OCTAVEFEUILET.
“———Thank God
the gift of a good man’s love.”
ANOLDSTORY.
MALLLINGFORD again! And not looking more cheerful than when we last saw it. Then it was late autumn, now, except for the name of the thing, a scarcely more genial1 season, early spring.
“More genial,” indeed, impresses a comparison strictly2 speaking, impossible to draw—in Brentshire at least—between either November and February, or February and November; unless we subscribe3 to the logic4 of that celebrated5 individual, the March hare, who tells his bewildered guest, “Alice in Wonderland,” “that it is very easy to have more than, nothing.”
Geniality6, truly, of any kind, outside or inside, our poor Marion had not met with, through all those cheerless, dreary7 months at the Cross House. Excepting always the occasional breaks in the cloudy monotony of her life, contrived8 for her by the watchful9 thoughtfulness of Geoffrey Baldwin. Not the least of these had been the pleasure of Harry10’s company during the Christmas holidays (the last, in all probability, the young man would spend in England for years to come), for which Geoffrey alone was to be thanked. Miss Tremlett would have fainted at the bare idea of having that “dreadful boy” as even a few weeks’ guest. She “tipped” him, however, handsomely, with which proof of her affection Harry was amply content; finding his quarters at the Manor11 Farm infinitely12 more to his taste than a residence in the Cross House. Though two miles distant, he managed to see a great deal of his sister; his host being no unwilling13 coadjutor in this respect. They had plenty of rides together, to which this open winter, in other respects so disagreeable, was favourable14; and at times, when braced15 by the fresh air and exhilarated by the exercise, Marion for a brief space felt almost happy.
But only for a brief space. Her life was very repulsive16 to her, and although she made the best of it to Harry, he saw enough to make him feel for her greatly. Nor did his pity end with the sentiment. In all seriousness the brother offered, rather than condemn17 her to such an existence, to give up his cherished and chosen intention of entering the army, for which by this time he was fully18 prepared; and remain near her, with the hopes of in time being able to set up a modest little establishment of their own. He would try for a clerkship in the Mallingford Bank, or take to farming, under Geoffrey Baldwin’s guidance. To neither of which proposals, however, would Marion hear of consenting.
“You don’t think so poorly of me, Harry, as to imagine that my life would be any the happier for knowing I had been the means of spoiling yours? Though I love you for offering this, and I will try to be incited19 by the remembrance of it to more cheerfulness.”
Her one woman-friend, the gentle, but brave-spirited Veronica, warmly applauded her unselfish resolution. So, in his heart, for more reasons than one, did Geoffrey Baldwin, though he said nothing.
With a face smiling through its tears the poor girl bid her brother farewell.
“Only to midsummer, you know, May,” said the boy, “whatever regiment20 I may get my commission in, I’m sure of some weeks at home first. That’s to say with Baldwin,” he added, for “home,” alas21, was a mere22 memory of the past to the two orphans23. “He is so very kind, May. I really don’t know how we are ever to thank him for it.”
“He is indeed,” said Marion warmly, so warmly that Harry, who had but small experience of that queer thing, a woman’s heart, smiled to himself, and want away considerably24 happier in mind about his sister for this corroboration25, as he thought it, of a very pleasant suspicion which had lately entered his imagination.
“It would suit so capitally,” he thought to himself. “In every way he’s a thorough good fellow. Not so clever as May, certainly, but they’d get on just as well for all that.” Perhaps so, Harry. It is a question, and a not easily answered one, as to how far congeniality of mind is necessary to a happy marriage.
But certainly, to give two such different natures as those of Geoffrey Baldwin and Marion Vere, a chance of assimilating in the long run, one element is indispensable, a good foundation of mutual26 love. Not friendship, however sincere, not esteem27, however great—but love—of which the former are but a part. “And not necessarily even that,” say some, from whom nevertheless I differ in opinion.
After Harry had gone, it was the old monotonous28 story again. It was impossible for her to ride so much as while her brother was with them, for the Copley girls were not always to be got hold of, and Mr. Baldwin, as Marion observed with some surprise, rather fought shy of tête-à-tête excursions.
“Who would have thought he was so prudish,” she said to herself. “It’s rather misplaced, for I’m sure everybody knows he is just like a sort of uncle or brother to me.”
“Everybody” however, in Brentshire, is not in the habit of thinking anything so natural and innocent, and Geoffrey was wise in his generation. Though in this instance really, the Mrs. Grundys of the neighbourhood might have been excused for remarking the very palpable and undeniable fact, that Mr. Baldwin was a remarkably29 handsome bachelor of only seven or eight and twenty, and Miss Vere “a pretty pale girl” of little more than nineteen. “The sort of girl too that manages to get herself admired by gentlemen, though why I really can’t see,” remarked one of the sister-hood to her confidante for the time. Who in reply observed that “no more could she.” Adding, moreover, that, “Everyone knows what that sort of story-book affair is sure to end in. Young guardian30 and interesting ward31! The girl knew well enough what she was about. Evidently she had not taken up her quarters with that odious32 Miss Tremlett for nothing. Had her father lived, or left her better off, she might have looked higher. But as things were she had done wisely not to quarrel with her bread-and-butter.”
Marion’s visits to Miss Temple, though by reason of her aunt’s unreasonable33 prejudice, they had to be managed with extreme discretion34 and not made too frequently, were at this time of great benefit to the girl. The influence of the thoroughly35 sound and sweet Veronica softened36 while it strengthened her; and did much to weaken, if not altogether eradicate37, a certain root of bitterness, which, not unnaturally38, began to show itself in her disposition39. She was not given to bosom40 friendships or confidantes. Though frank and ingenuous41, she had, like all strong natures, a great power of reserve. Even to Cissy Archer42, the most intimate friend she had ever had, she by no means, as we have seen, thought it necessary to confide43 all her innermost feelings.
Through the circumstances of her life and education, her principle acquaintances, not to say friends, had been of the opposite sex—and to tell the truth she preferred that they should be such—though from no unwomanliness in herself, from no shadow of approach to “fastness,” had she come to like the society of men more than that of women. Rather I think from the very opposite cause—her extreme, though veiled, timidity and self-distrust; which instinctively45 turned to the larger and more generous nature for encouragement and shelter. It never cost her a moment’s shrinking or hesitation46 to preside at one of her father’s “gentlemen” dinner parties, where the sight of her bright, interested face and the sound of her sweet, eager voice, were a pleasant refreshment47 to the brain-weary, overworked men who surrounded the table. Yet in a ball-room, or worse still, in a laughing, chattering48 party of fashionable girls, Marion, though to outward appearance perfectly49 at ease—a little graver and quieter perhaps than her companions—at heart was shy and self-conscious to a painful degree.
After all, however, it is well for a woman to have one or more good, true-hearted friends of her own sex. And this Marion acknowledged to herself, as she came to know more intimately how true and beautiful a nature was contained in the poor and crippled form of the invalid50. Veronica was, I daresay, an exceptional character; not so much as to her patience and cheerful resignation—these, to the honour of our nature be it said, are no rare qualities among the “incurables” of all classes—as in respect of her wonderful unselfishness, power of going out of and beyond herself to sympathise in the joy as well as the sorrow of others, and her unusual wide-mindedness. A better or healthier friend Marion Vere could not have met with. That some personal sorrow, something much nearer to her than the death of her father or the losses it entailed51, had clouded the life of her young friend, Veronica was not slow to discover. But she did not press for a confidence, which it was evidently foreign, to the girl’s feelings to bestow52. She only did in her quiet way, what little she could, insensibly almost, towards assisting Marion to turn to the best account in her life training this and all other experiences that had befallen her.
How different from Geoffrey! Ever so long ago he, honest fellow, had poured out all his story to the friend who had for many years stood him in place of both mother and sister; and by her advice he had acted, in refraining from risking all, by a premature53 avowal54 to Marion of his manly55, love and devotion.
Veronica, poor soul, was sorely exercised in spirit about these two. She loved them both so much, and yet she could not but see how utterly56, radically57 unlike they were to each other. Geoffrey, some few years her junior, had from infancy58 seemed like a younger brother of her own; and since her illness in particular the gentle kindness, the never-failing attention he had shown her, had endeared him to her greatly. What, on his side, of his real manliness44, his simple love of the good and pure, and hatred59 of the wrong, he owed to this poor crippled woman, is one of the things that little suspected now, shall one day be fully seen. Yet for all this, for all her love for, and pride in him, Veronica made no hero of the young man. She saw plainly that in all but his simple goodness he was inferior to Marion. And seeing this, and coming to love the girl and admire her many gifts as she did poor Veronica, as I have said, was sorely perplexed60. She temporized61 in the first place; till she saw that it was absolutely necessary to do so, she had not the heart to crush poor Geoffrey’s hopes.
“Wait,” she said to him, “wait yet awhile. She has had much to try her of late, and there is no time lost. Think how young she is. If you startled her you might ruin all. Wait at least, till the spring.”
So Geoffrey bit the end of his riding-whip rather ruefully, thanked Miss Veronica, and much against his will—waited.
“It may be,” thought Veronica, “that this is to be one of those unequal marriages, that after all turn out quite as happily, or more so, than those where the balance is more even. Marion, as yet, is hardly conscious of her own powers. Should she marry Geoffrey the probability is she will never become so. Never, at least, in the present state of things. And after all, much power is doomed62 for ever in this world to remain latent! But, on the other hand—I wish it could be! I do, indeed wish it so much, that I doubt my own clear-sightedness. She will, assuredly, be well able to decide for herself when the question comes before her, as I suppose in time it must. It is Geoffrey I am so troubled about. Should I do better to crush his hopes altogether? I could do so. But then, again, if it should turn out unnecessary! Ah, no! All I can do is to watch and wait. If only he does not ruin his own cause by anything premature.”
“If only!” But, alas, there came a day on which, riding back to Mallingford, Geoffrey seeing Marion home after parting with the Misses Copley at the gate a their father’s park, the following conversation took place.
It was late in February, a rank, dank, chilly63 afternoon, such as there had been plenty of this winter. Foggy, too; daylight already growing dim, an hour or more before it had any right to do so.
Marion shivered, though not altogether from the cold.
“Isn’t it a horrible day, Mr. Baldwin?” she asked; “a perfectly wretched day. Enough to make one wonder that people can be found willing to stay in such an ugly, disagreeable world. And yet there’s something fascinating about it too. I wonder how that is! Let me see; what is it it reminds me of? Oh, I know. It’s that song of Tennyson’s. ‘A spirit haunts the year’s last hours,’ it begins.
‘My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves.
And the breath
Of the fading edges of box beneath.’
That’s the sort of smell there is to-day, though it’s so chilly. Though that song is for the autumn. But it’s more like autumn than spring just now, isn’t it, Mr. Baldwin? There isn’t the slightest feeling of spring anywhere. No freshness, no life. Everything seems to be decaying.”
“I don’t know,” said Geoffrey doubtfully, sniffing64 the air as he spoke65. “Things ain’t looking bad on the whole. You’ll see it will all take a start soon, once the sprouts66 get their heads above ground. And then just think what a hunting season we’ve had! I declare my horses haven’t had so much taken out of them for I don’t know the time.”
“Yes,” said Marion, half amused at her companion’s way of putting things. “To you, I daresay it has seemed a very bright winter, and a cheerful, promising67 spring. After all, I believe the seasons are as much in us as outside us. Long ago I remember days on which I was so happy, that looking back, I fancy they were in the very brightest and loveliest of the summer, though in reality they were in dreary mid-winter. It is like time, which seems so short when we are happy, so long—so terribly long—when we are in sorrow. And yet in reality it is always the same. I wonder what is reality? Sometimes I think there is no outside at all.”
Having arrived at which satisfactory explanation of the mystery of the sensible world, Marion remembered her companion, long ago left behind her, having, as he would have phrased it, had he been in the habit of defining him situations, “come to grief at the very first fence, on leaving the lanes.”
“I wish I weren’t so stupid,” he thought to himself. “I wonder if all girls say the same queer, puzzling, pretty sort of things she does.”
Not that Marion favoured many people with all the fanciful, dreamy talk—a good deal of it great nonsense, but not commonplace, as she said it, for all that —with which patient Geoffrey was honoured. But she had got into the way of saying to him—before him rather—whatever came into her head, not troubling herself as to whether he understood it or not. Rather a tame-cat way of treating him! But as he was far from resenting it, there is no occasion for us to fight his battles.
To the last observation he made no reply. For some minutes they rode along the lane in silence; the horses apparently68 somewhat depressed69 in spirit, not being, like Miss Vere, dubious70 of the reality of an outside world, and a very foggy and disagreeable one to boot. Their feet sank, with each step, into the soft yielding mud, in great measure composed of the all but unrecognizable remains71 of last year’s leaves, not yet buried decently out of sight, as should have been done by this time. Nature was in a lazy mood that year. There was no sound except the thud, a ruddy, slushy sound, of the tired animals’ slow jogtrot steps.
Suddenly Marion spoke again. This time in a different tone. With something of appeal, something of child-like deprecation, she turned to her companion.
“Mr. Baldwin,” she said shyly, “you said just now it was almost spring. Don’t you remember promising me that by the spring you would try to do something for me?”
“What, Miss Vere?” said Geoffrey, rather shortly. He knew what was coming. He had a presentiment72 he was going to be sorely tried between the promptings of his heart and the sound advice of his friend Veronica, to which in his inmost mind he subscribed73 as wise and expedient74. So he answered coldly, and hated himself for so doing, while his heart was already throbbing75 considerably faster than usual.
“Oh, don’t be vexed76, with me,” she said; “I have not spoken of it for ever so long. Don’t you remember? I am sure you do. It was about trying to arrange for me to live somewhere else than with Aunt Tremlett. Could I not go somewhere as a sort of boarder perhaps? I am sure I should not be difficult to please if they were quiet, kind sort of people, and if I could have a couple of rooms, and be more independent than I am now. The worst of living at the Cross House is that I am never free, except when my aunt is asleep. She is always sending for me or wanting me to do something or other for her, and yet with it all I never can please her. Have you no friends, Mr. Baldwin, who would be willing to let me live with them as a sort of boarder? You see I am quiet and different from other girls. I care very little for gaiety of any kind, and I feel so much older than I am.”
Geoffrey rode on in perfect silence, his head turned away from Marion as she made this rather long speech, all in the same tone, half of appeal and half of deprecation. At last she grew surprised at his not replying, and spoke again.
“Do answer me, Mr. Baldwin. If you are vexed with me, and think me troublesome and unreasonable, please say so. Only I am so miserable77 at the Cross House, and you are the only person I can ask to help me.”
The last words sounded broken and quivering, as if the poor little speaker’s contemplation of her own desolate78 condition was too much for her self-control.
Geoffrey turned round suddenly, his fair face flushed with the depth of his emotion, his voice sounding hoarse79 and yet clear from very earnestness. He laid his hand on the crutch80 of Marion’s saddle, and leaned forward so as to face her almost as he spoke.
“Miserable you say you are at the Cross House?—then possibly you will forgive me if hearing this compels me to lay before you the only alternative I have to offer you. I had not meant to speak of this so soon, but you have tried me too far. I cannot be silent when I hear you speak of being miserable. Marion, there is one home open to you, whose owner would gladly spend himself, his whole life and long, to make you happy. I know I am not good enough for you. I know in every sense I am unworthy of you. Only I love you so deeply, so truly; surely I could make you happy. Oh, Marion! what can I say to convince you of my earnestness? For God’s don’t answer hastily! Don’t you think you could be happy as my wife—happier at least than you are?”
Till he left off speaking, Marion felt too utterly amazed and surprised—stunned as it were—to attempt to interrupt him. But when his voice ceased, she came to himself. In a sense at least. Not to her best self by any means, for there was ungentle haste in the movement with which she pushed away poor Geoffrey’s hand, and a tone of extreme irritation81, petulance82 almost, in her voice, as she replied to his little expected proposition.
“How can you be so foolish, Mr. Baldwin, so very foolish as to talk to me in that way. Are you really so blind as not to see that to you are more like another Harry than—than—anything of that sort? Oh! what a pity you have done this—said this to me! The only friend I had. And now you have put a stop to it all. I can never again feel comfortable with you. You have spoilt it all. It is very, very unkind of you!” And she ended her strange, incoherent speech by bursting into tears.
Poor Geoffrey already, its soon as the words were uttered, aware of his egregious83 mistake and penitent84 to the last degree, forthwith set himself down as a monster of inconsiderateness and cruelty. Her tears altogether for the moment put out of sight his own exceeding disappointment. Hee only thought how best to console her.
“Oh, Miss Vere,” he said, “forgive me! It indeed inexcusable of me to have so startled and distressed85 you. I had no right so to take advantage of my position with you. I am a rough boor86, I know, but I entreat87 you to forgive me, and forget all this. Only—only—after as time perhaps—could you never get accustomed to the idea? Must I never again allude88 to this? I would wait—years, if you wished it. But never?” and his voice, which he had striven to make gentle and calm, grew hoarse again in spite of his efforts.
(He was not of the order of suitors, you see, who think a “no” in the first place far from discouraging. For though by no means “faint-hearted,” he was far too chivalrous89 to persist, and too genuinely humble-minded not to be easily repulsed90.)
“Never, Mr. Baldwin!” said Marion, decisively and remorselessly, with but, to tell the truth, little thought for the time, of the suffering her words were inflicting91 on an honest, manly heart. She was not her best self just then. Trouble and weary suspense92 had made her querulous sometimes, and temporarily developed in her the selfishness which, alter all, is to some extent inherent in the best of us. “Never!” she repeated. “How could you have mistaken me so? Can’t you see that I mean what I say about being different from other girls? All that sort of thing is done with for me, altogether and entirely93. So please, understand, Mr. Baldwin, that what you were speaking of can never be.”
“If so, then, ‘that sort of thing’ as you call it, Miss Vere, is likewise altogether and entirely over for me,” said Geoffrey, with, for the first time, a shade of bitterness in his voice. “You will not punish me for my wretched presumption94 by withdrawing from me the amount of friendship, or regard, with which you have hitherto honoured me? It would complicate95 our relations most uncomfortably were you to do so, for unfortunately we have no choice as to remaining in the position of ward and guardian. Can’t you forgive me, Miss Vere, and forget it, and think of me again as a sort of second Harry? Some day—perhaps before long—you may choose another guardian for yourself, but till then, till the day when that fortunate person takes out or my hands the very little I can do for you, will you not try to feel towards me as you did before I so deplorably forgot myself?
“The day you speak of will never come,” said Marion; and the words, notwithstanding his soreness of heart, fell pleasantly on Geoffrey’s ears. “I tell you I am not like other girls. I am like an old woman, and my heart, if not dead, is dying. There now, I have told you more than I ever told anyone. I will try to forget that you were so silly. Some day you will find some one far nicer than I to make you happy, and I shall be great friends with her. So let us forget all this. Now good-bye”—for by this time they were nearly at the Cross House—“good-bye. Don’t think me unkind.”
Geoffrey smiled kindly96—forced himself to do so—as he parted from her. Something in the smile sent a little pang97 through the girl’s heart, for it was after all a very tender one.
“Have I been unkind?” she asked herself. “Is there more depth in him than I have given him credit for? Can he really be feeling this very much?”
And the misgiving98 did her good; recalled her a little from the self-absorption in which at this season it appeared as if her nature were about to be swamped.
She could not help thinking a good deal about Geoffrey that evening as she sat with her aunt, busy in repairing for that lady some fine old lace, Miss Tremlett having discovered that the girl’s young eyes and neat hands were skilful99 at such work. It was a very tiresome100 occupation, and her head ached long before the task was completed. But she had leisure to think while she worked, a luxury she had learnt to esteem highly of late; for Miss Tremlett was engrossed101 this evening with a new and most interesting three-volumer fresh from the circulating library behind the post office. And while the elder lady was absorbed by the loves and adventures of imaginary heroes and heroines, the younger one was picturing to herself for the thousandth time the happiness that might have been hers but for the mysterious obstacles that had intervened; from time to time, too, thinking sadly of the new cloud that had overshadowed her life, in the bitter disappointment she, on her side, had been the means of inflicting on another. The reflection took her a little out of herself. Her cry this evening was not merely as it had been for long, “Poor Marion!” It contained also a more unselfish refrain. “Poor Geoffrey!” she said to herself, “I cannot forgive myself for having made him unhappy. As unhappy, perhaps, as Ralph’s strange, cruel silence has made me.”
Some days passed without anything being seen or heard of Mr. Baldwin at the Cross House. Marion began to wonder if really their pleasant friendship was to be at an end, and to reproach herself not a little, not for what she had done—concerning that she not the shadow of a misgiving—but for the way in which she had done it.
These days Geoffrey spent at home in no very happy state of mind. He was furious not with Marion!—but with himself for his own suicidal haste, which truly, as Veronica had warned him, had “spoilt all.” He was more thoroughly miserable than one could have believed possible for so sunny a nature. He dared not even go with the burden of his woes103 and misdeeds to his sympathising friend and adviser104: for would she not truly be more than human did she not turn upon him with the cry more exasperating105 to bear than were to the “patient man” the many words of his three friends, the reproach we are all so ready to utter, so unwilling to hear—“I told you so.”
But in some respects Miss Veronica was more than human, and when Geoffrey at last mustered106 sufficient courage to make his grievous confession107, she, instead of irritating or depressing him further by undeniably truthful108 but nevertheless useless reproaches, set to work like a sensible woman as he was, to help the poor fellow to make the best of the affair he had so greatly mismanaged. Possibly, in her inmost heart she was not sorry to be relieved to some extent of the responsibility she had found so weighty; for, though most earnest in her anxiety for Geoffrey’s success she yet, as I have said, felt uncertain as to the precise extent to which she was called upon to work for it.
He told her the whole story, for he was not given to half confidences. What he had said, and how Marion had answered. In the girl’s replies Veronica discerned something deeper Geoffrey had discovered. They told of more than mere disinclination to think of her young guardian in any more tender relation. Girls of nineteen do not speak so bitterly as Marion had spoken to Geoffrey unless they have had, or fancied they have had, some very disappointing, heart trying experience reverse side of the picture of “that sort of thing,” as Miss Vere called it. These suspicions however were not new to Miss Temple, and she wisely kept them to herself. She confined her advice to Geoffrey to impressing upon him the extreme expediency109 of not allowing this unfortunate disclosure of his to make any difference in the relations hitherto existing between his ward and himself.
“It is not only expedient,” she said, “it is most distinctly your duty to let the poor child see that you were most thoroughly in earnest when you asked her, as you did, to forget all this, and think of you again ‘as a sort of another Harry.’ Think only of her very desolate position! Save for you and her young brother actually friendless in the world. You, Geoffrey, of all men, are the last to wish another to suffer for your inconsiderate conduct, as assuredly she would, if you allowed this to affect your friendship.”
To which Geoffrey replied that it was his most earnest wish that, at whatever cost to himself, Miss Vere should learn again to trust and rely on him, as she had done hitherto.
“I only fear,” he added, “that it will be impossible for her to do so. She said she should never feel comfortable with me again.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Veronica, “but when she said that she was startled and distressed. There is no fear but what she will soon be quite happy and at ease with you—learn probably to esteem you more highly than before, for she is the sort of girl thoroughly to appreciate manly generosity110 of the kind—if only you do not allow time for the unavoidable feeling of awkwardness at first, to stiffen111 into lasting112 coldness and constraint113. Do not put off seeing her. If you can arrange with Margaret and Georgie Copley to ride to-morrow, I will ask them here to luncheon114 in the first place, so that you can avoid the embarrassment115 of a tête-à-tête just at the very first.”
Geoffrey thanked Veronica warmly and promised for the future implicitly116 to follow her advice.
So it came to pass that the following day, somewhat to her surprise, Marion received a note from Mr. Baldwin, saying that at the usual hour the Misses Copley escorted by himself would call for her at the Cross House; as they had arranged to have a good long ride out past Brackley village in the direction of the Old Abbey.
“I am glad he has made up his mind to be sensible, was Marion’s reflection. “Really he is very good, and I hope he will soon fall in love with somebody much nicer and prettier than I.”
When they met, Geoffrey look just the same as usual.
“In better spirits than ever,” the Copley girls pronounced him. Even Marion hardly detected the forcedness in his merriment, the want of ring in his usually irresistibly117 hearty118 laugh. He did his very utmost in his unselfish anxiety to set her thoroughly at ease. Only he could not help the crimson119 flush that would overspread his fair, boyish face when she addressed him specially120, or when, once or twice, their hands came in contact as he arranged her reins121 or helped her in mounting and descending122 from the rather imposing123 attitude of Bessy’s back. Marion heartily124 wished the bay mare125 were a pony126 that day; for in a perverse127 spirit of independence she chose to attempt to mount by herself; which endeavour, as under the circumstances might have been predicted, resulted in utter failure, and an ignominious128 descent into—of all places in the world—Geoffrey Baldwin’s arms! Oh, how angry Marion was!
She did not feel much inclined for talking. Nor was she much called upon to do so. Her companions, all three, chattered129 incessantly130. She hardly heard what they were saying, when a question from Margaret Copley recalled her to herself. They were passing near the ruined abbey at Brackley, two or three miles distant from the present residence of its owners.
“Have you have seen the New Abbey, Miss Vere?” asked Margaret. “It is only called New, you know, in contradistinction to the ruin, for in reality it is a couple of hundred years old itself.”
“No, I have never seen it,” replied Marion, “is it worth seeing?”
“Not in itself. The house is nothing, but the pictures are good. It has been shut up for ever so long—five or six years at least. Lord Brackley fancies it does not suit him, so he lives almost always near his son, who is married and has a beautiful place belonging to his wife. Some day you must come with us and see Brackley Abbey. You are fond of pictures, I know.”
“And understands a good deal more about them than either you or I, Margaret,” said Georgie good-humouredly. “To tell the truth, what I go to the Abbey for is to gossip with the fanny old housekeeper131. We were there the other day, and I declare I thought I should never get away from her. She told me the history of every family in the county.”
“Yes, indeed,” resumed Margaret, “she is a wonderful old body. By-the-by, Miss Vere, she had heard of your advent102 in the neighbourhood, and was very curious to hear all about you. She remembered your mother, she said.”
“And I am sure she asked you if I was a beauty like my mother,” said Marion, laughing, “now didn’t she, Miss Copley? Only you didn’t like to say so, for you could not with any truth have said I was! Don’t you really think, Mr. Baldwin, it is rather a misfortune to have had a great beauty for one’s mother?”
“As bad as being the son of a remarkably clever man of business?” suggested Geoffrey.
“Very nearly, but not quite. For only think what terrible things have been entailed on you by your being your father’s son,” said Marion maliciously132.
Geoffrey was pleased to see her sufficiently133 at ease to be mischievous134, and replied to her remark by a kindly glance. Then Georgie Copley took up the strain.
“Old Mrs. What’s-her-name—what is her name, I always forget it?—the housekeeper, I mean, was full of a marriage that was to be in the family shortly. That is to say not in the family exactly but a near connection, Sir Ralph Severn, Lord Brackley’s step nephew. By-the-by, I dare say you know him, Geoffrey? He used to come here sometimes several years ago, before the Abbey was shut up. We were in the schoolroom, but I remember seeing him. It was long before he got the title.”
“I never met him,” said Mr. Baldwin. “Whom is he going to marry?”
“A sort of cousin of his own,” replied Georgie, “a Miss Vyse. A very beautiful girl, Mrs. Hutton—that’s her name—said. The old body made quite a romance out of it. This girl’s father, it appears, was in old days the lover of the present Lady Severn. But she was not allowed to marry him as she was an heiress. She used to be here a good deal with her step-brother when she was a girl, that is how Mrs. Hutton knows all about her. It sounds quite like a story-book, does it not? The children of the two poor things marrying, all these years after.”
“Very romantic, indeed,” said Geoffrey. “Particularly as the lady is beautiful.”
“Exceedingly beautiful,” said Miss Copley. “She has been living with Lady Severn for some time, for she has no home of her own. Every one has been surprised at the marriage not being announced sooner, Mrs. Hutton said. She had only just heard of it in some round-about way, and she was quite full of it.”
Then they talked about other things, and did not observe Marion’s increased silence, which lasted till they said goodbye to her at the door of the Cross House. A few days previously135, when she had said to Geoffrey decisively that “all that sort of thing” was done with for her, “altogether and entirely,” she had meant what she said and believed her own assertion.
Now, when she hurried upstairs to her own bedroom in the dingy136 Mallingford House, and sat down on the hard floor in her muddy riding-habit, with but one wish in her mind—to be alone, out of the reach of curious, unsympathetic eyes—Now, I say, when at last she felt free to think over, to realize what she had heard, she knew that it was not true what she had said. Far from being “done with for her,” on the secret, unacknowledged hope that for her a happy day was yet to dawn when all the mystery would be explained, all the suffering more than compensated137 for by the blessedness of the present—on this hope she had in truth been living, through all these weary months. And now that it was rudely thus snatched away, that all was indeed for ever, over, what was there left for her to do, poor weary, heartbroken wanderer in a very strange and desolate land—but to lie down and die?
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1
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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2
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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3
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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4
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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5
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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7
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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8
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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9
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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10
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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12
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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13
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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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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15
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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16
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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17
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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18
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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21
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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22
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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25
corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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26
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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27
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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28
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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29
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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30
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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32
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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33
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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34
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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35
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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36
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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37
eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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38
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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40
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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41
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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42
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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43
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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44
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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45
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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46
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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47
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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48
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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49
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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50
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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51
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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52
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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53
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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54
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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55
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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56
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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57
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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58
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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59
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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60
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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61
temporized
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| v.敷衍( temporize的过去式和过去分词 )；拖延；顺应时势；暂时同意 | |
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62
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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63
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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64
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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65
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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66
sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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67
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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68
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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69
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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70
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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71
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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72
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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73
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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74
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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75
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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76
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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77
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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78
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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79
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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80
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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81
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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82
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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83
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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84
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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85
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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86
boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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87
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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88
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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89
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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90
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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91
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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92
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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93
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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94
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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95
complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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96
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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97
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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98
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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99
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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100
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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101
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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102
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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103
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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104
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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105
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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106
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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107
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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108
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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109
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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110
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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111
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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112
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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113
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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114
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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115
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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116
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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117
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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118
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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119
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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120
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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121
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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122
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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124
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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125
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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126
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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127
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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128
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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129
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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130
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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131
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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132
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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133
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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134
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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135
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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136
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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137
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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