The next morning, when he felt that he could speak calmly, Joseph told her what he had done, carefully avoiding any word that might seem to express disappointment, or even doubt.
"I hope you are satisfied that pa will make it easy for you?" she ventured to say.
"He thinks so." Then Joseph could not help adding: "He depends, I imagine, upon your sister Clementina marrying a Mr. Spelter,—'a man of immense wealth, but, I regret to say, no refinement5.'"
Julia bit her lip, and her eyes assumed that hard, flinty look which her husband knew so well. "If Clementina marries immense wealth," she exclaimed, with a half-concealed sneer7, "she will become simply insufferable! But what difference can that make in pa's business affairs?"
The answer tingled8 on Joseph's tongue: "Probably he expects Mr. Spelter to indorse a promissory note"; but he held it back. "What I have resolved to do is this," he said. "In a day or two—as soon as I can arrange to leave—I shall make a journey to the oil region, and satisfy myself where and what the Amaranth is. Your own practical instincts will tell you, Julia, that this intention of mine must be kept secret, even from your father."
She leaned her head upon her hand, and appeared to reflect. When she looked up her face had a cheerful, confiding9 expression.
"I think you are right," she then said. "If—if things should not happen to be quite as they are represented, you can secure yourself against any risk—and pa, too—before the others know of it. You will have the inside track; that is, if there is one. On the other hand, if all is right, pa can easily manage, if some of the others are shaky in their faith, to get their stock at a bargain. I am sure he would have gone out there himself, if his official services were not so important to the government."
It was a hard task for Joseph to keep his feelings to himself.
"And now," she continued,—"now I know you will agree to a plan of mine, which I was going to propose. Lucy Henderson's school closes this week, and Mrs. Hopeton tells me she is a little overworked and ailing10. It would hardly help her much to go home, where she could not properly rest, as her father is a hard, avaricious11 man, who can't endure idleness, except, I suppose, in a corpse12 (so these people seem to me). I want to ask Lucy to come here. I think you always liked her" (here Julia shot a swift, stealthy glance at Joseph), "and so she will be an agreeable guest for both of us. She shall just rest and grow strong. While you are absent, I shall not seem quite so lonely. You may be gone a week or more, and I shall find the separation very hard to bear, even with her company."
"Why has Mrs. Hopeton not invited her?" Joseph asked.
"The Hopetons are going to the sea-shore in a few days. She would take Lucy as a guest, but there is one difficulty in the way. She thinks Lucy would accept the trip and the stay there as an act of hospitality, but that she cannot (or thinks she cannot) afford the dresses that would enable her to appear in Mrs. Hopeton's circle. But it is just as well: I am sure Lucy would feel more at home here."
"Then by all means ask her!" said Joseph. "Lucy Henderson is a noble girl, for she has forced a true-hearted man to love her, without return."
"Ind-e-e-d!"
Julia's drawl denoted surprise and curiosity, but Joseph felt that once more he had spoken too quickly. He endeavored to cover his mistake by a hearty14 acquiescence15 in the plan, which was speedily arranged between them, in all its details, Lucy's consent being taken for granted.
It required, however, the extreme of Julia's powers of disguise, aided by Joseph's frank and hearty words and Mrs. Hopeton's influence, to induce Lucy to accept the invitation. Unable to explain wholly to herself, much less mention to any other, the instinct which held her back, she found herself, finally, placed in a false position, and then resolved to blindly trust that she was doing right, inasmuch as she could not make it clear that she was doing wrong. Her decision once taken, she forcibly banished16 all misgivings17, and determined18 to find nothing but a cheerful and restful holiday before her.
And, indeed, the first day or two of her residence at the farm, before Joseph's departure, brought her a more agreeable experience than she had imagined. Both host and hostess were busy, the latter in the household and the former in the fields, and when they met at meals or in the evening, her presence was an element which compelled an appearance of harmony. She was surprised to find so quiet and ordered a life in two persons whom she had imagined to be miserably19 unfitted for each other, and began to suspect that she had been seriously mistaken.
After Joseph left, the two women were much together. Julia insisted that she should do nothing, and amiably20 protested at first against Lucy giving her so much of her society; but, little by little, the companionship was extended and became more frank and intimate. Lucy was in a charitable mood, and found it very easy to fancy that Julia's character had been favorably affected21 by the graver duties which had come with her marriage. Indeed, Julia found many indirect ways of hinting as much: she feared she had seemed flighty (perhaps a little shallow); looking back upon her past life she could see that such a charge would not be unjust. Her education had been so superficial; all city education of young women was false; they were taught to consider external appearances, and if they felt a void in their nature which these would not fill, whither could they turn for counsel or knowledge?
Her face was sad and thoughtful while she so spoke13; but when, shaking her dark curls with a pretty impatience22, she would lift her head and ask, with a smile: "But it is not too late, in my case, is it? I'm really an older child, you know,"—Lucy could only answer: "Since you know what you need, it can never be too late. The very fact that you do know, proves that it will be easy for you."
Then Julia would shake her head again, and say, "O, you are too kind, Lucy; you judge my nature by your own."
When the friendly relation between them had developed a little further, Julia became—though still with a modest reticence—more confiding in relation to Joseph.
"He is so good, so very, very true and good," she said, one day, "that it grieves me, more than I can tell, to be the cause of a little present anxiety of his. As it is only a business matter, some exaggerated report of which you have probably heard (for I know there have been foolish stories afloat in the neighborhood), I have no hesitation23 about confiding it to you. Perhaps you can advise me how to atone24 for my error; for, if it was an error, I fear it cannot be remedied now; if not, it will be a relief to me to confess it."
Thereupon she gave a minute history of the Amaranth speculation25, omitting the energy of her persuasion26 with Joseph, and presenting very strongly her father's views of a sure and splendid success soon to follow. "It was for Joseph's sake," she concluded, "rather than my own, that I advised the investment; though, knowing his perfect unselfishness, I fear he complied only for mine. He had guessed already, it seems to me now, that we women like beauty as well as comfort about our lives; otherwise, he would hardly have undertaken these expensive improvements of our home. But, Lucy, it terrifies me to think that pa and Joseph and I may have been deceived! The more I shut my mind against the idea the more it returns to torment27 me. I, who brought so little to him, to be the instrument of such a loss! O, if you were not here, how could I endure the anxiety and the absence?"
She buried her face in her handkerchief, and sobbed28.
"I know Joseph to be good and true," said Lucy, "and I believe that he will bear the loss cheerfully, if it should come. But it is never good to 'borrow trouble,' as we say in the country. Neither the worst nor the best things which we imagine ever come upon us."
"You are wrong!" cried Julia, starting up and laughing gleefully; "I have the best thing, in my husband! And yet, you are right, too: no worst thing can come to me, while I keep him!"
Lucy wished to visit the Hopetons before their departure for the sea-shore, and Julia was quite ready to accompany her. Only, with the wilfulness29 common to all selfish natures, she determined to arrange the matter in her own way. She drove away alone the next morning to the post-office, with a letter for Joseph, but never drew rein30 until she had reached Coventry Forge. Philip being absent, she confided31 to Madeline Held her wish (and Lucy's) that they should all spend an afternoon together, on the banks of the stream,—a free society in the open air instead of a formal one within doors. Madeline entered into the plan with joyous32 readiness, accepting both for herself and for Philip. They all met together too rarely, she said: a lunch or a tea under the trees would be delightful33: there was a little skiff which might be borrowed, and they might even catch and cook their own fish, as the most respectable people did in the Adirondacks.
Julia then drove to the Hopetons in high spirits. Mr. Hopeton found the proposed party very pleasant, and said at once to his wife: "We have still three days, my dear: we can easily spare to-morrow?"
"Mrs. Asten is very kind," she replied; "and her proposition is tempting34: but I should not like to go without you, and I thought your business might—"
"O, there is nothing pressing," he interrupted. "I shall enjoy it exceedingly, especially the boat, and the chance of landing a few trout35."
So it was settled. Lucy, it is true, felt a dissatisfaction which she could scarcely conceal6, and possibly did not, to Julia's eyes; but it was not for her own sake. She must seem grateful for a courtesy meant to favor both herself and her friend, and a little reflection reconciled her to the plan. Mrs. Hopeton dared not avoid Philip Held, and it might be well if she carried away with her to the sea-shore a later and less alarming memory of him. Lucy's own desire for a quiet talk with the woman in whom she felt such a loving interest was of no consequence, if this was the result.
They met in the afternoon, on the eastern side of the stream, just below the Forge, where a little bay of level shore, shaded by superb trees, was left between the rocky bluffs36. Stumps39 and a long-fallen trunk furnished them with rough tables and seats; there was a natural fireplace among some huge tumbled stones; a spring of icy crystal gushed40 out from the foot of the bluff37; and the shimmering41, murmuring water in front, with the meadows beyond burning like emerald flame in the sunshine, offered a constant delight to the senses.
All were enchanted42 with the spot, which Philip and Madeline claimed as their discovery. The gypsy spirit awoke in them, and while they scattered43 here and there, possessed44 with the influences of the place, and constantly stumbling upon some new charm or convenience, Lucy felt her heart grow light for her friend, and the trouble of her own life subside45. For a time no one seemed to think of anything but the material arrangements. Mr. Hopeton's wine-flasks were laid in the spring to cool; Philip improvised46 a rustic47 table upon two neighboring stumps; rough seats were made comfortable, dry sticks collected for fire-wood, stores unpacked48 and placed in readiness, and every little preliminary of labor49, insufferable in a kitchen, took on its usual fascination50 in that sylvan51 nook.
Then they rested from their work. Mr. Hopeton and Philip lighted cigars and sat to leeward52, while the four ladies kept their fingers busy with bunches of maiden-hair and faint wildwood blossoms, as they talked. It really seemed as if a peace and joy from beyond their lives had fallen upon them. Madeline believed so, and Lucy hoped so: let us hope so, too, and not lift at once the veil which was folded so closely over two restless hearts!
Mr. Hopeton threw away the stump38 of his cigar, adjusted his fishing-tackle, and said: "If we are to have a trout supper, I must begin to troll at once."
"May I go with you?" his wife asked.
"Yes," he answered, smiling, "if you will not be nervous. But I hardly need to make that stipulation53 with you, Emily."
Philip assisted her into the unsteady little craft, which was fastened to a tree. Mr. Hopeton seated himself carefully, took the two light, short oars54, and held himself from the shore, while Philip loosened the rope.
"I shall row up stream," he said, "and then float back to you, trolling as I come. When I see you again, I hope I can ask you to have the coals ready."
Slowly, and not very skilfully56, he worked his way against the current, and passed out of sight around a bend in the stream. Philip watched Mrs. Hopeton's slender figure as she sat in the stern, listlessly trailing one hand in the water. "Does she feel that my eyes, my thoughts, are following her?" he asked; but she did not once turn her head.
"Philip!" cried Madeline, "here are three forlorn maidens57, and you the only Sir Isumbras, or whoever is the proper knight58! Are you looking into the stream, expecting the 'damp woman' to arise? She only rises for fishermen: she will come up and drag Mr. Hopeton down. Let me invoke59 the real nymph of this stream!" She sang:—
"Sabrina fair,
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent60 wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
Listen for dear honor's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!"
Madeline did not know what she was doing. She could not remark Philip's paleness in the dim green light where they sat, but she was struck by the startled expression of his eyes.
"One would think you really expected Sabrina to come," she laughed. "Miss Henderson, too, looks as if I had frightened her. You and I, Mrs. Asten, are the only cool, unimaginative brains in the party. But perhaps it was all owing to my poor voice? Come now, confess it! I don't expect you to say,—
'Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould
Breathe such divine, enchanting61 ravishment?'"
"I was trying to place the song," said Lucy; "I read it once."
"If any one could evoke62 a spirit, Madeline," Philip replied, "it would be you. But the spirit would be no nymph; it would have little horns and hoofs63, and you would be glad to get rid of it again."
They all laughed at this, and presently, at Julia's suggestion, arranged the wood they had collected, and kindled64 a fire. It required a little time and patience to secure a strong blaze, and in the great interest which the task called forth65 the Hopetons were forgotten.
At last Philip stepped back, heated and half stifled66, for a breath of fresher air, and, turning, saw the boat between the trees gliding67 down the stream. "There they are!" he cried; "now, to know our luck!"
Tho boat was in midstream, not far from a stony68 strip which rose above the water. Mrs. Hopeton sat musing69 with her hands in her lap, while her husband, resting on his knees and one hand, leaned over the bow, watching the fly which trailed at the end of his line. He seemed to be quite unconscious that an oar55, which had slowly loosened itself from the lock, was floating away behind the boat.
"You are losing your oars!" Philip cried.
Mr. Hopeton started, as from a dream of trout, dropped his line and stretched forward suddenly to grasp the oar. The skiff was too light and unbalanced to support the motion. It rocked threateningly; Mrs. Hopeton, quite forgetting herself, started to her feet, and, instantly losing her equilibrium70, was thrown headlong into the deeper water. The skiff whirled back, turned over, and before Mr. Hopeton was aware of what had happened, he plunged71 full length, face downwards72, into the shallower current.
It was all over before Madeline and Lucy reached the bank, and Philip was already in the stream. A few strokes brought him to Mrs. Hopeton, who struggled with the current as she rose to the surface, but made no outcry. No sooner had she touched Philip than she seized and locked him in her arms, and he was dragged down again with her. It was only the physical clinging to life: if some feeble recognition at that moment told her whose was the form she held and made powerless, it could not have abated73 an atom of her frantic74, instinctive75 force.
Philip felt that they had drifted into water beyond his depth. With great exertion76 he freed his right arm and sustained himself and her a moment at the surface. Mrs. Hopeton's head was on his shoulder; her hair drifted against his face, and even the desperation of the struggle could not make him insensible to the warmth of her breast upon his own. A wild thought flashed upon and stung his brain: she was his at last—his in death, if not in life!
His arm slackened, and they sank slowly together. Heart and brain were illuminated77 with blinding light, and the swift succession of his thoughts compressed an age into the fragment of a second. Yes, she was his now: clasping him as he clasped, their hearts beating against each other, with ever slower pulsations, until they should freeze into one. The world, with its wrongs and prejudices, lay behind them; the past was past, and only a short and painless atonement intervened between the immortal78 possession of souls! Better that it should end thus: he had not sought this solution, but he would not thrust it from him.
But, even as his mind accepted it, and with a sense of perfect peace, He heard Joseph's voice, saying, "We must shape our lives according to the law which is above, not that which is below us." Through the air and the water, on the very rock which now overhung his head, he again saw Joseph bending, and himself creeping towards him with outstretched hand. Ha! who was the coward now? And again Joseph spake, and his words were: "The very wrong that has come upon us makes God necessary." God? Then how would God in his wisdom fashion their future life? Must they sweep eternally, locked in an unsevering embrace, like Paolo and Francesca, around some dreary79 circle of hell? Or must the manner of entering that life together be the act to separate them eternally? Only the inevitable80 act dare ask for pardon; but here, if not will or purpose, was at least submission81 without resistance! Then it seemed to him that Madeline's voice came again to him, ringing like a trumpet82 through the waters, as she sang:—
"Listen for dear honor's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!"
He pressed his lips to Mrs. Hopeton's unconscious brow, his heart saying, "Never, never again!" released himself by a sudden, powerful effort, seized her safely, as a practised swimmer, shot into light and air, and made for the shallower side of the stream. The upturned skiff was now within reach, and all danger was over.
Who could guess that the crisis of a soul had been reached and passed in that breath of time under the surface? Julia's long, shrill83 scream had scarcely come to an end; Mr. Hopeton, bewildered by his fall, was trying to run towards them through water up to his waist, and Lucy and Madeline looked on, holding their breath in an agony of suspense84. In another moment Philip touched bottom, and raising Mrs. Hopeton in his arms, carried her to the opposite bank.
She was faint and stunned85, but not unconscious. She passively allowed Philip to support her until Mr. Hopeton, struggling through the shallows, drew near with an expression of intense terror and concern on his broad face. Then, breaking from Philip, she half fell, half flung herself into his arms, laid her head upon his shoulder, and burst into a fit of hysterical86 weeping.
Tears began to run down the honest man's cheeks, and Philip, turning away, busied himself with righting the boat and recovering the oars.
"O, my darling!" said Mr. Hopeton, "what should I do if I had lost you?"
"Hold me, keep me, love me!" she cried. "I must not leave you!"
He held her in his arms, he kissed her, he soothed87 her with endearing words. She grew calm, lifted her head, and looked in his eyes with a light which he had never yet seen in them. The man's nature was moved and stirred: his lips trembled, and the tears still slowly trickled88 from his eyes.
"Let me set you over!" Philip called from the stream. "The boat is wet, but then neither of us is dry. We have, fortunately, a good fire until the carriage can be brought for Mrs. Hopeton, and your wine will be needed at once."
They had no trout, nor indeed any refreshment89, except the wine. Philip tried to rally the spirits of the party, but Julia was the only one who at all seconded his efforts; the others had been too profoundly agitated90. Mr. and Mrs. Hopeton were grave; it seemed scarcely possible for them to speak, and yet, as Lucy remarked with amazement91, the faces of both were bright and serene92.
"I shall never invoke another water-nymph," said Madeline, as they were leaving the spot.
"Yes!" Philip cried, "always invoke Sabrina, and the daughter of Locrine will arise for you, as she arose to-day."
"That is, not at all?"
"No," said Philip, "she arose."
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1
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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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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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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atone
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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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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unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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leeward
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| adj.背风的；下风的 | |
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stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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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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equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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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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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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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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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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82
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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