At nine o’clock Miss Pepperdine, who had been knitting by the parlour fire since seven, grew somewhat impatient.
‘I think Simpson might have come home straight from the station,’ she said in sharp, decided4 tones. ‘The child is sure to be tired.’
Miss Judith Pepperdine, engaged on fancy needlework on the opposite side of the hearth5, shook her head.
‘Simpson never passes the Grange,’ she said. ‘That night I came with him from Oakborough last winter, I couldn’t get him to come home. He coaxed6 me to go in for just ten minutes, and we had to stop four hours.’
Miss Pepperdine sniffed7. Her needles clicked vigorously for a few minutes longer; she laid them down at a{28} quarter past nine, went across the parlour to a cupboard, unlocked it, produced a spirit-case and three glasses, and set them on the table in the middle of the room. At the same moment a tap sounded on the door, and a maid entered bearing a jug8 of hot water, a dish of lemons, and a bowl of sugar. She was about to leave the room after setting her tray down when Miss Pepperdine stopped her.
‘I wonder what the boy had better have, Judith?’ she said, looking at her sister. ‘He’s sure to have had a good tea at the Grange—Sarah Trippett would see to that—but he’ll be cold. Some hot milk, I should think. Bring some new milk in the brass9 pan, Anne, and another glass—I’ll heat it myself over this fire.’
Then, without waiting to hear whether Miss Judith approved the notion of hot milk or not, she sat down to her knitting again, and when the maid had brought the brass pan and the glass and withdrawn10, the parlour became hushed and silent. It was an old-world room—there was not an article of furniture in it that was less than a hundred years old, and the old silver and old china arranged in the cabinets and on the side-tables were as antiquated11 as the chairs, the old bureau, and the pictures. Everything was old, good, and substantial; everything smelled of a bygone age and of dried rose-leaves.
The two sisters, facing each other across the hearth, were in thorough keeping with the old-world atmosphere of their parlour. Miss Keziah Pepperdine, senior member of the family, and by no means afraid of admitting that she had attained12 her fiftieth year, was tall and well-built; a fine figure of a woman, with a handsome face, jet-black hair, and eyes of a decided keenness. There was character and decision in her every movement; in her sharp, incisive13 speech; in her quick glance; and in the nervous, resolute14 click of her knitting needles. As she knitted, she kept her lips pursed tightly together and her eyes fixed15 upon her work: it needed little observation to make sure that{29} whatever Miss Pepperdine did would be done with resolution and thoroughness. She was a woman to be respected rather than loved; feared more than honoured; and there was a flash in her hawk’s eyes, and a grimness about her mouth, which indicated a temper that could strike with force and purpose. Further indications of her character were seen in her attire16, which was severely17 simple—a gown of black, unrelieved by any speck18 of white, hanging in prim19, straight folds, and utterly20 unadorned, but, to a knowing eye, fashioned of most excellent and costly21 material.
Judith Pepperdine, many years younger than her sister, was dressed in black too, but the sombreness of her attire was relieved by white cuffs22 and collar, and by a very long thin gold chain, which was festooned twice round her neck ere it sought refuge in the watch-pocket at her waist. She had a slender figure of great elegance23, and was proud of it, just as she was proud of the fact that at forty years of age she was still a pretty woman. There was something of the girl still left in her: some dreaminess of eye, a suspicion of coquetry, an innate24 desire to please the other sex and to be admired by men. Her cheek was still smooth and peach-like; her eyes still bright, and her brown hair glossy25; old maid that she undoubtedly26 was, there were many good-looking girls in the district who had not half her attractions. To her natural good looks Judith Pepperdine added a native refinement27 and elegance; she knew how to move about a room and walk the village street. Her smile was famous—old Dr. Stubbins, of Normanfold, an authority in such matters, said that for sweetness and charm he would back Judith Pepperdine’s smile against the world.
There were many people who wondered why the handsome Miss Pepperdine had never married, but there was scarcely one who knew why she had remained and meant to remain single. Soon after the marriage of her sister Lucy to Cyprian Damerel, Judith developed a love-affair of her own with a dashing{30} cavalry28 man, a sergeant29 of the 13th Hussars, then quartered at Oakborough. He was a handsome young man, the son of a local farmer, and his ambition had been for soldiering from boyhood. Coming into the neighbourhood in all his glory, and often meeting Judith at the houses of mutual30 friends, he had soon laid siege to her and captured her susceptible31 heart. Their engagement was kept secret, for old Mrs. Pepperdine had almost as great an objection to soldiers as to foreigners, and would have considered a non-commissioned officer beneath her daughter’s notice. The sergeant, however, had aspirations—it was his hope to secure a commission in an infantry32 regiment33, and his ambition in this direction seemed likely to be furthered when his regiment was ordered out to India and presently engaged in a frontier campaign. But there his good luck came to an untimely end—he performed a brave action which won him the Victoria Cross, but he was so severely wounded in doing it that he died soon afterwards, and Judith’s romance came to a bitter end. She had had many offers of marriage since, and had refused them all—the memory of the handsome Hussar still lived in her sentimental34 heart, and her most cherished possession was the cross which he had won and had not lived to receive. Time had healed the wound: she no longer experienced the pangs35 and sorrows of her first grief. Everything had been mellowed36 down into a soft regret, and the still living affection for the memory of a dead man kept her heart young.
That night Judith for once in a while had no thought of her dead lover—she was thinking of the boy whom Simpson was bringing to them. She remembered Lucy with wondering thoughts, trying to recall her as she was when Cyprian Damerel took her away to London and a new life. None of her own people had ever seen Lucy again—they were stay-at-home folk, and the artist and his wife had spent most of their short married life on the Continent. Now Damerel, too, was dead,{31} and the boy was coming back to his mother’s people, and Judith, who was given to dreaming, speculated much concerning him.
‘I wonder,’ she said, scarcely knowing that she spoke37, ‘I wonder what Lucian will be like.’
‘And I wonder,’ said Miss Pepperdine, ‘if Damerel has left any money for him.’
‘Surely!’ exclaimed Judith. ‘He earned such large sums by his paintings.’
Miss Pepperdine’s needles clicked more sharply than ever.
‘He spent large sums too,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard of the way in which he lived. He was an extravagant38 man, like most of his sort. That sort of money is earned easily and spent easily. With his ideas and his tastes, he ought to have been a duke. I hope he has provided for the boy—times are not as good as they might be.’
‘You would never begrudge39 anything to Lucy’s child, sister?’ said Judith timidly, and with a wistful glance at Miss Pepperdine’s stern countenance40. ‘I’m sure I shouldn’t—he is welcome to all I have.’
‘Umph!’ replied Miss Pepperdine. ‘Who talked of begrudging41 anything to the child? All I say is, I hope his father has provided for him.’
Judith made no answer to this remark, and the silence which followed was suddenly broken by the sound of wheels on the drive outside the house. Both sisters rose to their feet; each showed traces of some emotion. Without a word they passed out of the room into the hall. The maid-servant had already opened the door, and in the light of the hanging lamp they saw their brother helping42 Lucian out of the dogcart. The sisters moved forward.
‘Now, then, here we are!’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘Home again, safe and sound, and no breakages. Lucian, my boy, here’s your aunts Keziah and Judith. Take him in, lassies, and warm him—it’s a keenish night.’{32}
The boy stepped into the hall, and lifted his hat as he looked up at the two women.
‘How do you do?’ he said politely.
Miss Pepperdine drew a quick breath. She took the outstretched hand and bent43 down and kissed the boy’s cheek; in the lamplight she had seen her dead sister’s eyes look out of the young face, and for the moment she could not trust herself to speak. Judith trembled all over; as the boy turned to her she put both arms round him and drew him into the parlour, and there embraced him warmly. He looked at her somewhat wonderingly and critically, and then responded to her embrace.
‘You are my Aunt Judith,’ he said. ‘Uncle Pepperdine told me about you. You are the handsome one.’
Judith kissed him again. She had fallen in love with him on the spot.
‘Yes, I am your Aunt Judith, my dear,’ she said. ‘And I am very, very glad to see you—we are all glad.’
She still held him in her arms, looking at him long and hungrily. Miss Pepperdine came in, businesslike and bustling44; she had lingered in the hall, ostensibly to give an order to the servant, but in reality to get rid of a tear or two.
‘Now, then, let me have a look at him,’ she said, and drew the boy out of Judith’s hands and turned him to the light. ‘Your Aunt Judith,’ she continued as she scanned him critically, ‘is the handsome one, as I heard you say just now—I’m the ugly one. Do you think you’ll like me?’
Lucian stared back at her with a glance as keen and searching as her own. He looked her through and through.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I like you. I think——’ He paused and smiled a little.
‘You think—what?’
‘I think you might be cross sometimes, but you’re good,’ he said, still staring at her.{33}
Miss Pepperdine laughed. Judith knew that she was conquered.
‘Well, you’ll find out,’ said Miss Pepperdine. ‘Now, then, off with your coat—are you hungry?’
‘No,’ answered Lucian. ‘I ate too much at Mrs. Trippett’s—English people have such big meals, I think.’
‘Give him a drop of something warm,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, entering with much rubbing of hands and stamping of feet. ‘’Tis cold as Christmas, driving through them woods ’twixt here and Wellsby.’
Miss Pepperdine set the brass pan on the fire, and presently handed Lucian a glass of hot milk, and produced an old-fashioned biscuit-box from the cupboard. The boy sat down near Judith, ate and drank, and looked about him, all unconscious that the two women and the man were watching him with all their eyes.
‘I like this room better than Mrs. Trippett’s,’ he said suddenly. ‘Hers is a pretty room, but this shows more taste. And all the furniture is Chippendale!’
‘Bless his heart!’ said Miss Pepperdine, ‘so it is. How did you know that, my dear?’
Lucian stared at her.
‘I know a lot about old furniture,’ he said; ‘my father taught me.’ He yawned and looked apologetic. ‘I think I should like to go to bed,’ he added, glancing at Miss Pepperdine. ‘I am sleepy—we have been travelling all day.’
Judith rose from her chair with alacrity45. She was pining to get the boy all to herself.
‘I’ll take him to his room,’ she said. ‘Come along, dear, your room is all ready for you.’
The boy shook hands with Aunt Keziah. She kissed him again and patted his head. He crossed over to Mr. Pepperdine, who was pulling off his boots.
‘I’ll go riding with you in the morning,’ he said. ‘After breakfast, I suppose, eh?’
‘Ay, after breakfast,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I’ll tell John to have the pony46 ready. Good-night,{34} my lad; your Aunt Judith’ll see you’re all comfortable.’
Lucian shook hands with his uncle, and went cheerfully away with Judith. Miss Pepperdine sighed as the door closed upon them.
‘He’s the very image of Cyprian Damerel,’ she said; ‘but he has Lucy’s eyes.’
‘He’s a fine little lad,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘An uncommon47 fine little lad, and quite the gentleman. I’m proud of him.’
He had got into his slippers48 by this time, and he cast a longing49 eye at the spirit-case on the table. Miss Pepperdine rose, produced an old-fashioned pewter thimble, measured whisky into it, poured it into a tumbler, added lemon, sugar, and hot water, and handed it to her brother, who received it with an expression of gratitude50, and sipped51 it critically. She measured a less quantity into two other glasses and mixed each with similar ingredients.
‘Judith won’t be coming down again,’ she said. ‘I’ll take her tumbler up to her room; and I’m going to bed myself—we’ve had a long day with churning. You’ll not want any news to-night, Simpson; it’ll keep till to-morrow, and there’s little to tell—all’s gone on right.’
‘That’s a blessing,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, stretching his legs.
Miss Pepperdine put away her knitting, removed the spirit-case into the cupboard, locked the door and put the key in her pocket, and took up the little tray on which she had placed the tumblers intended for herself and her sister. But on the verge52 of leaving the room she paused and looked at her brother.
‘We were glad you got there in time, Simpson,’ she said. ‘And you did right to bring the child home—it was the right thing to do. I hope Damerel has made provision for him?’
Mr. Pepperdine was seized with a mighty53 yawning.
‘Oh ay!’ he said as soon as he could speak. ‘The{35} lad’s all right, Keziah—all right. Everything’s in my hands—yes, it’s all right.’
‘You must tell me about it afterwards,’ said Miss Pepperdine. ‘I’ll go now—I just want to see that the boy has all he wants. Good-night, Simpson.’
‘Good-night, my lass, good-night,’ said the farmer. ‘I’ll just look round and be off to bed myself.’
Miss Pepperdine left the room and closed the door; her brother heard the ancient staircase creak as she climbed to the sleeping-chambers. He waited a few minutes, and then, rising from his chair, he produced a key from his pocket, walked over to the old bureau, unlocked a small cupboard, and brought forth54 a bottle of whisky. He drew the cork55 with a meditative56 air and added a liberal dose of spirit to that handed to him by his sister. He replaced the bottle and locked up the cupboard, poured a little more hot water into his glass, and sipped the strengthened mixture with approbation57. Then he winked58 solemnly at his reflection in the old mirror above the chimney-piece, and sat down before the fire to enjoy his nightcap in privacy and comfort.
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1
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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7
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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8
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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12
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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13
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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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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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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19
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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23
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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35
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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36
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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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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38
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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begrudge
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| vt.吝啬，羡慕 | |
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40
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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41
begrudging
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| 嫉妒( begrudge的现在分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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42
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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45
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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46
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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47
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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48
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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49
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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50
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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51
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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53
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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54
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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55
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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56
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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57
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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58
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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