“How fresh and pleasant the air is here, and how beautiful the purple of the heath!” exclaimed the young lady with animation4.
“There now—that’s right—beautiful it is, my darling; that’s how I like to see my child—pleasant-like and ’appy, and not mopin’ and dull, like a sick bird. Be that way always; do, dear.”
“You’re a kind old thing,” said the young lady, placing her slender hand fondly on her old nurse’s arm, “good old Dulcibella: you’re always to come with me wherever I go.”
“That’s just what Dulcibella’d like,” answered the old woman, who was fat, and liked her comforts, and loved Miss Alice more than many mothers love their own children, and had answered the same reminders5, in the same terms, a good many thousand times in her life.
Again the young lady was looking out of the window—not like one enjoying a landscape as it comes, but with something of anxiety in her countenance6, with her head through the open window, and gazing forward as if in search of some expected object.
“Do you remember some old trees standing7 together at the end of this moor, and a ruined windmill, on a hillock?” she asked suddenly.
“Well,” answered Dulcibella, who was not of an observant turn, “I suppose I do, Miss Alice; perhaps there is.”
“I remember it very well, but not where it is; and when last we passed, it was dark,” murmured the young lady to herself, rather than to Dulcibella, whom upon such points she did not much mind. “Suppose we ask the driver?”
She tapped at the window behind the box, and signed to the man, who looked over his shoulder. When he had pulled up she opened the front window and said—
“There’s a village a little way on—isn’t there?”
“Shuldon—yes’m, two mile and a bit,” he answered.
“Well, before we come to it, on the left there is a grove8 of tall trees and an old windmill,” continued the pretty young lady, looking pale.
“Gryce’s mill we call it, but it don’t go this many a day.”
“Yes, I dare say; and there is a road that turns off to the left, just under that old mill?”
“That’ll be the road to Church Carwell.”
“You must drive about three miles along that road.”
“That’ll be out o’ the way, ma’am—three, and three back—six miles—I don’t know about the hosses.”
“You must try, I’ll pay you—listen,” and she lowered her voice. “There’s one house—an old house—on the way, in the Vale of Carwell; it is called Carwell Grange—do you know it?”
“Yes’m; but there’s no one livin’ there.”
“No matter—there is; there is an old woman whom I want to see; that’s where I want to go, and you must manage it, I shan’t delay you many minutes, and you’re to tell no one, either on the way or when you get home, and I’ll give you two pounds for yourself.”
“All right,” he answered, looking hard in the pale face and large dark eyes that gazed on him eagerly from the window. “Thank ye, Miss, all right, we’ll wet their mouths at the Grange, or you wouldn’t mind waiting till they get a mouthful of oats, I dessay?”
“No, certainly; anything that is necessary, only I have a good way still to go before evening, and you won’t delay more than you can help?”
“Get along, then,” said the man, briskly to his horses, and forthwith they were again in motion.
The young lady pulled up the window, and leaned back for some minutes in her place.
“And where are we going to, dear Miss Alice?” inquired Dulcibella, who dimly apprehended9 that they were about to deviate10 from the straight way home, and feared the old Squire11, as other Wyvern folk did.
“A very little way, nothing of any consequence; and Dulcibella, if you really love me as you say, one word about it, to living being at Wyvern or anywhere else, you’ll never say—you promise?”
“You know me well, Miss Alice—I don’t talk to no one; but I’m sorry-like to hear there’s anything like a secret. I dread12 secrets.”
“You need not fear this—it is nothing, no secret, if people were not unreasonable13, and it shan’t be a secret long, perhaps, only be true to me.”
“True to you! Well, who should I be true to if not to you, darling, and never a word about it will pass old Dulcibella’s lips, talk who will; and are we pretty near it?”
“Very near, I think; it’s only to see an old woman, and get some information from her, nothing, only I don’t wish it to be talked about, and I know you won’t.”
“Not a word, dear. I never talk to any one, not I, for all the world.”
In a few minutes more they crossed a little bridge spanning a brawling14 stream, and the chaise turned the corner of a by-road to the left, under the shadow of a group of tall and sombre elms, overtopped by the roofless tower of the old windmill. Utterly15 lonely was the road, but at first with only a solitariness16 that partook of the wildness and melancholy17 of the moor which they had been traversing. Soon, however, the uplands at either side drew nearer, grew steeper, and the scattered18 bushes gathered into groups, and rose into trees, thickening as the road proceeded. Steeper grew the banks, higher and gloomier. Precipitous rocks showed their fronts, overtopped by trees and copse. The hollow which they had entered by the old windmill had deepened into a valley and was now contracted to a dark glen, overgrown by forest, and relieved from utter silence only by the moan and tinkle19 of the brook20 that wound its way through stones and brambles, in its unseen depths. Along the side of this melancholy glen about half way down, ran the narrow road, near the point where they now were, it makes an ascent21, and as they were slowly mounting this an open carriage—a, shabby, hired, nondescript vehicle—appeared in the deep shadow, at some distance, descending22 towards them. The road is so narrow that two carriages could not pass one another without risk. Here and there the inconvenience is provided against by a recess23 in the bank, and into one of these the distant carriage drew aside. A tall female figure, with feet extended on the opposite cushion, sat or rather reclined in the back seat. There was no one else in the carriage. She was wrapped in gray tweed, and the driver had now turned his face towards her, and was plainly receiving some orders.
Miss Maybell, as the carriage entered this melancholy pass, had grown more and more anxious; and pale and silent, was looking forward through the window, as they advanced. At sight of this vehicle, drawn24 up before them, a sudden fear chilled the young lady with, perhaps, a remote prescience.
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1
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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2
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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3
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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4
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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5
reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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6
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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7
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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8
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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9
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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10
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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11
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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12
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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13
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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14
brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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15
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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16
solitariness
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| n.隐居；单独 | |
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17
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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18
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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19
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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20
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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21
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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22
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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23
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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24
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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