PILGRIMS PROGRESS.
THE autumn days were already beginning to draw in, and it was growing late in the afternoon when Marion and her guardian1 entered Miss Tremlett’s presence; so the light was dim; and at first it was difficult to distinguish the owner of the sharp, somewhat querulous voice which greeted them from the opposite corner or the room.
“So you have got here at last, Miss Vere, Marion, I suppose I may still say? Excuse my rising. At this hour I always am obliged to rest the sofa till tea time. How did you get here? Oh,” as she for the first time perceived her niece’s companion. “So you’re there, Geoffrey Baldwin! Quite unnecessary. My niece could perfectly2 have walked up from the station alone.” And with the last few words the voice increased in acrimony.
Instinctively4 Marion crept a little closer to the tall form beside her. He felt her shiver slightly and—instinctively too—groped with his great strong hand for the little cold one hidden under her cloak, and gave it a reassuring5 pressure. She took it quite naturally, and for a moment or so allowed her hand to remain in his grasp. But she could not brace6 herself up to reply to her aunt’s greeting. Geoffrey did so for her, ignoring altogether the latter part of the speech.
“Yes,” he replied cheerfully, “here we are, Miss Tremlett, Miss Vere, I am sure is glad to be at her journey’s end. But it is so dark, I can hardly see. Take care, Miss Vere,” as Marion made a movement in the direction of the sofa, “there’s a footstool in the way. Perhaps Miss Tremlett will allow me to lights?”
“I never have lights between my afternoon luncheon7 and tea time, Geoffrey Baldwin. I am sure you might know that by now,” replied the old lady snappishly. “My head would never stand it However for once in a way—Oh, Martha is that you? You certainly need not have brought the lamp till I did ring.”
But Martha deposited the lamp and quietly retired8. Now, Marion could see her aunt plainly. There was not very much to see. A withered9 face with some remains10 of former good looks, but none of the more lasting11 loveliness of sweet expression; or the rare but unsurpassed beauty of a tender, loving old age. A graceful12 figure had in her young days been one of Miss Tremlett’s attractions, and this she still imagined that she possessed13. In consequence of which somewhat mistaken notion, for the former sylph-like slightness was now rather to be described as scragginess and angularity, she was fussy14 to a degree about the make and fit of her dresses. A wrinkle drove her frantic15, and though her days were principally spent on the sofa, the slightest crease3 or rumple17 in her attire18 altogether upset her never-very-firmly-established equanimity19. She wore a light brown “front” surmounted20 by a cap of marvellous construction, so precise and stiff in its appearance that till you touched it you could hardly believe it to consist of anything so soft and ethereal as lace. Miss Tremlett had one art in perfection altogether peculiar21 to herself that of lying on a sofa without the slightest appearance of ease or repose22: she made you feel somehow as if, all the time instead of reclining on a couch, she was sitting bolt upright on the stiffest of high backed chairs.
As Marion drew near her, she held out her hand, and permitted, rather than invited, her to kiss her cheek. Geoffrey wished he could have bitten her, instead.
“Your cloak is not damp, I hope?” she exclaimed; and as Marion was about to express her thanks for the unexpected anxiety on her behalf, she went on, “if it is the least damp, you had better not stand so near me, I am so sensitive to the slightest damp or cold.” On which Marion timidly suggested that perhaps she had better change it at once, if Miss Tremlett would be so good as tell her which was to be her room.
“Evans, our housekeeper23, is with me,” she added, more and more timidly, as she observed the expression of her aunt’s face, “but only for one night. She is going on tomorrow to visit her mother before her marriage.”
“You don’t mean to say that old woman is going to be married!” exclaimed Miss Tremlett, in a less unpleasant tone than Marion had yet heard.
“Evans is, not her mother,” replied the girl.
“Of course I never supposed you meant the mother,” said she elder lady snappishly. “The mother is eighty, and paralysed. I call Evans herself an old woman, and a very silly old woman too, by what you tell me. I really don’t know where she can sleep. I had no idea of you bringing any one with you. You must speak to Martha; she will show you your own room. It will be tea time in an hour, till then I must rest. Good evening. Mr. Baldwin,” as Geoffrey showed symptoms of retiring, “I should be so much obliged to you if you would remember to shut the door.”
“Hateful old woman!” thought Geoffrey, as he obeyed, resisting the boyish inclination24 to slam it loudly, by way of soothing25 Miss Tremlett’s nerves. He had time for a word to Marion, whom he found outside on the landing, disconsolately26 eyeing the staircase, and apparently27 at a loss as to her next proceedings28. He began to speak to her jestingly,—something he said in ridicule29 of her aunt’s fears,—but he stopped suddenly when she turned towards him, and he saw that her eyes were full of tears.
“Oh, Mr. Baldwin,” she exclaimed passionately31, don’t leave here. I had no idea my aunt was so utterly32 selfish and heartless. Not a word about poor Papa, whom she professed33 to care for! Oh, I can’t stay in this dreadful house.”
And in her distress34 she caught hold of his arm with both her hands. It was rare that Marion so lost her self-control, and therefore the more impressive. Geoffrey was terribly grieved.
“I am so sorry, so very sorry,” he said, “that you feel it so painfully. I would give all I have in the world to spare you an hour in this place, but truly my—truly, Miss Vere, there is at present no help for it. Anything I can do in the way of cheering your stay here, softening35 its disagreeables, you have only to ask me, and I shall be so pleased, so delighted, to do it.” And half timidly he laid his hand on those still grasping his arm. His touch seemed to recall her to herself. She drew her hands away gently, and said penitently36:
“You are too good to me, Mr. Baldwin, and I am very self and ungrateful. I will try to be sensible and make the best of things so long as I stay here.”
“Which shall not be an hour longer than I can prevent, you may be very sure,” said Geoffrey fervently37.
“Thank you,” she replied sadly, “but I am afraid there is not much in your power, dear Mr. Baldwin; you could not help me in the—the only way,”—and then she stopped suddenly. Geoffrey had not caught her last words clearly. Had he done so, ten to one, she might have been led on to say more, and to yield to the impulse which came over her to take her young guardian into her confidence, to trust him, at this time almost her only friend, with the sad little story of her life. A good impulse it was, a good and wise one. Ah, Marion, why did you not yield to it? Why, m y heart’s darling, if not for your own, then for the sake of honest, chivalrous38 Geoffrey? What might it not have saved him—him and you, and yet another! If only the child had been a little more conceited39, a trifle more like other women, she would have seen the dangers before her, the sharpness of the tools with which, in all innocence40, she was playing. What a strange thing it is that of the many times in their lives in which conscientious41 people refrain from yielding to an impulse, so large a proportion would, viewed in the light of after events, have been wise and expedient42! Whereas, if ever such persons do act upon the moment’s inclination, they are almost sure hereafter to repent43 it! It is everywhere the same—in trifles as in important matters, nothing but the old rule of contrary; which rule, nevertheless, may some day be seen to contain more things, by a great many, than are at present dreamt of in our philosophy.
So unfortunately it came to pass that Geoffrey did not hear Marion’s half-whispered words.
Satisfied, so far, with seeing her calm and gentle as usual, he bade her good night and left her, promising44 to look in in the course of a day or two, to see how she got on with “the old cat,” as he mentally apostrophised her.
Marion succeeded in finding Martha, whom she was glad to discover much more hospitably45 inclined than her mistress. So Evans was comfortably entertained for the one night she spent at the Cross House, and I doubt not spent a much more agreeable evening below stairs, than did Marion in the drab drawing-room with her aunt. It really was terribly hard work. Miss Tremlett evidently expected to be entertained, a state of mind always liable to exert a peculiarly depressing influence on the second member of a tête-à-tête, even when there are no saddening or dulling thoughts and anxieties already at work on heart and brain. For the life of her, Marion could not rouse herself to make small talk for the tiresome46 old lady; nor could she bring herself to express the profound interest evidently expected of her, in the painfully minute account of all her aunt’s maladies, with which in the course of the evening she was favoured. At last Miss Tremlett lost patience, and waxed very cross indeed.
“Are you always so stupid and sulky, Marion?” she inquired. “If so, the sooner you make some other arrangement for yourself, the better. I am not strong enough to support the depressing effect of a companion in low spirits. Nor can I understand why you should look so gloomy. It is not as if your poor father had been so much attached to you, or you to him, when he was alive. In that case it would be very different indeed. But all the world knows he cared very little for his children, though, all things considered, I don’t blame him.”
“What do you mean, Aunt Tremlett?” said Marion, fiercely almost, for she felt roused to sudden passion. “What do you mean by speaking so of my dear father? He did love us, more than anybody knows, and no one has any right to say he did not.”
“A pity he did not leave you some more substantial proof of his affection,” said Miss Tremlett, sneeringly47. “I am not blaming him, however. Considering all, as I said, it is no wonder he took but little interest in you.”
“What do you mean by that?” repeated Marion, in the same fierce tone. (Miss Tremlett rather enjoyed her excitement. She had roused her at last.) “Considering all what? I am not a child now, Aunt Tremlett, and I will allow no one, not even you, to say, or infer, anything disrespectful to the memory of either of my parents.”
“ ‘Will not allow.’ Indeed! Very pretty language for a young lady. Upon my word I little knew what I was about when I invited you to my house, Marion Vere. Though for all your grand heroics, I see you have some notion of what I refer to. ‘Either’ of your parents, you said. So, then, you do allow it is possible there might be something to be said against one of them after all! On the whole, I think, with your permission or course, Miss Vere, after what I have seen of your very amiable48 tempo49, it will be as well to drop the subject. In plain words, I will not tell you what I mean; and you will I oblige me by leaving me for the night and retiring to your own room. You have upset me quite enough for one evening. It will be days before I recover from the nervous prostration50 always brought on by excitement. Go; and if you wish to remain my guest, learn to behave like a reasonable being instead of making such an exhibition of temper without any provocation51 whatever.”
Miss Tremlett always took the injured innocent tone when she had succeeded in goading52 any one else to fury.
Without a word Marion left the room. Her self-control only lasted till she was safely ensconced in her own little bedroom, and then, poor child, after her usual fashion when in sore distress, she threw herself on the bed and hid her face on the pillows, sobbing53 with excitement and weeping the hot, quick rushing tears that came more from anger than grief.
She felt very much ashamed of herself. This was, indeed, a sad beginning of her Mallingford experiences. How foolish she had been to take fire at the old lady’s sneers54! She knew of old that there had been bitter feud55 between her silly, pretty young mother and her father’s family, and it was worse than foolish to rake up these old sores. Now, when the two principals in the melancholy56 story of mistake and disappointment were laid to rest, passed away into the silent land where to us, at least, it is not given to judge them, how much better to let the whole fade gently out of mind! Her aunt was old, and old age should be sacred. She had no right to resent her crabbedness of temper, her self-absorption, her ungenial asperity57, and small snappishness.
A loveless life, with few exceptions, had been Miss Tremlett’s. “Heaven only knows,” thought poor Marion, “if in similar circumstances my nature would prove any more amiable! Certainly, I am not at present going the way to make it so.”
And with a sore heart, sore, but gentle and humble58, the orphan59 fell asleep, in the strange, unloving home, which was the only shelter at present open to her.
Morning, somehow, made things look brighter. For one thing, there was the tantalising post-hour to watch for; Marion not having yet given up hopes of “some day” bringing the long-looked-for explanation of Ralph’s mysterious silence. The whole affair changed its aspect to her constantly, according to the mood she was in. She had taken good care that there should be no miscarriage60 of letters owing to her change of residence, and so here at Mallingford, as in London, the arrival of the letters became the great interest of her day. Truly, there was little else to distract or occupy her! She determined61, however, from this first morning to profit by her disagreeable experience of the preceding evening, and, at all costs, avoid any sort of word-warfare with her aunt. Miss Tremlett, at the bottom of her heart, was not a little disappointed when, on her making her appearance for the day, in the drawing-room about noon, her niece, instead of receiving her with sulky silence or indignant remonstrance62, greeted her with a few gentle words of apology for her want of self-control the previous night, and offers of her ready services in any way the old lady might wish to make her useful.
“Would you like me to read aloud sometimes, Aunt?” said she. “I think I can do so pleasantly. Or is there any work I can do for you?”
“I am glad, Marion, to see that you have come back to your senses this morning,” was all the thanks she got. But she did not care. All she asked was peace and quiet; in which to muse63 over her own secret hopes and fears, to perplex herself endlessly with vain guesses to what was beyond her power to fathom64. And for some little time she felt almost contented65. The perfect monotony of her life did not pall16 upon her just at first. It seemed rather a sort of rest to her after the violent excitement through which she had lately passed. But it was not a healthy state of things.
Her days were very like each other. The morning hours were the pleasantest, for Miss Tremlett always breakfasted in her bedroom, and till noon Marion was her own mistress. After that her aunt expected her to be in attendance upon her till the hour of her after noon siesta66, which came to be the girl’s favourite time for a stroll. Even in the dull autumn days she felt it a relief to get out into the open air by herself and ramble67 along the country roads leading out of Mallingford—thinking of what? Of “this time last year.” How much is told by those few commonplace words!
Now and then her aunt had visitors. Very uninteresting people they seemed to Marion. Mostly elderly, still, and formal, of her aunt’s own standing68. Not many of the younger denizens69 of the little town found their way to the Cross House. Had they done so, I question if they would have been much to my heroine’s taste! Her deep mourning, of course, put her partaking in any Mallingford festivities quite out of the question at present. They were not of an attractive kind, and even had she been in perfect health and spirits she would have cared little about them.
Still, after a time, there came a sort of reaction. A protest of youth against the unnatural70 torpidity71 of her present life. Her only friend, Geoffrey Baldwin, she saw but once during the first two months of her Mallingford life, for, much to his regret, within a week of Miss Vere’s arrival in the neighbourhood, he was called away on business connected with his own affairs—the disposal of a small property of his father’s in a distant county—and it was late in November before he found himself free to return home.
It was very provoking! Just when he had hoped to be of some use to her, to cheer her a little in her present gloomy life. Geoffrey had never before in his life thought so much, or so continuously, on any subject, as during the dull autumn weeks he thought of his poor little ward30 at the Cross House. He wrote to her once or twice, though he was by no means a great hand at letter writing; and was immensely delighted with the answers he duly received. At last, by the beginning of December, he found himself on his way home; much to his satisfaction, for not only was he anxious to see Marion again, but was also in a great state of fidget about his hunters. The season had opened most favourably72, no signs of frost to speak of, and already he had missed some capital days. It was really too provoking, thought Geoffrey to himself, as comfortably ensconced in the railway carriage, he lit his last pipe before entering Mallingford station.
The next day he rode over to see Marion. Being well acquainted with the Cross House hours, he took care to be there early, and the great clock in the Market Place was only just striking eleven as he stood on the door steps. Miss Tremlett was not yet visible, he was informed by the sour-faced Martha (who, however, as we have seen, was more amiable than she looked), Miss Vere was up-stairs, but if Mr. Baldwin would step into the drawing-room, the young lady should be told he was there.
So into the grim drawing-room Geoffrey stepped. Grimmer than ever it looked at this season; when truly it takes an extra amount of bright colours and cheerful faces inside, to balance the dismalness73 of all things out-of-doors. And this winter was what they called an open season. Damp and dank and foggy. Above all—for a flat unpicturesque county like Brentshire, whose only beauty consisted in the freshness and luxuriance of its vegetation, this “grim December” was not the time to see it to advantage.
Geoffrey shivered slightly as he entered the uninviting room. From physical causes only; he was not particularly sensitive to more recondite75 influences. The fire was only just lighted and was smouldering and sputtering76 with that irritating air of feeling offended at having been lighted at all, peculiar to inartistically built fires on a damp winter’s morning. Mr. Baldwin strolled to the window and stood biting the end of his riding whip, staring out on the ugly, dreary77 plot of ground misnamed a garden.
“It’s not a pleasant place for her to be in, certainly,” thought he, “My little breakfast-room at the Manor78 Farm, notwithstanding all the litter of guns and fishing-rods and pipes, is a much more inviting74 room than this. To my mind at least—I wonder if she would think so!” And then he fell to wondering which of his horses would carry him best to cover on the morrow, considering the direction which was likely to be taken, the nature of the ground &c. “By-the-bye,” he thought suddenly, “I wonder if Miss Vere has ever been at a meet. I’ll ask her. Bessie, I’m certain, would carry a lady, only then who would be with her? If Harry79 were here it would be all right. There are those Copley girls, they are very good-natured, and might ask her to join them. I’ll see if I can’t manage it.”
But his further reflections were interrupted by the opening of the door, and the entrance of Marion herself. She knew who was there, and her pale face was slightly flushed with pleasure as she came in; but for all that, Geoffrey was not a little startled by her appearance. She looked painfully fragile. The cold weather and her black dress increased the extreme delicacy80 of her complexion81, and the almost attenuated82 look of her slight, tall figure. Strangely enough, at that moment there thrilled through Geoffrey the same foreboding, the same acute misgiving83 as had tortured the heart of Ralph Severn that last evening at Altes. And in the present instance it acted to some extent as a revelation. As his gaze rested on Marion, a tremor84 seized the strong man. Horses, hunting, all he had been thinking of with so much interest but a moment before, faded from his mind, and in perfect silence he touched the hand so cordially extended to him, and mechanically drew nearer the fire a chair on which Marion seated herself. She did not observe his agitation85, and began to talk brightly and heartily86.
“I am so glad, so very glad, to see you again, Mr. Baldwin,” she said, “I really began to think you were never coming back. And I wanted to tell you that I have, really and truly, been doing my very best to be good and patient—but really, Mr. Baldwin, it is drearily87, inexpressibly dull here.”
Geoffrey’s only answer was a glance of sympathy, enough however to encourage her to proceed.
“It did not seem so bad at first,” she went on, “it was more like a rest to me; but now it is getting very bad. There are days on which I can hardly bear the terrible monotony and loneliness. I have not told Harry so for fear of disturbing him; but I have wished very much to see you and tell you, Mr. Baldwin. I really would rather be a servant,” (a governess she was going to have said, but the association was too painful), “or anything in the world than live on here like this always. You are not angry with me for saying this, Mr. Baldwin? I know it seems childish and selfish, but today I was feeling so—I don’t know what to call it—homesick expresses it best; and I thought it would be such a relief to tell you about it; but I hope you are not vexed88 with me?” she repeated, looking up at his face beseechingly89.
“Vexed with you! My dear Miss Vere,” exclaimed Geoffrey. “How can you use such expressions? As if, even if I had a right to be vexed with you, which I have not, anything you could by any possibility say or do, could ever seem to me anything—I am stupid—I can’t make pretty speeches, least of all when I most mean them. Only don’t ever speak as if I could be vexed with you. I am sorry, terribly sorry to see you looking so pale and thin, and to hear how this wretched life is trying you. But what is to be done? There is the difficulty. As I said to you before, I see present no help for it, unless——.” But here he stopped abruptly90, his fair face suddenly flushing crimson91.
“Unless what Mr. Baldwin,” said Marion innocently. “Don’t be afraid to tell me the alternative, however disagreeable. Is there any fresh trouble about our money matters?”
“Oh dear no,” replied the young man, thankful that he had not, on the impulse of the moment, wrecked92 all by a premature93 betrayal of his hardly-as-yet-to-himself-acknowledged hopes, and eager to distract her attention. “Oh dear no, don’t get anything of that sort into your head. It is true I fear some little time must pass before your affairs are thoroughly94 settled; but by the spring, at latest, I hope we may hit on some better arrangement.”
“By the spring,” repeated Marion, dolefully; “ah, well, it does not much matter. After all, I daresay a good deal of the dullness is in myself. But tell me, Mr. Baldwin, what were you going to say? ‘Unless,’ you began,—unless what?”
“Nothing, Miss Vere—nothing, truly,” replied Geoffrey, rather awkwardly; “it was only an idea that struck me, but at present impossible to carry out. Please don’t speak about it.”
“Very well,” answered Marion, looking rather puzzled; “I won’t ask you about it if you would rather I did not. I am afraid the truth is I am very difficult to please. I fear in my present mood I should not be happy anywhere, except—”
“Except where, Miss Vere?” said Geoffrey, lightly; but Marion looked painfully embarrassed and made no reply. A curious misgiving shot through Mr. Baldwin’s heart; but he did not persist in his inquiry95, and turned it off with a jest.
“We have both our secrets, you see,” he said, laughingly; my ‘unless,’ and your ‘except.’ Well, supposing we put both aside for the present, and consider things as they are. Can nothing be done to make your stay here pleasanter, so long as it lasts?”
“Nothing,” said Marion, sadly. “Don’t trouble yourself so much about me, Mr. Baldwin; it is only a fit of low spirits. I shall be better again in a day or two. It is an immense comfort to me to grumble96 a little. I can’t tell you how much good it does me.”
“But you are not looking well,” he persisted, “and you know it is my duty to look after you. This life is killing97 you. Have you made no acquaintances here at all, Miss Vere?”
“None whatever. My aunt’s friends are all old, like herself; and somehow I don’t fancy I should get on very well with other girls, Mr. Baldwin. I have grown so dull and stupid; and from what I have seen of the Mallingford girls at church, and some few who call here with their mothers, I am sure they would not take to me, nor I to them. No, just leave me alone. I shall do very well. There is only one thing I wanted to ask you: can you ask leave for me to go to see Miss Veronica Temple? She is the only one of my friends that I remember as a child, still here, and I should so like to see her, particularly as she can’t come to see me. I spoke98 of it to my aunt one day, but to my surprise she got into such a rage I was glad to change the subject. Why does she dislike Miss Temple so, Mr. Baldwin?”
“Some old quarrel—what, I can’t exactly say—with Mrs. Temple,” replied Geoffrey. “Of late years, you know, Miss Tremlett has taken it into her head to become very Low Church, and she insulted the widow, Mrs. Temple, very much one day, by drawing a comparison between the state of Church matters in her husband’s day, when his daughters played the organ and dressed up the altar—did just as they, chose, in fact, for he was the easiest of good old easy-going parsons—and the present condition of things under that very vigorous and vulgar Irishman, Mr. Magee, who toadies99 Miss Tremlett tremendously, as you may have seen for yourself.”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Marion; “horrid man he is, I think! And I am sure the Temples were the best and most charitable of people. How long has Miss Veronica been crippled, Mr. Baldwin? I remember running up and down that steep stair leading to the organ loft100 with Harry in her arms when we were quite little children. Such a bright, active creature, I always imagined her. It seems so sad to come back to find her so changed.”
“But bright and active still, though she never leaves her sofa,” said Geoffrey; “she is one of the sweetest women I ever knew. You must certainly go to see her. She will be delighted, I know. I shall call and ask her about it on my way home.”
“Thank you very much,” said Marion, earnestly. “I should like to see her again,” she added softly. And then she sat, leaning her cheek on her hand, gazing silently into the fire.
It was burning more cheerfully by this time, and the flickering101 light danced fitfully on Marion’s pale face; for it was a very gloomy day outside, and the dingy102 room was in a sort of twilight103. Geoffrey looked at her anxiously. Suddenly he spoke again:
“Do you ride, Miss Vere” he asked.
She started; for her thoughts had been far away, and he had to repeat the words before she caught their sense. When she did so, she answered carelessly:
“A little. That is to say, I have ridden, and I am not nervous. I liked it very much.”
Geoffrey’s face brightened.
“I have a mare104 that I’m certain would carry you beautifully,” he said, “I’ll have her tried. I was thinking, if you were to make acquaintance with some of the girls about here who ride, you might come to a meet now and then. There are the Copleys of Copley Wood. They’re really not bad girls, and I know they would be delighted to make friends with you.”
But Marion laid her hand on his arm.
“I should like to ride with you Mr. Baldwin, very much, if you will be troubled with me. But I don’t want to make any new acquaintances. I know it seems very fanciful and unreasonable105, but I don’t feel as if I had spirits for it. Let me ride alone with you, please.”
“You shall if you like, Miss Vere,” he replied, “but you couldn’t very well come to a meet unless you knew some of the other ladies. It wouldn’t be comfortable for you. I’ll tell you how we’ll do. I’ll have Bessie tried for you, and you shall have a few rides quietly me first, and then, if you like it, I’ll arrange for the Copley girls to ask you to join their party to the next meet at a convenient distance. You won’t object to this? Riding will do you good, I know, and if you ride I shall not be satisfied unless you come to see the meets. What do you say to this?”
“That you are too good to me, Mr. Baldwin, and I should be shamefully106 ungrateful if I did not do whatever you wish. I shall look out my habit today. I expect it will be much too big for me, I have got so thin,” she said lightly. Geoffrey looked at the hand she had laid in his. It was indeed white and wasted.
“My darling!” he whispered under his breath, so low that she had no suspicion of the inaudible words.
Then he dropped it gently, and looking up, said cheerfully,
“All right then. You may expect to see me some day with Bessie all ready for you. Goodbye, and do try to get some more colour in your cheeks by the next time I see you. Guardians107 are allowed to make rude remarks, you know,” he added, laughingly; “it’s it all for their wards’ good.”
And with another shake of her hand he left her.
“How very kind he is,” thought Marion. “I wonder—I wonder, if it could possibly do any good for me to tell him all about it. But no,” she decided108, on thinking it over. She had done as much as seemed to her right and fitting. More would be undignified and unmaidenly. And then she was so utterly in the dark. What might not have occurred since she left Altes? Ralph could not be dead; of that she was certain. He could not have died without her knowing it. But a worse thing might have come to pass. At this very moment, for all she knew to the contrary, he might be already the husband of another woman.
“Though not in heart,” she said to herself. “He was not the man to love twice. Not at least so quickly. And never while he lives will he love another as he loved me. In this at least he is mine.”
Thus she felt in certain moods. There were others, however, in which her faith was less undoubting, in which she almost questioned if she had not exaggerated what he had said; whether after all it had not been with Ralph a much less serious affair than, to her cost, it had been with her? Then again she seemed drawn109 the other way. His was no slight or shallow nature. Were his depth and earnestness to be doubted, in what could she ever allow herself to believe? And so the poor child was tossed and torn. Still, it came to pass, thanks to Geoffrey Baldwin, that a little more brightness and enjoyment110 were at this time infused into her daily life. The riding proved a success, and, as her young guardian observed with self-congratulation, “really did bring some colour to her cheeks.”
The Copley girls came up to Mr. Baldwin’s favourable111 account of them, and did their best in the way of showing kindness to “that pretty, pale Miss Vere, that Geoffrey Baldwin is so taken up about.” They were hearty112, healthy girls, and both engaged to be married to the most satisfactory partis. Possibly this last had something to say to their cordial reception of their old friend’s interesting ward.
The renewal113 of her acquaintance with the invalid114 Miss Temple, was also in a different way a source of great pleasure to Marion. Trifling115 incidents both—her introduction to the Copley girls, and her meeting again with the kind Veronica—but they both influenced her indirectly116 in the great decision of her life, towards which, though she knew it not, the tide of affairs was rapidly drawing her.
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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6
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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7
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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8
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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10
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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11
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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12
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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13
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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17
rumple
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；n.褶纹，皱褶 | |
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18
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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19
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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20
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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21
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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22
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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23
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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24
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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25
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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26
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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27
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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28
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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29
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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30
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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31
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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32
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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33
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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34
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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35
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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36
penitently
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37
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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38
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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39
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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40
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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41
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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42
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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43
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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44
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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45
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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46
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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47
sneeringly
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| 嘲笑地，轻蔑地 | |
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48
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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49
tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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50
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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51
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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52
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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53
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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54
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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55
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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56
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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57
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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58
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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59
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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60
miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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61
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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62
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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63
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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64
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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65
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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66
siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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67
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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68
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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69
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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70
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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71
torpidity
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| n.麻痹 | |
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72
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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73
dismalness
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| 阴沉的 | |
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74
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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75
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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76
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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77
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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78
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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79
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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80
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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81
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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82
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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83
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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84
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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85
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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86
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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87
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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88
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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89
beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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90
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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91
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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92
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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93
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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94
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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95
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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96
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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97
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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98
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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99
toadies
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| n.谄媚者，马屁精( toady的名词复数 )v.拍马，谄媚( toady的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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101
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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102
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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103
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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104
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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105
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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106
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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107
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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108
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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109
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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110
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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111
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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112
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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113
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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114
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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115
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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116
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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