“So Lady Mary is the fiancée of Mr. Carysbroke,” said I, very cleverly; “and I think it was very wicked of you to try and involve me in a flirtation2 with him yesterday.”
“And who told you that, pray?” asked Lady Knollys, with a pleasant little laugh.
“Milly and I discovered it, simple as we stand here,” I answered.
“But you did not flirt1 with Mr. Carysbroke, Maud, did you?” she asked.
“No, certainly not; but that was not your doing, wicked woman, but my discretion3. And now that we know your secret, you must tell lus all about her, and all about him; and int the first place, what is her name — Lady Mary what?” I demanded.
“Who would have thought you so cunning? Two country misses — two little nuns4 from the cloisters5 of Bartram! Well, I suppose I must answer. It is vain trying to hide anything from you; but how on earth did you find it out?”
“We’ll tell you that presently, but you shall first tell us who she is,” I persisted.
“Well, that I will, of course, without compulsion. She is Lady Mary Carysbroke,” said Lady Knollys.
“A relation of Mr. Carysbroke’s,” I asserted.
“Yes, a relation; but who told you he was Mr. Carysbroke?” asked Cousin Monica.
“Milly told me, when we say him in the Windmill Wood.”
“And who told you, Milly?”
“It was L’Amour,” answered Milly, with her blue eyes very wide open.
“What does the child mean? L’Amour! You don’t mean love?” exclaimed Lady Knollys, puzzled in her turn.
“I mean old Wyat; she told me and the Governor.”
“You’re not to say that,” I interposed.
“You mean your father?” suggested Lady Knollys.
“Well, yes; father told her, and so I knew him.”
“What could he mean?” exclaimed Lady Knollys, laughing, as it were, in soliloquy; “and I did not mention his name, I recollect6 now. He recognised you, and you him, when you came into the room yesterday; and now you must tell me how you discovered that he and Lady Mary were to be married.”
So Milly restated her evidence, and Lady Knollys laughed unaccountably heartily7; and she said —
“They will be so confounded! but they deserve it; and, remember, I did not say so.”
“Oh! we acquit8 you.”
“All I say is, such a deceitful, dangerous pair of girls — all things considered — I never heard of before,” exclaimed Lady Knollys. “There’s no such thing as conspiring9 in your presence.”
“Good morning. I hope you slept well.” She was addressing the lady and gentleman who were just entering the room fro the conservatory10. “You’ll hardly sleep so well to-night, when you have learned what eyes are upon you. Here are two very pretty detectives who have found out your secret, and entirely11 by your imprudence and their own cleverness have discovered that you are a pair of betrothed12 lovers, about to ratify13 your vows14 at the hymeneal alter. I assure you I did not tell of you; you betrayed yourselves. If you will talk in that confidential15 way on sofas, and cal one another stealthily by your Christian16 names, and actually kiss at the foot of the stairs, while a clever detective is scaling them, apparently17 with her back toward you, you must only take the consequences, and be known prematurely18 as the hero and heroine of the forthcoming paragraph in the ‘Morning Post.’”
Milly and I were horribly confounded, but Cousin Monica was resolved to place us all upon the least formal terms possible, and I believe she had set about it in the right way.
“And now, girls, I am going to make a counter-discovery, which, I fear, a little conflicts with yours. This Mr. Carysbroke is Lord Ilbury, brother of this Lady Mary; and it is all my fault for not having done my honours better; but you see what clever match-making little creatures they are.”
“You can’t think how flattered I am at being made the subject of a theory, even a mistaken one, by Miss Ruthyn.”
And so, after our modest fit was over, Milly and I were very merry, like the rest, and we all grew a great deal more intimate that morning.
I think altogether those were the pleasantest and happiest days of my life: gay, intelligent, and kindly20 society at home; charming excursions — sometimes riding — sometimes by carriage — to distant points of beauty in the county. Evenings varied21 with music, reading, and spirited conversation. Now and then a visitor for a day or two, and constantly some neighbour from the town, or its dependencies, dropt in. Of these I but remember tall old Miss Wintletop, most entertaining of rustic22 old maids, with her nice lace and thick satin, and her small, kindly round face — pretty, I dare say, in other days, and now frosty, but kindly — who told us such delightful23 old stories of the county in her father’s and grandfather’s time; who knew the lineage of every family in it, and could recount all its duels24 and elopements; give us illustrative snatches from old election squibs, and lines from epitaphs, and tell exactly where all the old-world highway robberies had been committed: how it fared with the chief delinquents25 after the assizes; and, above all, where, and of what sort, the goblins and elves of the county had made themselves seen, from the phantom26 post-boy, who every third night crossed Windale Moor27, by the old coach-road, to the fat old ghost, in mulberry velvet28, who showed his great face, crutch29, and ruffles30, by moonlight, at the bow window of the old court-house that was taken down in 1803.
You cannot imagine what agreeable evenings we passed in this society, or how rapidly my good Cousin Milly improved in it. I remember well the intense suspense31 in which she and I awaited the answer from Bartram–Haugh to kind Cousin Monica’s application for an extension of our leave of absence.
It came, and with it a note from Uncle Silas, which was curious, and, therefore, is printed here:—
“MY DEAR LADY KNOLLYS — To your kind letter I say yes (that is, for another week, not a fortnight), with all my heart. I am glad to hear that my starlings chatter32 so pleasantly; at all events the refrain is not that of Sterne’s. They can get out; and do get out; and shall get out as much as they please. I am no gaoler, and shut up nobody but myself. I have always thought that young people have too much liberty. My principle has been to make little free men and women of them from the first. In morals, altogether — in intellect, more than we allow — self-education is that which abides33; and it only begins where constraint34 ends. Such is my theory. My practice is consistent. Let them remain for a week longer, as you say. The horses shall be at Elverston on Tuesday, the 7th. I shall be more than usually sad and solitary35 till their return; so pray, I selfishly entreat36, do not extend their absence. You will smile, remembering how little my health will allow me to see of them, even when at home; but as Chaulieu so prettily37 says — I stupidly forget the words, but the sentiment is this —‘although concealed38 by a sylvan39 wall of leaves, impenetrable —(he is pursuing his favourite nymphs through the alleys40 and intricacies of a rustic labyrinth)— yet, your songs, your prattle42, and your laughter, faint and far away, inspire my fancy; and, through my ears, I see your unseen smiles, your blushes, your floating tresses, and your ivory feet; and so, though sad, am happy; though alone, in company;’— and such is my case.
“One only request, and I have done. Pray remind them of a promise made to me. The Book of Life — the fountain of life — it must be drunk of, night and morning, or their spiritual life expires.
“And now, Heaven bless and keep you, my dear cousin; and with all assurances of affection to my beloved niece and my child, believe me ever yours affectionately.
SILAS RUTHYN.”
Said Cousin Monica, with a waggish43 smile —
“And so, girls, you have Chaulieu and the evangelists; the French rhymester in his alley41, and Silas in the valley of the shadow of death; perfect liberty, and a peremptory44 order to return in a week; — all illustrating45 one another. Poor Silas! old as he is, I don’t think his religion fits him.”
I really rather liked his letter. I was struggling hard to think well of him, and Cousin Monica knew it; and I really think if I had not been by, she would often have been less severe on him.
As we were all sitting pleasantly about the breakfast table a day or two after, the sun shining on the pleasant wintry landscape, Cousin Monica suddenly exclaimed —
“I quite forgot to tell you that Charles Oakley has written to say he is coming on Wednesday. I really don’t want him. Poor Charlie! I wonder how they manage those doctors’ certificates. I know nothing ails46 him, and he’d be much better with his regiment47.”
Wednesday! — how odd. Exactly the day after my departure. I tried to look perfectly48 unconcerned. Lady Knollys had addressed herself more to Lady Marry and Milly than to me, and nobody in particular was looking at me. Notwithstanding, with my usual perversity50, I felt myself blushing with a brilliancy that may have been very becoming, but which was so intolerably provoking that I would have risen and left the room but that matters would have been so infinitely51 worse. I could have boxed my odious52 ears. I could almost have jumped out the window.
I felt that Lord Ilbury saw it. I saw Lady Mary’s eyes for a moment resting gravely on my tell-tale — my lying cheeks — for I really had begun to think much less celestially53 of Captain Oakley. I was angry with Cousin Monica, who, knowing my blushing infirmity, had mentioned her nephew so suddenly while I was strapped54 by etiquette55 in my chair, with my face to the window, and two pair of most disconcerting eyes, at least, opposite. I was angry with myself — generally angry — refused more tea rather dryly, and was laconic56 to Lord Ilbury, all which, of course, was very cross and foolish; and afterwards, from my bed-room window, I saw Cousin Monica and Lady Mary among the flowers, under the drawing-room window, talking, as I instinctively57 knew, of that little incident. I was standing49 at the glass.
“My odious, stupid, perjured58 face,” I whispered, furiously, at the same time stamping on the floor, and giving myself quite a smart slap on the cheek. “I can’t go down — I’m ready to cry — I’ve a mind to return to Bartram to-day; I am always blushing; and I wish that impudent59 Captain Oakley was at the bottom of the sea.”
I was, perhaps, thinking more of Lord Ilbury than I was aware; and I am sure if Captain Oakley had arrived that day, I should have treated him with most unjustifiable rudeness.
Notwithstanding this unfortunate blush, the remainder of our visit passed very happily for me. No one who has not experienced it can have an idea how intimate a small party, such as ours, will grow in a short time in a country house.
Of course, a young lady of a well-regulated mind cannot possibly care a pin about any one of the opposite sex until she is well assured that he is beginning, at least, to like her better than all the world beside; but I could not deny to myself that I was rather anxious to know more about Lord Ilbury than I actually did know.
There was a “Peerage,” in its bright scarlet60 and gold uniform, corpulent and tempting61, upon the little marble table in the drawing-room. I had many opportunities of consulting it, but I never could find courage to do so.
For an inexperienced person it would have been a matter of several minutes, and during those minutes what awful risk of surprise and detection. One day, all being quiet, I did venture, and actually, with a beating heart, got so far as to find out the letter “Il,” when I heard a step outside the door, which opened a little bit, and I heard Lady Knollys, luckily arrested at the entrance, talk some sentences outside, her had still upon the door-handle. I shut the book, as Mrs. Bluebeard might the door of the chamber62 of horrors at the sound of her husband’s step, and skipped to a remote part of the room, where Cousin Knollys found me in a mysterious state of agitation63.
On any other subject I would have questioned Cousin Monica unhesitatingly; upon this, somehow, I was dumb. I distrusted myself, and dreaded64 my odious habit of blushing, and knew that I should look so horribly guilty, and become so agitated65 and odd, that she would have reasonably concluded that I had quite lost my heart to him.
After the lesson I had received, and my narrow escape of detection in the very act, you may be sure I never trusted myself in the vicinity of that fat and cruel “Peerage,” which possessed66 the secret, but would not disclose without compromising me.
In this state of tantalizing67 darkness and conjecture68 I should have departed, had not Cousin Monica quite spontaneously relieved me.
The night before our departure she sat with us in our room, chatting a little farewell gossip.
“And what do you think of Ilbury?” she asked.
“I think him clever and accomplished69, and amusing; but he sometimes appears to me very melancholy70 — that is, for a few minutes together — and then, I fancy, with an effort, re-engages in our conversation.”
“Yes, poor Ilbury! He lost his brother only about five months since, and is only beginning to recover his spirits a little. They were very much attached, and people thought that he would have succeeded to the title, had he lived, because Ilbury is difficile — or a philosopher — or a Saint Kevin; and, in fact, has begun to be treated as a premature19 old bachelor.”
“What a charming person his sister, Lady Mary, is. She has made me promise to write to her,” I said, I suppose — such hypocrites are we — to prove to Cousin Knollys that I did not care particularly to hear anything more about him.
“Yes, and so devoted71 to him. He came down here, and took The Grange, for a change of scene and solitude72 — of all things the worst for a man in grief — a morbid73 whim74, as he is beginning to find out; for he is very glad to stay here, and confesses that he is much better since he came. His letters are still addressed to him as Mr. Carysbroke; for he fancied if his rank were known, that the county people would have been calling upon him, and so he would have found himself soon involved in a tiresome75 round of dinners, and must have gone somewhere else. You saw him, Milly, at Bartram, before Maud came?”
Yes, she had, when he called there to see her father.
“He thought, as he had accepted the trusteeship, that he could hardly, residing so near, omit to visit Silas. He was very much struck and interested by him, and he has a better opinion of him — you are not angry, Milly — than some ill-natured people I could name; and he says that the cutting down of the trees will turn out to have been a mere76 slip. But these slips don’t occur with clever men in other things; and some persons have a way of always making them in their own favour. And, to talk of other things, I suspect that you and Milly will probably see Ilbury at Bartram; for I think he likes you ver much.”
You; did she mean both, or only me?
So our pleasant visit was over. Milly’s good little curate had been much thrown in her way by our deep and dangerous cousin Monica. He was most laudably steady; and his flirtation advanced upon the field of theology, where, happily, Milly’s little reading had been concentrated. A mild and earnest interest in poor, pretty Milly’s orthodoxy was the leading feature of his case; and I was highly amused at her references to me, when we had retired77 at night, upon the points which she had disputed with him, and her anxious reports of their low-toned conferences, carried on upon a sequestered78 ottoman, where he patted and stroked his crossed leg, as he smiled tenderly and shook his head at her questionable79 doctrine80. Milly’s reverence81 for her instructor83, and his admiration84, grew daily; and he was known among us as Milly’s confessor.
He took luncheon85 with us on the day of our departure, and with an adroit86 privacy, which in a layman87 would have been sly, presented her, in right of his holy calling, with a little book, the binding88 of which was medi?val and costly89, and whose letter-press dealt in a way which he commended, with some points on which she was not satisfactory; and she found on the fly-leaf this little inscription90:—“Presented to Miss Millicent Ruthyn by an earnest well-wisher, 1st December 1844.” A text, very neatly91 penned, followed this; and the “presentation” was made unctiously indeed, but with a blush, as well as the accustomed smile, and with eyes that were lowered.
The early crimson92 sun of December had gone down behind the hills before we took our seats in the carriage.
Lord Ilbury leaned with his elbow on the carriage window, looking in, and he said to me —
“I really don’t know what we shall do, Miss Ruthyn; we shall all feel so lonely. For myself, I think I shall run away to Grange.”
This appeared to me as nearly perfect eloquence93 as human lips could utter.
His hand still rested on the window, and the Rev82. Sprigge Biddlepen was standing with a saddened smirk94 on the door steps, when the whip smacked95, the horses scrambled96 into motion, and away we rolled down the avenue, leaving behind us the pleasantest house and hostess in the world, and trotting97 fleetly into darkness towards Bartram–Haugh.
We were both rather silent. Milly had her book in her lap, and I saw her every now and then try to read her “earnest well-wisher’s” little inscription, but there was not light to read by.
When we reached the great gate of Bartram–Haugh it was dark. Old Crowl, who kept the gate, I heard enjoining98 the postilion to make no avoidable noise at the hall-door, for the odd but startling reason that he believed my uncle “would be dead by this time.”
Very much shocked and frightened, we stopped the carriage, and questioned the tremulous old porter.
Uncle Silas, it seemed, had been “silly-ish” all yesterday, and “could not be woke this morning,” and “the doctor had been here twice, being now in the house.”
“Is he better?” I asked, tremblingly.
“Not as I’m aweer on, Miss; he lay at God’s mercy two hours agone; ‘appen he’s in heaven be this time.”
“Drive on — drive fast,” I said to the driver. “Don’t be frightened, Milly; please Heaven we shall find all going well.”
After some delay, during which my heart sank, and I quite gave up Uncle Silas, the aged99 little servant-man opened the door, and trotted100 shakily down the steps to the carriage side.
Uncle Silas had been at death’s door for hours; the question of life had trembled in the scale; but now the doctor said “he might do.”
“Where was the doctor?”
“In master’s room; he blooded him three hours agone.”
I don’t think that Milly was so frightened as I. My heart beat, and I was trembling so that I could hardly get upstairs.
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收听单词发音
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1
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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ratify
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| v.批准，认可，追认 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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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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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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delinquents
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| n.（尤指青少年）有过失的人，违法的人( delinquent的名词复数 ) | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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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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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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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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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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42
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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43
waggish
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| adj.诙谐的，滑稽的 | |
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44
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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45
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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46
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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47
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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48
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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49
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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50
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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51
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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52
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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53
celestially
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| adv.神地，神圣地 | |
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54
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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perjured
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| adj.伪证的，犯伪证罪的v.发假誓，作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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enjoining
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| v.命令( enjoin的现在分词 ) | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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100
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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