Upon the naked branches sets her foot,
The leaves still lying at the mossy root;
And there a silly chirruping cloth keep
As if she fain would sing, yet fain would weep.
Praising fair summer that too soon is gone,
And sad for winter too soon coming on.”
DRAYTON.
“Perhaps the wind
Waits so in winter for the summers dead,
And all sad sounds are nature’s funeral cries,
For what has been and is not?”
THE SPANISH GYPSY.
TO-MORROW then, I suppose, will see us at the Manor2 Farm,” said Geoffrey the last evening of their travels.
Marion noticed he did not speak of his dwelling3 as “home,” and she looked up quickly, for she fancied there was a slight, a very slight quiver in his voice. But no, it must have been only fancy. He sat at the table arranging his fishing book, apparently4 engrossed5 in its contents.
“I suppose so,” she replied indifferently.
“I wanted to tell you,” he said, “that you will not find the house in particularly good order. That is to say it has not been ‘done up’ for ages. I meant to have had some of the rooms refurnished, but there was so little time before,” here he dropped a fly, and had to stoop down to look for it on the carpet, “before we were married,” he went on with a change in his voice, “that I deferred6 doing so, thinking you might like to choose the furniture yourself. So as soon as we are settled I hope you will order whatever you like for the rooms in which you will take an interest. The drawing-room and dining-room. There is a nice little room up stairs too which I think you might like as a sort of boudoir, or whatever it is called. It opens out of the pleasantest of the bedrooms, the one which I think you will probably choose for your own. I am very anxious that you should arrange all just as you wish, and of course I shall not in the least interfere7 with any of your plans. I shall keep my own old rooms just as they were; they will do very well without doing up. Indeed my old den8 would never be comfortable again if it were meddled9 with.”
This was a long speech for the present Geoffrey to make, for he had grown very silent of late. When alone with his wife, that is to say: outsiders would probably have perceived no change in him.
“Thank you,” said Marion in a tone that was meant to be cordial. “I am sure it will all be very nice. The house is very old, is it not?” she went on, wishing to show some interest in the subject.
“Yes,” he replied, “very old, some parts of it in particular. I wish it were my own—at least,” he went on, “I used to wish it. Now I don’t know that I care much to own it.”
“I always thought it was your own,” said Marion with some surprise. “I thought your father bought it long ago.”
“No,” answered Geoffrey, “he only got it on a long lease. It will be out in a few years now. I got a hint once that Lord Brackley would not object to selling it when the lease is out, but I don’t know that I should care to buy it. As likely as not I shall leave no—,” but the rest of his words were too low for Marion to catch.
“Not a rood,” he replied, “nor anywhere else. The old place that belonged to my grandfather, for I had a grandfather, though Miss Tremlett would probably tell you I hadn’t, was over at the other side of the country but neither my father nor I cared about it—it was ugly and unproductive—and before he died my father advised me to accept the first good offer I got for it. So I sold it last year very advantageously indeed. The purchase money is still in the old bank. I should invest it somehow I suppose, for it’s too large a sum to leave in a country bank. But all I have is there, and I really don’t know what else to do with it. I have always had a sort of idea I should buy another place. The bank is as safe as can be of course—I am actually a sleeping partner in it still. But I believe they don’t want to keep me. That new man they took in lately has such heaps of money, they say, and he’s making all sorts of changes.”
“Your father would not have liked that,” said Marion.
“No indeed,” replied Geoffrey. “Any sort of change, he always thought, must be for the worse.” He was talking more naturally and heartily11 than had been the case for some time, in the interest of the conversation, appearing temporarily to forget the sad change that had come over their relations. But suddenly he recollected12 himself. With an entire alteration13 of manner he went on. “I am forgetting that these personal matters can have no interest for you. I beg your pardon for troubling you with them. Still perhaps,” he added thoughtfully, “it is as well for you to understand these things, however uninteresting, they may be.”
Marion looked and felt hurt.
“Geoffrey,” she said reproachfully, “you go too far.”
He turned sharply and looked at her. But her face was bent14 over her book, and she did not see the wistful entreaty15 in his gaze. He said nothing aloud: but to himself he murmured. “Too far Ah, no! No more half gifts for me, which in the end are worse than none. But she did not mean it, poor child! Even now she understands me less than ever. As if her kindness, her pity, were not far harder to bear than her scorn.”
The next day they returned Brentshire.
Geoffrey as thankful when it was over; and they had settled down into a sort of commonplace routine, and to a great extent independence of each other in their daily lives. It was grievously hard upon him—this broken-spirited, heartless “coming home.” Harder to bear, I think, than if his joyous16 anticipations17 had been cut short by death itself. For had it been a dead bride he was thus bringing home, he would not have felt so far, so utterly18 separated from her, in all that constitutes the real bitterness of disunion, as he felt himself now from his living, unloving wife—the pale, cold Marion, whose terrible words still rang in his ears. “I did love him even then with all the love of my nature, and, oh, Geoffrey, I love him now.”
They both, though they did not allude19 to it, dreaded20 intensely the first visit to Miss Veronica. By tacit agreement they did not pay it together, by tacit agreement too, they decided21 that the secret of their fatal “mistake,” should, if possible, be concealed22 from the affectionate and unselfish friend, who, to some extent, was responsible for their having committed it. But they reckoned without their host! Veronica’s perceptions, naturally acute, and rendered still more so by her reflective life and in her present case by her loving anxiety, were not so easily to be deceived. Though no word of misgiving23 escaped her, she yet saw too clearly that Geoffrey’s gaiety was forced—that Marion’s expressions of content and satisfaction wore not genuine—that neither of the two confided24 in her as of old. She was the last person in the world to take offence or be hurt by their silence. That its motive25 was to spare her pain she divined by instinct. Still on the whole, I think it was a mistake. Poor Veronica suffered, I believe, more acutely from the mystery surrounding her friends’ evident alienation26 from each other, than would have been the case had they taken her into their confidence and related to her the whole of the strange and exceptional history. On their side both Geoffrey and Marion paid no light price for the reserve they thought it their duty to maintain. For the first time since childhood Geoffrey felt himself forced to shun27 the society of the friend to whom he had carried every grief and perplexity, every interest, every joy of his life. And to Marion likewise, it was no small trial to be deprived at this critical time, of the wisest woman friend she had ever known; of the gentle sympathy which during the many dreary28 months of her Mallingford life, had never failed her.
The Manor Farm was one of those rather anomalous29 habitations, half farm, half gentleman’s house, of which in some of the agricultural counties one sees so many. With no special characteristics of its own, save perhaps that it was somewhat quaint30, and decidedly old fashioned: hardly picturesque31 and not exactly ugly; it was the sort or house that takes its colouring mainly from the lives of its inhabitants. All dwellings32 are not of this description: there are venerable walls which we cannot but associate with gloom and solemnity, however merry may have been the voices, however ringing the laughter which there we may have heard resound33; there are “rose-clad” cottages, which our memory refuses to depict34 save as smiling in the sunshine, though our sojourn35 therein may have been of the most sorrowful, and the brightness without seemed but to mock the aching hearts and tear-laden eyes within. But the Manor Farm was by no means an impressive abode36. It was comfortable already, and with a little trouble might have been made pretty: but alas37, at this time there was no grace or sweetness in the heart of the young girl who came with reluctant steps to be its mistress, whose youth and brightness had been swamped in the deep waters through which she had passed.
Unconsciously she was entering on a new phase in her experience. The first effect of her again meeting with Ralph had been to revive in her the consciousness of his irresistibly38 strong personal influence. For a time she felt very near to him; as if indeed she only lived in the immaterial union with him which she had before imagined was at an end. This did not surprise her. It seemed to her that the bar on her side of a loveless marriage was in point of fact no bar at all: whereas so long as she had believed in his union to another, she had felt herself more utterly divided from him than by death itself. Woman’s indefensible logic39, no doubt, but so she felt, and so she expressed it to herself. She was wrong—mistaken to a great extent—she had been drifting away from Ralph. Only his actual presence, his personal influence had recalled her: of which he himself was conscious when he deliberately40 resolved utterly to sever41 himself from her life; by no species of intercourse42 or communication, however apparently innocent or irreproachable43, to keep alive in her the consciousness of an influence so fatal to her prospects44 of peace as the wife of another man.
I hardly think this first phase of her suffering, though acute almost to agony, was after all the worst. There is a great compensatory power in strong excitement—the after days of grey depression are to my thinking the most to be dreaded. On these she was now entering; for though she knew it not, the full strength of his immediate45 influence was already beginning to fade. The entering on a new life, the return to scenes with which he was in no wise associated, had much to do with this. Still, at times the first sharp agony returned to her; but generally when roused by some external agency. The sight of any silly trifling46 thing associated with him—a book out of which he had read to her, hand-writing resembling his, even little details of dress recalling him—all had power to stab her. Ah, yes! Even to the day of her death she felt that the scent47 of honeysuckle would be to her unendurable, for that fatal day in his excitement Ralph had plucked a spray off the luxuriant branches overhanging the old arbour, and ruthlessly crushing it in his hands, the strong, almost too sweet perfume had reached her as she sat before him.
But these acute sensations gradually grew to be of rarer occurrence; very possibly, had her new life at the Manor Farm been fuller and more congenial, had Geoffrey been more experienced, less humble49, and perhaps less unselfish, at this crisis things might have mend. By allowing her to see that, notwithstanding all that had passed he yet loved her as fervently50 as before, that yet she was to him a very necessity of his being; the husband might gradually have drawn51 her out of herself and eventually led her at once to cling to and support, the man who truly, as he had once said, found “life without her” a very mockery of the word.
But Geoffrey could not do this. He pitied her too much; he hated himself for what he had brought upon her. He went to the extreme of fancying himself actually repulsive52 to her. He guarded himself from the slightest word or sign of familiarity or affection, imagining that the revulsion these would engender53 would drive them yet further and more hopelessly apart.
“At least,” he thought, “she shall live in peace. All I can now do to please her is to keep out of her way and not disgust her by constantly reminding her of her bondage54.” So, though his whole existence was full of her, though her slightest wish was immediately, though unobtrusively, attended to, he yet left her to herself, maintaining an appearance of such indifference55 to her and adsorption in his independent pursuits, that the girl was almost to be excused for imagining that Geoffrey was “more of a farmer than a man,” incapable56 of very refined or long-lived affection, and that, after all, so far as he was concerned, what had happened did not so much matter. “He would have been pretty sure to get tired of me before long in any case,” was the reflection with which she threw off all sense of responsibility with respect to him, and stifled57 for the time the pangs58 of reproach for the blight60 which through her had fallen on his sunny life.
There was little society of any desirable kind in the neighbourhood of the Manor Farm. The other side of the county was much more sociable61, but about Brackley there were few resident county families—the great man of the place a permanent absentee. Besides which the Baldwins’ position had been a somewhat anomalous one, lying rather on the border lands, for the father’s status as banker in Mallingford naturally connected him with the little town, while at the same time it induced a species of acquaintance with the out-lying districts. Geoffrey’s rooted aversion from earliest childhood to anything in the shape of office or desk, or indeed to indoor occupation of any kind, had led to the removal to the Manor Farm some time before the old man’s death. Hunting, shooting, and so on, with the sons of the few squires62 in the neighbourhood, had brought about the sort of bachelor friendliness64 between him and these families which was pleasant enough so far as it went, but committed the other side to nothing in respect of the future Mrs. Baldwin. Had he married quite in his own sphere, or slightly beneath him, he would have sunk, as a Benedick, into peaceful obscurity. But when it was known that his bride, though poor, was a daughter of the well-known Hartford Vere, himself a cadet of one of the “best” Brentshire families, mammas began to think they must really call at the Farm, and “show a little attention to her, poor young thing!” To which disinterested65 amiability66 on the part of their spouses67, papas, being in general more liberal-minded in such matters, made, of course, no objection.
So Marion received some visitors, of whom the Copleys of the Wood were the only ones in whom she felt the slightest interest. A moderate amount of invitations to dreary dinner-parties, or still more trying “candle visits,” followed. Geoffrey thought it right to accept them, so, feeling that to her, change of scene was but the replacing of one kind of dulness by another, Marion agreed to his decision, and they went.
It was really not lively work, but the dreariness68 no doubt lay chiefly in herself. For after all there were sensible, kindly69 people among their entertainers, and though the world “is not all champagne70, table-beer is not to be despised.” Not certainly when we are young and fresh, and vigorous; inclined, as youth should be, to the use of rose-coloured spectacles, and to mistaking electro-plate for the genuine article. But young Mrs. Baldwin was censorious because unhappy, difficult to please because dissatisfied with herself. People were kindly inclined to her. They knew she had long been motherless, and of late fatherless as well, her only brother separated from her by half the world, her present position, though the wife of “as fine a fellow as ever breathed,” far lower, socially speaking, than originally she might have aspired71 to. Altogether a good deal of kindness, really genuine so far as it went, might have been received by her, had she encouraged it. But she did not, “could not,” she told herself. So her new acquaintances felt repelled72, naturally enough, and she, sensitive to a fault, felt she was not liked, and drew back still further into her shell of cold reserve. “Pride,” of course, it was called. And “what has she to be proud of?” next came to be asked, when the poor girl’s name was brought on the tapis.
After one of these visits she was invariably more depressed73 than before. She was not hardened to feeling herself disliked, nor callous74 to the womanly mortification75 of knowing she had not been seen to advantage. She fancied she was growing ugly; she knew she had grown unamiable, and she was angry with herself, while yet she was bitter at others. Geoffrey above all. When in company, he looked so well and in such good spirits, that at times Marion thought she almost hated him. Truly she was hard to please! Had he allowed himself to appear depressed, or in any way different from his former well-known joyous self, she would in her heart have accused him of indelicacy, of obtruding77 upon her regardless of her feelings, the pain she had brought upon him, the wreck78 she had made of his life.
And the season too was against her. Autumn again, nature’s dying hour, when all around was but too much in harmony with her desolate79 life, but too apt to foster the morbid80 unhealthiness which was fast enveloping81 her whole existence.
The jog-trot dullness of her daily life came to have a strange fascination82 for her. Its regularity83 seemed to be beating time to some approaching change, some crisis in her fate. For that some such was at hand, she felt convinced. The present was too unendurable, too essentially84 unnatural85 to be long, continuance.
So, in the intervals86 of her irritation87 at her husband, she lived, to all appearance, contentedly88 enough, in the death-in-life monotony so fatal to all growth and healthy development. Geoffrey had no idea how bad things were with her. He thought he was giving her all she would accept, undisturbed peace and perfect independence. Yet his very heart bled for her, often, very often when she little suspected it. He made one grand mistake; he gave her no responsibilities, no necessary duties. Her time was her own; the housekeeping was all attended to by a confidential89 and efficient servant, whose accounts even were overlooked by the master instead of by the mistress of the establishment.
Money Marion had in plenty, more than she knew what to do with; for she had never been “fanatica” on the subject of dress, and even her old love of books and music seemed to be deserting her. She would not ride. The horse destined90 for her use stood idle in the stable; and more than once Geoffrey so nearly lost heart that he was on the point of selling it. He had one great advantage over Marion. He was the possessor of that mysterious, and to mere91 spectators, somewhat irritating gift, known as “animal spirits.” There were times when, in spite of all, his unspeakable disappointment, his bitter self-reproach, the young man could not help feeling happy. An exciting run, a bracing92 frosty morning in his fields, filled him for the time with his old joyousness93, the exhilaration of life in itself, apart from all modifying circumstances. Poor fellow! She need not have grudged94 him, what afterwards on looking back through a clearer atmosphere, she believed to have been the only compensatory influence in the lonely, unsympathised-with existence, to one so frank and affectionate, more trying even than she, with her greater powers of reserve and self-reliance, could altogether realize.
Now and then, though rarely, the cloudy gloom of mutual95 reserve and apparent indifference, into which day by day they were drifting further, was broken, painfully enough, by stormy flashes of outspoken96 recrimination and wounding reproach. Naturally, they were both sweet-tempered, but this wretched state of things was fast souring them. Scenes miserable97 to witness, had any friend been by, lowering in the extreme to reflect upon in calmer moments, from time to time occurred. In these it is but justice to Geoffrey to say that he was rarely, if ever, the aggressor.
One dull, foggy morning, a “by-day,” unfortunately, for Marion, yielding to atmospheric98 influences, was in a mood at once captious99 and gloomy, little disposed to take interest in anything—least of all in her husband’s stable—on this uninviting morning, she was sitting, discontented and unoccupied, in the little boudoir she had not yet found heart to re-furnish, when the door opened suddenly and Geoffrey appeared. He burst in, looking eager and happy. Like his old self, for the time at least.
“Oh, Marion,” he exclaimed, “do put on your hat and come round with me for a moment to the stables. That new mare100 I bought last week has just come. She is such a perfect beauty. Do come.”
But Marion did not move, but sat there, her face turned from him, affecting to warm her hands at the fire. Then she glanced at the door which Geoffrey had left open, and said peevishly101:
“I wish you would remember that other people feel the cold if you don’t. The draught102 along the passage makes this room almost uninhabitable.
Geoffrey closed the door gently, with a ready apology for his carelessness. Then he returned to the charge.
“You will come out though, won’t you? I am really so anxious to show you my new purchase. She is rather young to do much work this year, but by another, she will be all I could wish. I really never saw a more beautiful creature.”
“I am glad you are pleased,” said Marion, coldly, “but you must excuse my joining in the chorus of admiration103 which I have no doubt is going on in the stable-yard. I should I only disappoint you, for I really could not get up the proper amount of ecstasy104.”
Geoffrey’s face fell.
“You used to take some interest in my horses, Marion,” he said, deprecatingly.
“Very possibly,” she replied, in a somewhat sneering105 tone. “Barley-sugar isn’t a bad thing in its place. But as for living on it altogether, that’s a different matter. Long ago I could afford to be amused by your stable ‘fureur,’ now and then. But it never seem to occur to you that it’s possible to have too much even of the charms of bay mares and such-like! You must excuse my bad taste.”
“I don’t understand you,” replied Geoffrey. “I cannot feel that I deserve to be taunted106 with having bored you with anything that interested me.”
“I don’t suppose you do understand me,” she answered, in the same contemptuous manner. “You made one grand mistake, for which we are both suffering—that of imagining you ever could do so. Go back to your hones, with whom, I can assure you, you have more in common than you could ever have with me. Only do not, I beg of you, delude107 yourself with the idea that a being who has the misfortune to possess something in the way of mind and soul, is the right person to apply to for sympathy in the only interests you seem capable of.”
The extreme contempt, the insulting scorn of her words and manner stung him to the quick. With a muttered expression of some kind, of which she could not catch the words, he turned from her sharply, and for once in his life slammed the door behind him violently, as, half mad with misery108, he rushed away from the sound of her cold, mocking words.
When he had gone, Marion rose from her seat and sauntered to the window. She stood there gazing out at the dreary garden, desolate and bare, save for the leaves thickly strewing109 the paths and beds. Already her heart was reproaching her for her cruelty; already her conscience was bitterly accusing her. She had done very wrong; she knew, she owned it to herself. But she could not feel responsible, even for her own misdeeds.
“They are all a part of the whole,” she cried, “all a part of the wretched, miserable whole.”
She “could not help it!” “It was not in her nature to be good when she was miserable.” “And I am no more to blame,” she thought, defiantly110, “for being wicked than a flower for not blooming without sunshine.”
But does the poor flower resolutely111 turn from the light? Does it not rather welcome eagerly each narrow ray that penetrates112 to its dark dwelling, and with humble gratitude113 make the most of the sunshine vouchsafed114 to it?
Half-an-hour later Marion heard a clatter115 in the direction of the stables, voices eager and excited—more clatter, the dogs barking. Then the sound of a horse’s feet gradually sobering down into a steady pace, as they were lost in the distance. Geoffrey had gone out riding. And on the new mare, the footman told her, when she rang for coals, and made some indirect enquiry.
“Very handsome she is, ma’am,” added he, “but very awkward at starting. My master had some trouble to get her out of the yard. She took fright at a heap of bricks lying there for repairs. Perhaps you heard the noise, ma’am?”
“Yes,” said Marion, indifferently, “I thought I heard the dogs barking.”
In her heart she felt rather uneasy. She wished she had gone out with her husband to admire his favourite; she wished they had not separated with such angry feelings; she wished he had not chosen to-day for trying the new mare!
She put on her hat, and, with a book in her hand, ensconced herself in a sheltered nook, which after some difficulty she succeeded in finding. Out of doors it felt less chilly116 than in the house, and gradually she grew soothed117 and calm. She thought to herself she would stay out them for some hours; the day was, after all, mild and pleasant, and the perfect quiet would do her good. But her anticipations were doomed118 to be disappointed. In less than an hour she heard from her retreat the sound of approaching carriage-wheels, then ladies’ voices at the hall door; and in a few minutes James appeared, breathless in hunting for her in all her usual haunts.
“The Misses Copley, if you please ma’am, in the drawing-room.”
“Very well,” she replied, half provoked, and yet not altogether sorry for the interruption, “I will be with them directly. The young ladies, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Copley and Miss Georgie.”
They were about the only people she ever cared to see. Really amiable76 and affectionate; happy-hearted, and yet gentle, and perfectly119 unacquainted with her previous history; with them she felt on safe ground. They liked, and in a measure understood her. Their perceptions were not of the quickest; they had no idea that all was not satisfactory between her and Geoffrey, and her quiet manner did not to appear either cold or proud, for they had known her since her first coming to Mallingford, when there had been reason enough for her depression—and so, as it were, they had grown accustomed to what struck strangers as chilling and repellent. Besides, she liked them, and felt really grateful for their consistent kindness. So of course they saw her to advantage.
This morning they were the bearers of an invitation—“We want you and Geoffrey to come and dine with us to-day, and stay over to-morrow,” began Georgie, eagerly; and then Margaret took up the strain—
“Yes, you must come. I’ll tell you the great reason. Georgie’s ‘young man’ is coming tonight, and we do so want you to see him. He has not been here for some months; not since the time you were so ill. Then, too, Papa has some draining on hand he wants Geoffrey’s opinion about. You will come, won’t you?”
“I should like it exceedingly,” said Marion, cordially; but as to Geoffrey, I can’t say. He has gone out, and I don’t know when he will be in.”
“Of course,” exclaimed Georgie, stupid of us not to have told you. We met him on our way—(by-the-by, what a beautiful mare that is he has got, but what a vixen!)— and he said he would certainly come if you would. I was to ask you to order his man to put up what clothes he will want, as he said he would not return here, unless he hears at the Wood that you are not coming. So it’s all right, isn’t it? Bring your habit, do; it’s an age since we’ve had a ride together.”
“I have not ridden for months,” said Marion. “Hardly since I was ill. I don’t think I care about it, and I don’t think the horse Geoffrey intended for me is in riding condition.”
“You could ride one of ours,” suggested Margaret. But, “No, thank you,” said Marion, resolutely.
She agreed, however, to all the rest of their proposals, and in an hour or two’s time found herself with her friends in their comfortable carriage, bowling120 briskly along the high-road to Copley Wood, in far better spirits than early that morning she would have believed she could possibly attain121 to.
Geoffrey met them at the hall door, and handed them out of the carriage. Marion fancied he looked pale; though he began talking to her young friends as brightly as usual. She felt grateful for their presence, as otherwise their meeting after the scene in the morning could not but have been uncomfortable for both. As it was, however, it was easy to avoid any approach to a tête-à-tête.
“I am glad you have come,” he said, rather stiffly. This was the only approach to a reconciliation122 that took place between them.
Then followed a hearty123 welcome from kindly, cheery Lady Anne and the old Squire63. It was impossible to resist altogether the genial48 influence of the whole family, the pleasant atmosphere of goodwill124 and cordiality pervading125 the dwelling. Yet even with this, there was mingled126 for Marion much bitterness.
“Why can’t I be happy and comfortable, like these kind, good people?” she asked herself, as she stood by the bright fire in the pretty morning-room, and, glancing round, took in all the details of the pleasant, home-like scene. The old portraits on the walls, the bookcases with their tempting127 contents, the furniture with a general air of warmth and colour about it, though sobered down by time and use to the quiet hue128 which in dull houses looks dingy129, in cheerful ones comfortable. The bits of work and newspapers lying about, the fresh, brightly-tinted flowers on the table—the two pretty girls flitting about—all made an attractive picture. Geoffrey seemed to enjoy the pleasant influence: he lay back lazily in his chair, looking up laughingly in Georgie’s face as she passed him, his gold-brown hair and contrasting charm-blue “well-opened” eyes, contrasting charmingly with the little brunette’s darker locks, and quick, sparkling glances. She was only a pretty girl, little Georgie Copley, a merry, robin130 redbreast sort of a creature, who by no imagination could be idealised into a beautiful or stately woman; yet for one little moment Marion felt a passing pang59 of jealousy131 of the happy child.
“Why didn’t he marry her?” she thought to herself; “she would have suited him, and in their commonplace way they would have been happy. I am too old for him, as well as too everything else.”
And with a slight shiver she turned round to the fire. She felt herself like a skeleton at the feast, as her eyes caught the reflection of her face in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Thin and pale and shadowy she looked to herself, with large, unhappy-looking eyes, from which all the lustre132 and richness seemed to have departed, closely bound round the small, drooping133 head. “Showy,” in her best days, she never had been; nor had she ever been inclined to do justice to her own personal charms. “I am not ugly,” she had said to herself as a young girl, “but that is about all there is to be said.” Now she would have hesitated to say even as much.
Some one else was watching her just then, as she stood quiet and apart by the fire. Someone who she little thought was thinking of her at all. Some one who, as he chattered134 merrily to Georgie, was hardly conscious of any other presence than that of the slight, drooping figure at the other end of the room, whose bitter sneering words of the morning were already forgiven, and, if not forgotten, remembered only to add intensity135 to his yearning136 tenderness of pity, his deep, enduring, ill-requited love.
Then came the announcement of luncheon137, and a general move to the well-covered table in the dining-room.
During the meal, plans for the disposal of the remainder of the day were discussed.
“Captain Ferndale can’t be here much before dinner-time, Georgie,” said her sister. “You don’t intend to stay in all the afternoon, I hope?”
“Oh dear no,” replied the sensible little woman, “I intend to ride with you and Geoffrey. Unless Mrs. Baldwin will change her mind, and ride my horse instead of me. Will you, Marion?” And “Oh do,” added Margaret; “I’m quite sure it would do you good. Do help us to persuade her, Geoffrey. I am sure I have a habit that will fit you.”
But Geoffrey only glanced at his wife, and, seeing the slight annoyance138 in her face, said nothing.
“Now, girls, don’t tease,” said Lady Anne, as notwithstanding Marion’s evident disinclination to make one of the riding party, her young friends still attempted to persuade her to change her mind. “You really must let Mrs. Baldwin decide for herself.” And with these words she rose and led the way back to the morning-room. Reluctantly Margaret and Georgie gave up the endeavour and went to dress for riding. Geoffrey strolled to the stables to give some directions respecting the saddling of his beautiful “Coquette,” whose behaviour in the morning had decided him that she would be none the worse for a little more exercise.
“You’ll have some trouble to get her sobered down a bit, Sir,” said the old coachman. “I’m a little afraid Miss Georgie’s ‘Prince’ will set her off. Prince is fidgety like now and then, though he never does no mischief139 when Miss Georgie’s riding him. But it wouldn’t take much to upset this ’ere mare, Sir. She’s young and flighty, though handsome as a pictur’.”
“I’ll be careful, Jackson, no fear but what I’ll take it out of her,” said Geoffrey. “If she’s tiresome140 beside the young ladies, I’ll give her a gallop141 across country to settle her down.”
Evidently some sedative142 of the kind was likely to be required! Coquette showed the greatest reluctance143 to start in a becoming and ladylike manner. True to her name she eyed Georgie’s Prince with evidently mischievous144 intentions, and the very eccentric manner in which the little party set out on their expedition was such as slightly to upset even Lady Anne’s well seasoned nerves.
Marion watched the departure from the window. She had not yet exchanged a word with her husband since the painful scene of the morning; and very unreasonably145 she felt inclined to be angry with him, for having, as she thought, given her no opportunity of showing that she regretted the unkindly and undignified temper to which she had given way.
She felt somewhat uneasy as she watched the peculiar146 behaviour of the new mare; but this feeling too she disguised from herself by turning it in the direction of annoyance at Geoffrey.
“It is exceedingly inconsiderate, indelicate almost of him,” she said to herself, “to parade in this way his complete independence of any sort of wifely anxiety. I believe he chooses these vicious creatures on purpose. And of course if I made the slightest remonstrance147 he would turn on me with taunts148 that I had no right to interfere, that to me his personal safety must be a matter of utter indifference. Evidently he now despises what, if he had acted differently, might still have been his—my friendship and regard. But he really need not go out of his way to exhibit to strangers the state of things between us.” And with a hard look on her face, she turned to Lady Anne, who now entered the room.
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1
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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2
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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3
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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4
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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5
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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6
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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7
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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8
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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9
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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11
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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12
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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14
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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15
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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16
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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17
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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18
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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19
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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20
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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21
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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22
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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23
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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24
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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25
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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26
alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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27
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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28
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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29
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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30
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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31
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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32
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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33
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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34
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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35
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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36
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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37
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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38
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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39
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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40
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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41
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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42
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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43
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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44
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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45
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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46
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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47
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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48
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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49
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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50
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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51
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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52
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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53
engender
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| v.产生，引起 | |
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54
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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55
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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56
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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57
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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58
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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59
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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60
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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61
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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62
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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63
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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64
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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65
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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66
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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67
spouses
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| n.配偶，夫或妻( spouse的名词复数 ) | |
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68
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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69
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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70
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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71
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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73
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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74
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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75
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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76
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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77
obtruding
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的现在分词 ) | |
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78
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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79
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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80
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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81
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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82
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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83
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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84
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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85
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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86
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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87
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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88
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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89
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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90
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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91
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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92
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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93
joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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94
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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95
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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96
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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97
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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98
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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99
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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100
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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101
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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102
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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103
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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104
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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105
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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106
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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107
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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108
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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109
strewing
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| v.撒在…上( strew的现在分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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110
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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111
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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112
penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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113
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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114
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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115
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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116
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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117
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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118
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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119
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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120
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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121
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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122
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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123
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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124
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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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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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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148
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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