But the Malory people seemed to have grown still more cautious and reserved since the adventure of Penruthyn Priory. Sunday came, and Miss Anne Sheckleton sat alone in the Malory pew.
Cleve, who had been early in his place, saw the old lady enter alone and the door shut, and experienced a pang4 of disappointment — more than disappointment, it amounted to pain.
If in the dim light of the Malory seat he had seen, once more, the Guido that haunted him, he could with pleasure have sat out three services; with three of the longest of good Mr. Splayfoot’s long sermons. But as it was, it dragged wofully — it made next to no way; the shrilly5 school-children and the deep-toned Mr. Bray6 sang more verses than ever to the solemn drone of the organ, and old Splayfoot preached as though he’d preach his last. Even Cleve’s watch, which he peeped at with a frequency he grew ashamed of, limped and loitered over the minutes cruelly.
The service would not have seemed so nearly interminable if Cleve had not resolved to waylay7 and accost8 the lady at the other side — even at the risk of being snubbed for his pains; and to him, full of this resolve, the interval9 was miserable10.
When the people stood up after the blessing11, Cleve Verney had vanished. From the churchyard he had made his exit, by the postern door, from which he and his enamoured friend, Sedley, had descended12 a week before to the narrow road, under the town wall, leading to Malory.
Down this he walked listlessly till he reached that lonely part of the road which is over-arched by trees; and here, looking over the sloping fields toward the sea, as if at the distant mountains, he did actually waylay Miss Sheckleton.
The old lady seemed a little flurried and shy, and would, he fancied, have gladly been rid of him. But that did not weigh much with Cleve, who, smiling and respectful, walked by her side after he had made his polite salutation. A few sentences having been first spoken about indifferent things, Cleve said —
“I have been to the old Priory twice since I met you there.”
“Oh!” said Miss Anne Sheckleton, looking uneasily toward Malory. He thought she was afraid that Sir Booth’s eye might chance to be observing them.
Cleve did not care. He rather enjoyed her alarm, and the chance of bringing matters to a crisis. She had not considered him much in the increased jealousy13 with which she had cloistered14 up her beautiful recluse15 ever since that day which burned in his memory, and cast a train of light along the darkness of the interval. Cleve would have been glad that the old man had discovered and attacked him. He thought he could have softened16 and even made him his friend.
“Do you never purpose visiting the ruin again?” asked Cleve. “I had hoped it interested you and Miss Fanshawe too much to be dropped on so slight an acquaintance.”
“I don’t know. Our little expeditions have been very few and very uncertain,” hesitated Miss Sheckleton.
“Pray, don’t treat me quite as a stranger,” said Cleve, in a lone3 and earnest tone; “what I said the other day was not, I assure you, spoken upon a mere17 impulse. I hope, I am sure, that Miss Fanshawe gives me credit at least for sincerity18.”
He paused.
“Oh! certainly, Mr. Verney, we do.”
“And I so wish you would tell her that I have been ever since thinking how I can be of any real use — ever so little — if only to prove my anxiety to make her trust me even a little.”
“I think, Mr. Verney, it is quite enough if we don’t distrust you; and I can assure you we do not,” said the spinster.
“My uncle, though not the sort of man you may have been led to suppose him — not at all an unkind man — is, I must allow, a little odd and difficult sometimes — you see I’m not speaking to you as a stranger — and he won’t do things in a moment; still if I knew exactly what Sir Booth expected from him — if you think I might venture to ask an interview ——”
“Quite impossible! You must not think of it,” exclaimed the lady with a look almost of terror, “just now, while all is so fresh, and feelings so excited, he’s in no mood to be reasonable, and no good could come of it.”
“Well, you know best, of course. But I expect to be called away, my stay at Ware19 can’t be much longer. My uncle writes as if he wants me; and I wish so much, short as it is, that I could improve it to any useful purpose. I can’t tell you how very much I pity Miss Fanshawe, immured20 in that gloomiest of all gloomy places. Such an unnatural21 and terrifying seclusion22 for one so very young.”
“It is certainly very triste,” said Miss Sheckleton.
“She draws, you told me, and likes the garden, and reads; you must allow me to lend you some books, won’t you? you I say; and you can lend them to her,” he added, seeing a hesitation23, “and you need take no trouble about returning them. Just lock them up anywhere in the house when you’ve done with them, and I’ll get them when you leave Malory, which I hope won’t be for a long time, unless it be for a very much pleasanter residence.”
Here came a pause; the eyes of the two pedestrians24 were directed toward Malory as they descended the road, but no sign of life was visible in that quarter.
“You got home very well that day from the Priory; I watched you all the way,” said he at last.
“Oh! yes; the distance is nothing.”
Another little pause followed.
“You’re not afraid, Miss Sheckleton, of venturing outside the walls. I fear, however, I’ve a great deal to answer for in having alarmed Miss Fanshawe, though quite unintentionally, for the safety of Sir Booth’s incognito25. The secret is known to no one but to me and the persons originally entrusted26 with it; I swear to you it’s so. There’s no reason on earth for your immuring27 yourselves as you do within those melancholy28 precincts; it excites curiosity, on the contrary, and people begin to pry29 and ask questions; and I trust you believe that I would not trifle or mislead you upon such a subject.”
“You are very good,” answered Miss Sheckleton, looking down. “Yes, we are obliged to be very careful; but it is hardly worth breaking a rule; we may possibly be here for so very short a time, you know. And about the books ——”
“Oh! about the books I’ll hear nothing; there are books coming for me to Ware, and I shan’t be there to receive them. And I shall be, I assure you, ever so much obliged if you’ll only just give them house-room — they’ll be so much safer — at Malory; and you won’t deny me the pleasure of thinking that you and Miss Fanshawe will look over them?”
He fancied she did not like this; and thought she seemed embarrassed to find an evasion30; but before she could speak, he continued, “and how is the little squirrel I saw in the boat the other day; Miss Fanshawe’s, I suppose? Such a pretty little thing!”
“Oh! poor little Whisk. There has been a tragedy: some horrid31 thing, a wild cat or an owl32, killed him the other night, and mangled33 him so; poor little, dear thing, you must not ask.”
“Oh dear! I’m so sorry; and Miss Fanshawe can so ill spare a companion just now.”
“Yes, it has been a great blow; and — and I think, Mr. Verney, I should prefer bidding you good-bye here,” said Miss Sheckleton, stopping resolutely34, and holding out her fingers for him to take; for she was on odd terms of suspicion and confidence — something more than mere chance acquaintance.
He looked towards the wood of Malory — now overlooking them, almost in the foreground; and, I think, if he had seen Miss Fanshawe under its shadows, nothing would have prevented his going right on — perhaps very rashly — upon the chance of even a word from her. But the groves35 were empty; neither “Erl King” nor his daughter were waiting for them. So, for simply nothing, it would not do to vex36 the old lady, with whom, for many reasons, it was desirable that he should continue upon good terms, and with real regret he did there, as she desired, take his leave, and slowly walk back to Cardyllian, now and then stealing a glance over the old side-walk of the steep road, thinking that just possibly his Guido might appear in the shadow to greet the old lady at the gate. But nothing appeared — she went in, and the darkness received her.
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1
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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2
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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3
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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4
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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5
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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6
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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7
waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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8
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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9
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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10
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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11
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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12
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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13
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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14
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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15
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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16
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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17
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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18
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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19
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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20
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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22
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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23
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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24
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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25
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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26
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
immuring
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的现在分词 ) | |
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28
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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29
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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30
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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31
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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32
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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33
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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34
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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35
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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36
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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