One afternoon at sunset she was standing4 just outside her father’s garden, which, like the rest of the Hintock enclosures, abutted5 into the wood. A slight foot-path led along here, forming a secret way to either of the houses by getting through its boundary hedge. Grace was just about to adopt this mode of entry when a figure approached along the path, and held up his hand to detain her. It was her husband.
“I am delighted,” he said, coming up out of breath; and there seemed no reason to doubt his words. “I saw you some way off — I was afraid you would go in before I could reach you.”
“It is a week before the time,” said she, reproachfully. “I said a fortnight from the last meeting.”
“My dear, you don’t suppose I could wait a fortnight without trying to get a glimpse of you, even though you had declined to meet me! Would it make you angry to know that I have been along this path at dusk three or four times since our last meeting? Well, how are you?”
She did not refuse her hand, but when he showed a wish to retain it a moment longer than mere6 formality required, she made it smaller, so that it slipped away from him, with again that same alarmed look which always followed his attempts in this direction. He saw that she was not yet out of the elusive7 mood; not yet to be treated presumingly; and he was correspondingly careful to tranquillize her.
His assertion had seemed to impress her somewhat. “I had no idea you came so often,” she said. “How far do you come from?”
“From Exbury. I always walk from Sherton-Abbas, for if I hire, people will know that I come; and my success with you so far has not been great enough to justify8 such overtness9. Now, my dear one — as I MUST call you — I put it to you: will you see me a little oftener as the spring advances?”
Grace lapsed10 into unwonted sedateness11, and avoiding the question, said, “I wish you would concentrate on your profession, and give up those strange studies that used to distract you so much. I am sure you would get on.”
“It is the very thing I am doing. I was going to ask you to burn — or, at least, get rid of — all my philosophical12 literature. It is in the bookcases in your rooms. The fact is, I never cared much for abstruse13 studies.”
“I am so glad to hear you say that. And those other books — those piles of old plays — what good are they to a medical man?”
“None whatever!” he replied, cheerfully. “Sell them at Sherton for what they will fetch.”
“And those dreadful old French romances, with their horrid14 spellings of ‘filz’ and ‘ung’ and ‘ilz’ and ‘mary’ and ‘ma foy?’”
“You haven’t been reading them, Grace?”
“Oh no — I just looked into them, that was all.”
“Make a bonfire of ’em directly you get home. I meant to do it myself. I can’t think what possessed15 me ever to collect them. I have only a few professional hand-books now, and am quite a practical man. I am in hopes of having some good news to tell you soon, and then do you think you could — come to me again?”
“I would rather you did not press me on that just now,” she replied, with some feeling. “You have said you mean to lead a new, useful, effectual life; but I should like to see you put it in practice for a little while before you address that query16 to me. Besides — I could not live with you.”
“Why not?”
Grace was silent a few instants. “I go with Marty to Giles’s grave. We swore we would show him that devotion. And I mean to keep it up.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind that at all. I have no right to expect anything else, and I will not wish you to keep away. I liked the man as well as any I ever knew. In short, I would accompany you a part of the way to the place, and smoke a cigar on the stile while I waited till you came back.”
“Then you haven’t given up smoking?”
“Well — ahem — no. I have thought of doing so, but —”
His extreme complacence had rather disconcerted Grace, and the question about smoking had been to effect a diversion. Presently she said, firmly, and with a moisture in her eye that he could not see, as her mind returned to poor Giles’s “frustrate ghost,” “I don’t like you — to speak lightly on that subject, if you did speak lightly. To be frank with you — quite frank — I think of him as my betrothed17 lover still. I cannot help it. So that it would be wrong for me to join you.”
Fitzpiers was now uneasy. “You say your betrothed lover still,” he rejoined. “When, then, were you betrothed to him, or engaged, as we common people say?”
“When you were away.”
“How could that be?”
Grace would have avoided this; but her natural candor18 led her on. “It was when I was under the impression that my marriage with you was about to be annulled19, and that he could then marry me. So I encouraged him to love me.”
Fitzpiers winced20 visibly; and yet, upon the whole, she was right in telling it. Indeed, his perception that she was right in her absolute sincerity21 kept up his affectionate admiration22 for her under the pain of the rebuff. Time had been when the avowal23 that Grace had deliberately24 taken steps to replace him would have brought him no sorrow. But she so far dominated him now that he could not bear to hear her words, although the object of her high regard was no more.
“It is rough upon me — that!” he said, bitterly. “Oh, Grace — I did not know you — tried to get rid of me! I suppose it is of no use, but I ask, cannot you hope to — find a little love in your heart for me again?”
“If I could I would oblige you; but I fear I cannot!” she replied, with illogical ruefulness. “And I don’t see why you should mind my having had one lover besides yourself in my life, when you have had so many.”
“But I can tell you honestly that I love you better than all of them put together, and that’s what you will not tell me!”
“I am sorry; but I fear I cannot,” she said, sighing again.
“I wonder if you ever will?” He looked musingly25 into her indistinct face, as if he would read the future there. “Now have pity, and tell me: will you try?”
“To love you again?”
“Yes; if you can.”
“I don’t know how to reply,” she answered, her embarrassment26 proving her truth. “Will you promise to leave me quite free as to seeing you or not seeing you?”
“Certainly. Have I given any ground for you to doubt my first promise in that respect?”
She was obliged to admit that he had not.
“Then I think that you might get your heart out of that grave,” said he, with playful sadness. “It has been there a long time.”
She faintly shook her head, but said, “I’ll try to think of you more — if I can.”
With this Fitzpiers was compelled to be satisfied, and he asked her when she would meet him again.
“As we arranged — in a fortnight.”
“If it must be a fortnight it must!”
“This time at least. I’ll consider by the day I see you again if I can shorten the interval27.”
“Well, be that as it may, I shall come at least twice a week to look at your window.”
“You must do as you like about that. Good-night.”
“Say ‘husband.’”
She seemed almost inclined to give him the word; but exclaiming, “No, no; I cannot,” slipped through the garden-hedge and disappeared.
Fitzpiers did not exaggerate when he told her that he should haunt the precincts of the dwelling28. But his persistence29 in this course did not result in his seeing her much oftener than at the fortnightly interval which she had herself marked out as proper. At these times, however, she punctually appeared, and as the spring wore on the meetings were kept up, though their character changed but little with the increase in their number.
The small garden of the cottage occupied by the Tangs family — father, son, and now son’s wife — aligned30 with the larger one of the timber-dealer at its upper end; and when young Tim, after leaving work at Melbury’s, stood at dusk in the little bower31 at the corner of his enclosure to smoke a pipe, he frequently observed the surgeon pass along the outside track before-mentioned. Fitzpiers always walked loiteringly, pensively32, looking with a sharp eye into the gardens one after another as he proceeded; for Fitzpiers did not wish to leave the now absorbing spot too quickly, after travelling so far to reach it; hoping always for a glimpse of her whom he passionately33 desired to take to his arms anew.
Now Tim began to be struck with these loitering progresses along the garden boundaries in the gloaming, and wondered what they boded34. It was, naturally, quite out of his power to divine the singular, sentimental35 revival36 in Fitzpiers’s heart; the fineness of tissue which could take a deep, emotional — almost also an artistic37 — pleasure in being the yearning38 inamorato of a woman he once had deserted39, would have seemed an absurdity40 to the young sawyer. Mr. and Mrs. Fitzpiers were separated; therefore the question of affection as between them was settled. But his Suke had, since that meeting on their marriage-day, repentantly admitted, to the urgency of his questioning, a good deal concerning her past levities41. Putting all things together, he could hardly avoid connecting Fitzpiers’s mysterious visits to this spot with Suke’s residence under his roof. But he made himself fairly easy: the vessel42 in which they were about to emigrate sailed that month; and then Suke would be out of Fitzpiers’s way forever.
The interval at last expired, and the eve of their departure arrived. They were pausing in the room of the cottage allotted43 to them by Tim’s father, after a busy day of preparation, which left them weary. In a corner stood their boxes, crammed44 and corded, their large case for the hold having already been sent away. The firelight shone upon Suke’s fine face and form as she stood looking into it, and upon the face of Tim seated in a corner, and upon the walls of his father’s house, which he was beholding45 that night almost for the last time.
Tim Tangs was not happy. This scheme of emigration was dividing him from his father — for old Tangs would on no account leave Hintock — and had it not been for Suke’s reputation and his own dignity, Tim would at the last moment have abandoned the project. As he sat in the back part of the room he regarded her moodily46, and the fire and the boxes. One thing he had particularly noticed this evening — she was very restless; fitful in her actions, unable to remain seated, and in a marked degree depressed47.
“Sorry that you be going, after all, Suke?” he said.
She sighed involuntarily. “I don’t know but that I be,” she answered. “’Tis natural, isn’t it, when one is going away?”
“But you wasn’t born here as I was.”
“No.”
“There’s folk left behind that you’d fain have with ‘ee, I reckon?”
“Why do you think that?”
“I’ve seen things and I’ve heard things; and, Suke, I say ’twill be a good move for me to get ‘ee away. I don’t mind his leavings abroad, but I do mind ’em at home.”
Suke’s face was not changed from its aspect of listless indifference48 by the words. She answered nothing; and shortly after he went out for his customary pipe of tobacco at the top of the garden.
The restlessness of Suke had indeed owed its presence to the gentleman of Tim’s suspicions, but in a different — and it must be added in justice to her — more innocent sense than he supposed, judging from former doings. She had accidentally discovered that Fitzpiers was in the habit of coming secretly once or twice a week to Hintock, and knew that this evening was a favorite one of the seven for his journey. As she was going next day to leave the country, Suke thought there could be no great harm in giving way to a little sentimentality by obtaining a glimpse of him quite unknown to himself or to anybody, and thus taking a silent last farewell. Aware that Fitzpiers’s time for passing was at hand she thus betrayed her feeling. No sooner, therefore, had Tim left the room than she let herself noiselessly out of the house, and hastened to the corner of the garden, whence she could witness the surgeon’s transit49 across the scene — if he had not already gone by.
Her light cotton dress was visible to Tim lounging in the arbor50 of the opposite corner, though he was hidden from her. He saw her stealthily climb into the hedge, and so ensconce herself there that nobody could have the least doubt her purpose was to watch unseen for a passer-by.
He went across to the spot and stood behind her. Suke started, having in her blundering way forgotten that he might be near. She at once descended51 from the hedge.
“So he’s coming to-night,” said Tim, laconically52. “And we be always anxious to see our dears.”
“He IS coming to-night,” she replied, with defiance53. “And we BE anxious for our dears.”
“Then will you step indoors, where your dear will soon jine ‘ee? We’ve to mouster by half-past three tomorrow, and if we don’t get to bed by eight at latest our faces will be as long as clock-cases all day.”
She hesitated for a minute, but ultimately obeyed, going slowly down the garden to the house, where he heard the door-latch click behind her.
Tim was incensed54 beyond measure. His marriage had so far been a total failure, a source of bitter regret; and the only course for improving his case, that of leaving the country, was a sorry, and possibly might not be a very effectual one. Do what he would, his domestic sky was likely to be overcast55 to the end of the day. Thus he brooded, and his resentment56 gathered force. He craved57 a means of striking one blow back at the cause of his cheerless plight58, while he was still on the scene of his discomfiture59. For some minutes no method suggested itself, and then he had an idea.
Coming to a sudden resolution, he hastened along the garden, and entered the one attached to the next cottage, which had formerly60 been the dwelling of a game-keeper. Tim descended the path to the back of the house, where only an old woman lived at present, and reaching the wall he stopped. Owing to the slope of the ground the roof-eaves of the linhay were here within touch, and he thrust his arm up under them, feeling about in the space on the top of the wall-plate.
“Ah, I thought my memory didn’t deceive me!” he lipped silently.
With some exertion61 he drew down a cobwebbed object curiously62 framed in iron, which clanked as he moved it. It was about three feet in length and half as wide. Tim contemplated63 it as well as he could in the dying light of day, and raked off the cobwebs with his hand.
“That will spoil his pretty shins for’n, I reckon!” he said.
It was a man-trap.
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1
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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2
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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3
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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4
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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5
abutted
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| v.（与…）邻接( abut的过去式和过去分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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6
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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7
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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8
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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9
overtness
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| 暗示，含意，弦外之音； 暗示，含义，弦外之音( overtone的名词复数 ) | |
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10
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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11
sedateness
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| n.安详，镇静 | |
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12
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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13
abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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14
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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15
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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16
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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17
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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18
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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19
annulled
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| v.宣告无效( annul的过去式和过去分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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20
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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22
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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23
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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24
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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26
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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27
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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28
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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aligned
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| adj.对齐的，均衡的 | |
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31
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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32
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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34
boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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35
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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36
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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37
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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39
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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40
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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41
levities
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| n.欠考虑( levity的名词复数 )；不慎重；轻率；轻浮 | |
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42
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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43
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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45
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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46
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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47
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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48
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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49
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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50
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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51
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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52
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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53
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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54
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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55
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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56
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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57
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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58
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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59
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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60
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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61
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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62
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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63
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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