It was rather a long and rough journey to Marringhurst, for they were obliged to use the old chariot; but Venetia forgot her fatigues4 in the cordial welcome of their host, whose sparkling countenance5 well expressed the extreme gratification their arrival occasioned him. All that the tenderest solicitude6 could devise for the agreeable accommodation of the invalid7 had been zealously8 concerted; and the constant influence of Dr. Masham’s cheerful mind was as beneficial to Lady Annabel as to her daughter. The season was gay, the place was pleasant; and although they were only a few miles from home, in a house with which they were familiar, and their companion one whom they had known intimately all their lives, and of late almost daily seen; yet such is the magic of a change in our habits, however slight, and of the usual theatre of their custom, that this visit to Marringhurst assumed quite the air of an adventure, and seemed at first almost invested with the charm and novelty of travel.
The surrounding country, which, though verdant9, was flat, was well adapted to the limited exertions10 and still feeble footsteps of an invalid, and Venetia began to study botany with the Doctor, who indeed was not very profound in his attainments11 in this respect, but knew quite enough to amuse his scholar. By degrees also, as her strength daily increased, they extended their walks; and at length she even mounted her pony12, and was fast recovering her elasticity13 both of body and mind. There were also many pleasant books with which she was unacquainted; a cabinet of classic coins, prints, and pictures. She became, too, interested in the Doctor’s rural pursuits; would watch him with his angle, and already meditated14 a revolution in his garden. So time, on the whole, flew cheerfully on, certainly without any weariness; and the day seldom passed that they did not all congratulate themselves on the pleasant and profitable change.
In the meantime Venetia, when alone, still recurred15 to that idea that was now so firmly rooted in her mind, that it was quite out of the power of any social discipline to divert her attention from it. She was often the sole companion of the Doctor, and she had long resolved to seize a favourable16 opportunity to appeal to him on the subject of her father. It so happened that she was walking alone with him one morning in the neighbourhood of Marringhurst, having gone to visit the remains17 of a Roman encampment in the immediate18 vicinity. When they had arrived at the spot, and the Doctor had delivered his usual lecture on the locality, they sat down together on a mound19, that Venetia might rest herself.
‘Were you ever in Italy, Doctor Masham?’ said Venetia.
‘I never was out of my native country,’ said the Doctor. ‘I once, indeed, was about making the grand tour with a pupil of mine at Oxford20, but circumstances interfered21 which changed his plans, and so I remain a regular John Bull.’
‘Was my father at Oxford?’ said Venetia, quietly.
‘He was,’ replied the Doctor, looking confused.
‘I should like to see Oxford much,’ said Venetia.
‘It is a most interesting seat of learning,’ said the Doctor, quite delighted to change the subject. ‘Whether we consider its antiquity22, its learning, the influence it has exercised upon the history of the country, its magnificent endowments, its splendid buildings, its great colleges, libraries, and museums, or that it is one of the principal head-quarters of all the hope of England, our youth, it is not too much to affirm that there is scarcely a spot on the face of the globe of equal interest and importance.’
‘It is not for its colleges, or libraries, or museums, or all its splendid buildings,’ observed Venetia, ‘that I should wish to see it. I wish to see it because my father was once there. I should like to see a place where I was quite certain my father had been.’
‘Still harping23 of her father,’ thought the Doctor to himself, and growing uneasy; yet, from his very anxiety to turn the subject, quite incapable24 of saying an appropriate word.
‘Do you remember my father at Oxford, Doctor Masham?’ said Venetia.
‘Yes! no, yes!’ said the Doctor, rather colouring; ‘that he must have been there in my time, I rather think.’
‘But you do not recollect25 him?’ said Venetia, pressing question.
‘Why,’ rejoined the Doctor, a little more collected, ‘when you remember that there are between two and three thousand young men at the university, you must not consider it very surprising that I might not recollect your father.’
‘No,’ said Venetia, ‘perhaps not: and yet I cannot help thinking that he must always have been a person who, if once seen, would not easily have been forgotten.’
‘Here is an Erica vagans,’ said the Doctor, picking a flower; ‘it is rather uncommon26 about here;’ and handing it at the same time to Venetia.
‘My father must have been very young when he died?’ said Venetia, scarcely looking at the flower.
‘Yes, your father was very young,’ he replied.
‘Where did he die?’
‘I cannot answer that question.’
‘Where was he buried?’
‘You know, my dear young lady, that the subject is too tender for any one to converse27 with your poor mother upon it. It is not in my power to give you the information you desire. Be satisfied, my dear Miss Herbert, that a gracious Providence28 has spared to you one parent, and one so inestimable.’
‘I trust I know how to appreciate so great a blessing,’ replied Venetia; ‘but I should be sorry if the natural interest which all children must take in those who have given them birth, should be looked upon as idle and unjustifiable curiosity.’
‘My dear young lady, you misapprehend me.’
‘No, Doctor Masham, indeed I do not,’ replied Venetia, with firmness. ‘I can easily conceive that the mention of my father may for various reasons be insupportable to my mother; it is enough for me that I am convinced such is the case: my lips are sealed to her for ever upon the subject; but I cannot recognise the necessity of this constraint29 to others. For a long time I was kept in ignorance whether I had a father or not. I have discovered, no matter how, who he was. I believe, pardon me, my dearest friend, I cannot help believing, that you were acquainted, or, at least, that you know something of him; and I entreat30 you! yes,’ repeated Venetia with great emphasis, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking with earnestness in his face, ‘I entreat you, by all your kind feelings to my mother and myself, by all that friendship we so prize, by the urgent solicitation31 of a daughter who is influenced in her curiosity by no light or unworthy feeling; yes! by all the claims of a child to information which ought not to be withheld32 from her, tell me, tell me all, tell me something! Speak, Dr. Masham, do speak!’
‘My dear young lady,’ said the Doctor, with a glistening33 eye, ‘it is better that we should both be silent.’
‘No, indeed,’ replied Venetia, ‘it is not better; it is not well that we should be silent. Candour is a great virtue34. There is a charm, a healthy charm, in frankness. Why this mystery? Why these secrets? Have they worked good? Have they benefited us? O! my friend, I would not say so to my mother, I would not be tempted35 by any sufferings to pain for an instant her pure and affectionate heart; but indeed, Doctor Masham, indeed, indeed, what I tell you is true, all my late illness, my present state, all, all are attributable but to one cause, this mystery about my father!’
‘What can I tell you?’ said the unhappy Masham.
‘Tell me only one fact. I ask no more. Yes! I promise you, solemnly I promise you, I will ask no more. Tell me, does he live?’
‘He does!’ said the Doctor. Venetia sank upon his shoulder.
‘My dear young lady, my darling young lady!’ said the Doctor; ‘she has fainted. What can I do?’ The unfortunate Doctor placed Venetia in a reclining posture36, and hurried to a brook37 that was nigh, and brought water in his hand to sprinkle on her. She revived; she made a struggle to restore herself.
‘It is nothing,’ she said, ‘I am resolved to be well. I am well. I am myself again. He lives; my father lives! I was confident of it! I will ask no more. I am true to my word. O! Doctor Masham, you have always been my kind friend, but you have never yet conferred on me a favour like the one you have just bestowed38.’
‘But it is well,’ said the Doctor, ‘as you know so much, that you should know more.’
‘Yes! yes!’
‘As we walk along,’ he continued, ‘we will converse, or at another time; there is no lack of opportunity.’
‘No, now, now!’ eagerly exclaimed Venetia, ‘I am quite well. It was not pain or illness that overcame me. Now let us walk, now let us talk of these things. He lives?’
‘I have little to add,’ said Dr. Masham, after a moment’s thought; ‘but this, however painful, it is necessary for you to know, that your father is unworthy of your mother, utterly39; they are separated; they never can be reunited.’
‘Never?’ said Venetia.
‘Never,’ replied Dr. Masham; ‘and I now warn you; if, indeed, as I cannot doubt, you love your mother; if her peace of mind and happiness are, as I hesitate not to believe, the principal objects of your life, upon this subject with her be for ever silent. Seek to penetrate40 no mysteries, spare all allusions41, banish42, if possible, the idea of your father from your memory. Enough, you know he lives. We know no more. Your mother labours to forget him; her only consolation43 for sorrows such as few women ever experienced, is her child, yourself, your love. Now be no niggard with it. Cling to this unrivalled parent, who has dedicated44 her life to you. Soothe45 her sufferings, endeavour to make her share your happiness; but, of this be certain, that if you raise up the name and memory of your father between your mother and yourself, her life will be the forfeit46!’
‘His name shall never pass my lips,’ said Venetia; ‘solemnly I vow47 it. That his image shall be banished48 from my heart is too much to ask, and more than it is in my power to grant. But I am my mother’s child. I will exist only for her; and if my love can console her, she shall never be without solace49. I thank you, Doctor, for all your kindness. We will never talk again upon the subject; yet, believe me, you have acted wisely, you have done good.’
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1
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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4
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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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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zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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10
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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11
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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12
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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14
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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15
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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16
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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19
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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26
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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27
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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28
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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29
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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30
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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31
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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32
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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33
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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38
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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40
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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41
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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42
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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43
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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44
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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45
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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46
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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47
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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48
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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