But if the inhabitants of Lullington were sorry for their pastor's departure at the time of his leaving them, much more bitterly did they regret it after they had had a little experience of his locum tenens. The gentleman who had temporarily undertaken the spiritual care of the Lullingtonians was a man of birth and ability, an old college friend of Martin Gurwood, and emphatically a scholar and a gentleman. He had married when very young, and had a large family; he was miserably7 poor, and it was principally with the view of helping8 him that Martin had requested him to fill his place during his absence. Mr. Dill was only too glad to find some place which he could occupy rent-free, and where he had a better chance of being able to work undisturbed by the racket of his children than in the noisy lodging9 in town. So he moved all his family by the third-class train, and in less than an hour after their arrival the boys were playing hockey on the lawn, the girls were swinging in the orchard10, Mrs. Dill was in her usual state of uncertainty11 as to where she had packed away any of the 'things,' and Mr. Dill, inked up to the eyebrows12 and attired13 in a ragged14 grey duffel dressing-gown, was seated in Martin Gurwood's arm-chair hard at work at his Greek play.
Although not much given to cultivating politeness, the Lullington farmers, out of respect for Martin Gurwood, thought it advisable to tender a welcome to their Vicar's representative, and appointed two of their number to carry out the determination. The deputation did not succeed in obtaining admittance; Mr. Dill's old servant, a kind of female Caleb Balderstone, meeting them in the hall and declaring her master to be 'at work'--a condition in which e was never to be interrupted. The deputation retired15 in dudgeon, and that evening at the Dun Cow described their reception amidst the sympathising groans16 of their assembled friends. It was unanimously decided17 that when Mr. Dill called upon any of them he should be accommodated with that species of outspoken18 candour which was known in those parts as 'a piece of their mind.' It is impossible to say what effect this intended frankness would have had upon the temporary occupant of the Lullington pulpit, inasmuch as that during his whole time of residence Mr. Dill never called on one of the parishioners. Many of them never saw him except on Sundays; others caught glimpses of him, a small homely-looking man, striding about the garden dressed in the before-mentioned ragged morning-gown, very short pepper-and-salt trousers, white socks not too clean, and low shoes, gazing now on to the ground, now into the skies, muttering to himself; and apparently19 enforcing his arguments with extended forefinger20, but so entranced and enrapt in his cogitation21 as to be conscious of nothing passing around him, or to gaze placidly22 into the broad countenances23 of Hodge or Giles staring at him over the hedge, without the least notion that they were there. On Sundays, however, it was a very different matter. Then Mr. Dill was anything but preoccupied24. He gave himself up entirely25 and earnestly to the duty of addressing his congregation; but he addressed them with such ferocity, and the doctrine26 which he preached was so stern and uncompromising--so different from anything that they had been accustomed to hear from the gentle lips of Martin Gurwood--that the congregation, for the time struck rigid28 with awe1 and dismay, no sooner found themselves outside the porch than they gathered into a knot in the churchyard and determined29 on writing off at once to their Vicar to request him to remove his substitute.
The letter, in the form of a round-robin, was duly signed and dispatched, and produced a reply from Martin, counselling moderation, and promising27 the exertion30 of his influence with Mr. Dill. That influence had a somewhat salutary effect, and on the next Sunday the discourse31 was incomprehensible instead of denunciatory in its tone. But there was no sympathy between Mr. Dill and those with whom his lot was cast, and spiritual matters in Lullington had come to a very low ebb32 indeed when Martin Gurwood returned to his parishioners. Then they revived at once. The Vicar's arrival was hailed with the greatest delight; he was greeted with a cordiality which he had never before experienced, and, after the celebration of service on the ensuing Sunday, there was quite a demonstration33 of affection towards him on the part of the warm-hearted, if somewhat narrow-minded, people, amongst whom he had not laboured in vain.
But when the gloss34 of renewed confidence and regard began to wear off, it was noticed among the farmers that the Vicar's reserve, which had been the original stumbling block to his popularity with his parishioners, had, if anything, rather grown than decreased since his visit to London. Martin Gurwood did his duty regular as heretofore; attended schools, visited the sick, was always accessible when wanted; but he seemed more than ever anxious to escape to his solitude35; the services of the Irish mare36 were brought into constant requisition, and she was ridden harder than ever. All this was not lost upon the observant eye of Farmer Barford.
'It's pride, that's what it is, my boy,' said the old man to his son; 'it was so when parson first came down here, and though he got the better of it, it is so again now. It's after having been up to London, and seeing the ways, and wickedness, and goings-on of the grand folks that leaves the sting of envy behind, mebbe; and he knows it's not right, and flies from the temptation back to these quiet parts; and then the thought of what he has seen, and what he has to give up, rankles37 and galls38 him sorely.'
Farmer Barford was by no means strictly39 correct in his impression. There was a temptation in London for Martin Gurwood indeed, but it was not of the kind which the worthy40 old churchwarden imagined; and though the Vicar devoted41 the greater portion of his thoughts to it, it had not, at first at least, the effect of goading42 or harassing43 him in any way. Indeed, instead of attempting to expel the subject from his mind, he loved to brood and ponder over it, turning it hither and thither44, dwelling45 upon it in its every phase, and parting from it to enter once more upon the work-a-day duties of the world with the greatest reluctance46.
Yes, however much he had attempted to deceive himself when in Alice's presence, to tell himself that the interest he felt in her merely arose from pity for the position in which, by a sad combination of circumstances, she had been placed, Martin Gurwood no sooner found himself in the peaceful retreat of his own home, no longer surrounded by the feverish47 excitement of London, no longer compelled to be constantly on his guard lest he should betray the Claxton mystery to his mother, lest even he should betray to his friend Statham the secret of his heart, than he acknowledged to himself that he loved Alice. Loved her with depth and intensity48 such as no one would have accredited49 him with; loved her with a power of love such as he had never dreamed of possessing, and which astonished him by its force and earnestness. He, the man of saintly reputation, loved with his whole heart this woman, whose name and fame--innocent, and even ignorant of it as she was--were tarnished50 in the eyes of the world, and quite humbly51 put to himself the question if he could win her. In the silent watches of the night, or when riding far away from home, he would bring his horse to a stand-still on wind-swept common or barren moorland, and ask himself if he dared--having reference to his own past life--to hope for such happiness. Surely there could be little to cause trouble or anxiety to such a man? he, if any one, could afford to stand the scrutiny52 of the world, could ignore or laugh at what the world might say respecting his choice of a wife! And what could the world say? The secrecy53 which had been maintained about the whole matter had been perfect, so perfect as to make him easy about the fact that the dead man whom Alice had believed to be her husband was his stepfather. No one will ever know that but Statham, who is to be trusted, and--and Madame Du Tertre. He had forgotten her, and somehow, at the thought of her his heart turned chill within him. She could be relied upon, however, and Alice would never be troubled by any one or anything more when once he had the right to protect her.
To protect her, to watch over and tend her! To listen to the outpourings of her mind, simple and innocent as those of any village girl, to mould her soft nature and note the growth and development under his tuition of the common sense and right feeling which were her undoubted natural gifts. To solace54 the dead dull level of his daily life with her sweet companionship; to listen, as he had never hoped to listen, to words of love addressed to him--to him whose celibate55 life had been so long uncheered by fond look or word of affection! Could it be possible that this girl, of whom, as he recollected56 with something like dismay, he had at first conceived so distorted an idea, of whom he had spoken with so much harshness, and to whom he had so grudgingly57 extended the common Christian58 charity due from him in his position to any fellow-creature however erring;--could she, by the mysterious dispensation of Providence59, be the one woman reserved as his haven60 of rest from the buffets61 of the world, as the hope and comfort of his declining days? Could such a blessing62 come to him? The whisper of his fate within him seemed to answer, 'No!'
And yet why should such happiness be denied him? However lonely had been his own life, there were few men who had greater opportunities of studying the pleasures of domesticity; fewer still more calculated to enjoy the calm blessings63 of the married state, all-sufficient, all-engrossing in themselves. And Alice, what response could she make to this affection? She was surely heart-whole so far as the present was concerned; she loved no other man; her affection, such as it was, was buried in the grave. Such as it was! Yes, the phrase was harsh-sounding, but true. Communing with himself, Martin Gurwood came to the conclusion that Alice during her life long had never known what it was really to love. There could be no doubt, from all he had heard, from all he had seen, that she had been devoted to John Calverley, but it was the devotion of a young girl to a man many years her senior--to a man with whom their disparity of years prevented her having much in common. The feeling which she had entertained for John Calverley was respect, gratitude64, affection if you will, but it was not love. Even if it had been, even if those philosophers, according to whose dicta the first impression made upon a woman's heart by a man, no matter of what age or position, remains65 for ever branded and ineffaceable, were right--if Alice had been devoted to John Calverley in a sense other than that which he felt inclined to believe--Martin Gurwood acknowledged that he would be only too glad to take her as she was. He would accept with infinite thankfulness such a love as she could give him, and perhaps it would be better so. The dangerous passion which might have been, he would not ask for, he would not dream of. A quiet trusting love, such as her gentle nature could feel so truly, could give so freely, would amply satisfy him; and notwithstanding the never-ceasing whisper of his fate, he inclined to hope that he eventually might obtain it.
This hope, not arrived at until after many days' anxious self-communing, brought with it a different train of thought--a better train of mind. He was no longer inclined to be solitary66 now; he took a pleasure in going among his parishioners; in chatting with the old dames67 and young lasses; in listening to the farmers, and discussing future plans with them. That was to be the scene of his future labours; that was to be the place where his life with Alice would be passed. He pictured her to himself dispensing68 her charities, aiding him in his work, proving herself, as she was certain to do, kind, patient, active, exactly fitted for a parson's wife. Far removed from London and its temptations, out of the reach of any who might chance to know her previous history, worshipped and protected by him; the benefactress of the poor and sick; the kindly69 friend of all; her life at Lullington would be as it ought to have been from the first. And his life? It was almost too much happiness to speculate upon it. With the new hope came renewed health, fresh brightness, unaccustomed geniality70. His village friends had never before seen their Vicar so radiantly happy; and farmer Barford bade his son Bill remark that all the direful effects of the visit to London had passed away, and that the Lullington air and the return to his congregation had made their parson a man again.
This happy frame of mind was, however, not destined71 to last long. One bright winter's morning, when Martin Gurwood was walking briskly up and down the long gravel72 path leading to the garden-gate, now and then diverging73 for a moment to speak to the old gardener, who was pottering away in the conservatory74, and who had as yet scarcely got over his grief for the damage done to his favourite shrubs75 by Mr. Dill's mischievous76 children, the heavily-laden village postman saluted77 the Vicar, and handed him two letters and his weekly copy of the Guardian78. There was a time when Martin, in his eagerness to plunge79 into his journal, would have laid the letters aside for a more favourable80 opportunity, but now the postman had become a person of the greatest interest to him. On several occasions he had received a letter from Alice--quietly, simply, and naturally written--describing the domestic events of her daily life, and always speaking gratefully of his kindness towards her. This morning, however, there was nothing from Alice; one of the letters was written in his mother's narrow-cramped characters; the other in the bold flowing hand of Humphrey Statham.
Martin now never saw his mother's writing without a certain nervous apprehension81. However cleverly their precautions had been taken, there was always the chance of Mrs. Calverley's discovering the story of the Claxton mystery, and her son never opened one of her letters without the dread82 of learning that that discovery had been made. The perusal83 of the first lines, however, reassured84 him on that point, though the letter on the whole was not especially gratifying.
Thus it ran:
'Great Walpole-street, Wednesday.
'MY DEAR MARTIN,--Although I have been gifted with a singularly patient disposition85, with the power of enduring a large amount of weariness and suffering without complaint, yet as a worm will turn, so do I at length lift up my voice to protest against my son's treatment of me. There are not, I imagine, many mothers in this world who have made such sacrifices for their offspring as I have for you, Martin; there are certainly very few sons who have received such an offer from their parents as that made by me to you when last you were in London, and yet the treatment which I receive at your hands is in exact conformity86 with that which has been my lot during my ill-fated life. My long-suffering has been overlooked, my kindness unappreciated, my actions misunderstood.
'Martin, are you, or are you not, going to take advantage of the offer which I made you to take your position in my establishment, give up your country parish, and become a shining light in the metropolis87? One would have thought such an opportunity, combining as it would an admirable position in society, not vain and frivolous88, but solid and respectable and eminently89 fitted for a clergyman, with the command of wealth, which would have placed you entirely at your ease, would have been such a one as you would not have hesitated to avail yourself of; and yet weeks, I may say months, have passed since I first broached90 the subject to you, and I have as yet received no definite reply. I must ask you to let me hear from you at once, Martin, upon this point. I always thought the late Mr. Calverley the most dilatory91 of men, and I do not wish to see his bad example imitated by my own flesh and blood.
'I suppose that, independently of other considerations, the son of any other woman would have thought of his mother's loneliness, and done his best to console her even under much less agreeable circumstances; but I am fated I know, and I do not repine. One thing, however, I am determined on, and that is, I will not bear this solitude any longer; I must have a companion of some kind; and upon your answer will depend what steps I shall take. By the way, talking of companions, Madame Du Tertre has called here once or twice lately. She seems very comfortable in her new place, and talked a great deal about you. But I have no fear; my son will always know his proper position in society. Write to me at once, Martin; and believe me
'Your affectionate mother,
'JANE CALVERLEY.'
A faint smile played over Martin's lips as he perused92 two or three portions of this letter, and when he came to its conclusion he laid it aside with a shrug93 of the shoulder.
'Poor mother,' he muttered, 'she is right so far. I certainly ought to have given her an answer upon that matter long since. I will write to her to-night. Now let's see what Statham has to say.'
'The letter from Statham was that described in a previous chapter. Martin's exclamation94 on reading it has been already recorded. After a little time he placed both letters in his pocket, clasped his hands behind him, and walked up and down the gravel path.
'I must go to London at once,' he said. 'I will answer this letter in person. Statham would not have written in this way if he had not imagined that there were some danger. This man must be paying Alice no ordinary attention if Humphrey's suspicions are excited. I will go to London at once, and take the opportunity of seeing my mother at the same time.'
The next day Martin Gurwood presented himself in 'Change-alley, and was told by Mr. Collins that Mr. Statham was in, and would see him.
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1
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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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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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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rankles
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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galls
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的第三人称单数 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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39
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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42
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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43
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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44
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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45
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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46
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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47
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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49
accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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50
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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51
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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52
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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53
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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54
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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55
celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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56
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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57
grudgingly
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58
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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59
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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60
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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61
buffets
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| （火车站的）饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 )； （火车的）餐车； 自助餐 | |
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62
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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65
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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67
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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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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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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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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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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82
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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83
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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84
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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85
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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90
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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91
dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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92
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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