Clare Carruthers missed it from its accustomed place as she rode down the glade6 which she still loved, though it had a painful association for her now. Every day her eyes had rested on the rugged7 log, and every day she had turned them away with a sigh. To-day it was there no longer, and its absence was a relief. She reined8 Sir Lancelot up for a moment, and looked at the vacant space. The earth lay bare and brown where the log had been; there was no grass there.
"It won't be hidden until the spring," she thought, impatiently. "I wish--I wish I could forget the place in which I saw him first! I wish I could forget that I ever had seen him!"
Then she turned her head away with an effort and a sigh, and rode on.
Clare was going over from the Sycamores to Poynings. She had occasion to see the housekeeper9, started early, and, as usual, unattended, save by C?sar, who bounded along now by the side of Sir Lancelot, anon a considerable way in advance, doing the distance twice over, after the fashion of dogs, and evidently compassionating10 the leisurely11 pace to which his equine friend and comrade was condemned12.
The months which had elapsed since her inauspicious meeting among the beeches with Paul Ward13 had had much inquietude and mysterious trouble in them for the girl whose graces they had but ripened14 and perfected, on whose fair face they had impressed a premature15 but very beautiful thoughtfulness. To one so young, so innocent, so carefully shielded from evil, living in so pure and calm an atmosphere of home, and yet around whom the inevitable16 solitude17 of orphanhood18 dwelt, the presence of a secret cause of sorrow, doubt, perplexity, was in itself a burden grievous to be borne. Clare could not help, dwelling19 perpetually on the only mystery which had ever come into her tranquil20 conventional life, and the more she shrank from the contemplation, the more it pressed itself upon her; Sometimes, for days and weeks together, the remembrance of it would be vague and formless, then it would take shape again and substance, and thrill her with fresh horror, distract her with new perplexity. Sometimes she would address herself with all the force of her intelligence to this mysterious remembrance, she would arrange the circumstances in order and question them, and then she would turn away from the investigation21 cold and trembling, with all the terrible conviction of the first moment of revelation forcibly restored.
The dreadful truth haunted her. When Sir Thomas Boldero asked her ladyship if there was any news in the Times each morning (for the Sycamores was governed by other laws than those which ruled Poynings, and Lady Boldero, who was interested in politics after her preserves and her linen-presses, always read the papers first), Clare had listened with horrid22 sickening fear for many and many a day. But suspense23 of this sort cannot last in its first vitality24, and it had lessened25, but it was not wholly dead even yet. One subject of speculation26 frequently occupied her. Had he seen the warning she had ventured to send him? No, she would sometimes say to herself, decisively, no, he had not seen it. His safety must have been otherwise secured; if he had seen it, he would know that the terrible truth was known to her, and he would never have dared to recall himself to her memory. For he did so recall himself, and this was the most terrible part of it all for Clare. On the first day of each month she received the current number of the Piccadilly, and there was always written on the fly-leaf, "From Paul Ward." No, her attempt had failed; such madness, such audacity27, could not otherwise be accounted for. For some time Clare had not looked at the books which reached her with this terribly significant imprint28. She had not destroyed them, but she had put them away out of her sight. One day, after her cousin's marriage, and when her thoughts--forcibly distracted for some time by the preparations, the hospitalities, and the rejoicings attendant on that event--had flown back to the subject which had such tormenting29 attraction for her, a sudden impulse of utter incredulity seized her. Nothing was changed in the facts, nothing in the circumstances; but Clare laid aside reason under the suddenly exerted power of feeling, and refused to believe that Paul Ward had murdered the unknown man in whose company he had been, and who undoubtedly30 had been murdered.
"I won't believe it! I don't believe it!"
These words have often been uttered by the human will, when tortured by the terrible impotence of human despair, as unreasonably32, as obstinately33, as Clare Carruthers spoke34 them, and with infinitely35 more suffering implied in the inevitable reaction. But they can seldom have brought greater relief. A generous, reckless impulse of youth, partly against the terrible knowledge of evil, partly against her own suffering, which wearied and oppressed her spirit, distant, vague, even chimerical36 as she told herself it was, animated37 her resolution. She rose, and stretched her arms out, and shook her golden head, as though she discarded a baleful vision by a strong act of her will.
"I shall never see him again," she thought. "I shall never know his fate, unless, indeed, he becomes famous, and the voice of his renown38 reaches me. I shall never know the truth of this dreadful story; but, strong as the evidence is, I never will believe it more. Never, never!"
Clare Carruthers was too young, too little accustomed to the sad science of self-examination, too candidly39 persuadable by the natural abhorrence40 of youth for grief, to ask herself how much of this resolution came from the gradual influence of time--how much from the longing41 she felt to escape from the constant pressure of the first misery42 she had ever known. The impulse, the resolution, had come to her, with her first waking thoughts, one glorious morning in the early autumn--the morning which saw George Dallas and his uncle arrive at Homburg, and witnessed Mr. Carruthers's reception of his stepson. This resolution she never abandoned. That day she had taken the books out of their hiding-place, and had set herself to read the serial43 story which she knew was written by him. Something of his mind, something of his disposition44, would thus reveal itself to her. It was strange that he remembered to send her the books so punctually, but that might mean nothing; they might be sent by the publisher, by his order. He might have forgotten her existence by this time. Clare was sensible, and not vain, and she saw nothing more than a simple politeness in the circumstance. So she read the serial novel, and thought over it; but it revealed nothing to her. There was one description, indeed, which reminded her, vaguely45, of Mrs. Carruthers, as she had been before her illness, as Clare remembered her, when she had first seen her, years ago. Clare liked the story. She was not enthusiastically delighted with it. A change which her newly-formed resolution to believe him innocent, to chase from her all that had tormented46 her, could never undo31, had passed upon Clare, since her girlish imagination had been ready to exalt47 Paul Ward, "the author," Paul Ward, "the artist," as she had called him, with all the reverence48 her innocent heart accorded to such designations, into a hero; she had less impulse in her now, she had suffered, in her silent unsuspected way, and suffering is a sovereign remedy for all enthusiasm except that of religion. But she discerned in the story something which made her reason second her resolution. And from that day Clare grieved no more. She waited, she did not know for what; she hoped, she did not know why; she was pensive49, but not unhappy. She was very young, very innocent, very trustful; and the story of the murder was six months old. So was that of the meeting, and that of the myrtle-sprig; and all three were growing vague.
The young girl's thoughts were very busy as she rode from the Sycamores to Poynings, but not exclusively with Paul Ward.
Her life presented itself in a more serious aspect to her then than it had ever before worn. All things seemed changed. Her uncle's letters to her had undergone a strange alteration50. He wrote now to her as to one whom he trusted, to whom he looked for aid, on whom he purposed to impose a responsible duty. The pompousness51 of Mr. Carruthers's nature was absolutely inseparable from his style of writing as from his manner of speech, but the matter of his letters atoned52 for their faults of manner. He wrote with such anxious affection of his wife, he stepson, whose name Clare had never heard pronounced by his lips or in his presence. Above all, he seemed to expect very much from Clare. Evidently her life was not to be empty of interest for the future, if responsibility could fill it; for Clare was to be intrusted with all the necessary arrangements for Mrs. Carruthers's comfort, and Mrs. Carruthers was very anxious to get back to England, to Poynings, and to Clare! The girl learned this with inexpressible gladness, but some surprise. She was wholly unaware53 of the feelings with which Mrs. Carruthers had regarded her, and the intentions of maternal54 care and tenderness which she had formed--feelings she had hidden, intentions she had abandoned from motives55 of prudence56 founded on her thorough comprehension of the besetting57 weakness of her husband's character.
Clare had not the word of the enigma58, and it puzzled her. But it delighted her also. Instinctively59 she felt there was something of Mark Felton's doing in this. He had impressed her as favourably60 as she had impressed him. She had recognized his possession of the two great qualities, feeling and intelligence, and her own kindred endowments had answered to them at once.
Was she going to be happy and useful? Was she going to be something more than the rich Miss Carruthers, the heiress of Poynings, who had every luxury life could supply, except that of feeling herself of active individual importance to any living creature? Was Poynings going to be as pleasant as the Sycamores, and for a more worthy61 reason? Clare felt in her honest young heart that the superiority of the Sycamores consisted principally in the fact that the uncle who inhabited that abode62 was never in her way, whereas the uncle who ruled at Poynings was generally otherwise, and unpleasant. It was very ungrateful of her to feel this; but she did feel it. Was all this going to be altered? Was she going to have the sort of feeling that might have been hers if she had not been the heiress of Poynings, but the real, own daughter of a kind lady who needed and would accept all her girlish love and eager, if unskilful, care? It must be so, Clare thought, now Mrs. Carruthers had her son with her, and she no longer felt that there was injustice63 done to her, for which Clare was made the reason or the pretext64, she would allow her to be all she had always desired to be. How much uselessness, unreality, weariness, fell away from Clare Carruthers as she rode on, the beautiful healthful colour rising higher in her cheeks as the glad thoughts, the vague, sweet, unselfish hopes of the future, expanded in her young heart! She would tell Mrs. Carruthers some day when she was quite well, when there should be no longer any danger of doing her harm by the revelation, about the mystery which had caused her so much suffering, and then, when there should be perfect confidence between them, she would tell her how she had discovered that she, too, was acquainted with Paul Ward. Clare had never speculated seriously upon the cause of Mrs. Carruthers's illness. Her first convictions were, that it had originated in some trouble about her son. The old housekeeper's manner, the removal of the portrait, had sufficed for Clare. This was a sacred sorrow, sacred from Clare's curiosity, even in her thoughts. And now it was at an end, probably thanks to Mark Felton; but, at all events, it was quite over. In the time to come, that future which Clare's fancy was painting so brightly, as her horse carried her swiftly over the familiar road, Mrs. Carruthers might even love her well enough to tell her the story of the past, and what that terrible grief had been.
"I am to take Thomas up to town with me, Mrs. Brookes, and I only wish you were coming too," said Clare to the housekeeper at Poynings, as a concluding item of the budget of news she had to tell. Clare was in high spirits by this time. Mrs. Brookes was much more friendly than usual to the young lady, whom she, too, had always regarded with jealousy65, and almost dislike, as the enemy of George.
"I am better here, Miss Carruthers," said Mrs. Brookes. "I daresay there won't be much delay in London--for Mrs. Carruthers and master, I mean. You'll stay awhile with Mrs. Stanhope, belike?"
"O dear no--I certainly shall not," replied Clare, with the prettiest air of importance. "I shall come down with my uncle and aunt. My uncle says we are to come as soon as the doctors will let us go."
"And Mr. Felton also, you say, Miss Carruthers?"
"Yes, and Mr. Dallas. How delighted I am, Mrs. Brookes--how delighted you must be!" The girl's face flushed deeply. She was all glowing with the generous ardour of her feelings. She had taken off her hat, and was standing66 before the open window in the morning-room, her habit gathered up in one hand, her slight figure trembling, her beautiful face radiant.
"I am sure it has been almost as hard for you as for his mother. I could not say anything about it before, Nurse Ellen"--it was the first time Clare had ever called the old woman by this name--"because--because I knew nothing--no one ever told me anything, and I must have seemed to blame my uncle. But, indeed, it pained me very much, and now--now I am so happy!"
Bright swift tears sparkled in her golden-brown eyes. She dashed them away, and, taking the old woman's hands in hers, she said, with girlish archness,
"You must not hate me any more, Nurse Ellen, for 'Master George' and I are going to be very good friends."
"Hate you, my dear young lady!" said Mrs. Brookes, who was too old to blush externally, but who certainly felt like blushing. "How can you have such fancies? Who could hate you?"
"You--you dear, faithful old thing! But it's all right now; and, Nurse Ellen," she said, seriously, "I am sure we owe all this happy change to Mr. Felton. The moment I saw that man, I felt he had come to do good. By-the-by, my uncle tells me there is no news of Mr. Felton's son yet. I suppose you never saw him, nurse?"
"La, bless you, no, my dear. I never saw his father till the day he came here. Mr. Arthur was born in America."
"Did he ever come to England before? Did Mrs. Carruthers ever see him?"
"Never. He told his father he would see his aunt the first thing he did, and he never came anigh the place. I doubt he's a black sheep, Miss Carruthers."
"I hope not, for his father's sake, nurse."
And then Clare proceeded to make various arrangements with Mrs. Brookes, thinking the while: "Arthur Felton never was here. Mrs. Carruthers never saw him. For a moment I fancied he might have been Paul Ward."
"I wonder what I shall think of George Dallas?" thought Clare as she rode away from Poynings in the afternoon, having given Thomas the necessary orders. "I wonder what he will think of me? I dare say he does not like the idea of me much. Perhaps I should not like the idea of him, if he were in my place and I in his; but, as it is, I decidedly do."
Attended by her maid and Thomas, Miss Carruthers went to London on the following day. Mrs. Stanhope met her at the railway station, and took her home with her. The footman was despatched to Sir Thomas Boldero's house in Chesham-place. In the course of the evening he went to Mrs. Stanhope's house, and asked to see Clare. His errand was to inform her that Mr. Felton and Mr. Dallas had arrived in London, and were particularly desirous of seeing Miss Carruthers. He (Thomas) had Mr. Felton's orders to ascertain67 from Miss Carruthers whether she would see them, on the following day, at Chesham-place, and if so, at what hour. He was to take her answer to Mr. Felton's lodgings68 in Piccadilly.
"When did the gentlemen arrive?" Miss Carruthers asked.
Thomas could not say exactly, but he thought they had only just reached London. They had overcoats on, and looked "travellers-like."
Clare sent word to Mr. Felton that she should be at Cheshamplace at noon the next day, and would be very happy to see him. She did not mention Mr. Dallas, but it was by no means necessary she should do so.
Punctually at twelve on the following day, Mrs. Stanhope's brougham deposited Clare Carruthers at Sir Thomas Boldero's house. It was in process of preparation for the expected guests; but had not quite thrown off the drowsy69 unoccupied look of a house whose owners were absent. Its appearance bore the same relation to the state it would assume by-and-by as that of an individual who has just persuaded himself to rise, and is yawning and shivering in the process, bears to that of the same individual in his tubbed, dressed, shaved, breakfasted, newspaper-read, hatted, gloved, and ready-for-the-day condition.
Clare got out of the carriage, gave the coachman some directions, stood at the door until he had driven off, and made a remark or two (ever reminiscent of Poynings punctiliousness) relative to the area-railings and door-steps to Thomas before she entered the house. He listened gravely, promised to attend to these matters, and then said:
"Mr. Dallas has been here some time, ma'am."
"Indeed!" said Clare, pausing just inside the hall-door. "Is Mr. Felton not here?"
"He will be here directly, ma'am. He came with Mr. Dallas, but went away again. I showed Mr. Dallas into the study, ma'am."
Clare felt rather embarrassed. She wished Mrs. Stanhope had been with her--she wished Mr. Felton had remained until she came, or had taken his nephew with him. It was so awkward to have to introduce herself to George Dallas, a stranger, and yet not exactly a stranger. She hesitated; her colour rose. What should she do? What was not the easiest or pleasantest thing to do--for that would be to go to the drawing-room and remain there until Mr. Felton should come, leaving Mr. Dallas to a similar vigil in the study--but the kindest. Clearly, to give Mrs. Carruthers's son the friendliest greeting in her power, to show him, in her little way, how pleased she was at the family reunion, how much she desired to be numbered among his friends.
The study windows faced the street; he had probably seen the carriage, and heard her voice. He might be even now hurt by her tarrying.
Clare delayed no longer. She crossed the hall, opened the door of Sir Thomas Boldero's study, saw a man's figure close to one of the windows, shut the door, took two or three steps, and said, in the sweet gentle tone which was one of her peculiar70 charms:
"Mr. Dallas, I am so much pleased."
Then the figure turned away from the window, and Clare found herself in the presence of Paul Ward.
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1
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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compassionating
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| v.同情（compassionate的现在分词形式） | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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13
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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14
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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orphanhood
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| 孤儿的身份，孤儿状态 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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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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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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28
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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34
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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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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chimerical
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| adj.荒诞不经的，梦幻的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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40
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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41
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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44
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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45
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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46
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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47
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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48
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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49
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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50
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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51
pompousness
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| 豪华；傲慢 | |
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52
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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53
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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54
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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55
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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56
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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57
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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58
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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59
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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63
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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66
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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67
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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68
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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