts as to the wisdom of what she was doing. Her whole life, hitherto, had been sad, sombre, and, we may almost say, silent. Things had so gone with her that she had had no power of action on her own behalf. Neither with her father, nor with her brother, though both had been invalids72, had anything of the management of affairs fallen into her hands. Not even in the hiring or discharging of a cookmaid had she possessed any influence. No power of the purse had been with her—none of that power which belongs legitimately73 to a wife because a wife is a partner in the business. The two sick men whom she had nursed had liked to retain in their own hands the little privileges which their position had given them. Margaret, therefore, had been a nurse in their houses, and nothing more than a nurse. Had this gone on for another ten years she would have lived down the ambition of any more exciting career, and would have been satisfied, had she then come into the possession of the money which was now hers, to have ended her days nursing herself—or more probably, as she was by nature unselfish, she would have lived down her pride as well as her ambition, and would have gone to the house of her brother and have expended74 herself in nursing her nephews and nieces. But luckily for her—or unluckily, as it may be—this money had come to her before her time for withering75 had arrived. In heart, and energy, and desire, there was still much of strength left to her. Indeed it may be said of her, that she had come so late in life to whatever of ripeness was to be vouchsafed76 to her, that perhaps the period of her thraldom77 had not terminated itself a day too soon for her advantage. Many of her youthful verses she had destroyed in the packing up of those two modest trunks; but there were effusions of the spirit which had flown into rhyme within the last twelve months, and which she still preserved. Since her brother's death she had confined herself to simple prose, and for this purpose she kept an ample journal. All this is mentioned to show that at the age of thirty-six Margaret Mackenzie was still a young woman.
She had resolved that she would not content herself with a lifeless life, such as those few who knew anything of her evidently expected from her. Harry78 Handcock had thought to make her his head nurse; and the Tom Mackenzies had also indulged some such idea when they gave her that first invitation to come and live in Gower Street. A word or two had been said at the Cedars which led her to suppose that the baronet's family there would have admitted her, with her eight hundred a year, had she chosen to be so admitted. But she had declared to herself that she would make a struggle to do better with herself and with her money than that. She would go into the world, and see if she could find any of those pleasantnesses of which she had read in books. As for dancing, she was too old, and never yet in her life had she stood up as a worshipper of Terpsichore. Of cards she knew nothing; she had never even seen them used. To the performance of plays she had been once or twice in her early days, and now regarded a theatre not as a sink of wickedness after the manner of the Stumfoldians, but as a place of danger because of difficulty of ingress and egress79, because the ways of a theatre were far beyond her ken1. The very mode in which it would behove her to dress herself to go out to an ordinary dinner party, was almost unknown to her. And yet, in spite of all this, she was resolved to try.
Would it not have been easier for her—easier and more comfortable—to have abandoned all ideas of the world, and have put herself at once under the tutelage and protection of some clergyman who would have told her how to give away her money, and prepare herself in the right way for a comfortable death-bed? There was much in this view of life to recommend it. It would be very easy, and she had the necessary faith. Such a clergyman, too, would be a comfortable friend, and, if a married man, might be a very dear friend. And there might, probably, be a clergyman's wife, who would go about with her, and assist in that giving away of her money. Would not this be the best life after all? But in order to reconcile herself altogether to such a life as that, it was necessary that she should be convinced that the other life was abominable80, wicked, and damnable. She had seen enough of things—had looked far enough into the ways of the world—to perceive this. She knew that she must go about such work with strong convictions, and as yet she could not bring herself to think that "dancing and delights" were damnable. No doubt she would come to have such belief if told so often enough by some persuasive81 divine; but she was not sure that she wished to believe it.
After doubting much, she had determined to give the world a trial, and, feeling that London was too big for her, had resolved upon Littlebath. But now, having started herself upon her journey, she felt as some mariner82 might who had put himself out alone to sea in a small boat, with courage enough for the attempt, but without that sort of courage which would make the attempt itself delightful83.
And then this girl that was with her! She had told herself that it would not be well to live for herself alone, that it was her duty to share her good things with some one, and therefore she had resolved to share them with her niece. But in this guardianship84 there was danger, which frightened her as she thought of it.
"Are you tired yet, my dear?" said Miss Mackenzie, as they got to Swindon.
"Oh dear, no; I'm not at all tired."
"There are cakes in there, I see. I wonder whether we should have time to buy one."
After considering the matter for five minutes in doubt, Aunt Margaret did rush out, and did buy the cakes.
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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solicitude
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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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odious
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positively
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interval
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courteous
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eldest
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reconciliation
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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widower
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solitary
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migration
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lodgings
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paragon
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nucleus
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abutting
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grandeur
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dingy
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abode
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determined
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dreaded
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standing
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embryo
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landlady
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doorway
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pointed
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Christian
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specially
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purport
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rev
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mere
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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accrue
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| v.(利息等)增大，增多 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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scantiness
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| n.缺乏 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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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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oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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