“Oh! Charlie, it is very late,” said Alice, a little reproachfully.
“Not very, is it, darling?” said he, glancing at his watch. “By Jove! it is. My poor little woman, I had not an idea.”
“I suppose I am very foolish, but I love you so much, Charlie, that I grow quite miserable1 when I am out of your sight.”
“I’m sorry, my darling, but I fancied “be had a great deal more to tell me than he really had. I don’t think I’m likely, at least for a little time, to be pressed by my duns—and—I wanted to make out exactly what money he’s likely to get me for a horse he is going to sell, and I’m afraid, from what he says, it won’t be very much; really, twenty pounds, one way or other, seems ridiculous, but it does make a very serious difference just now, and if I hadn’t such a clever, careful little woman as you, I don’t really know what I should do.”
He added this little complimentary2 qualification with an instinctive3 commiseration4 for the pain he thought he saw in her pretty face.
“These troubles won’t last very long, Charlie, perhaps. Something, I’m sure, will turn up, and you’ll see how careful I will be. I’ll learn everything old Mildred can teach me, ever so much, and you’ll see what a manager I will be.”
“You are my own little treasure. You always talk as if you were in the way, somehow, I don’t know how. A wife like you is a greater help to me than one with two thousand a year and the reckless habits of a fine lady. Your wise little head and loving heart, my darling, are worth whole fortunes to me without them, and I do believe you are the first really good wife that ever a Fairfield married. You are the only creature I have on earth, that I’m quite sure of—the only creature.”
And so saying he kissed her, folding her in his arms, and, with a big tear filling each eye, she looked up, smiling unutterable affection, in his face. As they stood together in that embrace his eyes also filled with tears and his smile met hers, and they seemed wrapt for a moment in one angelic glory, and she felt the strain of his arm draw her closer.
Such moments come suddenly and are gone; but, remaining in memory, they are the lights that illuminate5 a dark and troublous retrospect6 for ever.
“We’ll make ourselves happy here, little Ally, and I— in spite of everything, my darling!—and I don’t know how it happened that I staid away so long; but I walked with Harry7 further than I intended, and when he left me I loitered on Cressley Common for a time with my head full of business; and so, without knowing it, I was filling my poor little wife’s head with alarms and condemning8 her to solitude9. Well, all I can do is to promise to be a good boy and to keep better hours for the future.”
“That’s so like you, you are so good to your poor, foolish little wife,” said Alice.
“I wish I could be, darling,” said he; “I wish I could prove one-half my love; but the time will come yet. I shan’t be so poor or powerless always.”
“But you’re not to speak so—you’re not to think that. It is while we are poor that I can be of any use,” she said, eagerly; “very little, very miserable my poor attempts, but nothing makes me so happy as trying to deserve ever so little of all the kind things my Ry says of me; and I’m sure, Charlie, although there may be cares and troubles, we will make our time pass here very happily, and perhaps we shall always look back on our days at Carwell as the happiest of our lives.”
“Yes, darling, I am determined10 we shall be very happy,” said he.
“And Ry will tell me everything that troubles him?”
Her full eyes were gazing sadly up in his face. He averted11 his eyes, and said,—
“Of course I will, darling.”
“Oh! Ry, if you knew how happy that makes me!” she exclaimed. But there was that in the exclamation12 which seemed to say, “if only I could be sure that you meant it.”
“Of course I will—that is, everything that could possibly interest you, for there are very small worries as well as great ones; and you know I really can’t undertake to remember everything.”
“Of course, darling,” she answered; “I only meant that if anything were really—any great anxiety—upon your mind, you would not be afraid to tell me. I’m not such a coward as I seem. You must not think me so foolish; and really, Ry, it pains me more to think that there is any anxiety weighing upon you, and concealed13 from me, than any disclosure could; and so I know—won’t you?”
“Haven’t I told you, darling, I really will,” he said, a little pettishly14. “What an odd way you women have of making a fellow say the same thing over and over again.
I wonder it does not tire you, I know it does tire awfully15. Now, there, see, I really do believe you are going to cry.”
“Oh, no, indeed!” she said, brightening up, and smiling with a sad, little effort.
“And now, kiss me, my poor, good little woman,—you’re not vexed16 with me?—no, I’m sure you’re not,” said he.
She smiled a very affectionate assurance.
“And really, you poor little thing, it is awfully late, and you must be tired, and I’ve been—no, not lecturing, I’ll never lecture, I hate it—but boring or teasing; I’m an odious17 dog, and I hate myself.”
So this little dialogue ended happily, and for a time Charles Fairfield forgot his anxieties, and a hundred pleasanter cares filled his young wife’s head.
In such monastic solitudes18 as Carwell Grange the days pass slowly, but the retrospect of a month or a year is marvellously short. Twelve hours without an event is very slow to get over. But that very monotony, which is the soul of tediousness, robs the background of all the irregularities and objects which arrest the eye and measure distance in review, and thus it cheats the eye.
An active woman may be well content with an existence of monotony which would all but stifle19 even an indolent man. So long as there is a household—ever so frugal—to be managed, and the more frugal—the more difficult and harassing—the female energies are tasked, and healthily because usefully exercised. But in this indoor administration the man is incompetent20 and in the way. His ordained21 activities are out of doors; and if these are denied him, he mopes away his days and feels that he cumbers the ground.
With little resource but his fishing-rod, and sometimes, when a fit of unwonted energy inspired him, his walking-stick, and a lonely march over the breezy expanse of Cressley Common, days, weeks, and months, loitered their drowsy22 way into the past.
There were reasons why he did not care to court observation. Under other circumstances he would have ridden into the neighbouring towns and heard the news, and lunched with a friend here or there. But he did not want anyone to know that he was at the Grange; and if it should come out that he had been seen there, he would have had it thought that it was but a desultory23 visit.
A man less indolent, and perhaps not much more unscrupulous, would have depended upon a few offhand24 lies to account for his appearance, and would not have denied himself an occasional excursion into human society in those rustic25 haunts within his reach. But Charles Fairfield had not decision to try it, nor resource for a system of fibbing, and the easiest and dullest course he took.
In Paradise the man had his business—“to dress and to keep” the garden—and, no doubt, the woman hers, suitable to her sex. It is a mistake to fancy that it is either a sign of love or conducive26 to its longevity27 that the happy pair should always pass the entire four-and-twenty hours in each other’s company or get over them in anywise without variety or usefulness.
Charles Fairfield loved his pretty wife. She made his inactive solitude more endurable than any man could have imagined. Still it was a dull existence, and being also darkened with an ever-present anxiety, was a morbid28 one.
Small matters harassed29 him now. He brooded over trifles, and the one care, which was really serious, grew and grew in his perpetual contemplation until it became tremendous, and darkened his entire sky.
I can’t say that Charles grew morose30. It was not his temper, but his spirits that failed—careworn and gloomy—his habitual31 melancholy32 depressed33 and even alarmed his poor little wife, who yet concealed her anxieties, and exerted her music and her invention—sang songs—told him old stories of the Wyvern folk, touched with such tragedy and comedy as may be found in such miniature centres of rural life, and played backgammon with him, and sometimes “cart”, and, in fact, nursed his sick spirits, as such angelic natures will.
Now and then came Harry Fairfield, but his visits were short and seldom, and what was worse, Charles always seemed more harassed or gloomy after one of his calls. There was something going on, and by no means prosperously, she was sure, from all knowledge of which, however it might ultimately concern her, and did immediately concern her husband, she was jealously excluded.
Sometimes she felt angry—oftener pained—always troubled with untold34 fears and surmises35. Poor little Alice! It was in the midst of these secret misgivings36 that a new care and hope visited her—a trembling, delightful37 hope, that hovers38 between life and death—sometimes in sad and mortal fear—sometimes in delightful anticipation39 of a new and already beloved life, coming so helplessly into this great world—unknown, to be her little comrade, all dependent on that beautiful love with which her young heart was already overflowing40.
So almost trembling—hesitating—she told her little story with smiles and tears, in a pleading, beseeching41, almost apologetic way, that melted the better nature of Charles, who told her how welcome to him, and how beloved for her dear sake the coming treasure should be, and held her beating heart to his in a long, loving embrace, and more than all, the old love revived, and he felt how lonely he would be if his adoring little wife were gone, and how gladly he would have given his life for hers.
And now came all the little cares and preparations that so mercifully and delightfully42 beguile43 the period of suspense44.
What is there so helpless as a newborn babe entering this great, rude, cruel world? Yet we see how the beautiful and tender instincts which are radiated from the sublime45 love of God, provide everything for the unconscious comer. Let us then take heart of grace when, the sad journey ended, we, children of dust, who have entered so, are about to make the dread46 exit, and remembering what we have seen, and knowing that we go in the keeping of the same “faithful Creator,” be sure that his love and tender forecast have provided with equal care for our entrance into another life.
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1
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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6
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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7
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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8
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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9
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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10
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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11
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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12
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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14
pettishly
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15
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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16
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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17
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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18
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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19
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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20
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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21
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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22
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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23
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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24
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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25
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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26
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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27
longevity
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| n.长命；长寿 | |
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28
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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29
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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30
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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31
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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32
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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33
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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34
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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35
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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36
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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37
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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38
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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39
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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40
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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41
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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42
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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43
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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44
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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45
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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46
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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