It was Mrs. Rhoda Squires3 who uttered the above words; and she uttered them with considerable unnecessary clatter4 of the dishes she was engaged in washing. Abby Ann, a lank5, dyspeptic-looking girl of fifteen or sixteen, was wiping the same, while the farmer himself was putting the finishing touches to his evening toilet. That toilet consisted, as usual, of a good wash at the pump, the turning down of his shirt-sleeves, and a brief application of the family comb, which occupied a convenient wall-pocket at one side of the small kitchen mirror—after which the worthy6 farmer considered himself in full dress, and ready for any social emergency likely to occur at Higgins' Four Corners.
"No," said Abby Ann, in response to her mother's remark, "she ain't no beauty, but her clo'es does fit elegant. I wish I hed the pattern o' that white polonay o' hern, but I wouldn't ask[162] her for it—no, not to save her!" she added, in praiseworthy emulation7 of the maternal8 spirit.
"Oh, you women folks!" interposed the farmer. "You're as full of envy 'n' backbitin' as a beechnut's full o' meat. Beauty! Ye don't know what beauty means. I tell you she is a beauty,—a real high-steppin' out-an'-out beauty!"
"She's as old as I be, every bit!" snapped Mrs. Squires. "An' she hain't got a speck9 o' color in her cheeks—an' she's a widder at that!"
Farmer Squires turned slowly around and deliberately10 surveyed the wiry, stooping figure of his wife from the small, rusty11 "pug" which adorned12 the back of her aggressive little head, and the sharp, energetically moving elbows, down to the hem1 of her stiffly starched13 calico gown.
"Look-a-here, Rhody," said he, a quizzical look on his shrewd, freckled14 countenance15, "you've seen Gil Simmonses thorough-bred? Wall—that mare16 is nigh onto two year older'n our old Sal, but I swanny——"
Undoubtedly18 the red signal which flamed from Mrs. Squires's sallow cheeks warned her husband that he had said more than enough, for he came to a sudden pause, seized upon a pair of colossal19 cowhide shoes, upon which he had just bestowed20 an unusual degree of attention in the way of polish, and disappeared in the direction of the barn.
"He's jist as big a fool as ever!" she ejacu[163]lated. "The Lord knows I didn't want no city folks a-wearin' out my carpets, an' a drinkin' up my cream, an' a-turnin' up their noses at me! But no—ever sence he heared that Deacon Fogg made nigh onto a hundred dollars last year a-keepin' summer-boarders, his fingers has been a-itchin' an' his mouth a-waterin', an' nothin' for't but I must slave myself to death the whole summer for a pack o' stuck-up——"
She paused—for a soft rustle22 of garments and a faint perfume filled the kitchen, and turning, Mrs. Squires beheld23 the object of her vituperation standing24 before her.
She was certainly yellow-haired, and though not "every bit as old" as her hostess, a woman whose first youth was past; yet so far as delicately turned outlines, and pearly fairness of skin go, she might have been twenty. The eyes which met Mrs. Squires's own pale orbs25 were of an intense, yet soft, black, heavy-lidded and languid, and looked out from beneath their golden fringes with a calm, slow gaze, as if it were hardly worth their while to look at all. A smile, purely26 conventional, yet sweet with the graciousness of good breeding, parted the fine, soft lips.
Her mere27 presence made the room seem small and mean, and Mrs. Squires, into whose soured and jealous nature the aspect of beauty and grace ate like a sharp acid, smarted under a[164] freshly awakened28 sense of her own physical insignificance29.
She received her guest with a kind of defiant30 insolence31, which could not, however, conceal32 her evident embarrassment33, while Abby Ann retreated ignominiously34 behind the pantry door.
"I came to ask if Mr. Squires succeeded in finding some one to take us about," said the lady. "He thought he could."
Her voice was deep-toned and sweet, her manner conciliatory.
"I believe he did," replied Mrs. Squires, curtly35. "Abby Ann, go tell your father Mis' Jerome wants him."
Abby Ann obeyed, and the lady passed out into the front hall, and to the open door. A cascade36 of filmy lace and muslin floated from her shoulders and trailed across the shiny oil-cloth. As the last frill swept across the threshold, Mrs. Squires closed the door upon it with a sharp report.
Before the door a little girl was playing on the green slope, while an elderly woman with a grave, kindly37 face sat looking on.
Farmer Squires, summoned by his daughter, came round the corner of the house. He touched his straw hat awkwardly.
"They's a young feller," he said, "that lives a mile or so up the river, that has a tip-top team—a[165] kivered kerridge an' a fust-rate young hoss. His folks has seen better days, the Grangers has, an' Rob is proud as Lucifer, but they's a big mortgage on the farm, an' he's 'mazin' ambitious ter pay it off. So when I told him about you, he said he'd see about it. He wouldn't let no woman drive his hoss, but he thought mebbe he'd drive ye round hisself. Shouldn't wonder if he was up to-night."
"I wish he might come," said the lady. "My physician said I must ride every day, and I am too cowardly to drive if the horse were ever so gentle."
"No—I guess you couldn't hold in Rob's colt with them wrists," said he, glancing admiringly at the slender, jewelled hands. "I shouldn't wonder if that was Rob now."
At this moment wheels were heard rapidly approaching, and a carriage appeared in sight. A young man was driving. He held the reins38 with firm hand, keeping his eyes fixed39 upon the fine-stepping animal, turned dexterously40 up the slope, brought the horse to a stand-still before the door, and sprang lightly to the ground.
He was a remarkable41-looking young fellow, tall above the average, and finely proportioned. Hair and mustache were dark, eyes of an indescribable gray, and shaded by thick, black brows. A proud yet frank smile rested on his handsome face.
"Hello, Rob," said Farmer Squires. "Here's[166] the lady that wanted ter see ye. Mister Granger, Mis' Jerome."
The lady bowed, with a trace of hauteur42 in her manner at first, but she looked with one of her slow glances into the young man's face, and then extended her hand, and the white fingers rested for an instant in his brown palm. Granger returned her greeting with a bow far from awkward, while a rich color surged into his sun-browned face.
"That is a magnificent horse of yours, Mr. Granger," said Mrs. Jerome. "I hope he is tractable43. I was nearly killed in a runaway44 once, and since then I am very timid."
"Oh, he is very gentle," said Granger, caressing45 the fiery46 creature's beautiful head. "If you like, I will take you for a drive now—if it is not too late."
"Certainly, I would like it very much. Nettie," she said, turning to the woman, "bring my hat and Lill's, and some wraps."
The woman obeyed, and in a few moments Mrs. Jerome and her child were whirling over the lovely country road. Their departure was witnessed by the entire Squires family, including an obese47 dog of somnolent48 habits, and old Sal, the gray mare, who thrust her serious face over the stone wall opposite, and gazed contemplatively down the road after the retreating carriage.
[167]
"Do you think you will be afraid?" asked Granger, as he helped Mrs. Jerome to alight.
"Oh no," she answered, with a very charming smile. "The horse is as docile49 as he is fiery. I shall enjoy the riding immensely. Do you think you can come every day?"
"I shall try to—at least for the present."
Mrs. Jerome watched the carriage out of sight.
"How very interesting!" she was thinking. "Who would dream of finding such a face here! And yet—I don't know—one would hardly find such a face out in the world. Perhaps it will not be so dull after all. I thought they were all like Squires!"
For several succeeding weeks there was seldom a day when the fiery black horse and comfortable old carriage did not appear before the farm-house door, and but few of those days when Mrs. Jerome did not avail herself of the opportunity, sometimes accompanied by the child and Nettie, oftener by the child alone.
The interest and curiosity with which young Granger had inspired Mrs. Jerome in the beginning, deepened continually. A true son of the soil, descendant of a long line of farmers, whence came this remarkable physical beauty, this refined, almost poetic50, temperament51, making it impossible for him, in spite of the unconventionally of his[168] manner, to do a rude or ungraceful act? It was against tradition, she thought,—against precedent52. It puzzled and fascinated her. She found it impossible to treat him as an inferior, notwithstanding the relation in which he stood to her. Indeed, she soon ceased to think of that at all. The books which she took with her upon their protracted53 drives were seldom opened. She found it pleasanter to lie back in the corner of the carriage, and watch the shifting panorama54 of hill and forest and lake through which they were driving. That the handsome head with its clustering locks and clear-cut profile, which was always between her and the landscape, proved a serious obstruction55 to the view, and that her eyes quite as often occupied themselves with studying the play of those mobile lips, and the nervous tension of those sun-browned hands upon the reins, was, perhaps, natural and unavoidable.
She talked with him a great deal, too, in her careless, fluent way, or rather to him, for the conversation on Granger's part was limited to an occasional eager question, a flash of his fine eyes, or an appreciative56 smile at some witty57 turn. She talked of many things, but with delicate tact58 avoided such themes as might prove embarrassing to an unsophisticated mind—including books.
It was, therefore, with a little shock of surprise that she one day found him buried in the pages of[169] Tennyson, a volume of whose poems she had left upon the carriage seat while she and Lill explored a neighboring pasture for raspberries.
He was lying at full length in the sweet-fern, one arm beneath his head, his face eager and absorbed. He did not notice her approach, and she had been standing near him for some moments before he became aware of her presence. Then, closing the book, he sprang to his feet.
"So you read poetry, Mr. Granger?" she said, arching her straight brows slightly.
"Sometimes," he answered. "I have read a good many of the old poets. My grandfather left a small library, which came into my possession."
"Then you have read Shakspere——" began the lady.
"Yes," interrupted Granger, "Shakspere, and Milton, and Pope, and Burns. Is it so strange?" he asked, turning upon her one of his swift glances. "If one plowman may write poetry another plowman may read it, I suppose."
He spoke with bitterness, a deep flush rising to his temples.
"And have you read modern authors too?"
"Very little. There is no opportunity here. There is nothing here—nothing!" he answered, flinging aside a handful of leaves he had unwittingly gathered.
"Why do you stay here, then?"
[170]
The question sprang, almost without volition60, from her lips. She would gladly have recalled it the next moment.
Granger gave her another swift glance, and it seemed to her that he repressed the answer which was already upon his tongue. A strange, bitter smile came to his lips.
"Let the shoemaker stick to his last," he said, turning toward the carriage, "and the farmer to his plow59."
During the homeward ride he was even more taciturn than usual. At the door, Mrs. Jerome offered him the volume of Tennyson. He accepted it, with but few words.
When he returned it, a few days later, it opened of itself, and between the leaves lay a small cluster of wild roses, and some lines were faintly marked. They were these:
"When she made pause, I knew not for delight;
Because with sudden motion from the ground
She raised her piercing orbs and filled with light
"Cleopatra!" Mrs. Jerome repeated softly, "and like her, I thought there were 'no men to govern in this wood.' Poor fellow!"
It was a few days, perhaps a week, later, when Mrs. Jerome, who to the mystification of her host and hostess had received no letters, and, to the best[171] of their knowledge, had written none, up to this time, followed a sudden impulse, and wrote the following epistle:
"My dear friend and physician:—You advised, no, commanded me, to eschew62 the world for a season, utterly63 and completely. I have obeyed you to the letter. I will spare you details—enough that I am gaining rapidly, and, wonderful to say, I am not in the least ennuyée. On the contrary. The cream is delicious, the spring water exquisite64, the scenery lovely. Even the people interest me. I am your debtor65, as never before, and beg leave to sign myself,
Your grateful friend and patient,
Helen Jerome.
"P. S.—It would amuse me to know what the world says of my disappearance66. Keep my secret, on your very soul.
H. J."
Midsummer came, and passed, and Mrs. Jerome still lingered. In her pursuit for health she had been indefatigable67. There was hardly a road throughout the region which had been left untried, hardly a forest path unexplored, or a mountain spring untasted.
"For a woman that sets up for delicate," remarked Mrs. Squires, as from her point of observation behind the window-blinds she watched Mrs. Jerome spring with a girl's elastic68 grace from the carriage, "for a woman that sets up for delicate, she can stan' more ridin' around, an' scramblin' up mountains, than any woman I ever see. I couldn't do it—that's sure an' sartain!"
"It's sperrit, Rhody, sperrit. Them's the kind[172] o' women that'll go through fire and flood to git what they're after."
"Yes, an' drag everybody along with 'em," added Mrs. Squires, meaningly.
There was one place to which they rode which held a peculiar69 charm for Mrs. Jerome,—a small lake, deep set among the hills and lying always in the shadow. Great pines grew down to its brink70 and hung far out over its surface, which was almost hidden by thickly growing reeds and the broad leaves and shining cups of water-lilies. Dragonflies darted71 over it, and a dreamy silence invested it. A boat lay moored72 at the foot of the tangled73 path which led from the road, and they often left the carriage, and rowed and floated about until night-fall among the reeds and lilies.
They were floating in this way, near the close of a sultry August afternoon. Lill lay coiled upon a shawl in the bottom of the boat, her arms full of lilies whose lithe74 stems she was twining together, talking to herself, meanwhile, in a pretty fashion of her own.
Granger was seated in the bow of the boat, with folded arms, and eyes fixed upon the dark water. His face was pale and moody75. It had worn that expression often of late, and he had fallen into a habit of long intervals76 of silence and abstraction.
The beautiful woman who sat opposite him, idly[173] trailing one hand, whiter and rosier77 than the lily it held, in the water, seemed also under some unusual influence. She had not spoken for some time. Now and then she would raise the white lids of her wonderful eyes, and let them sweep slowly over the downcast face of Granger.
The dusky water lay around them still as death, reflecting in black masses the overhanging pines. The air was warm and full of heavy odors and drowsy78 sounds, through which a bird's brief song rang out, now and then, thrillingly sweet.
The atmosphere seemed to Mrs. Jerome to become every moment more oppressive. A singular agitation79 began to stir in her breast, which showed itself in a faint streak80 of red upon either cheek. At last this feeling became unendurable, and she started with a sudden motion which caused the boat to rock perilously81.
Granger, roused by this movement, seized the oars82, and with a skilful83 stroke brought the boat again to rest.
"Will you row across to the other side?" the lady said. "I saw some rare orchids84 there which must be in bloom by this time."
Granger took up the oars again and rowed as directed. When the orchids had been found and gathered, at Mrs. Jerome's request he spread her a shawl beneath a tree, and seated himself near her.
[174]
"How beautiful it is here!" she said, after a pause. "I would like to stay and see the moon rise over those pines. It rises early to-night. You don't mind staying?" she added, looking at Granger.
"No—" he answered, slowly, "I don't mind it in the least."
"How different it must look here in winter!" she said, presently.
"Yes; as different as life and death."
"I cannot bear to think I shall never see it again," she said, after another and longer pause, "and yet I must leave it so soon!"
"Soon!" Granger echoed, with a start. "You are going away soon, then?" he asked, in a husky voice.
"Yes—very soon—in two weeks, I think."
Granger made no reply. He bent85 his head and began searching among the leaves and moss86. His eyes fell upon one of the lady's hands, which lay carelessly by her side, all its perfections and the splendor87 of its jewels relieved against the crimson88 background of the shawl.
He could not look away from it, but bent lower and lower, until his hair and his quick breath swept across the fair fingers.
At the touch a wonderful change passed over the woman. She started and trembled violently—her face grew soft and tender. She raised the hand which was upon her lap, bent forward and[175] laid it, hesitatingly, tremblingly, upon the bowed, boyish head.
"Robert! Robert!" she whispered.
Granger raised his head. For a moment, which seemed an age, the two looked into each other's face. Hers was full of yearning89 tenderness and suffused90 with blushes—his, rigid91 and incredulous, yet lighted up with a wild joy. A hoarse92 cry broke from his lips—he thrust aside the hand which lingered upon his head, sprang to his feet, and went away.
The color faded from Mrs. Jerome's face. She sat, for a moment, as if turned to stone, her eyes, dilated93 and flashing, fixed upon Granger's retreating figure. Then, with an impetuous gesture, she rose and went to look for Lill. A scream from the little girl fell upon her ears at the same moment. She had strayed out upon a log which extended far into the water, and stood poised94, like a bird, upon its extreme end. Round her darted a blue-mailed dragon-fly, against which the little arms were beating in terror. Another instant, and she would be in the water. Mrs. Jerome sprang toward her, but Granger was already there. As he gave the frightened child into her mother's arms, he looked into her face. She returned his gaze with a haughty95 glance, and walked swiftly toward the boat. He took his seat in the bow and rowed across the lake in silence. Lill buried her scared[176] little face in her mother's lap, and no one spoke. As they landed, a great, dark bird rose suddenly out of the bushes, and with a hideous96, mocking cry, like the laugh of a maniac97, swept across the water. The woman started and drew the child closer to her breast.
They drove along in silence until within a mile of the Squires' farm, when, without a word, Granger turned into a road over which their drives had never before extended. It was evidently a by-way, and little used, for grass grew thickly between the ruts. On the brow of a hill he halted.
Below, in the valley, far back from the road-side, stood an old, square mansion98, of a style unusual in that region. It must have been a place of consequence in its day and generation. The roof was hipped99, and broken by dormer windows, and a carved lintel crowned the door-way. An air of age and decay hung about it and the huge, black barns with sunken roofs, and the orchard100, full of gnarled and barren trees, which flanked it. A broad, grass-grown avenue, stiffly bordered by dishevelled-looking Lombardy poplars, led up to the door.
Granger turned slowly, and looked full into Mrs. Jerome's face. His own was terribly agitated101. Doubt, questioning, passionate102 appeal, spoke from every feature.
"That is the old Granger place," he said, in a strange, choked voice, with a gesture toward the[177] house, "and that"—as a woman appeared for an instant in the door-way—"that woman——is my wife!"
The desperate look in his face intensified103. His eyes seemed endeavoring to pierce into her inmost soul. His lips moved as if to speak again, but speech failed him. A quick breath escaped the lady's parted lips, and she gave him a swift, startled glance.
It was but a passing ripple104 on the surface of her high-bred calm. However, a smile, the slow, sweet, slightly scornful smile he knew so well, came to her lips again the next instant. She raised her eye-glasses and glanced carelessly over the scene.
"Nice old place!" she said, in her soft, indifferent way. "Quite an air about it, really!"
Granger turned and lashed105 the horse into a gallop107. His teeth were set—his blue-gray eyes flashed.
When the door was reached he lifted the woman and her child from the carriage, and drove madly away, the impact of the wheels with the rocky road sending out fierce sparks as they whirled along.
Mrs. Jerome gathered her lilies into her arms and went slowly up to her room.
Several days passed, and Robert Granger did not appear. The harvest was now at its height, and the farmers prolonged their labors108 until sun[178]set, and often later. This was the ostensible110 reason for his remaining away. During these days Mrs. Jerome was in a restless mood. She wandered continually about the woods and fields near the farm-house, remaining out far into the bright, dewless nights. One evening she complained of headache, and remained in-doors, sitting in négligé by the window, looking listlessly out over the orchard. Nettie came in from a stroll with Lill, and gave her mistress a letter.
"We met Mr. Granger, and he gave me this, madam," she said, respectfully, but her glance rested with some curiosity upon the face of Mrs. Jerome as she spoke.
The letter remained unopened upon her lap long after Nettie had gone with the child to her room. Finally, she tore the envelope open and read:
"What is the use of struggling any longer? You have seen, from the first day, that I was entirely111 at your mercy. There have been times when I thought you were coldly and deliberately trying your power over me; and there have been other times when I thought you were laughing at me, and I did not care, so long as I could see your face and hear your voice. I never allowed myself to think of the end. Now all is changed. What has happened? I am too miserable—and too madly happy—to think clearly; but, unless I am quite insane, I have heard your voice speaking my name, and I have seen in your face a look which meant—no, I cannot write it! It was something I have never dared dream of, and I cannot believe it, even now; and yet, I cannot forget that moment! If it is a sin to write this—if it is a wrong to you—I swear I have never meant to sin, and I would have kept silent forever but for that mo[179]ment. Then, too, it flashed upon me for the first time that you did not know I was not free to love you. It must be that you did not know—the doubt is an insult to your womanhood—and yet, when I tried to make sure of this, how you baffled me! But still that moment remains112 unforgotten. What does it all mean? I must have an answer! I shall come to-morrow, at the usual time. If you refuse to see me, I shall understand. If not—what then?
"R. G."
The letter fell to the floor, and Helen Jerome sat for a while with heaving breast and hands clasped tightly over her face. Then she rose and paced up and down the chamber113, pausing at length before one of the photographs with which she had adorned the bare walls. Through sombre, lurid114 vapors115 swept the figures of two lovers, with wild, wan17 faces, clasped in an eternal embrace of anguish116. She looked at the picture a long time with a brooding face. In the dusk the floating figures seemed to expand into living forms, their lips to utter audible cries of despair.
"Even at that price?"
She shuddered117 as the words escaped her lips, and turned away. There was a tap at the door, and, before she could speak, a woman entered,—a spare, plain-featured woman, dressed in a dark cotton gown and coarse straw hat. There was something gentle, yet resolute118, in her manner, as she came toward Mrs. Jerome, her eyes full of repressed, yet eager, scrutiny119.
"Good evenin', ma'am," she said, extending a[180] vinaigrette of filigree120 and crystal. "I was comin' up this way an' I thought I'd bring ye your bottle. Leastways, I s'pose it's yourn. It fell out o' Rob's pocket."
She let her eyes wander while she was speaking over the falling golden hair, the rich robe-de-chambre, and back to the beautiful proud face.
"Thank you, it is mine," said Mrs. Jerome. "Are you Robert Granger's mother?"
"No, ma'am. I am his wife's mother. My name is Mary Rogers."
Mrs. Jerome went to the window and seated herself. The hem of her dress brushed against the letter, and she stooped and picked it up, crushing it in her hand. The visitor did not offer to go. She had even removed her hat, and stood nervously121 twisting its ribbons in her hard, brown fingers.
"Will you sit down, Mrs. Rogers?"
The woman sank upon a chair without speaking. She was visibly embarrassed, moving her hands and feet restlessly about, and then bursting into sudden speech.
"I've got somethin' I want to say to ye, Mis' Jerome. It's kind o' hard to begin—harder'n I thought 'twould be."
She spoke in a strained, trembling voice, with many pauses.
"It's something that ought to be said, an'[181] there's nobody to say it but me. Perhaps—you don't know—that folks round here is a-talkin' about—about you an' Rob."
Mrs. Jerome smiled—a scornful smile which showed her beautiful teeth. The woman saw it, and her swarthy face flushed.
"I don't suppose it matters to you, ma'am, if they be," she said, bitterly, "an' it ain't on your account I come. It's on Ruby122's account. Ruby's my darter. Oh, Mis' Jerome,"—she dropped her indignant tone, and spoke pleadingly,—"you don't look a bit like a wicked woman, only proud, an' used to havin' men praise ye, an' I'm sure if you could see Ruby you'd pity her, ma'am. She's a-worryin' an' breakin' her heart over Rob's neglectin' of her so, but she don't know what folks is a-sayin'. I've kep' it from her so far, but I'm afeard I can't keep it much longer, for folks keeps a throwin' out 'n' hintin' round, and if Ruby should find it out—the way she is now—it'd kill her!"
She stopped, rocking herself to and fro, until she could control her shaking voice.
"I never wanted her to hev Rob Granger," she began again, speaking hurriedly, "an' I tried to hender it all I could. But 'twa'n't no use. I knew 'twould come to this, sooner or later. 'Twas in his father, an' it's in him. The Grangers was all of 'em alike—proud an' high-sperrited, an' never[182] knowin' their own minds two days at a time. It's in the blood, an' readin' po'try an' sich don't make it no better. I knowed Ruby wa'n't no match for Rob; she's gentle an' quiet, an' ain't got much book-larnin'. But her heart was sot on him, poor gal106!"
And again she paused, sobbing123 gently now, and wiping her eyes on her apron124. Mrs. Jerome rose and went over to her. A wonderful change had passed over her. Every trace of pride and scorn had faded from her face. She was gentle, almost timid, in manner, as she stood before the weeping woman.
"Mrs. Rogers," she said, kindly, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am. It is all unnecessary, I assure you. It is very foolish of people to talk. I shall see that you have no more trouble on my—on this account. If I had known"—she hesitated, stammering125. "You see, Mrs. Rogers, I did not even know that Robert Granger was married. If I had, perhaps——"
The woman looked up incredulously. The blood tingled126 hot through Mrs. Jerome's veins127 as she answered, with a sting of humiliation128 at her position.
"It may seem strange—it is strange, but no one has ever mentioned it to me until—a few days ago. Besides, as I tell you, there is no need for talk. There shall be none. You can go home in perfect[183] confidence that you will have no further cause for trouble—that I can prevent."
Mrs. Rogers rose and took the lady's soft hand in hers.
"God bless ye, ma'am. Ye'll do what's right, I know. You must forgive me for thinking wrong of ye, but you see——"
She broke off in confusion.
"It is no matter," said Mrs. Jerome. "You did not know me, of course. Good-night."
When the door had closed upon her visitor, she stood for a while motionless, leaning her head wearily against the window-frame.
"Strange," she said to herself, "that she should have reminded me of—mother! It must have been her voice."
A breeze strayed in at the window, and brought up to her face the scent129 of the lilies which stood in a dish upon the bureau. She seized the bowl with a hasty gesture, and threw the flowers far out into the orchard.
Mrs. Jerome arose very early the next morning and went down for a breath of the fresh, sweet air. Early as it was, the farmer had been to the village to distribute his milk, and came rattling130 up the road with his wagon131 full of empty cans. He drove up to the door, and, with an air of importance, handed the lady a letter, staring inquisitively132 at her haggard face as he did so. The letter was[184] merely a friendly one from her physician, in answer to her own, and said, among other things:
"Van Cassalear is in town. All my ingenuity133 was called into action in the effort to answer his persistent134 inquiries135 in regard to you. As glad as I am that you are so content, and inured136 to human suffering as I am supposed to be, I could not but feel a pang137 of sympathy for him. His state is a melancholy138 one. The world has long since ceased conjecturing139 as to your whereabouts. You are one of those privileged beings who are at liberty to do and dare. Your mysterious disappearance is put down with your other eccentricities140."
Although, under ordinary circumstances, not a woman to care for a pretext141 for anything she chose to do, she allowed the reception of this letter to serve in the present instance as an excuse for her immediate142 departure—for she had resolved to go away at once.
The surprise of Mr. Squires when her intention was made known to him was great, and tinged143 with melancholy—a melancholy which his wife by no means shared. But his feelings were considerably144 assuaged145 by the check handed him by Nettie, for an amount far greater than he had any reason to expect.
"I might 'a' got Rob to take 'em down to the station, if I'd a-known it sooner," he remarked to his wife, in Mrs. Jerome's hearing, "but I seen him an hour ago drivin' like thunder down toward Hingham, an' he won't be back in time. I guess old Sal can drag the folks down to the station,[185] an' I'll see if I can get Tim Higgins to take the things. Time I's about it, too. Train goes at one."
Mrs. Jerome went to her room and dressed herself in travelling attire146. Leaving Nettie to finish packing, she took her hat and went out and down the road, walking very rapidly. All along the road-side August was flaunting147 her gay banners. Silvery clematis and crimsoning148 blackberry vines draped the rough stone walls; hard-hack, both pink and white, asters and golden-rod, and many a humble149, nameless flower and shrub150, filled all the intervening spaces; yellow birds swung airily upon the purple tufts of the giant thistles, and great red butterflies hovered151 across her pathway. She passed on, unheeding, until the grassy152 by-road was reached, into which she turned, and stood for a moment on the summit of the hill, looking down upon the Granger homestead. A woman came out as she looked, and leaned over the flowers which bloomed in little beds on each side of the door-way. Mrs. Jerome half turned, as if to retrace153 her steps, and then walked resolutely154 down the hill and up the avenue. The woman saw her coming, stared shyly from beneath her hand in rustic155 fashion for a moment, and then ran into the house, where she could be seen peeping from between the half-closed window-blinds.
As she came nearer the house, Mrs. Jerome[186] slackened her steps. Her limbs trembled, she panted slightly, and a feeling of faintness came over her. The woman she had seen came again to the door, and stood there silently as if waiting for the stranger to speak—a timid, delicate young creature, with great innocent blue eyes and apple-bloom complexion156. The lady looked into the shy face a moment and came forward, holding out her gloved hand.
"Are you Mrs. Granger?"
The little woman nodded, and the apple-bloom color spread to her blue-veined temples.
"I am Mrs. Jerome," she continued. "You must have heard your—husband speak of me."
"Yes," answered Mrs. Granger, simply, "I've heard tell of you."
Meantime she was studying her guest with innocent curiosity—the lovely proud face, the supple157 figure, the quiet elegance158 of the toilet, with all its subtle perfection of detail. It did not irritate her as it did Mrs. Squires; it only filled her with gentle wonder and enthusiasm. She tried at length to shake off the timidity which possessed159 her.
"You must be real tired," she said gently. "It's a long walk. Won't you come in?"
"Thank you," said the lady. "I think I am very tired. If you would be so kind as to give me a chair, I would sit here in the shade awhile."
She sank into the chair which Mrs. Granger[187] brought, and drank eagerly the cool water which she proffered160.
"Thank you," she said. "It is pleasant, here, very. How lovely your flowers are."
"Yes," said Mrs. Granger, with a show of pride, "I love flowers, and they always bloom well for me." She went to the beds and began gathering161 some of the choicest. At the same moment, Mrs. Rogers came through the hall. As she saw the visitor, her face flushed, and she glanced suspiciously, resentfully, from Mrs. Jerome to her daughter.
The lady rose.
"It's Mis' Jerome, mother," said Ruby, simply, "the lady that stays at Squireses."
Mrs. Jerome bowed, and a look of full understanding passed between the two. Ruby, gathering her flowers, saw nothing of it.
"I am going away, Mrs. Granger," said the lady. "Circumstances require my immediate return to the city. I came to leave a message with you for—your husband, as he is not at home. Tell him I thank him for the pleasure he has given me this summer."
"I'm real sorry you took the trouble to come down," said Mrs. Granger. "It's a long walk, an' Squires could 'a' told Rob to-night."
"Yes, I know," said the lady, consulting her watch, "but I wanted a last walk."
[188]
She held the little woman's hand at parting, and looked long into the shy face. Then, stooping, she lightly kissed her forehead, and, with the flowers in her hand, went down the grassy avenue, up the hill, and out of sight.
Robert Granger came home late in the afternoon. He drove directly into the barn, and proceeded to unharness and care for the jaded162 beast, which was covered with foam163 and dust. He himself was haggard and wild-eyed, and he moved about with feverish164 haste. When he had made the tired creature comfortable in his stall, he went to the splendid animal in the one adjoining and began to bestow21 similar attentions upon him. While he was thus engaged, Mrs. Rogers came into the stable. Her son-in-law hardly raised his eyes. She watched him sharply for a moment, and came nearer.
"Ain't ye comin' in to get somethin' to eat, Rob?"
"I have been to dinner," was the answer.
"Rob," said the woman, quietly, "ye might as well let that go—ye won't need Dick to-day."
Granger started, almost dropping the card he was using.
"What do you mean?" he asked, with an effort at indifference165, resuming his work on Dick's shining mane.
[189]
"What!" cried Granger, glaring fiercely across Dick's back. "What did you say? Who's gone away?"
"The lady—Mis' Jerome," repeated the woman. "She come down herself to leave word for ye, seein' that you wa'n't at home. She was called away onexpected. Said she'd enjoyed herself first-rate this summer—an' was much obleeged to ye for your kindness."
Granger continued his labor109, stooping so low that his mother-in-law could only see his shoulders and the jetty curls which clustered at his neck. She smiled as she looked—a somewhat bitter smile. She was a good and gentle creature, but Ruby was her daughter—her only child. After a moment or two she went away.
When she was out of hearing, Granger rose. He was pale as death, and his forehead was covered with heavy drops. He leaned weakly against Dick, who turned his fine eyes lovingly on his master and rubbed his head against his sleeve.
Granger hid his face upon his arms.
"My God!" he cried, "is that the answer?"
It was the answer. It was all the answer Granger ever received. He did not kill himself. He did not attempt to follow or even write to her. Why should he? She had come and had gone,—a beautiful, bewildering, maddening vision.
Neither did he try the old remedy of dissipation,[190] as a meaner nature might have done; but he could not bear the quiet meaning of Mrs. Rogers' looks, nor the mute, reproachful face of his wife, and he fell into a habit of wandering with dog and gun through the mountains, coming home with empty game-bag, late at night, exhausted167 and dishevelled, to throw himself upon his bed and sleep long, heavy slumbers168. Without knowing it, he had taken his sore heart to the surest and purest counsellor; and little by little those solitary169 communings with nature had their healing effect.
"Let him be, Ruby," her mother would say, as Ruby mourned and wondered. "Let him be. The Grangers was all of 'em queer. Rob'll come round all right in course of time."
Weeks and months went by in this way, and one morning, after a night of desperate pain and danger, Robert Granger's first-born was laid in his arms. Then he buried his face in the pillow by pale, smiling Ruby, and sent up a prayer for forgiveness and strength. True, only God and attending angels heard it, but Ruby Granger was a happier woman from that day.
Mrs. Van Cassalear was passing along the city street, leaning upon her husband's arm. It was midsummer. "Everybody" was out of town, and the Van Cassalears were only there for a day, en passant. They were walking rapidly, the lady's[191] delicate drapery gathered in one hand, a look of proud indifference upon her face.
"Pond-lilies! Pond-lilies!"
She paused. Upon a street-corner stood a sun-burned, bare-foot boy, in scant170 linen171 suit and coarse farmer's hat. His hands were full of lilies, which he was offering for sale.
Mrs. Van Cassalear dropped her husband's arm and the white draperies fell unheeded to the pavement. She almost snatched the lilies from the boy's hands, and bowed her face over them.
The city sights and sounds faded away. Before her spread a deep, dark lake, its surface flecked with lilies. Tall pines bent over it, and in their shadow drifted a boat, and an impassioned, boyish face looked at her from the boat's prow172....
"Six for five cents, lady, please!"
"Do you want the things, Helen?" said Van Cassalear, the least trace of impatience173 in his voice. "If you do, let me pay the boy and we'll go on. People are staring."
The lady raised her eyes and drew a deep breath.
"No," she said, "I will not have them."
She returned the lilies, with a piece of money, to the astonished boy, gathered her drapery again into her hand, and swept on.
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收听单词发音
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1
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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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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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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9
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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10
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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19
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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20
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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22
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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23
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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24
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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25
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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26
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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28
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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29
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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30
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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31
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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32
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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33
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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34
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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36
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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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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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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39
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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40
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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41
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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42
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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43
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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44
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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45
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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46
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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47
obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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48
somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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49
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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50
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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51
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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52
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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53
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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54
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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55
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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56
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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57
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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58
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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59
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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60
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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61
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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62
eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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63
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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64
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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65
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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66
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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67
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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68
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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69
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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70
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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71
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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72
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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73
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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74
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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75
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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76
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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77
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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78
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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79
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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80
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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81
perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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82
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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84
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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85
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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86
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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87
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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88
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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89
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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90
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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92
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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93
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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95
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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96
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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97
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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98
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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99
hipped
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| adj.着迷的，忧郁的 | |
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100
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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101
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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102
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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103
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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105
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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106
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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107
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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108
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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109
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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110
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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111
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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112
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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113
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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114
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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115
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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117
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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118
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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119
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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120
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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121
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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122
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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123
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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124
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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125
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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126
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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128
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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129
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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130
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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131
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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132
inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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133
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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134
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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135
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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136
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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137
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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138
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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139
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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140
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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141
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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142
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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143
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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145
assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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146
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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147
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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148
crimsoning
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| 变为深红色（crimson的现在分词形式） | |
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149
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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150
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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151
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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152
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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153
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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154
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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155
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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156
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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157
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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158
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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159
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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160
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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162
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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163
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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164
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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165
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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166
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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167
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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168
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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169
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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170
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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171
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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172
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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173
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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