I had nearly finished breakfast when little Sara came downstairs. She came up to me just as she had done the night before, holding out her hand and stooping down her cheek to be kissed, but not looking at me. I kissed her, the provoking puss, and poured out her coffee. And after ten minutes or so we got on chatting just as usual, which was a relief to me, for I don’t like apologies and explanations. I never could bear them. Little Sara, after she had got over feeling a little awkward and stiff, as people always do when they have been wrong, was just in her ordinary. She was used to affront2 people and to have them come to again, the little wicked creature—I am afraid she did not mind.
This little quarrel had put Sarah a good deal out of my mind, I must allow, but I got back to being anxious about her directly when I saw her come down-stairs. I can’t tell what the change upon her was—she did not look older or paler, or anything that you could put plainly in words—she was just as particularly dressed, and had her silver-white curls as nice, and her cap as pretty as usual, but she was not the same as she had been yesterday; certainly there was some change. Not to speak of that little nervous motion of her head and hands, which was greater to-day than ever I had seen it, there was a strange vigilance and watchfulness3 in her look which I don’t remember to have ever seen there before. She looked me very full in the face, I remember with a sort of daring defying openness, and the same to little Sara, though, of course what{36} could the child know? All over, down to her very hands, as she went on with her knitting, there was a kind of self-consciousness that had a very odd effect upon me. I could not tell what in the world to think of it. And as for supposing that some mere4 common little accident, or a fright, or anything outside of herself, had woke her up to that look, you need not tell me. I have not lived fifty years in this world for nothing. I knew better. Whatever it was that changed Sarah’s look, the causes of it were deep down and secret in herself.
It was this of course that made me anxious and almost alarmed, for I could not but think she must have something on her mind to make her look so. And when she beckoned5 to me that afternoon after dinner, as she did when she had anything particular to say, I confess my heart went thump6 against my breast, and I trembled all over. However, I went close up as usual, and drew my chair towards her that I might hear. Little Sara was close by. She could hear too if she pleased, but Sarah took no notice of the child.
“Have you heard anything from Cresswell about Richard Mortimer?” Sarah asked me quite sharply all at once.
“Why, no: he did not say anything yesterday when he was here. Did you have any conversation with him?”
“I! Do I have any conversation with any one?” said Sarah, in her bitter way. “I want you to bestir yourself about this business, however. We must have an heir.”
“It is odd how little I have thought about it since that day—very odd,” said I; “and I was quite in earnest before. I wondered if Providence7 might, maybe, have taken it up now? I have seen such a thing: one falls off one’s anxiety somehow, one can’t tell how; and lo! the reason is, that the thing’s coming about all naturally without any help from you. We’ll be having the heir dropped down at the park gates some of these days, all as right and natural as ever was.”
I said this without thinking much about it; just because it was an idea of mine, that most times, when God lays a kind of lull8 upon our anxieties and struggles, it really turns out to be because He himself is taking them in hand; but having said this easy and calm, without anything particular in my mind, you may judge how I was startled half out of my wits by Sarah dashing down her knitting-pin out of her hand, stamping her foot on the footstool, and half screaming out in her sharp, strangled whisper, that sounded like the very voice of rage itself— {37} “The fool! the fool! oh, the fool! Shall I be obliged to leave my home and my seclusion9 and do it myself? I that might have been so different! Good God! shall I be obliged to do it—me! When I was a young girl I might have hoped to die a duchess,—everybody said so,—and now, instead of being cared for and shielded from the envious10 world,—people were always envious of me since ever I remember,—must I go trudging11 out to find this wretched cousin? Is this all the gratitude12 and natural feeling you have? Good heaven! to put such a thing upon me!”
She stopped, all panting and breathless, like a wild creature that had relieved itself somehow with a yell or a cry; but, strange, strange, at that moment Ellis opened the door. I will never think again she does not hear. The sound caught her in a moment. Her passion changed into that new watching look quicker than I can tell; and she sat with her eyes fixed13 upon me,—for, poor soul, to be sure she could not see through the screen behind her to find out what Ellis came for,—as if she could have killed me for the least motion. I got so excited myself that I could hardly see the name on the card Ellis brought in. Sarah’s looks, not to say her words, had put it so clearly in my mind that something was going to happen, that my self-possession almost forsook14 me. I let the card flutter down out of my hand when I lifted it off the tray, and did not hear a single syllable15 of what the man was saying till he had repeated it all twice over. It was only a neighbour who had sent over to ask for Miss Mortimer, having heard somehow that Sarah was poorly. She heard him herself, however, and gave an answer—her compliments, and she was quite well—before I knew what it was all about. If she had boxed me well she could not have muddled16 my head half so much as she had done now. When Ellis went away again, and left me alone close by her, I quite shook in my chair.
But she had got over her rage as it seemed. She stooped down to pick up her knitting-pin—with a little pettish17 exclamation18 that nobody helped her now-a-days—just in her usual way, and took up the dropt stitches in her knitting. But I could very well see that her hand trembled. As she did not say any more, I thought I might venture to draw back my chair. But when she saw the motion she started, looked up at me, and held up her hand. I was not to get so easily away.
“I had no idea you minded it so much. Well, well, Sarah,” cried I, in desperation, “I will write this moment to urge Mr. Cresswell on.”{38}
“And shout it all out, please, that the child may hear!” said Sarah, with a spiteful look as if she could bite me. I was actually afraid of her. I got up as fast as I could, and went off to the writing-table at the other end of the room. There was nothing I would not do to please her in a rational way; but, of all the vagaries19 she ever took up before, what did this dreadful passion mean?
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1
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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2
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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3
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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4
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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5
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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7
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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8
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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9
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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10
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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11
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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12
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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13
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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14
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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15
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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16
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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17
pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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18
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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19
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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