WHO has not seen the misery1 and despair often caused in a family by the senseless selfishness of one of its members? Who has not felt enraged2 at such times, to think that a man or woman should presume on the affection and kindheartedness of their relatives, and yet act as if they were wholly without those affections themselves? And, lastly, who of us all is guiltless of doing this? Let him that is without sin among us cast the first stone.
The Spring sun rose on the Sabbath morning, as if no trouble were in store for any mortal that day. The Vicar rose with the sun, for he had certain arrears3 of the day’s sermons to get through, and he was in the habit of saying that his best and clearest passages were written with his window open, in the brisk morning air.
But although the air was brisk and pleasant this morning, and all nature was in full glory, the inspiration did not come to the Vicar quite so readily as usual. In fact, he could not write at all, and at one time was thinking of pleading ill health, and not preaching, but afterwards changed his mind, and patched the sermons up somehow, making both morning and afternoon five minutes shorter than usual.
He felt queer and dull in the head this morning. And, after breakfast, he walked to church with his sister and daughter, not speaking a word. Miss Thornton was rather alarmed, he looked so dull and stupid. But Mary set it all down to his displeasure at her.
She was so busy with far other thoughts at church that she did not notice the strange halting way in which her father read the service — sometimes lisping, sometimes trying twice before he could pronounce a word at all. But, after church, Miss Thornton noticed it to her; and she also noticed, as they stood waiting for him under the lychgate, that he passed through the crowd of neighbours, who stood as usual round the porch to receive him, without a word, merely raising his hat in salutation. Conduct so strange that Miss Thornton began to cry, and said she was sure her brother was very ill. But Mary said it was because he was still angry with her that he spoke4 to no one, and that when he had forgotten his cause of offence he would be the same again.
At lunch, the Vicar drank several glasses of wine, which seemed to do him good; and by the time he had, to Miss Thornton’s great astonishment5, drunk half a bottle, he was quite himself again. Mary was all this time in her room, and the Vicar asked for her. But Miss Thornton said she was not very well.
“Oh, I remember,” said the Vicar, “I quarrelled with her last night. I was quite in the wrong, but, my dear sister, all yesterday and today I have been so nervous, I have not known what I said or did. I shall keep myself up to the afternoon service with wine, and tomorrow we will see the Doctor. Don’t tell Mary I am ill. She will think she is the cause, poor girl.”
Afternoon service went off well enough. When Mary heard his old familiar voice strong, clear, and harmonious6, filling the aisles8 and chapels9 of the beautiful old church, she was quite reassured10. He seemed stronger than usual even, and never did the congregation listen to a nobler or better sermon from his lips, than the one they heard that spring afternoon; the last, alas11, they ever had from their kind old Vicar.
Mary could not listen to it. The old innocent interest she used to have in her father’s success in preaching was gone. As of old, sitting beneath the carved oak screen, she heard the sweet simple harmony of the evening hymn12 roll up, and die in pleasant echoes among the lofty arches overhead. As of old, she could see through the rich traceried windows the moor13 sloping far away, calm and peaceful, bathed in a misty14 halo of afternoon sunshine. All these familiar sights and sounds were the same, but she herself was different. She was about to break rudely through from the old world of simple routine and homely15 pleasure, and to cast herself unthinking into a new world of passion and chance, and take the consequences of such a step, let them be what they might. She felt as if she was the possessor of some guilty secret, and felt sometimes as if some one would rise in church and denounce her. How would all these quiet folks talk of her tomorrow morning? That was not to be thought of. She must harden her heart and think of nothing. Only that tomorrow she would be far away with her lover.
Poor Mary! many a woman, and many a man, who sat so quiet and calm in the old church that afternoon, had far guiltier secrets than any you ever had, to trouble them, and yet they all drank, slept, and died, as quietly as many honest and good men. Poor girl! let us judge as kindly16 of her as we can, for she paid a fearful penalty for her self-will. She did but break through the prejudices of her education, we may say; and if she was undutiful, what girls are not, under the influence of passion? If such poor excuses as these will cause us to think more kindly of her, let us make them, and leave the rest to God. Perhaps, brother, you and I may stand in a position to have excuses made for us, one day; therefore, we will be charitable.
My Lord was at church that afternoon, a very rare circumstance, for he was mostly at his great property in the north, and had lately been much abroad for his health. So when Miss Thornton and Mary joined the Vicar in the main aisle7, and the three went forth17 into the churchyard, they found the villagers drawn18 respectfully back upon the graves, and his lordship waiting in close confabulation with farmer Wreford, to receive the Vicar as he came out.
A tall, courtly, grizzled-looking man he was, with clear grey eyes, and a modulated20 harmonious voice. Well did their lordships of the upper-house know that voice, when after a long sleepy debate it aroused them from ambrosial21 slumbers22, with biting sarcasm23, and most disagreeably told truths. And most heartily24 did a certain proportion of their lordships curse the owner of that voice, for a talented, eloquent25, meddlesome26 innovator27. But on all his great estates he was adored by the labourers and town’s-folk, though hated by the farmers and country ‘squires; for he was the earliest and fiercest of the reform and free-trade warriors28.
He came up to the Vicar with a pleasant smile. “I have to thank you, Mr. Thornton, for a most charming sermon, though having the fault common to all good things, of being too short. Miss Thornton, I hope you are quite well; I saw Lady D—— the other day, and she begged that when I came down here, I would convey her kindest love to you. I think she mentioned that she was about to write to you.”
“I received a letter from her ladyship last week,” said Miss Thornton; “informing me that dear Lady Fanny had got a son and heir.”
“Happy boy,” said my Lord; “fifty thousand a-year, and nothing to do for it, unless he likes. Besides a minority of at least ten years for L—— is getting very shaky, Miss Thornton, and is still devotedly29 given to stewed30 mushrooms. Nay31, my dear lady, don’t look distressed32, she will make a noble young dowager. This must be your daughter, Mr. Thornton — pray introduce me.”
Mary was introduced, and his Lordship addressed a few kindly commonplaces to her, to which she replied with graceful33 modesty34. Then he demanded of the Vicar, “where is Dr. Mulhaus, has he been at church this afternoon?”
At that moment the Doctor, attended by the old clerk, was head and shoulders into the old oak chest that contained the parish registers, looking for the book of burials for sixteen hundred and something. Not being able to get to the bottom, he got bodily in, as into a bath, and after several dives succeeded in fishing it up from the bottom, and standing35 there absorbed for a few minutes, up to his middle in dusty parchments and angry moths36, he got his finger on a particular date, and dashed out of church, book in hand, and hatless, crying, “Vicar, Vicar!” just as the villagers had cleared off, and my lord was moving away with the Vicar to the parsonage, to take tea.
When his Lordship saw the wild dusty figure come running out of the church porch with the parish register in his hand, and no hat on his head, he understood the position immediately. He sat down on a tombstone, and laughed till he could laugh no longer.
“No need to tell me,” he said through his laughter, “that he is unchanged; just as mad and energetic as ever, at whatever he takes in hand, whether getting together impossible ministries37, or searching the parishregister of an English village. How do you do, my dear old friend?”
“And how do you do, old democrat38?” answered the Doctor. “Politics seem to agree with you; I believe you would die without vexation — just excuse me a moment. Look you here, you infidel,” to the Vicar, showing him the register; “there’s his name plain —‘Burrows, Curate of this parish, 1698.’— Now what do you say?”
The Vicar acquiesced39 with a sleepy laugh, and proposed moving homewards. Miss Thornton hoped that the Doctor would join them at dinner as usual. The Doctor said of course, and went back to fetch his hat, my Lord following him into the church. When the others had gone down the hill, and were waiting for the nobleman and the Doctor at the gate, Miss Thornton watched the two coming down the hill. My Lord stopped the Doctor, and eagerly demonstrated something to him with his forefinger40 on the palm of his hand; but the Doctor only shook his head, and then the pair moved on.
My Lord made himself thoroughly41 agreeable at dinner, as did also the Doctor. Mary was surprised too at the calm highbred bearing of her aunt, the way she understood and spoke of every subject of conversation, and the deference42 with which they listened to her. It was a side of her aunt’s character she had never seen before, and she felt it hard to believe that that intellectual dignified43 lady, referred to on all subjects, was the old maid she had been used to laugh at, and began to feel that she was in an atmosphere far above what she was accustomed to.
“All this is above me,” she said to herself; “let them live in this sphere who are accustomed to it, I have chosen wiser, out of the rank in which I have been brought up. I would sooner be George Hawker’s wife than sit there, crushed and bored by their highflown talk.”
Soon after dinner she retired44 with her aunt; they did not talk much when they were alone, so Mary soon retired to her room, and having made a few very slight preparations, sat down at the window. The time was soon to come, but it was very cold; the maids were out, as they always were on Sunday evening, and there was a fire in the kitchen — she would go and sit there — so down she went.
She wished to be alone, so when she saw a candle burning in the kitchen she was disappointed, but went in nevertheless. My Lord’s groom45, who had been sitting before the fire, rose up and saluted46 her. A handsome young man, rather square and prominent about the jaws47, but nevertheless foolish and amiable48 looking. The sort of man one would suppose, who, if his lord were to tell him to jump into the pit Tophet, would pursue one of two courses, either jump in himself, without further to do, or throw his own brother in with profuse49 apologies. From the top of his sleek50 round head to the sole of his perfect top-boot, the model and living exponent51 of what a servant should be-fit to be put into a case and ticketed as such.
He saluted her as she came in, and drawing a letter from his hat, put it into her astonished hands. “My orders were, Miss, that I was not to give it to you unless I saw you personally.”
She thanked him and withdrew to read it. It was a scrawl52 from George Hawker, the first letter she had ever received from him, and ran as follows:—
“MY HEART’S DARLING,
“I SHALL be in the croft to-night, according to promise, ready to make you the happiest woman in England, so I know you won’t fail. My Lord is coming to church this afternoon, and will be sure to dine with you. So I send this present by his groom, Sam; a good young chap, which I have known since he was so high, and like well, only that he is soft, which is not to his disadvantage.
G.H.”
She was standing under the lamp reading this when she heard the dining-room door open, and the men coming out from their wine. She slipped into the room opposite, and stood listening in the dark. She could see them as they came out. There was my Lord and the Doctor first, and behind came Major Buckley, who had dropped in, as his custom was, on Sunday evening, and who must have arrived while she was up-stairs. As they passed the door, inside which she stood, his Lordship turned round and said:—
“I tell you what, my dear Major, if that old Hawker was a tenant53 of mine, I’d take away his lease, and, if I could, force him to leave the parish. One man of that kind does incalculable harm in a village, by lowering the tone of the morality of the place. That’s the use of a great landlord if he does his duty. He can punish evildoers whom the law does not reach.”
“Don’t say anything more about him,” said the Doctor in a low voice. “It’s a tender subject in this house.”
“It is, eh!” said my Lord; “thanks for the hint, good — bah! — Mulhaus. Let us go up and have half an hour with Miss Thornton before I go!”
They went up, and then her father followed. He seemed flushed, and she thought he must have been drinking too much wine. After they were in the drawing-room, she crept up-stairs and listened. They were all talking except her father. It was half-past nine, and she wished they would go. So she went into her bedroom and waited. The maids had come home, and she heard them talking to the groom in the kitchen. At ten o’clock the bell was rung, and my Lord’s horse ordered. Soon he went, and not long afterwards the Major and the Doctor followed. Then she saw Miss Thornton go to her room, and her father walk slowly to his; and all was still throughout the house.
She took her hat and shawl and slipped down stairs shoeless into her father’s study. She laid a note on his chimney-piece, which she had written in the morning, and opening the back-door fled swiftly forth, not daring to look behind her. Quickly, under the blinking stars, under the blooming apple-trees, out to the croft-gate, and there was George waiting impatiently for her, according to promise.
“I began to fear you were not coming, my dear. Quick, jump!”
She scrambled54 over the gate, and jumped into his arms; he hurried her down the lane about a hundred yards, and then became aware of a dark object in the middle of the road.
“That’s my gig, my dear. Once in that, and we are soon in Exeter. All right, Bob?”
“All right!” replied a strange voice in the dark, and she was lifted into the gig quickly; in another moment George was beside her, and they were flying through the dark steep lanes at a dangerous speed.
The horse was a noble beast — the finest in the country side — and, like his driver, knew every stock and stone on the road; so that ere poor Mary had recovered her first flurry, they had crossed the red ford19, and were four miles on the road towards the capital, and began to feel a little more cheerful, for she had been crying bitterly.
“Don’t give way, Polly,” said George.
“No fear of my giving way now, George. If I had been going to do that, I’d have done it before. Now tell us what you are going to do? I have left everything to you.”
“I think we had better go straight on to London, my dear,” he replied, “and get married by licence. We could never stop in Exeter; and if you feel up to it, I should like to get off by early coach tomorrow morning. What do you say?”
“By all means! Shall we be there in time?”
“Yes; two hours before the coach starts.”
“Have you money enough, George?” she asked.
“Plenty!” he replied.
“If you go short, you must come to me, you know,” she said.
They rattled55 through the broad streets of a small country town just as the moon rose. The noble minster, which had for many years been used as the parish church, slept quietly among the yews56 and gravestones; all the town was still; only they two were awake, flying, she thought, from the fellowship of all quiet men. Was her father asleep now? she wondered. What would Miss Thornton say in the morning? and many other things she was asking herself, when she was interrupted by George saying, “Only eight miles to Exeter; we shall be in by daybreak.”
So they left Crediton Minster behind them, and rolled away along the broad road by the river, beneath the whispering poplars.
As Miss Thornton was dressing57 herself next morning she heard the Vicar go down into his study as usual. She congratulated herself that he was better, from being up thus early, but determined58, nevertheless, that he should see a doctor that day, who might meet and consult with Dr. Mulhaus.
Then she wondered why Mary had not been in. She generally came into her aunt’s room to hook-and-eye her, as she called it; but not having come this morning, Miss Thornton determined to go to her, and accordingly went and rapped at her door.
No answer. “Could the girl have been fool enough?” thought Miss Thornton. “Nonsense! no! She must be asleep!”
She opened the door and went in. Everything tidy. The bed had not been slept in. Miss Thornton had been in at an elopement, and a famous one, before; so she knew the symptoms in a moment. Well she remembered the dreadful morning when Lady Kate went off with Captain Brentwood, of the Artillery59. Well she remembered the Countess going into hysterics. But this was worse than that; this touched her nearer home.
“Oh you naughty girl! Oh you wicked, ungrateful girl; to go and do such a thing at a time like this, when I’ve been watching the paralysis60 creeping over him day by day! How shall I tell him? How shall I ever tell him? He will have a stroke as sure as fate. He was going to have one without this. I dare not tell him till breakfast, and yet I ought to tell him at once. I was brought into the world to be driven mad by girls. Oh dear, I wish they were all boys, and we might send them to Eton and wash our hands of them. Well, I must leave crying, and prepare for telling him.”
She went into his study, and at first could not see him; but he was there — a heap of black clothes lay on the hearthrug, and Miss Thornton running up, saw that it was her brother, speechless, senseless, clasping a letter in his hand.
She saw that the worst was come, and nerved herself for work, like a valiant62 soul as she was. She got him carried to his bed by the two sturdy maids, and sent an express for Dr. Mulhaus, and another for the professional surgeon. Then she took from her pocket the letter which she had found in the poor Vicar’s hand, and, going to the window, read as follows:
“When you get this, father, I shall be many miles away. I have started to London with George Hawker, and God only knows whether you will see me again. Try to forgive me, father, and if not, forget that you ever had a daughter who was only born to give you trouble. — Your erring63 but affectionate Mary.”
It will be seen by the reader that this unlucky letter, written in agitation64 and hurry, contained no allusion65 whatever to marriage, but rather left one to infer that she was gone with Hawker as his mistress. So the Vicar read it again and again, each time more mistily66, till sense and feeling departed, and he lay before his hearth61 a hopeless paralytic67.
At that moment Mary, beside George, was rolling through the fresh morning air, up the beautiful Exe valley. Her fears were gone with daylight and sunshine, and as he put his arm about her waist, she said,
“I am glad we came outside.”
“Are you quite happy now?” he asked.
“Quite happy!”——
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1
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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7
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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10
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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11
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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12
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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15
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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16
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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24
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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innovator
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| n.改革者；创新者 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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30
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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31
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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32
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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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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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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ministries
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| （政府的）部( ministry的名词复数 )； 神职； 牧师职位； 神职任期 | |
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democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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41
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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42
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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43
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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44
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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45
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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46
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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47
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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48
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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49
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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50
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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51
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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52
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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53
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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54
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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55
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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56
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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57
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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58
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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59
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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60
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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61
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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62
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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63
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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64
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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65
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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66
mistily
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| adv.有雾地，朦胧地，不清楚地 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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