And it was true that Mr. Luigi had disappeared again; he was only to be three days gone, Domenico assured us, holding up three of his fingers. “Tree sola, tree only,” repeated the fat fellow once more, blocking up the passage as of old; and once more, with that inimitable wheel and elastic6 step of his, opening the door before any one could approach it. I could not help wondering to myself whether the Italian gentleman was likely to leave Chester before we did; certainly the loss of Domenico would make quite a difference in the house. I had not thought quite so much as I might have been supposed to have done about this Italian gentleman. He too had recognised the name of Sarah Mortimer as having some influence on his fate. He had left early next morning, as if acting7 upon the knowledge he had gained, whatever that might be. It was very strange; afterwards, of course, I came to lay everything together, and wonder at myself that I had not seen how things were tending. But at the moment I was full of my own thoughts; they seemed so very much more important to me just then than anything else. I dismissed Mr. Luigi with just half a thought of surprise and curiosity; I dare say Sara Cresswell had thought more of him. And Sara had not come to me through all that long intervening day. Could she{214} have gone to the Park to tell the news? would they acknowledge or pretend to disown us? That was a question far more interesting to me than all the Italians in the world.
The private object of my expedition, however, was one I was truly ashamed to mention to anybody; but, for all that, it had taken a great hold upon myself. I have said I had been reading novels; and the very last one we had from the library was “Ten Thousand a Year.” It struck upon my mind even at the very moment when poor Mr. Ward8 had told me first. Those dear, good, delightful9, fine, superfine Aubreys! to think of all their sufferings, the poor dear superlative people—how dreadfully they felt it to have only a maid waiting at table! Oh me! and only to think that here might we ourselves be bringing about such another calamity10! Of course you may think it was very fantastical. I do confess that the dreadful downfall of having only a maid to wait, seemed to me, at first sight, the most fine distress11 I had ever heard of; but it took a hold upon my mind all the same; I could not help imagining to myself the other side of the picture. It was very pleasant to think of falling heirs to a great estate, and being lifted in a moment from poverty into great wealth; but who were those two pathetic figures turning away from the closed door of the house which had been their home so long, mournfully settling down in their new straitened quarters, breaking up all the habits of their lives, missing somehow in an unspoken way, that it would be ludicrous to express in words, but was far from ludicrous to feel, all the grander circumstances of their life? Ah! that was quite a different question. I thought I could see them sighing over their contracted rooms, their fallen state—not speaking, falling silent rather, life going out and ebbing12 away from them. I saw the two pale old lofty faces, the pride, the submission13, the deep sense of downfall concealed14 in their hearts, and I felt myself stopped short in my way. Those ineffable15 Aubreys, those figures painted on velvet16, those dear porcelain17 creatures, with their exquisite18 troubles, had an effect upon my imagination, even though I might venture to smile at them sometimes. Superfine people, to be sure, must have superfine afflictions; and to think of being a Tittlebat Titmouse, and driving out such angels from their paradise into the cold-hearted, unsympathetic world, that cared no more whether they had a six-foot footman and a carriage, than it cared about myself, a subaltern’s poor wife, driving out of Chester in an omnibus! So this was the real cause of my journey. I went remorsefully19, thinking all the{215} way how Mrs. Aubrey swooned at all emergencies. I wonder, when they heard the dreadful power we had over them, would Miss Sarah and Miss Milly swoon in each other’s arms? I could see them going about, stricken silent, afraid to look at each other; and it would be all our doing. Remorseful20 to my very heart, I went to visit their village and ask about them, and see the house if I could. Perhaps some arrangement might be made, after all, to prevent any loss to these poor dear old ladies. I felt as if I could have done anything for them, my heart was so compunctious and repentant21 of the power we had to do them harm. I am not sure my great magnanimousness did not have a root in what Harry called feeling extravagant22, as well as in “Ten Thousand a Year.”
We went out a considerable part of the way in an omnibus, and then walked. After a good long walk through a nice country, we saw a pretty common a little way before us: I call it pretty because some parts of it were very unequal and broken, having gorse bushes, with here and there a golden honey-bud among the prickles. To get to the common, we crossed over a very clean, nicely kept piece of road, straight and smooth, leading down to the village from the gates of a great house. The house was too far off to make it out, but I felt my heart beat a little, knowing, from the description I had got, that it could be no other than the Park.
I left Lizzie and her charge seated on the soft grass of the common, where baby, who had never before known anything so delightful, began to pluck at the crowflowers with his fat hands; and went down into the village to buy them some biscuits. I confess I felt very guilty. Going anywhere all by myself confused me, not being accustomed to it; but I was not an innocent stranger here; I was a spy in my rival’s kingdom; I was a Bolingbroke pretending to acknowledge the sway of the existing sovereign: I was going to traffic with his subjects and tamper23 with them. If the village authorities had found me out, and held a court-martial and hanged me on the spot, I think I should have acknowledged the justice of their decision. I was a spy.
It was a nice village—a nice, well cared-for, tidy, yet not too picturesque24 or unnatural25 village; looking as if the richer people about were friendly and sensible, not interfering26 too much, but keeping up a due reverence27 and influence. Some tall bushes of broom were actually bursting into yellow streaks28 over the garden palings—not wall—of a house standing29 back a little, which I found out to be the Rectory. It must have been{216} very sheltered and warm, for it was still only April. However, though I was full of curiosity, my mind was not sufficiently30 disengaged to carry away a clear picture of the village; and when the women looked out from the doors at me with an instinct that a stranger was passing, I felt more guilty than ever. I made my way accordingly to the baker’s as fast as I could, and got some dark-complexioned ponderous31 buns there, which I felt sure would rouse Lizzie’s national sense of superiority to great triumph. Then I made a tremulous excuse of wanting some biscuits besides, and so got a little time to bring forward the questions I had prepared.
“Who is it that lives in the great house at the other end of the village?” said I hypocritically, pointing with my finger towards the Park.
“Who is it?” said the baker’s wife, leaning on her counter with a certain contempt and admiration32 of my ignorance; “law bless you, ma’am, you don’t know this place, seemingly. Them’s the Miss Mortimers, the oldest family in Cheshire. They’re as well known as the Queen about here.”
“I am a stranger,” said I hurriedly. “Are they ladies—I mean are they young ladies? were there no sons?”
The baker’s wife leaned back upon a sack of flour, and laughed. “Miss Milly’s godmoother to half the village,” she said; “she’s none that young, she’s isn’t. No, there wasn’t no son. I’ve heard my mother say there was once talk of making Miss Mortimer an ouldest son like, but it couldn’t be done. They’re cooheiresses, that’s what it’s ca’ed—I’ve seen it written down myself—cooheiresses of the late Lewis Esquire; that’s the name it goes by; and as they ain’t married it’s no harm.”
“Did they succeed their father, then?” said I.
“And that they did,” cried the woman, “and their father’s father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather, as far back as I don’t know when; they’re no mushroom folks, the folks in the Park.”
I felt very much puzzled and perplexed33; how could my father, then, have anything to do with it? It was very strange.
“But I suppose the lands were entailed34, then, or something of that sort. Was there never another heir that claimed? I think you must be wrong,” said I, betraying myself in my wonder and haste.
The baker’s wife opened her eyes wide and stared; then laughed out rather scornfully—politeness is not the first rule either of life or speech in Cheshire.{217}
“I’ve lived here in the village all my life,” she said; “if I don’t know, I’d like to hear who should. Nay35, nay, there never was a dream of another heir; they’re surer nor most folks are the Miss Mortimers. There ain’t scarce one living belonging to them to get it when they’re gone. I tell you what it is, it’s a mistake. You’re thinking on Eden Hall.”
“Oh!” said I, “perhaps! I am a stranger here.”
“Sure you’re strange,” said the baker’s wife; “any one in the village could tell that. Ne’er a one asked such questions o’ me—nor any questions at all, but the price of bread, and how the crops are to be, except that Frenchman with the moustache. You’re not belonging to him, are you? You’re English by your speech.”
“Oh yes, I’m English,” cried I, not without a vague momentary36 vision of the village court-martial, and being hung up for a spy. “I will take my change, please.”
And I took my change, and went away with quickened steps but changed feelings. I had not the heart to speak to anybody else. I passed old women at the doors, who, no doubt, could have told something about it; but I did not venture to make any more inquiries37. I was completely lost in perplexity. The undisputed representatives of a race, the heirs of father, grandfather, and great-grandfather to unknown antiquity—what could be urged against their possession? I was startled into sudden doubt of the whole matter. What if it were all a deception38? The very pathway swam and twisted under my eyes. When I reached the common, and threw myself wearily on the grass beside little Harry and his maid, I felt quite a different person from her who had left them there. I gave Lizzie the coarse buns, but I did not listen to the comments which came as I knew they would. I was far too much bewildered and shaken out of my fancies to be amused. After I had rested awhile, I got up, and, taking them with me, went up, rather faltering39, to the gates of the Park. A little lodge40, half hidden among evergreen41 bushes, was at the gate. I went forward, Lizzie following me close, to ask if we might be permitted to look at the house.
But, just as I was going up to the door, I was accosted42 by a lady who came hurriedly forward by a side-path. She held out her hand to stop us before she came up, and full of fanciful alarm as I was, I stopped, startled, with again the sensation of having been found out. She was middle-sized and stout43, with a plump, handsome figure and sensible, kind face—very sensible, very kind, not brilliant at all; and, I think, with as much{218} perplexed thought and anxiety upon it, as there was on mine.
“Don’t go into the lodge with the baby, please,” she cried, as soon as she was near; “the little girl has the hooping-cough. It’s always best to keep out of the way of danger. If I can tell you what you want, shall be very glad. I see you’re a stranger; or if you want to see Mrs. Williams, send away the baby, please. Hooping-cough’s very catching44, and it’s hard upon such a young child.”
This voice and this speech completely overpowered me. I could not doubt for a moment that this was one of the Miss Mortimers. I was no longer a mere45 spy; I was an unnatural traitor46. I motioned Lizzie with my hand to go away, but stood still speechless myself, the tears rising to my eyes. The lady stood waiting to see what I wanted, but discovering my distress, as some people can, came a little closer to me. “Are you ill? can I help you in anything?” she said, looking very pitifully and kindly47 into my wet eyes.
“No, thank you. I was going to ask if I might look at the Park; but I must make haste after baby,” I cried. I had the impulse to curtsey to her as children do; for anything I know I did it. The only thing that I am certain of is, that as fast as my feet would carry me, I hastened away.
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1
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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5
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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6
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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7
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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8
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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9
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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11
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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12
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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13
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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14
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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15
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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16
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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18
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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tamper
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| v.干预，玩弄，贿赂，窜改，削弱，损害 | |
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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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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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28
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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29
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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30
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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33
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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38
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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39
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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40
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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41
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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42
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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44
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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45
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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47
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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