It is a beautiful scene, such as one sees only in this England of ours—a scene that defies poet and painter. At this very moment it is defying one of the latter genus; for in a room of a low-browed, thatched-roofed cottage which stood on the margin3 of the meadow, James Etheridge sat beside his easel, his eyes fixed4 on the picture framed in the open window, his brush and mahl-stick drooping5 in his idle hand.
Unconsciously he, the painter, made a picture worthy6 of study. Tall, thin, delicately made, with pale face crowned and set in softly-flowing white hair, with gentle, dreamy eyes ever seeking the infinite and unknown, he looked like one of those figures which the old Florentine artists used to love to put upon their canvases, and which when one sees even now makes one strangely sad and thoughtful.
The room was a fitting frame for the human subject; it was a true painter's studio—untidy, disordered, and picturesque8. Finished and unfinished pictures hung or leant against the walls, suits of armor, antique weapons, strange costumes littered the floor or hung limply over medi?val chairs; books, some in bindings which would have made the mouth of a connoisseur9 water, lay open upon the table or were piled in a distant corner. And over all silence—unbroken save by the sound of the water rushing over the weir10, or the birds which flitted by the open window—reigned supreme11.
The old man sat for some time listening to Nature's music, and lost in dreamy admiration12 of her loveliness, until the striking of the church clock floated from the village behind the house; then,[2] with a start, he rose, took up his brushes, and turned again to the easel. An hour passed, and still he worked, the picture growing beneath the thin, skillful hand; the birds sank into silence, the red faded slowly from the sky, and night unfolded its dark mantle13 ready to let it fall upon the workaday world.
Silence so profound took to itself the likeness14 of loneliness; perhaps the old man felt it so, for as he glanced at the waning15 light and lay his brush down, he put his hand to his brow and sighed. Then he turned the picture on the easel, made his way with some little difficulty, owing to the litter, across the room, found and lit an old briar-wood pipe, and dropping into the chair again, fixed his eyes upon the scene, and fell into the dreamy state which was habitual16 with him.
So lost in purposeless memory was he, that the opening of the door failed to rouse him.
It was opened very gently and slowly, and as slowly and noiselessly a young girl, after pausing a moment at the threshold, stepped into the room, and stood looking round her and at the motionless figure in the chair by the window.
She stood for full a minute, her hand still holding the handle of the door, as if she were not certain of her welcome—as if the room were strange to her, then, with a little hurried pressure of her hand to her bosom17, she moved toward the window.
As she did so her foot struck against a piece of armor, and the noise aroused the old man and caused him to look round.
With a start he gazed at the girl as if impressed with the idea that she must be something unsubstantial and visionary—some embodiment of his evening dreams, and so he sat looking at her, his artist eye taking in the lithe18, graceful19 figure, the beautiful face, with its dark eyes and long, sweeping20 lashes21, its clearly penciled brows, and soft, mobile lips, in rapt absorption.
It is possible that if she had turned and left him, never to have crossed into his life again, he would have sunk back into dreamland, and to the end of his days have regarded her as unreal and visionary; but, with a subtle, graceful movement, the girl threaded the maze22 of litter and disorder7 and stood beside him.
He, still looking up, saw that the beautiful eyes were dim, that the exquisitely24 curved lips were quivering with some intense emotion, and suddenly there broke upon the silence a low, sweet voice:
"Are you James Etheridge?"
The artist started. It was not the words, but the tone—the voice that startled him, and for a brief second he was still dumb, then he rose, and looking at her with faint, trembling questioning, he answered:
"Yes, that is my name. I am James Etheridge."
Her lips quivered again, but still, quietly and simply, she said:
"You do not know me? I am Stella—your niece, Stella."
The old man threw up his head and stared at her, and she saw that he trembled.
"Stella—my niece—Harold's child!"
[3]
"Yes," she said, in a low voice, "I am Stella."
"But, merciful Heaven!" he exclaimed, with agitation25, "how did you come here? Why—I thought you were at the school there in Florence—why—have you come here alone?"
Her eyes wandered from his face to the exquisite23 scene beyond, and at that moment her look was strangely like his own.
"Yes, I came alone, uncle," she said.
"Merciful Heaven!" he murmured again, sinking into his chair. "But why—why?"
The question is not unkindly put, full, rather, of a troubled perplexity and bewilderment.
Stella's eyes returned to his face.
"I was unhappy, uncle," she said, simply.
"Unhappy!" he echoed, gently—"unhappy! My child, you are too young to know what the word means. Tell me"—and he put his long white hand on her arm.
The touch was the one thing needed to draw them together. With a sudden, yet not abrupt26 movement, she slid down at his side and leant her head on his arm.
"Yes, I was very unhappy, uncle. They were hard and unkind. They meant well perhaps, but it was not to be borne. And then—then, after papa died, it was so lonely, so lonely. There was no one—no one to care for me—to care whether one lived or died. Uncle, I bore it as long as I could, and then I—came."
The old man's eyes grew dim, and his hand rose gently to her head, and smoothed the rich, silky hair.
"Poor child! poor child!" he murmured, dreamily, looking not at her, but at the gloaming outside.
"As long as I could, uncle, until I felt that I must run away, or go mad, or die. Then I remembered you, I had never seen you, but I remembered that you were papa's brother, and that, being of the same blood, you must be good, and kind, and true; and so I resolved to come to you."
His hand trembled on her head, but he was silent for a moment; then he said, in a low voice:
"Why did you not write?"
A smile crossed the girl's face.
"Because they would not permit us to write, excepting under their dictation."
He started, and a fiery light flashed from the gentle, dreamy eyes.
"No letters were allowed to leave the school unless the principals had read them. We were never out alone, or I would have posted a letter unknown to them. No, I could not write, or I would have done so, and—and—waited."
"You would not have waited long, my child," he murmured.
She threw back her head and kissed his hand. It was a strange gesture, more foreign than English, full of the impulsive27 gracefulness28 of the passionate29 South in which she had been born and bred; it moved the old man strangely, and he drew her still closer to him as he whispered—
"Go on!—go on!"
[4]
"Well I made up my mind to run away," she continued. "It was a dreadful thing to do, because if I had been caught and brought back, they would have——"
"Stop, stop!" he broke in with passionate dread30. "Why did I not know of this? How did Harold come to send you there? Great Heaven! a young tender girl! Can Heaven permit it?"
"Heaven permits strange things, uncle," said the girl, gravely. "Papa did not know, just as you did not know. It was an English school, and all was fair and pleasant outside—outside! Well the night just after I had received the money you used to send me each quarter, I bribed31 one of the servants to leave the door open and ran away. I knew the road to the coast and knew what day and time the boat started. I caught it and reached London. There was just enough money to pay the fare down here, and I—I—that is all, uncle."
"All?" he murmured. "A young, tender child!"
"And are you not angry?" she asked, looking up into his face. "You will not send me back?"
"Angry! Send you back! My child, do you think if I had known, if I could have imagined that you were not well treated, that you were not happy, that I would have permitted you to remain a day, an hour longer than I could have helped? Your letters always spoke32 of your contentment and happiness."
She smiled.
"Remember, they were written with someone looking over my shoulder."
Something like an imprecation, surely the first that he had uttered for many a long year, was smothered33 on the gentle lips.
"I could not know that—I could not know that, Stella! Your father thought it best—I have his last letter. My child, do not cry——"
She raised her face.
"I am not crying; I never cry when I think of papa, uncle, Why should I? I loved him too well to wish him back from Heaven."
The old man looked down at her with a touch of awe34 in his eyes.
"Yes, yes," he murmured; "it was his wish that you should remain there at school. He knew what I was, an aimless dreamer, a man living out of the world, and no fit guardian35 for a young girl. Oh, yes, Harold knew. He acted for the best, and I was content. My life was too lonely, and quiet, and lifeless for a young girl, and I thought that all was right, while those fiends——"
She put her hand on his arm.
"Do not let us speak of them, or think of them any more, uncle. You will let me stay with you, will you not? I shall not think your life lonely; it will be a Paradise after that which I have left—Paradise. And, see, I will strive to make it less lonely; but"—and she turned suddenly with a look of troubled fear—"but perhaps I shall be in your way?" and she looked round.
"No, no," he said, and he put his hand to his brow. "It is[5] strange! I never felt my loneliness till now! and I would not have you go for all the world!"
She wound her arms round him, and nestled closer, and there was silence for a space; then he said:
"How old are you, Stella?"
She thought a moment.
"Nineteen, uncle."
"Nineteen—a child!" he murmured; then he looked at her, and his lips moved inaudibly as he thought, "Beautiful as an angel," but she heard him, and her face flushed, but the next moment she looked up frankly36 and simply.
"You would not say that much if you had seen my mamma. She was beautiful as an angel. Papa used to say that he wished you could have seen her; that you would have liked to paint her. Yes, she was beautiful."
The artist nodded.
"Poor, motherless child!" he murmured.
"Yes, she was beautiful," continued the girl, softly. "I can just remember her, uncle. Papa never recovered from her death. He always said that he counted the days till he should meet her again. He loved her so, you see."
There was silence again; then the artist spoke:
"You speak English with scarcely an accent, Stella."
The girl laughed; it was the first time she had laughed, and it caused the uncle to start. It was not only because it was unexpected, but because of its exquisite music. It was like the trill of a bird. In an instant he felt that her childish sorrow had not imbittered her life or broken her spirit. He found himself almost unconsciously laughing in harmony.
"What a strange observation, uncle!" she said, when the laugh had died away. "Why I am English! right to the backbone37, as papa used to say. Often and often he used to look at me and say: 'Italy has no part and parcel in you beyond your birth, Stella; you belong to that little island which floats on the Atlantic and rules the world.' Oh, yes, I am English. I should be sorry to be anything else, notwithstanding mamma was an Italian."
He nodded.
"Yes, I remember Harold—your father—always said you were an English girl. I am glad of that."
"So am I," said the girl, naively39.
Then he relapsed into one of his dreamy silences, and she waited silent and motionless. Suddenly he felt her quiver under his arm, and heave a long, deep sigh.
With a start he looked down; her face had gone wofully pale to the very lips.
"Stella!" he cried, "what is it? Are you ill? Great Heaven!"
She smiled up at him.
"No, no, only a little tired; and," with naive40 simplicity41, "I think I am a little hungry. You see, I only had enough for the fare."
"Heaven forgive me!" he cried, starting up so suddenly as almost to upset her. "Here have I been dreaming and mooning while the child was starving. What a brainless idiot I am!"
[6]
And in his excitement he hurried up and down the room, knocking over a painting here and a lay figure there, and looking aimlessly about as if he expected to see something in the shape of food floating in the air.
At last with his hand to his brow he bethought him of the bell, and rang it until the little cottage resounded42 as if it were a fire-engine station. There was a hurried patter of footsteps outside, the door was suddenly opened, and a middle-aged43 woman ran in, with a cap very much awry44 and a face startled and flushed.
"Gracious me, sir, what's the matter?" she exclaimed.
Mr. Etheridge dropped the bell, and without a word of explanation, exclaimed—"Bring something to eat at once, Mrs. Penfold, and some wine, at once, please. The poor child is starving."
The woman looked at him with amazement45, that increased as glancing round the room she failed to see any poor child, Stella being hidden behind the antique high-backed chair.
"Poor child, what poor child! You've been dreaming, Mr. Etheridge!"
"No, no!" he said, meekly46; "it's all true, Mrs. Penfold. She has come all the way from Florence without a morsel47 to eat."
Stella rose from her ambush48.
"Not all the way from Florence, uncle," she said.
Mrs. Penfold started and stared at the visitor.
"Good gracious me!" she exclaimed; "who is it?"
Mr. Etheridge rubbed his brow.
"Did I not tell you? It is my niece—my niece Stella. She has come from Italy, and—I wish you'd bring some food. Bring a bottle of the old wine. Sit down and rest, Stella. This is Mrs. Penfold—she is my housekeeper49, and a good woman, but,"—he added, without lowering his tone in the slightest, though he was evidently under the idea that he was inaudible—"but rather slow in comprehension."
Mrs. Penfold came forward, still flushed and excited, and with a smile.
"Your niece, sir! Not Mr. Harold's daughter that you so often have spoken of! Why, how did you come in, miss?"
"I found the door open," said Stella.
"Good gracious me! And dropped from the clouds! And that must have been an hour ago! And you, sir," looking at the bewildered artist reproachfully, "you let the dear young thing sit here with her hat and jacket on all that time, after coming all that way, without sending for me."
"We didn't want you," said the old man, calmly.
"Want me! No! But the dear child wanted something to eat, and to rest, and to take her things off. Oh, come with me, miss! All the way from Florence, and Mr. Harold's daughter!"
"Go with her, Stella," said the old man, "and—and," he added, gently, "don't let her keep you long."
The infinite tenderness of the last words caused Stella to stop on her way to the door; she came back, and, putting her arms around his neck, kissed him.
[7]
Then she followed Mrs. Penfold up-stairs to her room, the good woman talking the whole while in exclamatory sentences of astonishment50.
"And you are Mr. Harold's daughter. Did you see his portrait over the mantel-shelf, miss? I should have known you by that, now I come to look at you," and she looked with affectionate interest into the beautiful face, as she helped Stella to take off her hat. "Yes, I should have known you, miss, in a moment? And you have come all the way from Italy? Dear me, it is wonderful. And I'm very glad you have, it won't be so lonely for Mr. Etheridge. And is there anything else you want, miss? You must excuse me for bringing you into my own room; I'll have a room ready for you to-night, your own room, and the luggage, miss——"
Stella smiled and blushed faintly.
"I have none, Mrs. Penfold. I ran—I left quite suddenly."
"Dearie me!" murmured Mrs. Penfold, puzzled and sympathetic. "Well, now, it doesn't matter so long as you are here, safe, and sound. And now I'll go and get you something to eat! You can find your way down?"
"Yes," Stella said. She could find her way down. She stood for a moment looking through the window, her long hair falling in a silky stream down her white shoulders, and the soft, dreamy look came into her eyes.
"Is it true?" she murmured. "Am I really here at home with someone to love me—someone whom I can love? Or is it only a dream, and shall I wake in the cold bare room and find that I have still to endure the old life? No! It is no dream, it is true!"
She wound up the long hair and went down to find that Mrs. Penfold had already prepared the table, her uncle standing38 beside and waiting with gentle impatience51 for her appearance.
He started as she entered, with a distinct feeling of renewed surprise; the relief from uncertainty52 as to her welcome, the kindness of her reception had already refreshed her, and her beauty shone out unclouded by doubt or nervousness.
The old man's eyes wandered with artistic53 approval over the graceful form and lovely face, and he was almost in the land of dreams again when Mrs. Penfold roused him by setting a chair at the table, and handing him a cobwebbed bottle and a corkscrew.
"Miss Stella must be starving, sir!" she said, suggestively.
"Yes, yes," he assented54, and both of them set to work exhorting55 and encouraging her to eat, as if they feared she might drop under the table with exhaustion56 unless she could be persuaded to eat of everything on the table.
Mr. Etheridge seemed to place great faith in the old port as a restorative, and had some difficulty in concealing57 his disappointment when Stella, after sipping58 the first glass, declined any more on the score that it was strong.
At last, but with visible reluctance59, he accepted her assertion that she was rescued from any chance of starvation, and Mrs. Penfold cleared the table and left them alone.
[8]
A lamp stood on the table, but the moonbeams poured in through the window, and instinctively60 Stella drew near the window.
"What a lovely place it is, uncle!" she said.
He did not answer, he was watching her musingly61, as she leant against the edge of the wall.
"You must be very happy here."
"Yes," he murmured, dreamily. "Yes, and you think you will be, Stella."
"Ah, yes," she answered, in a low voice, and with a low sigh. "Happier than I can say."
"You will not feel it lonely, shut up with an old man, a dreamer, who has parted with the world and almost forgotten it?"
"No, no! a thousand times no!" was the reply.
He wandered to the fireplace and took up his pipe, but with a sudden glance at her laid it down again. Slight as was the action she saw it, and with the graceful, lithe movement which he had noticed, she glided63 across the room and took up the pipe.
"You were going to smoke, uncle."
"No, no," he said, eagerly. "No, a mere65 habit——"
She interrupted him with a smile, and filled the pipe for him with her taper66 little fingers, and gave it to him.
"You do not want me to wish that I had not come to you uncle?"
"Heaven forbid!" he said, simply.
"Then you must not alter anything in your life; you must go on as if I had never dropped from the clouds to be a burden upon you."
"My child!" he murmured, reproachfully.
"Or to make you uncomfortable. I could not bear that, uncle."
"No, no!" he said, "I will alter nothing, Stella; we will be happy, you and I."
"Very happy," she murmured, softly.
He wandered to the window, and stood looking out; and, unseen by him, she drew a chair up and cleared it of the litter, and unconsciously he sat down.
Then she glided to and fro, wandering round the room noiselessly, looking at the curious lumber67, and instinctively picking up the books and putting them in something like order on the almost empty shelves.
Every now and then she took up one of the pictures which stood with their faces to the wall, and her gaze would wander from it to the painter sitting in the moonlight, his white hair falling on his shoulders, his thin, nervous hands clasped on his knee.
She, who had spent her life in the most artistic city of the world, knew that he was a great painter, and, child-woman as she was, wondered why the world permitted him to remain unknown and unnoticed. She had yet to learn that he cared as little for fame as he did for wealth, and to be allowed to live for[9] his art and dream in peace was all he asked from the world in which he lived but in which he took no part. Presently she came back to the window, and stood beside him; he started slightly and put out his hand, and she put her thin white one into it. The moon rose higher in the heavens, and the old man raised his other hand and pointed68 to it in silence.
As he did so, Stella saw glide64 into the scene—as it was touched by the moonbeams—a large white building rearing above the trees on the hill-top, and she uttered an exclamation69 of surprise.
"What house is that, uncle? I had no idea one was there until this moment!"
"That is Wyndward Hall, Stella," he replied, dreamily; "it was hidden by the shadow and the clouds."
"What a grand place!" she murmured. "Who lives there uncle?"
"The Wyndwards," he answered, in the same musing62 tone, "the Wyndwards. They have lived there for hundreds of years, Stella. Yes, it is a grand place."
"We should call it a palace in Italy, uncle."
"It is a palace in England, but we are more modest. They are contented70 to call it the Hall. An old place and an old race."
"Tell me about them," she said, quietly. "Do you know them—are they friends of yours?"
"I know them. Yes, they are friends, as far as there be any friendship between a poor painter and the Lord of Wyndward. Yes, we are friends; they call them proud, but they are not too proud to ask James Etheridge to dinner occasionally; and they accuse him of pride because he declines to break the stillness of his life by accepting their hospitality. Look to the left there, Stella. As far as you can see stretch the lands of Wyndward—they run for miles between the hills there."
"They have some reason to be proud," she murmured, with a smile. "But I like them because they are kind to you."
He nodded.
"Yes, the earl would be more than kind, I think——"
"The earl?"
"Yes, Lord Wyndward, the head of the family; the Lord of Wyndward they call him. They have all been called Lords of Wyndward by the people here, who look up to them as if they were something more than human."
"And does he live there alone?" she asked, gazing at the gray stone mansion71 glistening72 in the moonlight.
"No, there is a Lady Wyndward, and a daughter—poor girl."
"Why do you say poor girl?" asked Stella.
"Because all the wealth of the race would not make her otherwise than an object of tender pity. She is an invalid73; you see that window—the one with the light in it?"
"Yes," Stella said.
"That is the window of her room; she lies there on a sofa, looking down the valley all the day!"
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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habitual
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bosom
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lithe
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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sweeping
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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maze
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exquisite
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exquisitely
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agitation
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abrupt
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impulsive
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gracefulness
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passionate
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dread
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bribed
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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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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naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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43
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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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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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhorting
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的现在分词 ) | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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63
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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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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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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