The tender blossom flutter down,
Unloved that beech2 will gather brown,
The maple3 burn itself away;
Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,
Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
And many a rose-carnation feed
With summer spice the humming air;
* * * * * *
Till from the garden and the wild
A fresh association blow,
And year by year the landscape grow
Familiar to the stranger’s child;
As year by year the labourer tills
His wonted glebe, or lops the glades4;
And year by year our memory fades
From all the circle of the hills.’
TENNYSON.
The last day came; the house was full of packing-cases, which were being carted off at the front door, to the nearest railway station. Even the pretty lawn at the side of the house was made unsightly and untidy by the straw that had been wafted5 upon it through the open door and windows. The rooms had a strange echoing sound in them — and the light came harshly and strongly in through the uncurtained windows — seeming already unfamiliar6 and strange. Mrs. Hale’s dressing-room was left untouched to the last; and there she and Dixon were packing up clothes, and interrupting each other every now and then to exclaim at, and turn over with fond regard, some forgotten treasure, in the shape of some relic7 of the children while they were yet little. They did not make much progress with their work. Down-stairs, Margaret stood calm and collected, ready to counsel or advise the men who had been called in to help the cook and Charlotte. These two last, crying between whiles, wondered how the young lady could keep up so this last day, and settled it between them that she was not likely to care much for Helstone, having been so long in London. There she stood, very pale and quiet, with her large grave eyes observing everything — up to every present circumstance, however small. They could not understand how her heart was aching all the time, with a heavy pressure that no sighs could lift off or relieve, and how constant exertion8 for her perceptive9 faculties10 was the only way to keep herself from crying out with pain. Moreover, if she gave way, who was to act? Her father was examining papers, books, registers, what not, in the vestry with the clerk; and when he came in, there were his own books to pack up, which no one but himself could do to his satisfaction. Besides, was Margaret one to give way before strange men, or even household friends like the cook and Charlotte! Not she. But at last the four packers went into the kitchen to their tea; and Margaret moved stiffly and slowly away from the place in the hall where she had been standing11 so long, out through the bare echoing drawing-room, into the twilight12 of an early November evening. There was a filmy veil of soft dull mist obscuring, but not hiding, all objects, giving them a lilac hue13, for the sun had not yet fully14 set; a robin15 was singing — perhaps, Margaret thought, the very robin that her father had so often talked of as his winter pet, and for which he had made, with his own hands, a kind of robin-house by his study-window. The leaves were more gorgeous than ever; the first touch of frost would lay them all low on the ground. Already one or two kept constantly floating down, amber16 and golden in the low slanting17 sun-rays.
Margaret went along the walk under the pear-tree wall. She had never been along it since she paced it at Henry Lennox’s side. Here, at this bed of thyme, he began to speak of what she must not think of now. Her eyes were on that late-blowing rose as she was trying to answer; and she had caught the idea of the vivid beauty of the feathery leaves of the carrots in the very middle of his last sentence. Only a fortnight ago And all so changed! Where was he now? In London — going through the old round; dining with the old Harley Street set, or with gayer young friends of his own. Even now, while she walked sadly through that damp and drear garden in the dusk, with everything falling and fading, and turning to decay around her, he might be gladly putting away his law-books after a day of satisfactory toil18, and freshening himself up, as he had told her he often did, by a run in the Temple Gardens, taking in the while the grand inarticulate mighty19 roar of tens of thousands of busy men, nigh at hand, but not seen, and catching20 ever, at his quick turns, glimpses of the lights of the city coming up out of the depths of the river. He had often spoken to Margaret of these hasty walks, snatched in the intervals21 between study and dinner. At his best times and in his best moods had he spoken of them; and the thought of them had struck upon her fancy. Here there was no sound. The robin had gone away into the vast stillness of night. Now and then, a cottage door in the distance was opened and shut, as if to admit the tired labourer to his home; but that sounded very far away. A stealthy, creeping, cranching sound among the crisp fallen leaves of the forest, beyond the garden, seemed almost close at hand. Margaret knew it was some poacher. Sitting up in her bed-room this past autumn, with the light of her candle extinguished, and purely22 revelling23 in the solemn beauty of the heavens and the earth, she had many a time seen the light noiseless leap of the poachers over the garden-fence, their quick tramp across the dewy moonlit lawn, their disappearance24 in the black still shadow beyond. The wild adventurous25 freedom of their life had taken her fancy; she felt inclined to wish them success; she had no fear of them. But to-night she was afraid, she knew not why. She heard Charlotte shutting the windows, and fastening up for the night, unconscious that any one had gone out into the garden. A small branch — it might be of rotten wood, or it might be broken by force — came heavily down in the nearest part of the forest, Margaret ran, swift as Camilla, down to the window, and rapped at it with a hurried tremulousness which startled Charlotte within.
‘Let me in! Let me in! It is only me, Charlotte!’ Her heart did not still its fluttering till she was safe in the drawing-room, with the windows fastened and bolted, and the familiar walls hemming26 her round, and shutting her in. She had sate27 down upon a packing case; cheerless, Chill was the dreary28 and dismantled29 room — no fire nor other light, but Charlotte’s long unsnuffed candle. Charlotte looked at Margaret with surprise; and Margaret, feeling it rather than seeing it, rose up.
‘I was afraid you were shutting me out altogether, Charlotte,’ said she, half-smiling. ‘And then you would never have heard me in the kitchen, and the doors into the lane and churchyard are locked long ago.’
‘Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have missed you soon. The men would have wanted you to tell them how to go on. And I have put tea in master’s study, as being the most comfortable room, so to speak.’
‘Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind girl. I shall be sorry to leave you. You must try and write to me, if I can ever give you any little help or good advice. I shall always be glad to get a letter from Helstone, you know. I shall be sure and send you my address when I know it.’
The study was all ready for tea. There was a good blazing fire, and unlighted candles on the table. Margaret sat down on the rug, partly to warm herself, for the dampness of the evening hung about her dress, and overfatigue had made her chilly30. She kept herself balanced by clasping her hands together round her knees; her head dropped a little towards her chest; the attitude was one of despondency, whatever her frame of mind might be. But when she heard her father’s step on the gravel31 outside, she started up, and hastily shaking her heavy black hair back, and wiping a few tears away that had come on her cheeks she knew not how, she went out to open the door for him. He showed far more depression than she did. She could hardly get him to talk, although she tried to speak on subjects that would interest him, at the cost of an effort every time which she thought would be her last.
‘Have you been a very long walk today?’ asked she, on seeing his refusal to touch food of any kind.
‘As far as Fordham Beeches32. I went to see Widow Maltby; she is sadly grieved at not having wished you good-bye. She says little Susan has kept watch down the lane for days past. — Nay33, Margaret, what is the matter, dear?’ The thought of the little child watching for her, and continually disappointed — from no forgetfulness on her part, but from sheer inability to leave home — was the last drop in poor Margaret’s cup, and she was sobbing34 away as if her heart would break. Mr. Hale was distressingly35 perplexed36. He rose, and walked nervously37 up and down the room. Margaret tried to check herself, but would not speak until she could do so with firmness. She heard him talking, as if to himself.
‘I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see the sufferings of others. I think I could go through my own with patience. Oh, is there no going back?’
‘No, father,’ said Margaret, looking straight at him, and speaking low and steadily38. ‘It is bad to believe you in error. It would be infinitely39 worse to have known you a hypocrite.’ She dropped her voice at the last few words, as if entertaining the idea of hypocrisy40 for a moment in connection with her father savoured of irreverence41.
‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘it is only that I am tired to-night; don’t think that I am suffering from what you have done, dear papa. We can’t either of us talk about it to-night, I believe,’ said she, finding that tears and sobs42 would come in spite of herself. ‘I had better go and take mamma up this cup of tea. She had hers very early, when I was too busy to go to her, and I am sure she will be glad of another now.’
Railroad time inexorably wrenched43 them away from lovely, beloved Helstone, the next morning. They were gone; they had seen the last of the long low parsonage home, half-covered with China-roses and pyracanthus — more homelike than ever in the morning sun that glittered on its windows, each belonging to some well-loved room. Almost before they had settled themselves into the car, sent from Southampton to fetch them to the station, they were gone away to return no more. A sting at Margaret’s heart made her strive to look out to catch the last glimpse of the old church tower at the turn where she knew it might be seen above a wave of the forest trees; but her father remembered this too, and she silently acknowledged his greater right to the one window from which it could be seen. She leant back and shut her eyes, and the tears welled forth44, and hung glittering for an instant on the shadowing eye-lashes before rolling slowly down her cheeks, and dropping, unheeded, on her dress.
They were to stop in London all night at some quiet hotel. Poor Mrs. Hale had cried in her way nearly all day long; and Dixon showed her sorrow by extreme crossness, and a continual irritable45 attempt to keep her petticoats from even touching46 the unconscious Mr. Hale, whom she regarded as the origin of all this suffering.
They went through the well-known streets, past houses which they had often visited, past shops in which she had lounged, impatient, by her aunt’s side, while that lady was making some important and interminable decision-nay, absolutely past acquaintances in the streets; for though the morning had been of an incalculable length to them, and they felt as if it ought long ago to have closed in for the repose47 of darkness, it was the very busiest time of a London afternoon in November when they arrived there. It was long since Mrs. Hale had been in London; and she roused up, almost like a child, to look about her at the different streets, and to gaze after and exclaim at the shops and carriages.
‘Oh, there’s Harrison’s, where I bought so many of my wedding-things. Dear! how altered! They’ve got immense plate-glass windows, larger than Crawford’s in Southampton. Oh, and there, I declare — no, it is not — yes, it is — Margaret, we have just passed Mr. Henry Lennox. Where can he be going, among all these shops?’
Margaret started forwards, and as quickly fell back, half-smiling at herself for the sudden motion. They were a hundred yards away by this time; but he seemed like a relic of Helstone — he was associated with a bright morning, an eventful day, and she should have liked to have seen him, without his seeing her — without the chance of their speaking.
The evening, without employment, passed in a room high up in an hotel, was long and heavy. Mr. Hale went out to his bookseller’s, and to call on a friend or two. Every one they saw, either in the house or out in the streets, appeared hurrying to some appointment, expected by, or expecting somebody. They alone seemed strange and friendless, and desolate48. Yet within a mile, Margaret knew of house after house, where she for her own sake, and her mother for her aunt Shaw’s, would be welcomed, if they came in gladness, or even in peace of mind. If they came sorrowing, and wanting sympathy in a complicated trouble like the present, then they would be felt as a shadow in all these houses of intimate acquaintances, not friends. London life is too whirling and full to admit of even an hour of that deep silence of feeling which the friends of Job showed, when ‘they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and none spake a word unto him; for they saw that his grief was very great.’
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1
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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2
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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3
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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4
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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5
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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6
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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7
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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8
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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9
perceptive
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| adj.知觉的，有洞察力的，感知的 | |
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10
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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11
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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12
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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13
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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14
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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15
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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16
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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17
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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18
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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19
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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20
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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21
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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22
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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23
revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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24
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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25
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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26
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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27
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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28
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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29
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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30
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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31
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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32
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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33
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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34
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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35
distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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36
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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37
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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38
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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39
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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40
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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41
irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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42
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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43
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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46
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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47
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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48
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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