‘Who are you?’ he asked, at last.
‘My name is Mary Haselden.’
‘Haselden,’ he repeated musingly2, ‘I have heard that name before.’
And then he resumed his former attitude, his chin resting on the handle of his crutch-stick, his eyes bent3 upon the gravel4 path, their unholy brightness hidden under the penthouse brows.
‘Haselden,’ he murmured, and repeated the name over and over again, slowly, dreamily, with a troubled tone, like some one trying to work out a difficult problem. ‘Haselden — when? where?’
And then with a profound sigh he muttered, ‘Harmless, quite harmless. You may trust him anywhere. Memory a blank, a blank, a blank, my lord!’
His head sank lower upon his breast, and again he sighed, the sigh of a spirit in torment5, Mary thought. Her vivid imagination was already interested, her quick sympathies were awakened7.
She looked at him wonderingly, compassionately10. So old, so infirm, and with a mind astray; and yet there were indications in his speech and manner that told of reason struggling against madness, like the light behind storm-clouds. He had tones that spoke11 of a keen sensitiveness to pain, not the lunatic’s imbecile placidity12. She observed him intently, trying to make out what manner of man he was.
He did not belong to the peasant class: of that she felt assured. The shrunken, tapering13 hand had never worked at peasant’s work. The profile turned towards her was delicate to effeminacy. The man’s clothes were shabby and old-fashioned, but they were a gentleman’s garments, the cloth of a finer texture14 than she had ever seen worn by her brother. The coat, with its velvet15 collar, was of an old-world fashion. She remembered having seen just such a coat in an engraved16 portrait of Count d’Orsay, a print nearly fifty years old. No Dalesman born and bred ever wore such a coat; no tailor in the Dales could have made it.
The old man looked up after a long pause, during which Mary felt afraid to move. He looked at her again with inquiring eyes, as if her presence there had only just become known to him.
‘Who are you?’ he asked again.
‘I told you my name just now. I am Mary Haselden.’
‘Haselden — that is a name I knew — once. Mary? I think my mother’s name was Mary. Yes, yes, I remember that. You have a sweet face, Mary — like my mother’s. She had brown eyes, like yours, and auburn hair. You don’t recollect17 her, perhaps?’
‘Alas! poor maniac,’ thought Mary, ‘you have lost all count of time. Fifty years to you in the confusion of your distraught brain, are but as yesterday.’
‘No, of course not, of course not,’ he muttered; ‘how should she recollect my mother, who died while I was a boy? Impossible. That must be half a century ago.’
‘Good evening to you,’ said Mary, rising with a great effort, so strong was her feeling of being spellbound by the uncanny old man, ‘I must go indoors now.’
He stretched out his withered18 old hand, small, semi-transparent, with the blue veins19 showing darkly under the parchment-coloured skin, and grasped Mary’s arm.
‘Don’t go,’ he pleaded. ‘I like your face, child; I like your voice — I like to have you here. What do you mean by going indoors? Where do you live?’
‘There,’ said Mary, pointing to the dead wall which faced them. ‘In the new part of Fellside House. I suppose you are staying in the old part with James Steadman.’
She had made up her mind that this crazy old man must be a relation of Steadman’s to whom he gave hospitality either with or without her ladyship’s consent. All powerful as Lady Maulevrier had ever been in her own house, it was just possible that now, when she was a prisoner in her own rooms, certain small liberties might be taken, even by so faithful a servant as Steadman.
‘Staying with James Steadman,’ repeated the old man in a meditative20 tone. ‘Yes, I stay with Steadman. A good servant, a worthy21 person. It is only for a little while. I shall be leaving Westmoreland next week. And you live in that house, do you?’ pointing to the dead wall. ‘Whose house?’
‘Lady Maulevrier’s. I am Lady Maulevrier’s granddaughter.’
‘Lady Mau-lev-rier.’ He repeated the name in syllables22. ‘A good name — an old title — as old as the conquest. A Norman race those Maulevriers. And you are Lady Maulevrier’s granddaughter! You should be proud. The Maulevriers were always a proud race.’
‘Then I am no true Maulevrier,’ answered Mary gaily23.
She was beginning to feel more at her ease with the old man. He was evidently mad, as mad as a March hare; but his madness seemed only the harmless lunacy of extreme old age. He had flashes of reason, too. Mary began to feel a friendly interest in him. To youth in its flush of life and vigour24 there seems something so unspeakably sad and pitiable in feebleness and age — the brief weak remnant of life, the wreck25 of body and mind, sunning itself in the declining rays of a sun that is so soon to shine upon its grave.
‘What, are you not proud?’ asked the old man.
‘Not at all. I have been taught to consider myself a very insignificant26 person; and I am going to marry a poor man. It would not become me to be proud.’
‘But you ought not to do that,’ said the old man. ‘You ought not to marry a poor man. Poverty is a bad thing, my dear. You are a pretty girl, and ought to marry a man with a handsome fortune. Poor men have no pleasure in this world — they might just as well be dead. I am poor, as you see. You can tell by this threadbare coat’— he looked down at the sleeve from which the nap was worn in places —‘I am as poor as a church mouse.’
‘But you have kind friends, I dare say,’ Mary said, soothingly28. ‘You are well taken care of, I am sure.’
‘Yes, I am well taken care of — very well taken care of. How long is it, I wonder — how many weeks, or months, or years, since they have taken care of me? It seems a long, long time; but it is all like a dream — a long dream. Once I used to try and wake myself. I used to try and struggle out of that weary dream. But that was ages ago. I am satisfied now — I am quite content now — so long as the weather is warm, and I can sit out here in the sun.’
‘It is growing chilly29 now,’ said Mary, ‘and I think you ought to go indoors. I know that I must go.’
‘Yes, I must go in now — I am getting shivery,’ answered the old man, meekly30. ‘But I want to see you again, Mary — I like your face — and I like your voice. It strikes a chord here,’ touching31 his breast, ‘which has long been silent. Let me see you again, child. When can I see you again?’
‘Do you sit here every afternoon when it is fine?’
‘Yes, every day — all day long sometimes when the sun is warm.’
‘Then I will come here to see you.’
‘You must keep it a secret, then,’ said the old man, with a crafty32 look. ‘If you don’t they will shut me up in the house, perhaps. They don’t like me to see people, for fear I should talk. I have heard Steadman say so. Yet what should I talk about, heaven help me? Steadman says my memory is quite gone, and that I am childish and harmless — childish and harmless. I have heard him say that. You’ll come again, won’t you, and you’ll keep it a secret?’
Mary deliberated for a few minutes.
‘I don’t like secrets,’ she said, ‘there is generally something dishonourable in them. But this would be an innocent secret, wouldn’t it? Well, I’ll come to see you somehow, poor old man; and if Steadman sees me here I will make everything right with him.’
‘He mustn’t see you here,’ said the old man. ‘If he does he will shut me up in my own rooms again, as he did once, years and years ago.’
‘But you have not been here long, have you?’ Mary asked, wonderingly.
‘A hundred years, at least. That’s what it seems to me sometimes. And yet there are times when it seems only a dream. Be sure you come again to-morrow.’
‘Yes, I promise you to come; good-night.’
‘Good-night.’
Mary went back to the stable. The door was still open, but how could she be sure that it would be open to-morrow? There was no other access that she knew of to the quadrangle, except through the old part of the house, and that was at times inaccessible33 to her.
She found a key — a big old rusty34 key — in the inside of the door, so she shut and locked it, and put the key in her pocket. The door she supposed had been left open by accident; at any rate this key made her mistress of the situation. If any question should arise as to her conduct she could have an explanation with Steadman; but she had pledged her word to the poor mad old man, and she meant to keep her promise, if possible.
As she left the stable she saw Steadman riding towards the gate on his grey cob. She passed him as she went back to the house.
Next day, and the day after that, and for many days, Mary used her key, and went into the quadrangle at sundown to sit for half an hour or so with the strange old man, who seemed to take an intense pleasure in her company. The weather was growing warmer as May wore on towards June, and this evening hour, between six and seven, was deliciously bright and balmy. The seat by the sundial was screened on every side by the clipped yew36 hedge, dense37 and tall, surrounding the circular, gravelled space, in the centre of which stood the old granite38 dial, with its octagonal pedestal and moss-grown steps. There, as in a closely-shaded arbour, Lady Mary and her old friend were alone and unobserved. The yew-tree boundary was at least eight feet high, and Mary and her companion could hardly have been seen even from the upper windows of the low, old house.
Mary had fallen into the habit of going for her walk or her ride at five o’clock every day, when she was not in attendance on Lady Maulevrier, and after her walk or ride she slipped through the stable, and joined her ancient friend. Stables and courtyard were generally empty at this hour, the men only appearing at the sound of a big bell, which summoned them from their snuggery when they were wanted. Most of Lady Maulevrier’s servants had arrived at that respectable stage of long service in which fidelity39 is counted as a substitute for hard work.
The old man was not particularly conversational40, and was apt to repeat the same things over and over again, with a sublime41 unconsciousness of being prosy; but he liked to hear Mary talk, and he listened with seeming intelligence. He questioned her about the world outside his cloistered42 life — the wars and rumours43 of wars — and, although the names of the questions and the men of the day seemed utterly44 strange to him, and he had to have them repeated to him again and again, he seemed to take an intelligent interest in the stirring facts of the time, and listened intently when Mary gave him a synopsis45 of her last newspaper reading.
When the news was exhausted46, Mary hit upon a more childish form of amusement, and that was to tell the story of any novel or poem she had been lately reading. This was so successful that in this manner Mary related the stories of most of Shakespeare’s plays; of Byron’s Bride of Abydos, and Corsair; of Keats’s Lamia; of Tennyson’s Idylls; and of a heterogenous collection of poetry and romance, in all of which stories the old man took a vivid interest.
‘You are better to me than the sunshine,’ he told Mary one day when she was leaving him. ‘The world grows darker when you leave me.’
Once at this parting moment he took both her hands, and drew her nearer to him, peering into her face in the clear evening light.
‘You are like my mother,’ he said. ‘Yes, you are very like her. And who else is it that you are like? There is some one else, I know. Yes, some one else! I remember! It is a face in a picture — a picture at Maulevrier Castle.’
‘What do you know of Maulevrier Castle?’ asked Mary, wonderingly.
Maulevrier was the family seat in Herefordshire, which had not been occupied by the elder branch for the last forty years. Lady Maulevrier had let it during her son’s minority to a younger branch of the family, a branch which had intermarried with the world of successful commerce, and was richer than the heads of the house. This occupation of Maulevrier Castle had continued to the present time, and was likely still to continue, Maulevrier having no desire to set up housekeeping in a feudal47 castle in the marches.
‘How came you to know Maulevrier Castle?’ repeated Mary.
‘I was there once. There is a picture by Lely, a portrait of a Lady Maulevrier in Charles the Second’s time. The face is yours, my love. I have heard of such hereditary48 faces. My mother was proud of resembling that portrait.’
‘What did your mother know of Maulevrier Castle?’
The old man did not answer. He had lapsed49 into that dream-like condition into which he often sank, when his brain was not stimulated50 to attention and coherency by his interest in Mary’s narrations51.
Mary concluded that this man had once been a servant in the Maulevrier household, perhaps at the place in Herefordshire, and that all his old memories ran in one grove52 — the house of Maulevrier.
The freedom of her intercourse53 with him was undisturbed for about three weeks; and at the end of that time she came face to face with James Steadman as she emerged from the circle of greenery.
‘You here, Lady Mary?’ he exclaimed with an angry look.
‘Yes, I have been sitting talking to that poor old man,’ Mary answered, cheerily, concluding that Steadman’s look of vexation arose from his being detected in the act of harbouring a contraband54 relation. ‘He is a very interesting character. A relation of yours, I suppose?’
‘Yes, he is a relation,’ replied Steadman. ‘He is very old, and his mind has long been gone. Her ladyship is kind enough to allow me to give him a home in her house. He is quite harmless, and he is in nobody’s way.’
‘Of course not, poor soul. He is only a burden to himself. He talks as if his life had been very weary. Has he been long in that sad state?’
‘Yes, a long time.’
Steadman’s manner to Lady Mary was curt55 at the best of times. She had always stood somewhat in awe56 of him, as a person delegated with authority by her grandmother, a servant who was much more than a servant. But to-day his manner was more abrupt57 than usual.
‘He spoke of Maulevrier Castle just now,’ said Mary, determined58 not to be put down too easily. ‘Was he once in service there?’
‘He was. Pray how did you find your way into this garden, Lady Mary?’
‘I came through the stable. As it is my grandmother’s garden I suppose I did not take an unwarrantable liberty in coming,’ said Mary, drawing herself up, and ready for battle.
‘It is Lady Maulevrier’s wish that this garden should be reserved for my use,’ answered Steadman. ‘Her ladyship knows that my uncle walks here of an afternoon, and that, owing to his age and infirmities, he can go nowhere else; and if only on that account, it is well that the garden should be kept private. Lunatics are rather dangerous company, Lady Mary, and I advise you to give them a wide berth59 wherever you may meet them.’
‘I am not afraid of your uncle,’ said Mary, resolutely60. ‘You said yourself just now that he is quite harmless: and I am really interested in him, poor old creature. He likes me to sit with him a little of an afternoon and to talk to him; and if you have no objection I should like to do so, whenever the weather is fine enough for the poor old man to be out in the garden at this hour.’
‘I have a very great objection, Lady Mary, and that objection is chiefly in your interest,’ answered Steadman, firmly. ‘No one who is not experienced in the ways of lunatics can imagine the danger of any association with them — their consummate61 craftiness62, their capacity for crime. Every madman is harmless up to a certain point — mild, inoffensive, perhaps, up to the very moment in which he commits some appalling64 crime. And then people cry out upon the want of prudence65, the want of common-sense which allowed such an act to be possible. No, Lady Mary, I understand the benevolence66 of your motive67, but I cannot permit you to run such a risk.’
‘I am convinced that the poor old creature is perfectly68 harmless,’ said Mary, with suppressed indignation. ‘I shall certainly ask Lady Maulevrier to speak to you on the subject. Perhaps her influence may induce you to be a little more considerate to your unhappy relation.’
‘Lady Mary, I beg you not to say a word to Lady Maulevrier on this subject. You will do me the greatest injury if you speak of that man. I entreat69 you —’
But Mary was gone. She passed Steadman with her head held high and her eyes sparkling with anger. All that was generous, compassionate8, womanly in her nature was up in arms against her grandmother’s steward70. Of all other things, Mary Haselden most detested71 cruelty; and she could see in Steadman’s opposition72 to her wish nothing but the most cold-hearted cruelty to a poor dependent on his charity.
She went in at the stable door, shut and locked it, and put the key in her pocket as usual. But she had little hope that this mode of access would be left open to her. She knew enough of James Steadman’s character, from hearsay73 rather than from experience, to feel sure that he would not easily give way. She was not surprised, therefore, on returning from her ride on the following afternoon, to find the disused harness-room half filled with trusses of straw, and the door of communication completely blocked. It would be impossible for her to remove that barricade74 without assistance; and then, how could she be sure that the door itself was not nailed up, or secured in some way?
It was a delicious sunny afternoon, and she could picture the lonely old man sitting in his circle of greenery beside the dial, which for him had registered so many dreary75 and solitary76 hours, waiting for the little ray of social sunlight which her presence shed over his monotonous77 life. He had told her that she was like the sunshine to him — better than sunshine — and she had promised not to forsake78 him. She pictured him waiting, with his hand clasped upon his crutch-stick, his chin resting upon his hands, his eyes poring on the ground, as she had seen him for the first time. And as the stable clock chimed the quarters he would begin to think himself abandoned, forgotten; if, indeed, he took any count of the passage of time of which she was not sure. His mind seemed to have sunk into a condition which was between dreaming and waking, a state to which the outside world seemed only half real — a phase of being in which there was neither past nor future, only the insufferable monotony of an everlasting80 now.
Pity is so near akin79 to love that Mary, in her deep compassion9 for this lonely, joyless, loveless existence, felt a regard which was almost affection for this strange old man, whose very name was unknown to her. True that there was much in his countenance81 and manner which was sinister82 and repellant. He was a being calculated to inspire fear rather than love; but the fact that he had courted her presence and looked to her for consolation83 had touched Mary’s heart, and she had become reconciled to all that was forbidding and disagreeable in the lunatic physiognomy. Was he not the victim of a visitation which entitled him to respect as well as to pity?
For some days Mary held her peace, remembering Steadman’s vehement85 entreaty86 that she should not speak of this subject to her grandmother. She was silent, but the image of the old man haunted her at all times and seasons. She saw him even in her dreams — those happy dreams of the girl who loves and is beloved, and before whom the pathway of the future smiles like a vision of Paradise. She heard him calling to her with a piteous cry of distress87, and on waking from this troubled dream she fancied that he must be dying, and that this sound in her dreams was one of those ghostly warnings which give notice of death. She was so unhappy about him, altogether so distressed88 at being compelled to break her word, that she could not prevent her thoughts from dwelling89 upon him, not even after she had poured out all her trouble to John Hammond in a long letter, in which her garden adventures and her little skirmish with Steadman were graphically90 described.
To her intense discomforture Hammond replied that he thoroughly91 approved of Steadman’s conduct in the matter. However agreeable Mary’s society might be to the lunatic, Mary’s life was far too precious to be put within the possibility of peril92 by any such tête-à-têtes. If the person was the same old man whom Hammond had seen on the Fell, he was a most sinister-looking creature, of whom any evil act might be fairly anticipated. In a word Mr. Hammond took Steadman’s view of the matter, and entreated93 his dearest Mary to be careful, and not to allow her warm heart to place her in circumstances of peril.
This was most disappointing to Mary, who expected her lover to agree with her upon every point; and if he had been at Fellside the difference of opinion might have given rise to their first quarrel. But as she had a few hours’ leisure for reflection before the post went out, she had time to get over her anger, and to remember that promise of obedience94 given, half in jest, half in earnest, at the little inn beyond Dunmail Raise. So she wrote submissively enough, only with just a touch of reproach at Jack’s want of compassion for a poor old man who had such strong claims upon everybody’s pity.
The image of the poor old man was not to be banished95 from her thoughts, and on that very afternoon, when her letter was dispatched, Mary went on a visit of exploration to the stables, to see if by any chance Mr. Steadman’s plans for isolating96 his unhappy relative might be circumvented97.
She went all over the stables — into loose boxes, harness and saddle rooms, sheds for wood, and sheds for roots, but she found no door opening into the quadrangle, save that door by which she had entered, and which was securely defended by a barricade of straw that had been doubled by a fresh delivery of trusses since she first saw it. But while she was prowling about the sweet-scented stable, much disappointed at the result of her investigations98, she stumbled against a ladder which led to an open trap-door. Mary mounted the ladder, and found herself amidst the dusty atmosphere of a large hayloft, half in shadow, half in the hot bright sunlight. A large shutter100 was open in the sloping roof, the roof that sloped towards the quadrangle, an open patch admitting light and air. Mary, light and active as a squirrel, sprang upon a truss of hay, and in another moment had swung herself in the opening of the shutter, and was standing101 with her feet on the wooden ledge35 at the bottom of the massive frame, and her figure supported against the slope of thick thatched roof. Perched, or half suspended, thus, she was just high enough to look over the top of the yew-tree hedge into the circle round the sundial.
Yes, there was the unhappy victim of fate, and man’s inhumanity to man. There sat the shrunken figure, with drooping102 head, and melancholy103 attitude — the bent shoulders of feeble old age, the patriarchal locks so appealing to pity. There he sat with eyes poring upon the ground just as she had seen him the first time. And while she had sat with him and talked with him he had seemed to awaken6 out of that dull despondency, gleams of pleasure had lighted up his wrinkled face — he had grown animated104, a sentient105 living instead of a corpse106 alive. It was very hard that this little interval107 of life, these stray gleams of gladness should be denied to the poor old creature, at the behest of James Steadman.
Mary would have felt less angrily upon the subject had she believed in Steadman’s supreme109 carefulness of her own safety; but in this she did not believe. She looked upon the house-steward’s prudence as a hypocritical pretence110, an affectation of fidelity and wisdom, by which he contrived111 to gratify the evil tendencies of his own hard and cruel nature. For some reasons of his own, perhaps constrained113 thereto by necessity, he had given the old man an asylum114 for his age and infirmity: but while thus giving him shelter he considered him a burden, and from mere115 perversity116 of mind refused him all such consolations117 as were possible to his afflicted118 state, mewed him up as a prisoner, cut him off from the companionship of his fellow-men.
Two years ago, before Mary emerged from her Tomboyhood, she would have thought very little of letting herself out of the loft99 window and clambering down the side of the stable, which was well furnished with those projections119 in the way of gutters120, drain-pipes, and century-old ivy121, which make such a descent easy. Two years ago Mary’s light figure would have swung itself down among the ivy leaves, and she would have gloried in the thought of circumventing122 James Steadman so easily. But now Mary was a young lady — a young lady engaged to be married, and impressed with the responsibilities of her position, deeply sensible of a new dignity, for the preservation124 of which she was in a manner answerable to her lover.
‘What would he think of me if I went scrambling125 down the ivy?’ she asked herself; ‘and after he has approved of Steadman’s heartless restrictions126, it would be rank rebellion against him if I were to do it. Poor old man, “Thou art so near and yet so far,” as Lesbia’s song says.’
She blew a kiss on the tips of her fingers towards that sad solitary figure, and then dropped back into the dusty duskiness of the loft. But although her new ideas upon the subject of ‘Anstand’— or good behaviour — prevented her getting the better of Steadman by foul127 means, she was all the more intent upon having her own way by fair means, now that the impression of the old man’s sadness and solitude128 had been renewed by the sight of the drooping figure by the sundial.
She went back to the house, and walked straight to her grandmother’s room. Lady Maulevrier’s couch had been placed in front of the open window, from which she was watching the westward-sloping sun above the long line of hills, dark Helvellyn, rugged129 Nabb Scarr, and verdant130 Fairfield, with its two giant arms stretched out to enfold and shelter the smiling valley.
‘Heavens! child, what an object you are;’ exclaimed her ladyship, as Mary drew near. ‘Why, your gown is all over dust, and your hair is — why your hair is sprinkled with hay and clover. I thought you had learnt to be tidy, since your engagement. What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘I have been up in the hayloft,’ answered Mary, frankly131; and, intent on one idea, she said impetuously, ‘Dear grandmother, I want you to do me a favour — a very great favour. There is a poor old man, a relation of Steadman’s, who lives with him, out of his mind, but quite harmless, and he is so sad and lonely, so dreadfully sad, and he likes me to sit with him in the garden, and tell him stories, and recite verses to him, poor soul, just as if he were a child, don’t you know, and it is such a pleasure to me to be a little comfort to him in his lonely wretched life, and James Steadman says I mustn’t go near him, because he may change at any moment into a dangerous lunatic, and do me some kind of harm, and I am not a bit afraid, and I’m sure he won’t do anything of the kind, and, please grandmother, tell Steadman, that I am to be allowed to go and sit with his poor old prisoner half an hour every afternoon.’
Carried along the current of her own impetuous thoughts, Mary had talked very fast, and had not once looked at her grandmother while she was speaking. But now at the end of her speech her eyes sought Lady Maulevrier’s face in gentle entreaty, and she recoiled132 involuntarily at the sight she saw there.
The classic features were distorted almost as they had been in the worst period of the paralytic133 seizure134. Lady Maulevrier was ghastly pale, and her eyes glared with an awful fire as they gazed at Mary. Her whole frame was convulsed, and she, the cripple, whose right limbs lay numbed135 and motionless upon the couch, made a struggling motion as she raised herself a little with the left arm, as if, by very force of angry will, she would have lifted herself up erect136 before the girl who had offended her.
For a few moments her lips moved dumbly; and there was something unspeakably awful in those convulsed features, that livid countenance, and those voiceless syllables trembling upon the white dry lips.
At last speech came.
‘Girl, you were created to torment me;’ she exclaimed.
‘Dear grandmother, what harm have I done?’ faltered137 Mary.
‘What harm? You are a spy. Your very existence is a torment and a danger. Would to God that you were married. Yes, married to a chimney-sweep, even — and out of my way.’
‘If that is your only difficulty,’ said Mary, haughtily138, ‘I dare say Mr. Hammond would be kind enough to marry me to-morrow, and take me out of your ladyship’s way.’
Lady Maulevrier’s head sank back upon her pillows, those velvet and satin pillows, rich with delicate point lace and crewel-work adornment139, the labour of Mary and Fr?ulein, pillows which could not bring peace to the weary head, or deaden the tortures of memory. The pale face recovered its wonted calm, the heavy lips drooped140 over the weary eyes, and for a few moments there was silence in the room.
Then Lady Maulevrier raised her eyelids141, and looked at her granddaughter imploringly142, pathetically.
‘Forgive me, Mary,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I was saying just now; but whatever it was, forgive and forget it. I am a wretched old woman, heart sick, heart sore, worn out by pain and weariness. There are times when I am beside myself; moments when I am not much saner143 than Steadman’s lunatic uncle. This is one of my worst days, and you came bouncing in upon me, and tortured my nerves by your breathless torrent144 of words. Pray forgive me, if I said anything rude.’
‘If,’ thought Mary: but she tried to be charitable, and to believe that Lady Maulevrier’s attack upon her was a new phase of hysteria, so she murmured meekly, ‘There is nothing for me to forgive, grandmother, and I am very sorry I disturbed you.’
She was going to leave the room, thinking that her absence would be a relief to the invalid145, when Lady Maulevrier called her back.
‘You were asking me something — something about that old man of Steadman’s,’ she said with a weary air, half indifference146, half the lassitude natural to an invalid who sinks under the burden of monotonous days. ‘What was it all about? I forget.’
Mary repeated her request, but this time in measured tones.
‘My dear, I am sure that Steadman was only properly prudent147.’ answered Lady Maulevrier, ‘and that it would never do for me to interfere148 in this matter. It stands to reason that he must know his old kinsman149’s temperament150 much better than you can, after your half-hour interviews with him in the garden. Pray how long have these garden scenes been going on, by-the-by?’ asked her ladyship, with a searching look at Mary’s downcast face.
The girl had not altogether recovered from the rude shock of her grandmother’s late attack.
‘About three weeks,’ faltered Mary. ‘But it is more than a week now since I was in the garden. It was quite by accident that I first went there. Perhaps I ought to explain.’
And Mary, not being gainsayed, went on to describe that first afternoon when she had seen the old man brooding in the sun. She drew quite a pathetic picture of his joyless solitude, whilst all nature around and about him was looking so glad in the spring sunshine. There was a long silence, a silence of some minutes, when she had done; and Lady Maulevrier lay with lowered eyelids, deep in thought. Mary began to hope that she had touched her grandmother’s heart, and that her request would be granted: but she was soon undeceived.
‘I am sorry to be obliged to refuse you a favour, Mary, but I must stand by Steadman,’ said her ladyship. ‘When I gave Steadman permission to shelter his aged123 kinsman in my house, I made it a condition that the old man should be kept in the strictest care by himself and his wife, and that nobody in this establishment should be troubled by him. This condition has been so scrupulously151 adhered to that the old man’s existence is known to no one in this house except you and me; and you have discovered the fact only by accident. I must beg you to keep this secret to yourself. Steadman has particular reasons for wishing to conceal152 the fact of his uncle’s residence here. The old man is not actually a lunatic. If he were we should be violating the law by keeping him here. He is only imbecile from extreme old age; the body has outlived the mind, that is all. But should any officious functionary153 come down upon Fellside, this imbecility might be called madness, and the poor old creature whom you regard so compassionately, and whose case you think so pitiable here, would be carried off to a pauper154 lunatic asylum, which I can assure you would be a much worse imprisonment155 than Fellside Manor156.’
‘Yes, indeed, grandmother,’ exclaimed Mary, whose vivid imagination conjured157 up a vision of padded cells, strait-waist-coats, murderously-inclined keepers, chains, handcuffs, and bread and water diet, ‘now I understand why the poor old soul has been kept so close — why nobody knows of his existence. I beg Steadman’s pardon with all my heart. He is a much better fellow than I thought him.’
‘Steadman is a thoroughly good fellow, and as true as steel,’ said her ladyship. ‘No one can know that so well as the mistress he has served faithfully for nearly half a century. I hope, Mary, you have not been chattering158 to Fr?ulein or any one else about your discovery.’
‘No, grandmother, I have not said a word to a mortal, but ——’
‘Oh, there is a “but,” is there? I understand. You have not been so reticent159 in your letters to Mr. Hammond.’
‘I tell him all that happens to me. There is very little to write about at Fellside; yet I contrive112 to send him volumes. I often wonder what poor girls did in the days of Miss Austen’s novels, when letters cost a shilling or eighteen pence for postage, and had to be paid for by the recipient160. It must have been such a terrible check upon affection.’
‘And upon twaddle,’ said Lady Maulevrier. ‘Well you told Mr. Hammond about Steadman’s old uncle. What did he say?’
‘He thoroughly approved Steadman’s conduct in forbidding me to go and see him,’ answered Mary. ‘I couldn’t help thinking it rather unkind of him; but, of course, I feel that he must be right,’ concluded Mary, as much as to say that her lover was necessarily infallible.
‘I always thought Mr. Hammond a sensible young man, and I am glad to find that his conduct does not belie108 my good opinion,’ said Lady Maulevrier. ‘And now, my dear, you had better go and make yourself decent before dinner. I am very weary this afternoon, and even our little talk has exhausted me.’
‘Yes, dear grandmother, I am going this instant. But let me ask one question: What is the poor old man’s name?’
‘His name!’ said her ladyship, looking at Mary with a puzzled air, like a person whose thoughts are far away. ‘His name — oh, Steadman, I suppose, like his nephew’s; but if I ever heard the name I have forgotten it, and I don’t know whether the kinship is on the father’s or the mother’s side. Steadman asked my permission to give shelter to a helpless old relative, and I gave it. That is really all I remember.’
‘Only one other question,’ pleaded Mary, who was brimful of curiosity upon this particular subject. ‘Has he been at Fellside very long?’
‘Oh, I really don’t know; a year, or two, or three, perhaps. Life in this house is all of a piece. I hardly keep count of time.’
‘There is one thing that puzzles me very much,’ said Mary, still lingering near her grandmother’s couch, the balmy evening air caressing161 her as she leaned against the embrasure of the wide Tudor window, the sun drawing nearer to the edge of the hills, an orb84 of yellow flame, soon to change to a gigantic disk of lurid162 fire. ‘I thought from the old man’s talk that he, too, must be an old servant in our family. He talked of Maulevrier Castle, and said that I reminded him of a picture by Lely, a portrait of a Lady Maulevrier.
‘It is quite possible that he may have been in service there, though I do not remember to have heard anything about it,’ answered her ladyship, carelessly. ‘The Steadmans come from that part of the country, and theirs is a hereditary service. Good-night, Mary, I am utterly weary. Look at that glorious light yonder, that mighty163 world of fire and flame, without which our little world would be dark and dreary. I often think of that speech of Macbeth’s, “I ‘gin to be aweary of the sun.” There comes a time, Mary, when even the sun is a burden.’
‘Only for such a man as Macbeth,’ said Mary, ‘a man steeped in crime. Who can wonder that he wanted to hide himself from the sun? But, dear grandmother, there ought to be plenty of happiness left for you, even if your recovery is slow to come. You are so clever, you have such resources in your own mind and memory, and you have your grandchildren, who love you dearly,’ added Mary, tenderly.
Her nature was so full of pity that an entirely164 new affection had grown up in her mind for Lady Maulevrier since that terrible evening of the paralytic stroke.
‘Yes, and whose love, as exemplified by Lesbia, is shown in a hurried scrap165 of a letter scrawled166 once a week — a bone thrown to a hungry dog,’ said her ladyship, bitterly.
‘Lesbia is so lovely, and she is so surrounded by flatterers and admirers,’ murmured Mary, excusingly.
‘Oh, my dear, if she had a heart she would not forget me, even in the midst of her flatterers. Good-night again, Mary. Don’t try to console me. For some natures consolations and soothing27 suggestions are like flowers thrown upon a granite tomb. They do just as much and just as little good to the heart that lies under the stone. Good-night.’
Mary stooped to kiss her grandmother’s forehead, and found it cold as marble. She murmured a loving good-night, and left the mistress of Fellside in her loneliness.
A footman would come in and light the lamps, and draw the velvet curtains, presently, and shut out the later glories of sunset. And then the butler himself would come and arrange the little dinner table by her ladyship’s couch, and would himself preside over the invalid’s simple dinner, which would be served exquisitely167, with all that is daintiest and most costly168 in Salviati glass and antique silver. Yet better the dinner of herbs, and love and peace withal, than the choicest fare or the most perfect service.
Before the coming of the servants and the lamps there was a pause of silence and loneliness, an interval during which Lady Maulevrier lay gazing at the declining orb, the lower rim63 of which now rested on the edge of the hill. It seemed to grow larger and more dazzling as she looked at it.
Suddenly she clasped her left hand across her eyes, and said aloud —
‘Oh, what a hateful life! Almost half a century of lies and hypocricies and prevarications and meannesses! For what? For the glory of an empty name; and for a fortune that may slip from my dead hand to become the prey169 of rogues170 and adventurers. Who can forecast the future?’
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1
pulsation
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| n.脉搏，悸动，脉动；搏动性 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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7
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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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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11
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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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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18
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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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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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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25
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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26
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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42
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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synopsis
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| n.提要，梗概 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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47
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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48
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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49
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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51
narrations
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| 叙述事情的经过，故事( narration的名词复数 ) | |
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52
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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53
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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54
contraband
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| n.违禁品，走私品 | |
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55
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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56
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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57
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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58
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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59
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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61
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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craftiness
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| 狡猾，狡诈 | |
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63
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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64
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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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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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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71
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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73
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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75
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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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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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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81
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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82
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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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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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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graphically
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| adv.通过图表；生动地，轮廓分明地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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92
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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93
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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95
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
isolating
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| adj.孤立的，绝缘的v.使隔离( isolate的现在分词 )；将…剔出（以便看清和单独处理）；使（某物质、细胞等）分离；使离析 | |
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97
circumvented
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| v.设法克服或避免（某事物），回避( circumvent的过去式和过去分词 )；绕过，绕行，绕道旅行 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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101
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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102
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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103
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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104
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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105
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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106
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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107
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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108
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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109
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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110
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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111
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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112
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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113
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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114
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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115
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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116
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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117
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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118
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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120
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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121
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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122
circumventing
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| v.设法克服或避免（某事物），回避( circumvent的现在分词 )；绕过，绕行，绕道旅行 | |
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123
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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124
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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125
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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126
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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127
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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128
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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129
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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130
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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131
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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132
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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133
paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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134
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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135
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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137
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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138
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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139
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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140
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
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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142
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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143
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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144
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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145
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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146
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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147
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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148
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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149
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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150
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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151
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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152
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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153
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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154
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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155
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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156
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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157
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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158
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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159
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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160
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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161
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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162
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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163
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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164
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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165
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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166
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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168
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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169
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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170
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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