One September evening, four months later, when Mrs. Barnet was inperfect health, and Mrs. Downe but a weakening memory, an errand-boypaused to rest himself in front of Mr. Barnet's old house,depositing his basket on one of the window-sills. The street wasnot yet lighted, but there were lights in the house, and atintervals a flitting shadow fell upon the blind at his elbow. Wordsalso were audible from the same apartment, and they seemed to bethose of persons in violent altercation1. But the boy could notgather their purport2, and he went on his way.
Ten minutes afterwards the door of Barnet's house opened, and a tallclosely-veiled lady in a travelling-dress came out and descended3 thefreestone steps. The servant stood in the doorway4 watching her asshe went with a measured tread down the street. When she had beenout of sight for some minutes Barnet appeared at the door fromwithin.
'Did your mistress leave word where she was going?' he asked.
'No, sir.'
'Is the carriage ordered to meet her anywhere?'
'No, sir.'
'Did she take a latch-key?'
'No, sir.'
Barnet went in again, sat down in his chair, and leaned back. Thenin solitude5 and silence he brooded over the bitter emotions thatfilled his heart. It was for this that he had gratuitously6 restoredher to life, and made his union with another impossible! Theevening drew on, and nobody came to disturb him. At bedtime he toldthe servants to retire, that he would sit up for Mrs. Barnethimself; and when they were gone he leaned his head upon his handand mused7 for hours.
The clock struck one, two; still his wife came not, and, withimpatience added to depression, he went from room to room tillanother weary hour had passed. This was not altogether a newexperience for Barnet; but she had never before so prolonged herabsence. At last he sat down again and fell asleep.
He awoke at six o'clock to find that she had not returned. Insearching about the rooms he discovered that she had taken a case ofjewels which had been hers before her marriage. At eight a note wasbrought him; it was from his wife, in which she stated that she hadgone by the coach to the house of a distant relative near London,and expressed a wish that certain boxes, articles of clothing, andso on, might be sent to her forthwith. The note was brought to himby a waiter at the Black-Bull Hotel, and had been written by Mrs.
Barnet immediately before she took her place in the stage.
By the evening this order was carried out, and Barnet, with a senseof relief, walked out into the town. A fair had been held duringthe day, and the large clear moon which rose over the most prominenthill flung its light upon the booths and standings that stillremained in the street, mixing its rays curiously8 with those fromthe flaring9 naphtha lamps. The town was full of country-people whohad come in to enjoy themselves, and on this account Barnet strolledthrough the streets unobserved. With a certain recklessness he madefor the harbour-road, and presently found himself by the shore,where he walked on till he came to the spot near which his friendthe kindly10 Mrs. Downe had lost her life, and his own wife's life hadbeen preserved. A tremulous pathway of bright moonshine nowstretched over the water which had engulfed11 them, and not a livingsoul was near.
Here he ruminated12 on their characters, and next on the young girl inwhom he now took a more sensitive interest than at the time when hehad been free to marry her. Nothing, so far as he was aware, hadever appeared in his own conduct to show that such an interestexisted. He had made it a point of the utmost strictness to hinderthat feeling from influencing in the faintest degree his attitudetowards his wife; and this was made all the more easy for him by thesmall demand Mrs. Barnet made upon his attentions, for which sheever evinced the greatest contempt; thus unwittingly giving him thesatisfaction of knowing that their severance13 owed nothing tojealousy, or, indeed, to any personal behaviour of his at all. Herconcern was not with him or his feelings, as she frequently toldhim; but that she had, in a moment of weakness, thrown herself awayupon a common burgher when she might have aimed at, and possiblybrought down, a peer of the realm. Her frequent depreciation14 ofBarnet in these terms had at times been so intense that he wassorely tempted15 to retaliate16 on her egotism by owning that he lovedat the same low level on which he lived; but prudence17 had prevailed,for which he was now thankful.
Something seemed to sound upon the shingle18 behind him over and abovethe raking of the wave. He looked round, and a slight girlish shapeappeared quite close to him, He could not see her face because itwas in the direction of the moon.
'Mr. Barnet?' the rambler said, in timid surprise. The voice wasthe voice of Lucy Savile.
'Yes,' said Barnet. 'How can I repay you for this pleasure?'
'I only came because the night was so clear. I am now on my wayhome.'
'I am glad we have met. I want to know if you will let me dosomething for you, to give me an occupation, as an idle man? I amsure I ought to help you, for I know you are almost withoutfriends.'
She hesitated. 'Why should you tell me that?' she said.
'In the hope that you will be frank with me.'
'I am not altogether without friends here. But I am going to make alittle change in my life--to go out as a teacher of freehand drawingand practical perspective, of course I mean on a comparativelyhumble scale, because I have not been specially19 educated for thatprofession. But I am sure I shall like it much.'
'You have an opening?'
'I have not exactly got it, but I have advertised for one.'
'Lucy, you must let me help you!'
'Not at all.'
'You need not think it would compromise you, or that I amindifferent to delicacy20. I bear in mind how we stand. It is veryunlikely that you will succeed as teacher of the class you mention,so let me do something of a different kind for you. Say what youwould like, and it shall be done.'
'No; if I can't be a drawing-mistress or governess, or something ofthat sort, I shall go to India and join my brother.'
'I wish I could go abroad, anywhere, everywhere with you, Lucy, andleave this place and its associations for ever!'
She played with the end of her bonnet-string, and hastily turnedaside. 'Don't ever touch upon that kind of topic again,' she said,with a quick severity not free from anger. 'It simply makes itimpossible for me to see you, much less receive any guidance fromyou. No, thank you, Mr. Barnet; you can do nothing for me atpresent; and as I suppose my uncertainty21 will end in my leaving forIndia, I fear you never will. If ever I think you CAN do anything,I will take the trouble to ask you. Till then, good-bye.'
The tone of her latter words was equivocal, and while he remained indoubt whether a gentle irony22 was or was not inwrought with theirsound, she swept lightly round and left him alone. He saw her formget smaller and smaller along the damp belt of sea-sand between ebband flood; and when she had vanished round the cliff into theharbour-road, he himself followed in the same direction.
That her hopes from an advertisement should be the single threadwhich held Lucy Savile in England was too much for Barnet. Onreaching the town he went straight to the residence of Downe, now awidower with four children. The young motherless brood had beensent to bed about a quarter of an hour earlier, and when Barnetentered he found Downe sitting alone. It was the same room as thatfrom which the family had been looking out for Downe at thebeginning of the year, when Downe had slipped into the gutter24 andhis wife had been so enviably tender towards him. The old neatnesshad gone from the house; articles lay in places which could show noreason for their presence, as if momentarily deposited there somemonths ago, and forgotten ever since; there were no flowers; thingswere jumbled25 together on the furniture which should have been incupboards; and the place in general had that stagnant26, unrenovatedair which usually pervades27 the maimed home of the widower23.
Downe soon renewed his customary full-worded lament28 over his wife,and even when he had worked himself up to tears, went on volubly, asif a listener were a luxury to be enjoyed whenever he could becaught.
'She was a treasure beyond compare, Mr. Barnet! I shall never seesuch another. Nobody now to nurse me--nobody to console me in thosedaily troubles, you know, Barnet, which make consolation29 sonecessary to a nature like mine. It would be unbecoming to repine,for her spirit's home was elsewhere--the tender light in her eyesalways showed it; but it is a long dreary30 time that I have beforeme, and nobody else can ever fill the void left in my heart by herloss--nobody--nobody!' And Downe wiped his eyes again.
'She was a good woman in the highest sense,' gravely answeredBarnet, who, though Downe's words drew genuine compassion31 from hisheart, could not help feeling that a tender reticence32 would havebeen a finer tribute to Mrs. Downe's really sterling33 virtues34 thansuch a second-class lament as this.
'I have something to show you,' Downe resumed, producing from adrawer a sheet of paper on which was an elaborate design for acanopied tomb. 'This has been sent me by the architect, but it isnot exactly what I want.'
'You have got Jones to do it, I see, the man who is carrying out myhouse,' said Barnet, as he glanced at the signature to the drawing.
'Yes, but it is not quite what I want. I want something morestriking--more like a tomb I have seen in St. Paul's Cathedral.
Nothing less will do justice to my feelings, and how far short ofthem that will fall!'
Barnet privately35 thought the design a sufficiently36 imposing37 one asit stood, even extravagantly38 ornate; but, feeling that he had noright to criticize, he said gently, 'Downe, should you not live morein your children's lives at the present time, and soften39 thesharpness of regret for your own past by thinking of their future?'
'Yes, yes; but what can I do more?' asked Downe, wrinkling hisforehead hopelessly.
It was with anxious slowness that Barnet produced his reply--thesecret object of his visit to-night. 'Did you not say one day thatyou ought by rights to get a governess for the children?'
Downe admitted that he had said so, but that he could not see hisway to it. 'The kind of woman I should like to have,' he said,'would be rather beyond my means. No; I think I shall send them toschool in the town when they are old enough to go out alone.'
'Now, I know of something better than that. The late LieutenantSavile's daughter, Lucy, wants to do something for herself in theway of teaching. She would be inexpensive, and would answer yourpurpose as well as anybody for six or twelve months. She wouldprobably come daily if you were to ask her, and so your housekeepingarrangements would not be much affected40.'
'I thought she had gone away,' said the solicitor41, musing42. 'Wheredoes she live?'
Barnet told him, and added that, if Downe should think of her assuitable, he would do well to call as soon as possible, or she mightbe on the wing. 'If you do see her,' he said, 'it would beadvisable not to mention my name. She is rather stiff in her ideasof me, and it might prejudice her against a course if she knew thatI recommended it.'
Downe promised to give the subject his consideration, and nothingmore was said about it just then. But when Barnet rose to go, whichwas not till nearly bedtime, he reminded Downe of the suggestion andwent up the street to his own solitary43 home with a sense ofsatisfaction at his promising44 diplomacy45 in a charitable cause.
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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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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engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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retaliate
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| v.报复，反击 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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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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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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42
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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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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