Mr. Clissold spent the morning sauntering about the farm, and lounging in one of the hill-side meadows with Martin. The young man was depressed1 by the sense of approaching calamity2; and the thought of parting with his mother, who had been more tender to him than to any one else in the world, was a bitter grief not to be put aside. But he did his best to keep his sorrow to himself, and to be an agreeable companion to his friend; while Maurice, on his side, tried to beguile3 Martin to forgetfulness, by cheery talk of that wide busy world in which the young Cornishman longed to take his place.
‘I shall have my liberty soon enough,’ said Martin, with a sigh. ‘I could not leave Borcel during my mother’s lifetime, for I knew it would grieve her if I deserted4 the old homestead. But when she is gone the tie will be broken. Father can rub on well enough without me, if I find him an honest bailiff to take my place. He can afford to sit down and rest now, and take things easily; for he’s a rich man, though he and mother always make a secret of it. And I can run down here once or twice a year, to see how things are going on. Yes, I shall certainly go to London after my poor mother’s death. Borcel would be hateful to me without her. And if you can get me into a merchant’s office, I would try my hand at commerce. I am pretty quick at figures.’
‘I’ll do my best to start you fairly, dear boy, though I have not much influence in the commercial world. I think a year or two in London would do you good, and perhaps reconcile you to your country life afterwards. A little London goes a long way with some people. And now I think I’ll walk over to Penwyn, and see how the Squire5 and his wife are getting on. I shall be back at Borcel by tea-time. Will you come with me, Martin?’
‘I should like it of all things, but my mother sets her face against any intercourse6 between the two families. She doesn’t even like my father to go to the audit7 dinner. And just now when she’s so ill, I don’t care to do anything that can vex8 her. So I’ll loaf about at home, while you go up yonder.’
‘So be it, then, Martin. I think you’re quite right.’
The walk across the moorland was delightful9 in the late September weather, a fresh breeze blowing off the land, and the Atlantic’s mighty10 waves breaking silver-crested upon the rugged12 shore.
‘If Justina were but here!’ thought Maurice, with a longing13 for that one companion in whose presence he had found perfect contentment—the companion who always understood, and always sympathized—who laughed at his smallest jokelet, for whom his loftiest flight never soared too high. He thought of Justina, mewed up in her Bloomsbury parlour, while he was gazing on that wide ocean, breathing this ethereal air, and he felt as if there were selfishness in his enjoyment14 of the scene without her.
‘Will the day ever come when she and I shall be one, and visit earth’s fairest scenes together?’ he wondered. ‘Has she forgotten her romantic attachment15 to my poor friend, and can she give me a whole heart? I think she likes me. I have sometimes ventured to tell myself that she loves me. Yet there is that old memory. She can never give me a love as pure and perfect as that early passion—the firstfruits of her innocent, girlish heart, pure as those vernal offerings which the Romans gave their gods.’
He looked back to that summer day at Eborsham when he had seen the overgrown, shabbily clad girl, sitting in the meadow, with wild flowers in her lap, lifting her pale young face, and looking up at him with her melancholy16 eyes—eyes which had beheld17 so little of earth’s brightness. Nothing fairer than such a meadow on a summer afternoon.
‘I did not know that was my fate,’ he said to himself, remembering his critical, philosophical18 consideration of the group.
Thinking of Justina shortened that moorland walk, the subject being, in a manner, inexhaustible; just that one subject which, in the mind of a lover, has no beginning, middle, or end.
By and by the pedestrian struck into one of Squire Penwyn’s new roads, and admired the young trees in the Squire’s plantations19, and the thickets20 of rhododendron planted here and there among the stems of Norwegian and Scotch21 firs. A keeper’s or forester’s lodge22 here and there, built of grey stone, gave an air of occupation to the landscape. The neatly23 kept garden, full of autumn’s gaudy24 flowers; a group of rustic25 children standing26 at gaze to watch the traveller.
These plantations wonderfully improved the approach to Penwyn Manor27 House. They gave an indication of residential28 estate, as it were, and added importance to the country seat of the Penwyns; the Manor House of days gone by having been an isolated29 mansion30 set in a wild and barren landscape. Now-a-days the traveller surveyed these well-kept plantations on either side of a wide high road, and knew that a lord of the soil dwelt near.
Maurice entered the Manor House grounds by the north lodge. He might have chosen a shorter way, but he had a fancy for taking another look at the woman who had first admitted him to Penwyn, and who had become notorious since then, on account of her son’s wrong doing.
The iron gate was shut, but the woman was near at hand, ready to admit visitors. She was sitting on her door-step, basking31 in the afternoon sunshine. She no longer wore the close white cap in which Maurice had first seen her. To-day her dark hair, with its streaks32 of grey, was brushed smoothly33 from her swarthy forehead, and a scarlet34 handkerchief was tied loosely across her head.
That bit of scarlet had a curious effect upon Maurice Clissold’s memory. Two years ago he had vaguely35 fancied the face familiar. To-day brought back the memory of time and place, the very moment and spot where he had first seen it.
Yes, he recalled the low water meadows, the tow-path, the old red-tiled roofs and pointed36 gables of Eborsham; the solemn towers of the cathedral, the crook-backed willows37 on the bank; and youth and careless pleasure personified in James Penwyn.
This lodge-keeper was no other than that gipsy who had prophesied38 evil about Maurice Clissold’s friend. A slight thing, perhaps, and matter for ridicule39, that dark saying about the severed40 line of life on James Penwyn’s palm; but circumstances had given a fatal force to the soothsayer’s words.
‘What!’ said Maurice, looking at the woman earnestly as she unlocked the gate, ‘you and I have met before, my good woman, and far away from here.’
‘I remember your coming here two years ago,’ she said. ‘That was the first and last time I ever saw you till to-day.’
‘Oh no, it was not—not the first time. Have you forgotten Eborsham, and your fortune-telling days, when you told my friend Mr. Penwyn’s fortune, and talked about a cut across his hand? He was murdered the following day. I should think that event must have impressed the circumstance upon your mind.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rebecca Mason answered, doggedly42. ‘I never saw you till you came here. I was never at any place called Eborsham.’
‘I cannot gainsay43 so positive an assertion from a lady,’ said Maurice, ironically; ‘but all I can say is, that there is some one about in the world who bears a most extraordinary likeness44 to you. I hope the fact may never get you into trouble.’
He passed on towards the house, sorely perplexed45 by the presence of this woman at Mr. Penwyn’s gates. He had no shadow of doubt as to her identity. She was the very woman he had seen plying46 her gipsy trade at Eborsham,—that woman, and no other. And what could have brought her here? Through what influence, by what pretence47, had she wormed her way into a respectable household, and acquired so much power that her vagabond son might attempt a burglary with impunity48?
The question was a puzzling one, and worried Maurice not a little. He remembered what Mrs. Trevanard had said about there being something in the background, something false and underhanded in the Squire’s life. Only the suggestion of a prejudiced woman, of course; but such suggestions make their impression even upon the clearest mind. He remembered Justina’s prejudice against the man who had been so great a gainer by James Penwyn’s death.
‘Heaven help Churchill Penwyn!’ he thought. ‘It is not a pleasant thing to succeed to a murdered man’s heritage. Let him walk ever so straight, there will be watchful49 eyes that will see crookedness50 in all his ways.’
‘It’s a curious business about that gipsy woman, though,’ he went on, after a pause. ‘Does Mr. Penwyn know who she is, I wonder? or has she deceived him as to her character, and traded upon his benevolence51? Although he is not much liked here, he has done a good deal that indicates a benevolent52 mind, and kindly53 intentions towards his dependents. He may have given that woman her post out of pure charity. I’ll try if I can get to the bottom of the business.’
He drew near the house. Everywhere he saw improvement—everywhere the indication of an all-pervading taste, which had turned all things to beauty. The gardens, whose half-neglected air he remembered, were now in most perfect order. Additions had been made to the house, not important in their character, but in a manner completing the harmony of the picture. And over all there was a wealth of colour, and varied54 light and shadow, which would have made most country mansions55 seem dull and commonplace in comparison with this one.
‘It is Mrs. Penwyn’s taste, no doubt, which has made the place so charming,’ Maurice thought. ‘Happy man to have such a wife. I will think no ill of him, for her sake.’
The aspect of the house impressed Maurice as suggestive of happy domestic life. Grandeur56 was not the character of the mansion—home-like prettiness rather, a gracious smiling air, which seemed to welcome the stranger.
Maurice entered by an Elizabethan porch, which had been added to the old lobby entrance at one end of the house. The lobby had been transformed into the prettiest little armory57 imaginable: the dark and shining oak walls, decorated with weapons and shields of the Middle Ages, all old English. This armory opened into a corridor with a row of doors on either side, a corridor which led straight to the hall, now the favourite family sitting-room58, and provided with what was known as the ladies’ billiard-table. The billiard-room proper was an apartment at the other end of the house, with an open Gothic roof, and lighted from the top, a room which Churchill had added to the family mansion.
Here, in the spacious59 old hall, Maurice found the family and guests assembled after luncheon60; Lady Cheshunt enthroned in a luxurious61 arm-chair, drawn62 close to the bright wood fire, which pleasantly warmed the autumnal atmosphere; Viola Bellingham deeply engaged in the consideration of whether to play for the white or the red, her own ball having been sent into a most uncomfortable corner by her antagonist64, Sir Lewis Dallas; Mrs. Penwyn seated on a sofa by the sunniest window, with the infant heir on her knees, a sturdy fair-haired youngster in a dark blue velvet65 frock, trying his utmost to demolish66 a set of Indian chessmen which the indulgent mother had produced for his amusement; Churchill seated near, glancing from an open Quarterly to that pleasing picture of mother and child; two or three young ladies and a couple of middle-aged63 gentlemen engaged in watching the billiard-players; and finally, Sir Lewis Dallas engaged in watching Viola.
No brighter picture of English home life could be imagined.
Churchill threw down his Quarterly, and rose to offer the unexpected guest a hearty68 welcome, which Madge as heartily69 seconded.
‘This time, of course, you have come to stay with us,’ said Mr. Penwyn.
‘You are too good. No. I have put up at my old quarters at Borcel End. But I dare say I shall give you quite enough of my society. I walked over to spend an hour or two, and perhaps ask for a cup of tea from Mrs. Penwyn.’
‘You’ll stop to dinner, surely?’
‘Not this evening, tempting70 as such an invitation is. I promised Martin Trevanard that I would go back before dark.’
‘You and that young Martin are fast friends, it seems.’
‘Yes. He is a capital young fellow, and I am really attached to him,’ answered Maurice, somewhat absently.
He was looking at Mrs. Penwyn, surprised, nay71, shocked, by the change which her beauty had suffered since he had last seen the proud handsome face, only a few months ago. There was the old brightness in her smile, the same grand carriage of the nobly formed head; but her face had aged somehow. The eyes seemed to have grown larger; the once perfect oval of the cheek had sharpened to a less lovely outline; the clear dark complexion72 had lost its carnation73 glow, and that warm golden tinge74, which had reminded Maurice of one of De Musset’s Andalusian beauties, had faded to an ivory pallor.
Madge was as kind as ever, and seemed no less gay. Yet Maurice fancied there was a change even in the tone of her voice. It had lost its old glad ring.
The stranger was presented to the guests of the house. The younger ladies received him with something akin11 to enthusiasm, there being only one eligible75 young man at Penwyn Manor, and he being hopelessly entangled76 in the fair Viola’s silken net. Lady Cheshunt asked if Mr. Clissold had come straight from London, and, on being answered in the affirmative, ordered him to sit down by her immediately, and tell her all the news of the metropolis—about that dreadful murder in the Bow Road, and about the American comedian77 who had been making people laugh at the Royal Bouffonerie Theatre, and about the new French novel, which the Saturday Review said was so shocking that no respectable woman ought to look at it, and which Lady Cheshunt was dying to read.
Maurice stayed for afternoon tea, which was served in the hall, Viola officiating at a Sutherland table, in the broad recess78 that had once been the chief entrance.
‘So you have abandoned your ancient office, Mrs. Penwyn,’ said Maurice, as he carried the lady of the manor her cup.
‘Madge has not been very strong lately, and has been obliged to avoid even small fatigues,’ answered Churchill, who was standing near his wife’s chair.
‘There is a cloud on the horizon,’ thought Maurice, as he set out on his homeward walk. ‘Not any bigger than a man’s hand, perhaps; but the cloud is there.’
END OF VOL. II.
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1
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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audit
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| v.审计；查帐；核对；旁听 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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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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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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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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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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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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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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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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43
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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50
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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51
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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52
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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53
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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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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armory
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| n.纹章，兵工厂，军械库 | |
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58
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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59
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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68
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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71
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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76
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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78
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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