Three miles to the left of the travellers, along the road they hadnot followed, rose an old house with mullioned windows of Ham-hillstone, and chimneys of lavish1 solidity. It stood at the top of aslope beside King's-Hintock village-street; and immediately in frontof it grew a large sycamore-tree, whose bared roots formed aconvenient staircase from the road below to the front door of thedwelling. Its situation gave the house what little distinctive3 nameit possessed4, namely, 'The Knap.' Some forty yards off a brookdribbled past, which, for its size, made a great deal of noise. Atthe back was a dairy barton, accessible for vehicles and live-stockby a side 'drong.' Thus much only of the character of the homesteadcould be divined out of doors at this shady evening-time.
But within there was plenty of light to see by, as plenty wasconstrued at Hintock. Beside a Tudor fireplace, whose moulded four-centred arch was nearly hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, wereseated two women--mother and daughter--Mrs. Hall, and Sarah, orSally; for this was a part of the world where the lattermodification had not as yet been effaced5 as a vulgarity by the marchof intellect. The owner of the name was the young woman by whosemeans Mr. Darton proposed to put an end to his bachelor condition onthe approaching day.
The mother's bereavement6 had been so long ago as not to leave muchmark of its occurrence upon her now, either in face or clothes. Shehad resumed the mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening itswhiteness by a few rose-du-Barry ribbons. Sally required no suchaids to pinkness. Roseate good-nature lit up her gaze; her featuresshowed curves of decision and judgment7; and she might have beenregarded without much mistake as a warm-hearted, quick-spirited,handsome girl.
She did most of the talking, her mother listening with a half-absentair, as she picked up fragments of red-hot wood ember with thetongs, and piled them upon the brands. But the number of speechesthat passed was very small in proportion to the meanings exchanged.
Long experience together often enabled them to see the course ofthought in each other's minds without a word being spoken. Behindthem, in the centre of the room, the table was spread for supper,certain whiffs of air laden8 with fat vapours, which ever and anonentered from the kitchen, denoting its preparation there.
'The new gown he was going to send you stays about on the way likehimself,' Sally's mother was saying.
'Yes, not finished, I daresay,' cried Sally independently. 'Lord, Ishouldn't be amazed if it didn't come at all! Young men make suchkind promises when they are near you, and forget 'em when they goaway. But he doesn't intend it as a wedding-gown--he gives it to memerely as a gown to wear when I like--a travelling-dress is what itwould be called by some. Come rathe or come late it don't muchmatter, as I have a dress of my own to fall back upon. But whattime is it?'
She went to the family clock and opened the glass, for the hour wasnot otherwise discernible by night, and indeed at all times wasrather a thing to be investigated than beheld9, so much more wallthan window was there in the apartment. 'It is nearly eight,' saidshe.
'Eight o'clock, and neither dress nor man,' said Mrs. Hall.
'Mother, if you think to tantalize10 me by talking like that, you aremuch mistaken! Let him be as late as he will--or stay awayaltogether--I don't care,' said Sally. But a tender, minute quaverin the negation11 showed that there was something forced in thatstatement.
Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she was not so sureabout Sally not caring. 'But perhaps you don't care so much as Ido, after all,' she said. 'For I see what you don't, that it is agood and flourishing match for you; a very honourable12 offer in Mr.
Darton. And I think I see a kind husband in him. So pray God'twill go smooth, and wind up well.'
Sally would not listen to misgivings13. Of course it would gosmoothly, she asserted. 'How you are up and down, mother!' she wenton. 'At this moment, whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious tosee him as he is to be here, and his thought runs on before him, andsettles down upon us like the star in the east. Hark!' sheexclaimed, with a breath of relief, her eyes sparkling. 'I heardsomething. Yes--here they are!'
The next moment her mother's slower ear also distinguished14 thefamiliar reverberation15 occasioned by footsteps clambering up theroots of the sycamore.
'Yes it sounds like them at last,' she said. 'Well, it is not sovery late after all, considering the distance.'
The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a knock. They beganto think it might have been, after all, some neighbouring villagerunder Bacchic influence, giving the centre of the road a wide berth,when their doubts were dispelled16 by the new-comer's entry into thepassage. The door of the room was gently opened, and thereappeared, not the pair of travellers with whom we have already madeacquaintance, but a pale-faced man in the garb17 of extreme poverty--almost in rags.
'O, it's a tramp--gracious me!' said Sally, starting back.
His cheeks and eye-orbits were deep concaves--rather, it might be,from natural weakness of constitution than irregular living, thoughthere were indications that he had led no careful life. He gazed atthe two women fixedly18 for a moment: then with an abashed,humiliated demeanour, dropped his glance to the floor, and sank intoa chair without uttering a word.
Sally was in advance of her mother, who had remained standing19 by thefire. She now tried to discern the visitor across the candles.
'Why--mother,' said Sally faintly, turning back to Mrs. Hall. 'Itis Phil, from Australia!'
Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of coughing seized theman with the ragged20 clothes. 'To come home like this!' she said.
'O, Philip--are you ill?'
'No, no, mother,' replied he impatiently, as soon as he could speak.
'But for God's sake how do you come here--and just now too?'
'Well, I am here,' said the man. 'How it is I hardly know. I'vecome home, mother, because I was driven to it. Things were againstme out there, and went from bad to worse.'
'Then why didn't you let us know?--you've not writ21 a line for thelast two or three years.'
The son admitted sadly that he had not. He said that he had hopedand thought he might fetch up again, and be able to send good news.
Then he had been obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally comehome from sheer necessity--previously to making a new start. 'Yes,things are very bad with me,' he repeated, perceiving theircommiserating glances at his clothes.
They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat from his thin hand,which was so small and smooth as to show that his attempts to fetchup again had not been in a manual direction. His mother resumed herinquiries, and dubiously22 asked if he had chosen to come thatparticular night for any special reason.
For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been quite at random23.
Then Philip Hall looked round the room, and saw for the first timethat the table was laid somewhat luxuriously24, and for a largernumber than themselves; and that an air of festivity pervaded25 theirdress. He asked quickly what was going on.
'Sally is going to be married in a day or two,' replied the mother;and she explained how Mr. Darton, Sally's intended husband, wascoming there that night with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and otherdetails. 'We thought it must be their step when we heard you,' saidMrs. Hall.
The needy26 wanderer looked again on the floor. 'I see--I see,' hemurmured. 'Why, indeed, should I have come to-night? Such folk asI are not wanted here at these times, naturally. And I have nobusiness here--spoiling other people's happiness.'
'Phil,' said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but with a thinnessof lip and severity of manner which were presumably not more thanpast events justified27; 'since you speak like that to me, I'll speakhonestly to you. For these three years you have taken no thoughtfor us. You left home with a good supply of money, and strength andeducation, and you ought to have made good use of it all. But youcome back like a beggar; and that you come in a very awkward timefor us cannot be denied. Your return to-night may do us much harm.
But mind--you are welcome to this home as long as it is mine. Idon't wish to turn you adrift. We will make the best of a bad job;and I hope you are not seriously ill?'
'O no. I have only this infernal cough.'
She looked at him anxiously. 'I think you had better go to bed atonce,' she said.
'Well--I shall be out of the way there,' said the son wearily.
'Having ruined myself, don't let me ruin you by being seen in thesetogs, for Heaven's sake. Who do you say Sally is going to bemarried to--a Farmer Darton?'
'Yes--a gentleman-farmer--quite a wealthy man. Far better instation than she could have expected. It is a good thing,altogether.'
'Well done, little Sal!' said her brother, brightening and lookingup at her with a smile. 'I ought to have written; but perhaps Ihave thought of you all the more. But let me get out of sight. Iwould rather go and jump into the river than be seen here. But haveyou anything I can drink? I am confoundedly thirsty with my longtramp.'
'Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you,' said Sally,with grief in her face.
'Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mother--' He stopped, andthey waited. 'Mother, I have not told you all,' he resumed slowly,still looking on the floor between his knees. 'Sad as what you seeof me is, there's worse behind.'
His mother gazed upon him in grieved suspense28, and Sally went andleant upon the bureau, listening for every sound, and sighing.
Suddenly she turned round, saying, 'Let them come, I don't care!
Philip, tell the worst, and take your time.'
'Well, then,' said the unhappy Phil, 'I am not the only one in thismess. Would to Heaven I were! But--'
'O, Phil!'
'I have a wife as destitute29 as I.'
'A wife?' said his mother.
'Unhappily!'
'A wife! Yes, that is the way with sons!'
'And besides--' said he.
'Besides! O, Philip, surely--'
'I have two little children.'
'Wife and children!' whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking down confounded.
'Poor little things!' said Sally involuntarily.
His mother turned again to him. 'I suppose these helpless beingsare left in Australia?'
'No. They are in England.'
'Well, I can only hope you've left them in a respectable place.'
'I have not left them at all. They are here--within a few yards ofus. In short, they are in the stable.'
'Where?'
'In the stable. I did not like to bring them indoors till I hadseen you, mother, and broken the bad news a bit to you. They werevery tired, and are resting out there on some straw.'
Mrs. Hall's fortitude30 visibly broke down. She had been brought upnot without refinement31, and was even more moved by such a collapseof genteel aims as this than a substantial dairyman's widow would inordinary have been moved. 'Well, it must be borne,' she said, in alow voice, with her hands tightly joined. 'A starving son, astarving wife, starving children! Let it be. But why is this cometo us now, to-day, to-night? Could no other misfortune happen tohelpless women than this, which will quite upset my poor girl'schance of a happy life? Why have you done us this wrong, Philip?
What respectable man will come here, and marry open-eyed into afamily of vagabonds?'
'Nonsense, mother!' said Sally vehemently32, while her face flushed.
'Charley isn't the man to desert me. But if he should be, and won'tmarry me because Phil's come, let him go and marry elsewhere. Iwon't be ashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in England--not I!' And then Sally turned away and burst into tears.
'Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a differenttale,' replied her mother.
The son stood up. 'Mother,' he said bitterly, 'as I have come, so Iwill go. All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to liein your stable to-night. I give you my word that we'll be gone bybreak of day, and trouble you no further!'
Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that. 'O no,' she answeredhastily; 'never shall it be said that I sent any of my own familyfrom my door. Bring 'em in, Philip, or take me out to them.'
'We will put 'em all into the large bedroom,' said Sally,brightening, 'and make up a large fire. Let's go and help them in,and call Rebekah.' (Rebekah was the woman who assisted at the dairyand housework; she lived in a cottage hard by with her husband, whoattended to the cows.)Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brothersaid, 'You won't want a light. I lit the lantern that was hangingthere.'
'What must we call your wife?' asked Mrs. Hall.
'Helena,' said Philip.
With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door.
'One minute before you go,' interrupted Philip. 'I--I haven'tconfessed all.'
'Then Heaven help us!' said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door andclasping her hands in calm despair.
'We passed through Evershead as we came,' he continued, 'and I justlooked in at the "Sow-and-Acorn" to see if old Mike still kept onthere as usual. The carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at thatmoment, and guessing that I was bound for this place--for I think heknew me--he asked me to bring on a dressmaker's parcel for Sallythat was marked "immediate2." My wife had walked on with thechildren. 'Twas a flimsy parcel, and the paper was torn, and Ifound on looking at it that it was a thick warm gown. I didn't wishyou to see poor Helena in a shabby state. I was ashamed that youshould--'twas not what she was born to. I untied33 the parcel in theroad, took it on to her where she was waiting in the Lower Barn, andtold her I had managed to get it for her, and that she was to ask noquestion. She, poor thing, must have supposed I obtained it ontrust, through having reached a place where I was known, for she putit on gladly enough. She has it on now. Sally has other gowns, Idaresay.'
Sally looked at her mother, speechless.
'You have others, I daresay!' repeated Phil, with a sick man'simpatience. 'I thought to myself, "Better Sally cry than Helenafreeze." Well, is the dress of great consequence? 'Twas nothingvery ornamental34, as far as I could see.'
'No--no; not of consequence,' returned Sally sadly, adding in agentle voice, 'You will not mind if I lend her another instead ofthat one, will you?'
Philip's agitation35 at the confession36 had brought on another attackof the cough, which seemed to shake him to pieces. He was soobviously unfit to sit in a chair that they helped him upstairs atonce; and having hastily given him a cordial and kindled37 the bedroomfire, they descended38 to fetch their unhappy new relations.
1 lavish | |
adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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2 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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3 distinctive | |
adj.特别的,有特色的,与众不同的 | |
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4 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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5 effaced | |
v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;超越;使黯然失色 | |
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6 bereavement | |
n.亲人丧亡,丧失亲人,丧亲之痛 | |
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7 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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8 laden | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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9 beheld | |
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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10 tantalize | |
vt.使干着急,逗弄 | |
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11 negation | |
n.否定;否认 | |
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12 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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13 misgivings | |
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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14 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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15 reverberation | |
反响; 回响; 反射; 反射物 | |
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16 dispelled | |
v.驱散,赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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18 fixedly | |
adv.固定地;不屈地,坚定不移地 | |
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19 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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20 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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21 writ | |
n.命令状,书面命令 | |
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22 dubiously | |
adv.可疑地,怀疑地 | |
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23 random | |
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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24 luxuriously | |
adv.奢侈地,豪华地 | |
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25 pervaded | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26 needy | |
adj.贫穷的,贫困的,生活艰苦的 | |
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27 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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28 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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29 destitute | |
adj.缺乏的;穷困的 | |
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30 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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31 refinement | |
n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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32 vehemently | |
adv. 热烈地 | |
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33 untied | |
松开,解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 ); 解除,使自由; 解决 | |
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34 ornamental | |
adj.装饰的;作装饰用的;n.装饰品;观赏植物 | |
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35 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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36 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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37 kindled | |
(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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38 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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