On the banks of moss2 where thy childhood played;
By the household tree, thro’ which thine eye
First looked in love to the summer sky.’
— MRS. HEMANS.
Margaret was once more in her morning dress, travelling quietly home with her father, who had come up to assist at the wedding. Her mother had been detained at home by a multitude of half-reasons, none of which anybody fully3 understood, except Mr. Hale, who was perfectly4 aware that all his arguments in favour of a grey satin gown, which was midway between oldness and newness, had proved unavailing; and that, as he had not the money to equip his wife afresh, from top to toe, she would not show herself at her only sister’s only child’s wedding. If Mrs. Shaw had guessed at the real reason why Mrs. Hale did not accompany her husband, she would have showered down gowns upon her; but it was nearly twenty years since Mrs. Shaw had been the poor, pretty Miss Beresford, and she had really forgotten all grievances5 except that of the unhappiness arising from disparity of age in married life, on which she could descant6 by the half-hour. Dearest Maria had married the man of her heart, only eight years older than herself, with the sweetest temper, and that blue-black hair one so seldom sees. Mr. Hale was one of the most delightful7 preachers she had ever heard, and a perfect model of a parish priest. Perhaps it was not quite a logical deduction8 from all these premises9, but it was still Mrs. Shaw’s characteristic conclusion, as she thought over her sister’s lot: ‘Married for love, what can dearest Maria have to wish for in this world?’ Mrs. Hale, if she spoke10 truth, might have answered with a ready-made list, ‘a silver-grey glace silk, a white chip bonnet11, oh! dozens of things for the wedding, and hundreds of things for the house.’ Margaret only knew that her mother had not found it convenient to come, and she was not sorry to think that their meeting and greeting would take place at Helstone parsonage, rather than, during the confusion of the last two or three days, in the house in Harley Street, where she herself had had to play the part of Figaro, and was wanted everywhere at one and the same time. Her mind and body ached now with the recollection of all she had done and said within the last forty-eight hours. The farewells so hurriedly taken, amongst all the other good-byes, of those she had lived with so long, oppressed her now with a sad regret for the times that were no more; it did not signify what those times had been, they were gone never to return. Margaret’s heart felt more heavy than she could ever have thought it possible in going to her own dear home, the place and the life she had longed for for years — at that time of all times for yearning12 and longing13, just before the sharp senses lose their outlines in sleep. She took her mind away with a wrench14 from the recollection of the past to the bright serene15 contemplation of the hopeful future. Her eyes began to see, not visions of what had been, but the sight actually before her; her dear father leaning back asleep in the railway carriage. His blue-black hair was grey now, and lay thinly over his brows. The bones of his face were plainly to be seen — too plainly for beauty, if his features had been less finely cut; as it was, they had a grace if not a comeliness16 of their own. The face was in repose17; but it was rather rest after weariness, than the serene calm of the countenance18 of one who led a placid19, contented20 life. Margaret was painfully struck by the worn, anxious expression; and she went back over the open and avowed21 circumstances of her father’s life, to find the cause for the lines that spoke so plainly of habitual22 distress23 and depression.
‘Poor Frederick!’ thought she, sighing. ‘Oh! if Frederick had but been a clergyman, instead of going into the navy, and being lost to us all! I wish I knew all about it. I never understood it from Aunt Shaw; I only knew he could not come back to England because of that terrible affair. Poor dear papa! how sad he looks! I am so glad I am going home, to be at hand to comfort him and mamma.
She was ready with a bright smile, in which there was not a trace of fatigue24, to greet her father when he awakened25. He smiled back again, but faintly, as if it were an unusual exertion26. His face returned into its lines of habitual anxiety. He had a trick of half-opening his mouth as if to speak, which constantly unsettled the form of the lips, and gave the face an undecided expression. But he had the same large, soft eyes as his daughter — eyes which moved slowly and almost grandly round in their orbits, and were well veiled by their transparent27 white eyelids28. Margaret was more like him than like her mother. Sometimes people wondered that parents so handsome should have a daughter who was so far from regularly beautiful; not beautiful at all, was occasionally said. Her mouth was wide; no rosebud29 that could only open just’ enough to let out a ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ and ‘an’t please you, sir.’ But the wide mouth was one soft curve of rich red lips; and the skin, if not white and fair, was of an ivory smoothness and delicacy30. If the look on her face was, in general, too dignified31 and reserved for one so young, now, talking to her father, it was bright as the morning — full of dimples, and glances that spoke of childish gladness, and boundless32 hope in the future.
It was the latter part of July when Margaret returned home. The forest trees were all one dark, full, dusky green; the fern below them caught all the slanting33 sunbeams; the weather was sultry and broodingly still. Margaret used to tramp along by her father’s side, crushing down the fern with a cruel glee, as she felt it yield under her light foot, and send up the fragrance34 peculiar35 to it — out on the broad commons into the warm scented36 light, seeing multitudes of wild, free, living creatures, revelling37 in the sunshine, and the herbs and flowers it called forth38. This life — at least these walks — realised all Margaret’s anticipations39. She took a pride in her forest. Its people were her people. She made hearty40 friends with them; learned and delighted in using their peculiar words; took up her freedom amongst them; nursed their babies; talked or read with slow distinctness to their old people; carried dainty messes to their sick; resolved before long to teach at the school, where her father went every day as to an appointed task, but she was continually tempted41 off to go and see some individual friend — man, woman, or child — in some cottage in the green shade of the forest. Her out-of-doors life was perfect. Her indoors life had its drawbacks. With the healthy shame of a child, she blamed herself for her keenness of sight, in perceiving that all was not as it should be there. Her mother — her mother always so kind and tender towards her — seemed now and then so much discontented with their situation; thought that the bishop44 strangely neglected his episcopal duties, in not giving Mr. Hale a better living; and almost reproached her husband because he could not bring himself to say that he wished to leave the parish, and undertake the charge of a larger. He would sigh aloud as he answered, that if he could do what he ought in little Helstone, he should be thankful; but every day he was more overpowered; the world became more bewildering. At each repeated urgency of his wife, that he would put himself in the way of seeking some preferment, Margaret saw that her father shrank more and more; and she strove at such times to reconcile her mother to Helstone. Mrs. Hale said that the near neighbourhood of so many trees affected45 her health; and Margaret would try to tempt42 her forth on to the beautiful, broad, upland, sun-streaked, cloud-shadowed common; for she was sure that her mother had accustomed herself too much to an indoors life, seldom extending her walks beyond the church, the school, and the neighbouring cottages. This did good for a time; but when the autumn drew on, and the weather became more changeable, her mother’s idea of the unhealthiness of the place increased; and she repined even more frequently that her husband, who was more learned than Mr. Hume, a better parish priest than Mr. Houldsworth, should not have met with the preferment that these two former neighbours of theirs had done.
This marring of the peace of home, by long hours of discontent, was what Margaret was unprepared for. She knew, and had rather revelled46 in the idea, that she should have to give up many luxuries, which had only been troubles and trammels to her freedom in Harley Street. Her keen enjoyment47 of every sensuous48 pleasure, was balanced finely, if not overbalanced, by her conscious pride in being able to do without them all, if need were. But the cloud never comes in that quarter of the horizon from which we watch for it. There had been slight complaints and passing regrets on her mother’s part, over some trifle connected with Helstone, and her father’s position there, when Margaret had been spending her holidays at home before; but in the general happiness of the recollection of those times, she had forgotten the small details which were not so pleasant. In the latter half of September, the autumnal rains and storms came on, and Margaret was obliged to remain more in the house than she had hitherto done. Helstone was at some distance from any neighbours of their own standard of cultivation49.
‘It is undoubtedly50 one of the most out-of-the-way places in England,’ said Mrs. Hale, in one of her plaintive51 moods. ‘I can’t help regretting constantly that papa has really no one to associate with here; he is so thrown away; seeing no one but farmers and labourers from week’s end to week’s end. If we only lived at the other side of the parish, it would be something; there we should be almost within walking distance of the Stansfields; certainly the Gormans would be within a walk.’
‘Gormans,’ said Margaret. ‘Are those the Gormans who made their fortunes in trade at Southampton? Oh! I’m glad we don’t visit them. I don’t like shoppy people. I think we are far better off, knowing only cottagers and labourers, and people without pretence52.’
‘You must not be so fastidious, Margaret, dear!’ said her mother, secretly thinking of a young and handsome Mr. Gorman whom she had once met at Mr. Hume’s.
‘No! I call mine a very comprehensive taste; I like all people whose occupations have to do with land; I like soldiers and sailors, and the three learned professions, as they call them. I’m sure you don’t want me to admire butchers and bakers53, and candlestick-makers, do you, mamma?’
‘But the Gormans were neither butchers nor bakers, but very respectable coach-builders.’
‘Very well. Coach-building is a trade all the same, and I think a much more useless one than that of butchers or bakers. Oh! how tired I used to be of the drives every day in Aunt Shaw’s carriage, and how I longed to walk!’
And walk Margaret did, in spite of the weather. She was so happy out of doors, at her father’s side, that she almost danced; and with the soft violence of the west wind behind her, as she crossed some heath, she seemed to be borne onwards, as lightly and easily as the fallen leaf that was wafted54 along by the autumnal breeze. But the evenings were rather difficult to fill up agreeably. Immediately after tea her father withdrew into his small library, and she and her mother were left alone. Mrs. Hale had never cared much for books, and had discouraged her husband, very early in their married life, in his desire of reading aloud to her, while she worked. At one time they had tried backgammon as a resource; but as Mr. Hale grew to take an increasing interest in his school and his parishioners, he found that the interruptions which arose out of these duties were regarded as hardships by his wife, not to be accepted as the natural conditions of his profession, but to be regretted and struggled against by her as they severally arose. So he withdrew, while the children were yet young, into his library, to spend his evenings (if he were at home), in reading the speculative55 and metaphysical books which were his delight.
When Margaret had been here before, she had brought down with her a great box of books, recommended by masters or governess, and had found the summer’s day all too short to get through the reading she had to do before her return to town. Now there were only the well-bound little-read English Classics, which were weeded out of her father’s library to fill up the small book-shelves in the drawing-room. Thomson’s Seasons, Hayley’s Cowper, Middleton’s Cicero, were by far the lightest, newest, and most amusing. The book-shelves did not afford much resource. Margaret told her mother every particular of her London life, to all of which Mrs. Hale listened with interest, sometimes amused and questioning, at others a little inclined to compare her sister’s circumstances of ease and comfort with the narrower means at Helstone vicarage. On such evenings Margaret was apt to stop talking rather abruptly56, and listen to the drip-drip of the rain upon the leads of the little bow-window. Once or twice Margaret found herself mechanically counting the repetition of the monotonous57 sound, while she wondered if she might venture to put a question on a subject very near to her heart, and ask where Frederick was now; what he was doing; how long it was since they had heard from him. But a consciousness that her mother’s delicate health, and positive dislike to Helstone, all dated from the time of the mutiny in which Frederick had been engaged — the full account of which Margaret had never heard, and which now seemed doomed58 to be buried in sad oblivion — made her pause and turn away from the subject each time she approached it. When she was with her mother, her father seemed the best person to apply to for information; and when with him, she thought that she could speak more easily to her mother. Probably there was nothing much to be heard that was new. In one of the letters she had received before leaving Harley Street, her father had told her that they had heard from Frederick; he was still at Rio, and very well in health, and sent his best love to her; which was dry bones, but not the living intelligence she longed for. Frederick was always spoken of, in the rare times when his name was mentioned, as ‘Poor Frederick.’ His room was kept exactly as he had left it; and was regularly dusted, and put into order by Dixon, Mrs. Hale’s maid, who touched no other part of the household work, but always remembered the day when she had been engaged by Lady Beresford as ladies’ maid to Sir John’s wards43, the pretty Miss Beresfords, the belles59 of Rutlandshire. Dixon had always considered Mr. Hale as the blight60 which had fallen upon her young lady’s prospects61 in life. If Miss Beresford had not been in such a hurry to marry a poor country clergyman, there was no knowing what she might not have become. But Dixon was too loyal to desert her in her affliction and downfall (alias her married life). She remained with her, and was devoted62 to her interests; always considering herself as the good and protecting fairy, whose duty it was to baffle the malignant63 giant, Mr. Hale. Master Frederick had been her favorite and pride; and it was with a little softening64 of her dignified look and manner, that she went in weekly to arrange the chamber65 as carefully as if he might be coming home that very evening. Margaret could not help believing that there had been some late intelligence of Frederick, unknown to her mother, which was making her father anxious and uneasy. Mrs. Hale did not seem to perceive any alteration66 in her husband’s looks or ways. His spirits were always tender and gentle, readily affected by any small piece of intelligence concerning the welfare of others. He would be depressed67 for many days after witnessing a death-bed, or hearing of any crime. But now Margaret noticed an absence of mind, as if his thoughts were preoccupied68 by some subject, the oppression of which could not be relieved by any daily action, such as comforting the survivors69, or teaching at the school in hope of lessening70 the evils in the generation to come. Mr. Hale did not go out among his parishioners as much as usual; he was more shut up in his study; was anxious for the village postman, whose summons to the house-hold was a rap on the back-kitchen window-shutter — a signal which at one time had often to be repeated before any one was sufficiently71 alive to the hour of the day to understand what it was, and attend to him. Now Mr. Hale loitered about the garden if the morning was fine, and if not, stood dreamily by the study window until the postman had called, or gone down the lane, giving a half-respectful, half-confidential shake of the head to the parson, who watched him away beyond the sweet-briar hedge, and past the great arbutus, before he turned into the room to begin his day’s work, with all the signs of a heavy heart and an occupied mind.
But Margaret was at an age when any apprehension72, not absolutely based on a knowledge of facts, is easily banished73 for a time by a bright sunny day, or some happy outward circumstance. And when the brilliant fourteen fine days of October came on, her cares were all blown away as lightly as thistledown, and she thought of nothing but the glories of the forest. The fern-harvest was over, and now that the rain was gone, many a deep glade was accessible, into which Margaret had only peeped in July and August weather. She had learnt drawing with Edith; and she had sufficiently regretted, during the gloom of the bad weather, her idle revelling in the beauty of the woodlands while it had yet been fine, to make her determined74 to sketch75 what she could before winter fairly set in. Accordingly, she was busy preparing her board one morning, when Sarah, the housemaid, threw wide open the drawing-room door and announced, ‘Mr. Henry Lennox.’
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1
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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2
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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3
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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5
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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6
descant
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| v.详论，絮说；n.高音部 | |
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7
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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8
deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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9
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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10
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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11
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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12
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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15
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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16
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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17
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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18
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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19
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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21
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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22
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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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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26
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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28
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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29
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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37
revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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42
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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43
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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44
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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45
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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46
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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47
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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48
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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49
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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50
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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51
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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52
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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53
bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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54
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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56
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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57
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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58
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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59
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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60
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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61
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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62
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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63
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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64
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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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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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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