The musing15 look remained upon his face, but it was no longer painful, and, as he smoked, he fell to building castles in the air, as baseless, maybe, as the vapour which curled in fantastic wreaths about his face, but tenanted by hope, and inspired by higher and better resolves than had animated17 George Dallas for many a day. The twin angels, love and gratitude18, were near him; invisibly their soft white wings were fluttering about him, refreshing2 the jaded19 heart and the stained brow. His mother, and the girl whom he had that day seen for the second time, and recognized with feelings full of a bitter and evil impulse at first, but who had soon exercised over him a nameless fascination20 full of a pure and thrilling delight, such as no pleasure of all his sin-stained life had ever previously21 brought him--of these two he was thinking. If George Dallas could have seen his mother at the moment, when he, having laid his exhausted22 pipe upon the little wooden chimneypiece, and hastily undressed, lay down in his bed, with his hands clasped over the top of his head, in his favourite attitude when he had anything particular to think of, he would have found her not only thinking but talking of him. Mr. Carruthers was absent, so was Clare; she had the grand stately house all to herself, and she improved the occasion by having tea in her dressing-room, having dismissed her maid, affianced to a thriving miller23 in the village, to a tête-à-tête with her lover, and summoning her trusty friend Mrs. Brookes to a confidential24 conference with her. The two women had no greater pleasure or pain in their lives than talking of George. There had been many seasons before and since her second marriage when Mrs. Carruthers had been obliged to abstain25 from mentioning him, so keen and terrible was her suffering on his account, and at such seasons Ellen Brookes had suffered keenly too, though she had only vaguely26 known wherefore, and had always waited until the thickest and darkest of the cloud had passed, and her mistress had once more summoned courage to broach27 the subject never absent from the mind of either.
There was no reticence28 on this occasion; the mother had taken a dangerous step, and one whose necessity she indeed deeply deplored29, but she had gotten over the first great effort and the apprehension30 connected with it, and now she thought only of her son, she dwelt only upon the hope, the confidence, the instinctive31 belief within her, that this was really the turning-point, that her prayers had been heard, that the rock of a hard and stubborn heart had been struck and had yielded, that her son would turn from the old evil paths, would consider his ways and be wise for the future. So she sat and talked to the humble32 friend who knew her and loved her better than any one else in the world knew or loved her; and when she at length dismissed her and lay down to rest, there was more peace at her heart than had dwelt there for a long time past.
So one of the women of whom the prodigal33 son had thought gently and gratefully that night, was thinking of him with love that no unworthiness could kill or lessen34, with hope which no experience could exhaust. And the other? Well, the other was playing and singing to her uncle and aunt in the green drawing-room at the Sycamores, and if she had said little to Sir Thomas and Lady Boldero concerning the young artist who was so delighted with the picture-gallery, and who had despaired of doing justice to the grand old trees in the park, it is presumable that, like the parrot of old renown35, she thought the more.
George Dallas slept well that night in the little country inn, and awoke to a pleasant consciousness of rest, leisure, and expectation. As he dressed himself slowly, listening to the queer mixture of town and country sounds which arose inside and outside the house, he took up a similar train of thought to that in which sleep had interrupted him on the previous night, and began to form resolutions and to dream dreams. After he had breakfasted, and perused36 all the daily intelligence which found its way to Amherst, where the population were not remarkably37 eager for general information, and the Illustrated38 London News was represented by one copy, taken in by the clergyman's wife, and circulated among her special friends and favourites, he went out, and once more took the direction of the Sycamores.
Should he go into the park, he asked himself, or would that be too intrusive39 a proceeding40? Sir Thomas, on his fair niece's showing, was evidently an elderly gentleman of kindly41 impulses, and who could say but that he might send a message to Mr. Page the landlord, inviting42 him to inform the stranger within his gates that he might have another look at the picture-gallery at the Sycamores? Was this a very wild idea? He did not know. It seemed to him as likely as not that a jolly kindly man, disposed to let his fellow-creatures enjoy a taste of the very abundant good things which providence43 had lavished44 on himself, might do a thing of the kind. A pompous45, purse-proud, egotistical old fellow, who would regard every man unpossessed of landed property as a wretched creature, beneath his notice in all respects, except that of being made to admire and envy him as deeply as possible, might also think of sending such an invitation, but George Dallas felt quite sure Sir Thomas Boldero was not a man of that description. Suppose such a message should come? He had not given any name at the inn; he wished now he had done so; he would only take a short walk, and return to correct the inadvertence. At so early an hour there would be no likelihood of his seeing Miss Carruthers. It was in the afternoon she had ridden out yesterday, perhaps she would do the same to-day. At all events, he would return to the Sycamores on the chance, at the same hour as that at which he had seen her yesterday, and try his luck.
The road on which he was walking was one of the beautiful roads common in the scenery of England, a road which dipped and undulated, and wound about and about, making the most of the natural features of the landscape without any real sacrifice of the public convenience, a road shadowed frequently by tall stately trees, and along one side of which the low park paling, with a broad belt of plantation46 beyond, which formed the boundary of the Sycamores, stretched for three miles. On the other side, a well-kept raised pathway ran alongside a hedge, never wanting in the successive beauties of wild flowers and "tangle," and which furnished shelter to numerous birds. The day was bright and cheerful, and a light breeze was stirring the budding branches and lending a sense of exhilaration to the young man who so rarely looked on the fair face of nature, and who had unhappily had all his purer tastes and sympathies so early deadened. They revived under the influence of the scene and the softening47 effect of the adventure which had befallen him the day before. He stopped opposite the oaken gates, which had lain open yesterday, but were closed to-day, and he rambled48 on, further away from the town, and crossing the road, took his way along the park paling, where the fragrant49 odour from the shrubberies added a fresh pleasure to his walk.
He had passed a bend of the road which swept away from the large gates of the park, and was peering in at the mossy tufts, studded with violets and bluebells50 clustering round the stems of the young trees in the plantation, when his eyes lighted on a small gate, a kind of wicket in the paling, imperfectly secured by a very loose latch52, and from which a straight narrow path, bordered with trimly-kept rows of ground ivy53, led into a broader road dividing the plantation from the park.
"A side entrance, of course," said Dallas to himself, and then, looking across the road, he saw that just opposite the little gate there was a wooden stile, by which a path through the fields, leading, no doubt, into the town of Amherst, could be attained54 from the raised footpath55.
"I suppose the land on both sides belongs to Sir Thomas," thought Dallas, and as he made a momentary56 pause, a large black Newfoundland dog, carrying a basket in his mouth, came down the narrow path, bumped himself against the loosely fastened gate, swung it open, and stopped in the aperture57, with a droll58 air of having done something particularly clever. Dallas looked admiringly at the beautiful creature, who was young, awkward, and supremely60 happy, and the next instant he heard a voice speaking from the top of the straight walk.
"Here, C?sar," it said; "come here, sir; who told you I was going that way?"
C?sar tossed up his head, somewhat to the detriment61 of the basket, and lolloped about with his big black legs, but did not retrace62 his steps, and the next moment Miss Carruthers appeared. A few yards only divided her from George, who stood outside the gate, his face turned full towards her as she came down the path, and who promptly63 took off his hat. She returned his salutation with embarrassment64, but with undisguisable pleasure, and blushed most becomingly.
"I suppose I ought to walk on and leave her; but I won't," said George to himself, in the momentary silence which followed their mutual65 salutation, and then, in a kind of desperation, he said:
"I am fortunate to meet you again, by a lucky accident, Miss Carruthers. You are out earlier to-day, and this is C?sar's turn."
He patted the shiny black head of the Newfoundland, who still obstructed66 the entrance to the path, as he spoke67, and C?sar received the attention tolerably graciously.
"Yes, I generally walk early, and ride in the afternoon."
"Escorted by your dumb friends only," said George, in a tone not quite of interrogation.
Miss Carruthers blushed again as she replied:
"Yes, my horse and my dog are my companions generally. My aunt never walks, and Sir Thomas never rides. Were you going into the park again, Mr. Ward59?"
By this time C?sar had run out into the road, and was in a state of impatient perplexity, and evidently much inconvenienced by the basket, which he was too well trained to drop, but shook disconsolately68 as he glanced reproachfully at Clare, wondering how much longer she meant to keep him waiting.
"No, Miss Carruthers, I was merely walking past the Sycamores, and recalling yesterday's pleasure--half gladly, half sadly, as I fancy we recall all pleasures."
"I--I told my uncle of your visit yesterday, and he said he was sorry to have missed you, and hoped you would see as much of the park as you liked. Did--did you finish your sketch, Mr. Ward? Oh, that horrid69 C?sar, he will have the handle off my basket. Just see how he is knocking it against the stile."
"May I take it from him?" he said.
"Oh, pray do; there now, he is over the stile, and running through the field."
George rushed away in pursuit of C?sar, triumphant71 at his success in thus terminating a period of inaction for which he saw no reasonable excuse. Miss Carruthers mounted the stile in a more leisurely72 fashion, turned into the footpath which led through the field, and in a few moments met George returning, her basket in his hand, and C?sar slouching along beside him, sulky and discontented.
She thanked George, told him she was going nearly as far as Amherst by the "short cut," which lay through her uncle's land, and the two young people in another minute found themselves walking side by side, as if such an arrangement were quite a matter of course, to which Mrs. Grundy could not possibly make any objection. Of course it was highly imprudent, not to say improper73, and one of the two was perfectly51 conscious alike of the imprudence and the impropriety; perfectly conscious, also, that both were increased by the fact that he was George Dallas, and the young lady was Clare Carruthers, the niece of his stepfather, the girl, on whose account mainly he had been shut out from the house called by courtesy his mother's. As for Clare Carruthers, she knew little or nothing of life and the world of observances and rules of behaviour. Sheltered from the touch, from the breath, from the very knowledge of ill, the girl had always been free with a frank innocent freedom, happy with a guileless happiness, and as unsophisticated as any girl could well be in this wide-awake realistic nineteenth century. She was highly imaginative, emphatically of the romantic temperament74, and, in short, a Lydia Languish75 without the caricature. Her notions of literary men, artists, and the like, were derived76 from their works; and as the little glimpse which she had as yet had of society (she had only "come out" at the ball at Poynings in February) had not enabled her to correct her ideas by comparison with reality, she cherished her illusions with ardour proportioned to their fallaciousness. The young men of her acquaintance were of either of two species: sons of country gentlemen, with means and inclination77 to devote themselves to the kind of life their fathers led, or military magnificoes, of whom Clare, contrary to the fashion of young ladies in general, entertained a mean and contemptuous opinion. When Captain Marsh78 and Captain Clitheroe were home "on leave," they found it convenient and agreeable to pass a good deal of their leisure at Poynings; and as they happened to be ninnies of the first magnitude, whose insignificance79 in every sense worth mention was only equalled by their conceit80, Miss Carruthers had conceived a prejudice against military men in general, founded upon her dislike of the two specimens81 with whom she was most familiar. Clergymen are not uncommonly82 heroes in the imagination of young girls, but the most determined84 curate-worshipper could not have invested the clergymen who cured the souls in and about Amherst with heroic qualities. They were three in number. One was fat, bald, and devoted85 to antiquarianism and port wine. Another was thin, pock-marked, ill-tempered, deaf, and a flute-player. The third was a magistrate86, a fox-hunter, and a despiser of womankind. In conclusion, all three were married, and Miss Carruthers was so unsophisticated, that, if they had been all three as handsome and irresistible87 as Adonis, she would never have thought of them in the way of mundane88 admiration89, such being the case. So Clare's imagination had no home pasture in which to feed, and roamed far afield.
It had taken its hue90 from her tastes, which were strongly pronounced, in the direction of literature. Clare had received a "good education;" that is to say, she had been placed by a fashionable mother under the care of a fashionable governess, who had superintended fashionable masters while they imparted a knowledge of music, drawing, dancing, and a couple of modern languages to her pretty, docile91, intelligent pupil. The more solid branches of instruction Clare had climbed under Miss Pettigrew's personal care, and had "done credit" to her instructress, as the phrase goes. But the upshot of it all was, that she had very little sound knowledge, and that the real educational process had commenced for her with the termination of Miss Pettigrew's reign92, and had received considerable impetus93 when Clare had been transferred--on the not particularly lamented94 decease of the fashionable mother, who was Sir Thomas Boldero's sister, and remarkably unlike that hearty95 and unworldly country gentleman--to Poynings and the guardianship96 of Mr. Carruthers. Then the girl began to read after her own fancy indeed, unguided and uncontrolled, but in an omnivorous97 fashion; and as she was full of feeling, fancy, and enthusiasm, her reading ran a good deal in the poetical98, romantic, and imaginative line. Novels she devoured99, and she was of course a devotee of Tennyson and Longfellow, saying of the latter, as her highest idea of praise, that she could hardly believe him to be an American, or a dweller100 in that odious101 vulgar country, and wondering why Mrs. Carruthers seemed a little annoyed by the observation. She read history, too, provided it was picturesquely102 written, and books of travel, exploration, and adventure she delighted in. Periodical literature she was specially103 addicted104 to, and it was rather a pleasant little vanity of Clare to "keep up with" all the serial105 stories--not confusing the characters or the incidents, no matter how numerous they were, and to know the tables of contents of all the magazines and reviews thoroughly106. She had so much access to books that, as far as a lady's possible requirements could go, it might be said, without exaggeration, to be unlimited107. Not only did the Sycamores boast a fine library, kept up with the utmost care and attention by Sir Thomas Boldero, and of which she had the freedom, but Poynings was also very creditably endowed in a similar respect, and Mrs. Carruthers, as persistent108 a reader as Clare, if less discursive109, subscribed110 largely to Mudie's. Croquet had not yet assumed its sovereign sway over English young-persondom, and none but ponderous111 and formal hospitalities prevailed at Poynings, so that Clare had ample leisure to bestow112 upon her books, her pets, and her flowers. She was so surrounded with luxury and comfort, that it was not wonderful she should invest opposite conditions of existence with irresistible charms; and her habitual113 associates were so commonplace, so prosperous and conventional, that her aspirations114 for opportunities of hero-worship naturally directed themselves towards oppressed worth, unappreciated genius, and fiery115 hearts struggling manfully with adverse116 fate. "The red planet Mars" was a great favourite with her, and to suffer and be strong a much finer idea to her mind than not to suffer and to have no particular occasion for strength. She knew little of the realities of life, having never had a deeper grief than that caused by the death of her mother, and she was in the habit of reproaching herself very bitterly with the superficiality and the insufficiency of the sorrow she had experienced on that occasion, and therefore mild and merciful judges would have pitied and excused her errors of judgment117, her impulsive118 departure from conventional rules. Mild and merciful judges are not plentiful119 commodities, however, and Mrs. Grundy would doubtless have had a great deal to say, and a very fair pretext120 for saying it, had she seen Miss Carruthers strolling through the fields which lay between the Sycamores and Amherst, in deep and undisguisedly delighted conversation with a strange young man, who was apparently121 absorbed in the pleasure of talking to and listening to her, while C?sar trotted122 now by the side of the one, anon of the other, with serene123 and friendly complacency. Mrs. Grundy was, however, not destined124 to know anything about the "very suspicious" circumstance for the present. And George Dallas and Clare Carruthers, with the unscrupulous yielding to the impulse of the moment, which affords youth such splendid opportunities for getting into scrapes, from which the utmost efforts of their elders are powerless to extricate125 them, walked and talked and improved the shining hours into a familiar acquaintance, which the girl would have called friendship, but which the young man felt, only too surely, was love at first sight. He had mocked at such an idea, had denied its existence, had derided126 it with tongue and pen, but here it was, facing him now, delivering to him a silent challenge to deny, dispute, or mock at it any more.
A faint suspicion that the beautiful girl whom he had seen yesterday for the second time meant something in his life, which no woman had ever meant before, had hung about him since he had left the Sycamores after their first interview; but now, as he walked beside her, he felt that he had entered the enchanted127 land, that he had passed away from old things, and the chain of his old life had fallen from him. For weal or woe128, present with her or absent from her, he knew he loved this girl, the one girl whom it was absolutely forbidden to him to love.
They had talked commonplaces at first, though each was conscious that the flurried earnestness of the other's manner was an absurd commentary upon the ordinary style of their conversation. George had asked, and Clare had implied, no permission for him to accompany her on her walk; he had quietly taken it for granted, and she had as quietly acquiesced129, and it so happened that they did not meet a single person to stare at the tall, gaunt-looking but handsome stranger walking with Miss Carruthers, to wonder who he "mought a bin," and proceed to impart his curiosity to the servants at the Sycamores, or the gossip at the alehouse.
"This path is not much used," said George.
"No, very little indeed," replied Clare. "You see it does not lead directly anywhere but to the Sycamores, and so the farming people, my uncle's servants, and tradespeople, back and forward to the park, chiefly use it. I often come this way and do not meet a soul."
"Are you going into the town?"
"Not all the way: just to the turnpike on the Poynings road. Do you know Mr. Carruthers's place, Mr. Ward?"
George felt rather uncomfortable as he answered in the negative, though it was such a small matter, and the false statement did not harm anybody. He had told a tolerable number of lies in the course of his life, but he shrank with keen and unaccustomed pain from making this girl, whose golden brown eyes looked at him so frankly130, whose sweet face beamed on him so innocently, a false answer.
"I am going to the cottage on the roadside, just below the turnpike," Clare continued; "an old servant of my aunt lives there, and I have a message for her. I often go to see her, not so much from kindness, I'm afraid, as because I hate to walk outside the park without an object."
"And you don't mind riding without an escort any more than you do walking without one," said George, not in the tone of a question, but in that of a simple remark. Clare looked at him with some surprise; he met the look with a meaning smile.
"You dislike the attendance of a groom131, Miss Carruthers, and never admit it except in case of necessity. You are surprised, I see: you will be still more surprised when I tell you I learned this, not from seeing you ride alone in the park--there is nothing unusual in that, especially when you are on such good terms with your horse--but from your own lips."
"From my own lips, what can you possibly mean, Mr. Ward? I never saw you until yesterday, and I know I never mentioned the subject then."
The young man drew imperceptibly nearer to her, on the narrow path where they were walking, and as he spoke the following sentences, he took from his breast-pocket a little note-case, which he held in his left hand, at which she glanced curiously132 once or twice.
"You saw me for the first time yesterday, Miss Carruthers, but I had seen you before. I had seen you the centre of a brilliant society, the pride and belle133 of a ball-room where I had no place." ("Now," thought George, "if she only, goes home and tells my mother all this, it will be a nice business. Never mind, I can't help it;" and he went on impetuously.) The girl made no remark, but she looked at him with growing astonishment134. "You talked to a gentleman happier than I--for he was with you--of your daily rides, and I heard all you said. Forgive me, the first tone of your voice told me it was but a light and trivial conversation, or I would not have listened to it." (George is not certain that he is telling the truth here, but she is convinced of it; for is he not an author, an artist, a hero?) "I even heard the gentleman's name with whom you were talking, and just before you passed out of my hearing you unconsciously gave me this."
He opened the note-book, took out a folded slip of paper, opened that too, and held towards Clare, but without giving it into her hand, a slip of myrtle.
"I gave you that, Mr. Ward!" she exclaimed. "I--when--where--how? What do you mean? I remember no such conversation as you describe; I don't remember anything about a ball or a piece of myrtle. When and where was it? I have been out so little in London."
Now George had said nothing about London, but opportunely135 remembering that he could not explain the circumstances he had rather rashly mentioned, and that, unexplained, they might lead her to the conclusion that the part he had played on the mysterious occasion in question had been that of a burglar, he adroitly136 availed himself of her error. True, on the other hand, she might very possibly think that the only part which a spectator at a ball in London, who was not a partaker in its festivities, could have played must have been that of a waiter, which was not a pleasant suggestion; but somehow he felt no apprehension on that score. The girl went on eagerly questioning him, but he only smiled, very sweetly and slowly, as he carefully replaced the withered137 twig138 in the note-book, and the note-book in his pocket.
"I cannot answer your questions, Miss Carruthers; this is my secret--a cherished one, I assure you. The time may come, though the probability is very dim and distant just now, when I shall tell you when, and where, and how I saw you first; and if ever that time should come," he stopped, cleared his voice, and went on, "things will be so different with me that I shall have nothing to be ashamed or afraid of."
"Ashamed of, Mr. Ward?" said Clare, in a sweet soft tone of deprecating wonder. All her curiosity had been banished139 by the trouble and sadness of his manner, and profound interest and sympathy had taken its place.
"You think I ought not to use that word; I thank you for the gentle judgment," said George, his manner indescribably softened and deepened; "but if ever I am in a position to tell you--but why do I talk such nonsense? I am only a waif, a stray, thrown for a moment in your path, to be swept from it the next and forgotten."
This was dangerous ground, and they both felt it. A chance meeting, a brief association which perhaps never ought to have been; and here was this girl, well brought up, in the strictest sense of the term, yielding to the dangerous charm of the stranger's society, and feeling her heart die within her as his words showed the prospect140 before her. Her complexion141 died too, for Clare's was a tell-tale face, on which emotion had irresistible power. George saw the sudden paleness, and she knew he saw it.
"I--I hope not," she said, rather incoherently. "I--I think not. You are an artist and an author, you know." (How ashamed George felt, how abashed142 in the presence of this self-deluding innocence143 of hers!) "And I, as well as all the world, shall hear of you."
"You, as well as all the world," he repeated, in a dreamy tone. "Well, perhaps so. I will try to think so, and to hope it will be--"
He stopped; the gentleman's nature in him still existing, still ready at call, notwithstanding his degradation144, withheld145 him from presuming on the position in which he found himself, and in which the girl's innocent impulsiveness146 had placed her. To him, with his knowledge of who she was, and who he was, with the curious relation of severance148 which existed between them, the sort of intimacy149 which had sprung up had not so much strangeness as it externally exhibited, and he had to remind himself that she did not share that knowledge, and therefore stood on a different level to his, in the matter. He determined to get off the dangerous ground, and there was a convincing proof in that determination that the tide had turned for the young man, that he had indeed resolved upon the better way. His revenge upon his stepfather lay ready to his hand; the unconscious girl made it plain to him that he had excited a strange and strong interest in her. It was not a bad initiation150 of the prodigal's project of reform that he renounced151 that revenge, and turned away from the temptation to improve his chance advantage into the establishment of an avowed152 mutual interest. This step he took by saying, gaily153, "Then I have your permission to send you my first work, Miss Carruthers, and you promise it a place in that grand old library I had a glimpse of yesterday?"
A little shade of something like disappointment crossed Clare's sunny face. The sudden transition in his tone jarred with her feelings of curiosity, romance, and flattered vanity. For Clare had her meed of that quality, like other women and men, and had never had it so pleasantly gratified as on the present occasion. But she had too much good breeding to be pertinacious154 on any subject, and too much delicacy155 of perception to fail in taking the hint which the alternation in George's manner conveyed. So there was no further allusion156 to the sprig of myrtle or to the future probability of a disclosure; but the two walked on together, and talked of books, pictures, and the toils157 and triumphs of a literary life (George, to do him justice, not affecting a larger share in them than was really his), until they neared Clare's destination. The footpath which they had followed had led them by a gentle rise in the ground to the brow of a little hill, similar to that from which George had seen his mother's carriage approach Amherst on the preceding day, but from the opposite end of the town. Immediately under the brow of this hill, and approached by the path, which inclined towards its trim green gate, stood a neat small cottage, in a square bit of garden, turning its red-brick vine-covered side to the road beneath. When George saw this dwelling158, he knew his brief spell of enjoyment159 was over.
"That is the cottage," said Clare, and he had the consolation160 of observing that there was no particular elation147 in her voice or in her face. "Sir Thomas built it for its present tenant16."
"Shall you be going back to the Sycamores alone, Miss Carruthers?" asked George, in the most utterly161 irrelevant162 manner. He had a wild notion of asking leave to wait for her, and escort her home. Again Clare blushed as she replied hurriedly:
"No, I shall not. My aunt is to pick me up here in the carriage, on her way to the town, and I return to Poynings this evening. I have been away a fortnight."
George longed to question her concerning life at Poynings, longed to mention his mother's name, or to say something to the girl that would lead her to mention it; but the risk was too great, and he refrained.
"Indeed! and when do you return to the Sycamores?" was all he said.
"It is quite uncertain," she replied. "I fancy my uncle means to go to London for part of the season, but we don't quite know yet; he never says much about his plans." She stopped abruptly163, as if conscious that she was not conveying a very pleasing impression of her uncle. George understood her, and correctly, to refer to Mr. Carruthers.
They had descended164 the incline by this time, and were close to the cottage gate. It lay open, and C?sar ran up to the prim165 little green door.
"Come here, sir," called Clare; "please let him have the basket again, Mr. Ward. Old Willcox reared him for me, from a puppy, and he likes to see him at his tricks. Thank you. Now then, go on, C?sar."
Her hand was on the open gate, her face turned away from the cottage, towards George--it was no easier to her to say good-bye than to him, he thought; but it must be said, so he began to say it.
"Then, Miss Carruthers, here I must leave you; and soon I must leave Amherst."
Perhaps he hoped she would repeat the invitation of yesterday. She did not; she only said:
"Thank you very much for your escort, Mr. Ward. Good-bye."
It was the coldest, most constrained166 of adieux. He felt it so, and yet he was not altogether dissatisfied; he would have been more so, had she retained the natural grace of her manner and the sweet gaiety of her tone. He would have given much to touch her hand at parting, but she did not offer it; but with a bow passed up the little walk to the cottage door, and in a moment the door had closed upon her, and she was lost to his sight.
He lingered upon the high road from which he could see the cottage, and gazed at the window, in the hope of catching168 another glimpse of Clare; but suddenly remembering that she might perhaps see him from the interior of the room, and be offended by his doing so, he walked briskly away in a frame of mind hard to describe, and with feelings of a conflicting character. Above the tumult169 of new-born love, of pride, rage, mortification170, anger, hope, the trust of youth in itself, and dawning resolutions of good, there was this thought, clear and prominent:
"If I am ever to see her again, it shall be in my own character, and by no tricky171 subterfuge172. If she ever comes to care for me, she shall not be ashamed of me."
George Dallas returned to the inn, where his taciturnity and preoccupation did not escape notice by the waiters and Mr. Page, who accounted for it by commenting on his request for writing-materials, to the use of which he addressed himself in his own room, as a "hoddity of the literary gents; if they ain't blabby and blazin' drunk, they're most times uncommon83 sullen173. This un's a poetical chap, I take it."
That evening George heard from his mother. She desired him to come to Poynings at twelve o'clock on the following Monday (this was Thursday), and to wait in the shrubbery on the left of the house until she should join him. The note was brief, but affectionate, and of course made George understand that she had received the jewels.
Late in the afternoon of the day which had witnessed her second interview with the young man whom she knew as Paul Ward, and with whom her girlish fancy was delightfully174 busy, Clare Carruthers arrived at Poynings. She received an affectionate greeting from Mrs. Carruthers, inquired for her uncle, learned that no communication had been received from him that day, and therefore his wife concluded that his original arrangement to return on the following Tuesday morning remained unaltered; and then went off to see that Sir Lancelot, who had been brought home from the Sycamores by a groom, was well cared for. Somehow, the beautiful animal had a deeper interest than ever for his young mistress. She touched his silken mane with a lighter175, more lingering touch; she talked to him with a softer voice.
"He did not forget to mention you," she whispered to the intelligent creature, as she held his small muzzle176 in one hand and stroked his face with the other. "I wonder, I wonder, shall we ever see him again."
When the two ladies were together in the drawing-room that evening, and the lamps were lighted, cheerful fires burning brightly in the two grates, which were none too many for the proportions of the noble room, the scene presented was one which would have suggested a confidential, cozy177 chat to the uninitiated male observer. But there was no chat and no confidence there that evening. Ordinarily, Mrs. Carruthers and Clare "got on" together very nicely, and were as thorough friends as the difference in their respective ages and the trouble in the elder lady's life, hidden from the younger, would permit. But each was a woman of naturally independent mind, and their companionship did not constrain167 either. Therefore the one sat down at a writing-table, and the other at the piano, without either feeling that the other expected to be talked to. Had not Mrs. Carruthers's preoccupation, her absorption in the hopes and fears which were all inspired by her son, so engrossed178 her attention, that she could not have observed anything not specially, impressed upon her notice, she would have seen that Clare was more silent than usual, that her manner was absent, and that she had a little air of making music an excuse for thought. The leaves of her music-book were not turned, and her fingers strayed over the keys, in old melodies played almost unconsciously, or paused for many minutes of unbroken silence. She had not mentioned the incidents of the last two days to Mrs. Carruthers, not that she intended to leave them finally unspoken of, but that some undefined feeling prompted her to think them over first;--so she explained her reticence to herself.
While Clare played, Mrs. Carruthers wrote, and the girl, glancing towards her sometimes, saw that her face wore an expression of painful and intense thought. She wrote rapidly, and evidently at great length, covering sheet after sheet of foreign letter paper with bold firm characters, and once Clare remarked that she took a memorandum-book out of her pocket and consulted it. As she replaced the book, a slip of paper fluttered from between the leaves and fell to the ground, unobserved either by herself or Clare. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Carruthers rose, collected her papers into a loose heap upon the table, and left the room, still with the same preoccupied expression on her face. Clare went on playing for a few moments, then, finding Mrs. Carruthers did not return, she yielded to the sense of freedom inspired by finding herself alone, and leaving the piano, went over to one of the fireplaces and stood by the low mantelpiece, lost in thought. Several minutes passed away as she stood thus, then she roused herself, and was about to return to the piano, when her attention was attracted to a small slip of paper which lay on the floor near the writing-table. She picked it up, and saw written upon it two words only, but words which caused her an indescribable thrill of surprise. They were
PAUL WARD.
"Mrs. Carruthers dropped this paper," said Clare to herself, "and he wrote the name. I know his hand, I saw it in the book he took the sketch in. Who is he? How does she know him? I wish she would return. I must ask her." But then, in the midst of her eagerness, Clare remembered a certain air of mystery about her chance acquaintance; she recalled the tone in which he had said, "That is my secret," the hints he had let fall that there existed something which time must clear up. She remembered, too, that he had not betrayed any acquaintance with Mrs. Carruthers, had not even looked like it when she had mentioned Poynings and her uncle (and Clare had a curiously distinct recollection of Mr. Paul Ward's looks); finally she thought how--surely she might be said to know, so strangely and reasonably did she suspect--that there were trials and experiences in Mrs. Carruthers's life to which she held no clue, and perhaps this strange circumstance might be connected with them.
"It is his secret and hers, if she knows him," the girl thought, "and I shall best be true and loyal to them both by asking nothing, by seeking to know nothing, until I am told." And here a sudden thrill of joy, joy so pure and vivid that it should have made her understand her own feelings without further investigation179, shot through the girl's heart, as she thought:
"If she knows him, my chance of seeing him again is much greater. In time I must come to understand it all."
So Clare allowed the paper to fall from her hands upon the carpet whence she had taken it, and when Mrs. Carruthers reentered the room, bringing a packet of letters which she had gone to seek, Clare had resumed her place at the piano.
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1
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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3
refreshingly
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| adv.清爽地，有精神地 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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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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10
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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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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12
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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13
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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14
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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16
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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17
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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18
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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19
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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20
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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21
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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23
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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24
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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25
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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26
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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27
broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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28
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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29
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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31
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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32
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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33
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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34
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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35
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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36
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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37
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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38
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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39
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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40
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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41
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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42
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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43
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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44
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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46
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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47
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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48
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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49
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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50
bluebells
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| n.圆叶风铃草( bluebell的名词复数 ) | |
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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
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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53
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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54
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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55
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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56
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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57
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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58
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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59
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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60
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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61
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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62
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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63
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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64
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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65
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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66
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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67
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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68
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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69
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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70
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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71
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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72
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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73
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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75
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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76
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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77
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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78
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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79
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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80
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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81
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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82
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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83
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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84
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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85
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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87
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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88
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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89
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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90
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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91
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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92
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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94
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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96
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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omnivorous
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| adj.杂食的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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99
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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100
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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101
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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102
picturesquely
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103
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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104
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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105
serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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106
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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107
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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108
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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109
discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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110
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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111
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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113
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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114
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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115
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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116
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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117
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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119
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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122
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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123
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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125
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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126
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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137
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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152
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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153
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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154
pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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155
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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157
toils
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| 网 | |
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158
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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159
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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160
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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161
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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162
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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164
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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165
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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166
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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167
constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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168
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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169
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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171
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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173
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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175
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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176
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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177
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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178
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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179
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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