The winter and the spring had passed, and the house was complete.
It was a fine morning in the early part of June, and Barnet, thoughnot in the habit of rising early, had taken a long walk beforebreakfast; returning by way of the new building. A sufficientlyexciting cause of his restlessness to-day might have been theintelligence which had reached him the night before, that LucySavile was going to India after all, and notwithstanding therepresentations of her friends that such a journey was unadvisablein many ways for an unpractised girl, unless some more definiteadvantage lay at the end of it than she could show to be the case.
Barnet's walk up the slope to the building betrayed that he was in adissatisfied mood. He hardly saw that the dewy time of day lent anunusual freshness to the bushes and trees which had so recently puton their summer habit of heavy leafage, and made his newly-laid lawnlook as well established as an old manorial2 meadow. The house hadbeen so adroitly3 placed between six tall elms which were growing onthe site beforehand, that they seemed like real ancestral trees; andthe rooks, young and old, cawed melodiously4 to their visitor.
The door was not locked, and he entered. No workmen appeared to bepresent, and he walked from sunny window to sunny window of theempty rooms, with a sense of seclusion5 which might have been verypleasant but for the antecedent knowledge that his almost paternalcare of Lucy Savile was to be thrown away by her wilfulness6.
Footsteps echoed through an adjoining room; and bending his eyes inthat direction, he perceived Mr. Jones, the architect. He had cometo look over the building before giving the contractor7 his finalcertificate. They walked over the house together. Everything wasfinished except the papering: there were the latest improvements ofthe period in bell-hanging, ventilating, smoke-jacks, fire-grates,and French windows. The business was soon ended, and Jones, havingdirected Barnet's attention to a roll of wall-paper patterns whichlay on a bench for his choice, was leaving to keep anotherengagement, when Barnet said, 'Is the tomb finished yet for Mrs.
Downe?'
'Well--yes: it is at last,' said the architect, coming back andspeaking as if he were in a mood to make a confidence. 'I have hadno end of trouble in the matter, and, to tell the truth, I amheartily glad it is over.'
Barnet expressed his surprise. 'I thought poor Downe had given upthose extravagant8 notions of his? then he has gone back to the altarand canopy9 after all? Well, he is to be excused, poor fellow!'
'O no--he has not at all gone back to them--quite the reverse,'
Jones hastened to say. 'He has so reduced design after design, thatthe whole thing has been nothing but waste labour for me; till inthe end it has become a common headstone, which a mason put up inhalf a day.'
'A common headstone?' said Barnet.
'Yes. I held out for some time for the addition of a footstone atleast. But he said, "O no--he couldn't afford it."'
'Ah, well--his family is growing up, poor fellow, and his expensesare getting serious.'
'Yes, exactly,' said Jones, as if the subject were none of his. Andagain directing Barnet's attention to the wall-papers, the bustlingarchitect left him to keep some other engagement.
'A common headstone,' murmured Barnet, left again to himself. Hemused a minute or two, and next began looking over and selectingfrom the patterns; but had not long been engaged in the work when heheard another footstep on the gravel11 without, and somebody enter theopen porch.
Barnet went to the door--it was his manservant in search of him.
'I have been trying for some time to find you, sir,' he said. 'Thisletter has come by the post, and it is marked immediate12. Andthere's this one from Mr. Downe, who called just now wanting to seeyou.' He searched his pocket for the second.
Barnet took the first letter--it had a black border, and bore theLondon postmark. It was not in his wife's handwriting, or in thatof any person he knew; but conjecture13 soon ceased as he read thepage, wherein he was briefly14 informed that Mrs. Barnet had diedsuddenly on the previous day, at the furnished villa15 she hadoccupied near London.
Barnet looked vaguely16 round the empty hall, at the blank walls, outof the doorway17. Drawing a long palpitating breath, and with eyesdowncast, he turned and climbed the stairs slowly, like a man whodoubted their stability. The fact of his wife having, as it were,died once already, and lived on again, had entirely18 dislodged thepossibility of her actual death from his conjecture. He went to thelanding, leant over the balusters, and after a reverie, of whoseduration he had but the faintest notion, turned to the window andstretched his gaze to the cottage further down the road, which wasvisible from his landing, and from which Lucy still walked to thesolicitor's house by a cross path. The faint words that came fromhis moving lips were simply, 'At last!'
Then, almost involuntarily, Barnet fell down on his knees andmurmured some incoherent words of thanksgiving. Surely his virtuein restoring his wife to life had been rewarded! But, as if theimpulse struck uneasily on his conscience, he quickly rose, brushedthe dust from his trousers and set himself to think of his nextmovements. He could not start for London for some hours; and as hehad no preparations to make that could not be made in half-an-hour,he mechanically descended20 and resumed his occupation of turning overthe wall-papers. They had all got brighter for him, those papers.
It was all changed--who would sit in the rooms that they were toline? He went on to muse10 upon Lucy's conduct in so frequentlycoming to the house with the children; her occasional blush inspeaking to him; her evident interest in him. What woman can in thelong run avoid being interested in a man whom she knows to bedevoted to her? If human solicitation21 could ever effect anything,there should be no going to India for Lucy now. All the paperspreviously chosen seemed wrong in their shades, and he began fromthe beginning to choose again.
While entering on the task he heard a forced 'Ahem!' from withoutthe porch, evidently uttered to attract his attention, and footstepsagain advancing to the door. His man, whom he had quite forgottenin his mental turmoil22, was still waiting there.
'I beg your pardon, sir,' the man said from round the doorway; 'buthere's the note from Mr. Downe that you didn't take. He called justafter you went out, and as he couldn't wait, he wrote this on yourstudy-table.'
He handed in the letter--no black-bordered one now, but a practical-looking note in the well-known writing of the solicitor19.
'DEAR BARNET'--it ran--'Perhaps you will be prepared for theinformation I am about to give--that Lucy Savile and myself aregoing to be married this morning. I have hitherto said nothing asto my intention to any of my friends, for reasons which I am sureyou will fully23 appreciate. The crisis has been brought about by herexpressing her intention to join her brother in India. I thendiscovered that I could not do without her.
'It is to be quite a private wedding; but it is my particular wishthat you come down here quietly at ten, and go to church with us; itwill add greatly to the pleasure I shall experience in the ceremony,and, I believe, to Lucy's also. I have called on you very early tomake the request, in the belief that I should find you at home; butyou are beforehand with me in your early rising.--Yours sincerely,C. Downe.'
'Need I wait, sir?' said the servant after a dead silence.
'That will do, William. No answer,' said Barnet calmly.
When the man had gone Barnet re-read the letter. Turning eventuallyto the wall-papers, which he had been at such pains to select, hedeliberately tore them into halves and quarters, and threw them intothe empty fireplace. Then he went out of the house; locked thedoor, and stood in the front awhile. Instead of returning into thetown, he went down the harbour-road and thoughtfully lingered aboutby the sea, near the spot where the body of Downe's late wife hadbeen found and brought ashore24.
Barnet was a man with a rich capacity for misery25, and there is nodoubt that he exercised it to its fullest extent now. The eventsthat had, as it were, dashed themselves together into one half-hourof this day showed that curious refinement26 of cruelty in theirarrangement which often proceeds from the bosom27 of the whimsical godat other times known as blind Circumstance. That his few minutes ofhope, between the reading of the first and second letters, hadcarried him to extraordinary heights of rapture28 was proved by theimmensity of his suffering now. The sun blazing into his face wouldhave shown a close watcher that a horizontal line, which he hadnever noticed before, but which was never to be gone thereafter, wassomehow gradually forming itself in the smooth of his forehead. Hiseyes, of a light hazel, had a curious look which can only bedescribed by the word bruised29; the sorrow that looked from thembeing largely mixed with the surprise of a man taken unawares.
The secondary particulars of his present position, too, were oddenough, though for some time they appeared to engage little of hisattention. Not a soul in the town knew, as yet, of his wife'sdeath; and he almost owed Downe the kindness of not publishing ittill the day was over: the conjuncture, taken with that which hadaccompanied the death of Mrs. Downe, being so singular as to bequite sufficient to darken the pleasure of the impressionablesolicitor to a cruel extent, if made known to him. But as Barnetcould not set out on his journey to London, where his wife lay, forsome hours (there being at this date no railway within a distance ofmany miles), no great reason existed why he should leave the town.
Impulse in all its forms characterized Barnet, and when he heard thedistant clock strike the hour of ten his feet began to carry him upthe harbour-road with the manner of a man who must do something tobring himself to life. He passed Lucy Savile's old house, his ownnew one, and came in view of the church. Now he gave a perceptiblestart, and his mechanical condition went away. Before the church-gate were a couple of carriages, and Barnet then could perceive thatthe marriage between Downe and Lucy was at that moment beingsolemnized within. A feeling of sudden, proud self-confidence, anindocile wish to walk unmoved in spite of grim environments, plainlypossessed him, and when he reached the wicket-gate he turned inwithout apparent effort. Pacing up the paved footway he entered thechurch and stood for a while in the nave30 passage. A group of peoplewas standing1 round the vestry door; Barnet advanced through theseand stepped into the vestry.
There they were, busily signing their names. Seeing Downe about tolook round, Barnet averted31 his somewhat disturbed face for a secondor two; when he turned again front to front he was calm and quitesmiling; it was a creditable triumph over himself, and deserved tobe remembered in his native town. He greeted Downe heartily,offering his congratulations.
It seemed as if Barnet expected a half-guilty look upon Lucy's face;but no, save the natural flush and flurry engendered32 by the servicejust performed, there was nothing whatever in her bearing whichshowed a disturbed mind: her gray-brown eyes carried in them now asat other times the well-known expression of common-sensed rectitudewhich never went so far as to touch on hardness. She shook handswith him, and Downe said warmly, 'I wish you could have come sooner:
I called on purpose to ask you. You'll drive back with us now?'
'No, no,' said Barnet; 'I am not at all prepared; but I thought Iwould look in upon you for a moment, even though I had not time togo home and dress. I'll stand back and see you pass out, andobserve the effect of the spectacle upon myself as one of thepublic.'
Then Lucy and her husband laughed, and Barnet laughed and retired;and the quiet little party went gliding33 down the nave and towardsthe porch, Lucy's new silk dress sweeping34 with a smart rustle35 roundthe base-mouldings of the ancient font, and Downe's little daughtersfollowing in a state of round-eyed interest in their position, andthat of Lucy, their teacher and friend.
So Downe was comforted after his Emily's death, which had takenplace twelve months, two weeks, and three days before that time.
When the two flys had driven off and the spectators had vanished,Barnet followed to the door, and went out into the sun. He took nomore trouble to preserve a spruce exterior36; his step was unequal,hesitating, almost convulsive; and the slight changes of colourwhich went on in his face seemed refracted from some inward flame.
In the churchyard he became pale as a summer cloud, and finding itnot easy to proceed he sat down on one of the tombstones andsupported his head with his hand.
Hard by was a sexton filling up a grave which he had not found timeto finish on the previous evening. Observing Barnet, he went up tohim, and recognizing him, said, 'Shall I help you home, sir?'
'O no, thank you,' said Barnet, rousing himself and standing up.
The sexton returned to his grave, followed by Barnet, who, afterwatching him awhile, stepped into the grave, now nearly filled, andhelped to tread in the earth.
The sexton apparently37 thought his conduct a little singular, but hemade no observation, and when the grave was full, Barnet suddenlystopped, looked far away, and with a decided38 step proceeded to thegate and vanished. The sexton rested on his shovel39 and looked afterhim for a few moments, and then began banking40 up the mound41.
In those short minutes of treading in the dead man Barnet had formeda design, but what it was the inhabitants of that town did not forsome long time imagine. He went home, wrote several letters ofbusiness, called on his lawyer, an old man of the same place who hadbeen the legal adviser42 of Barnet's father before him, and during theevening overhauled43 a large quantity of letters and other documentsin his possession. By eleven o'clock the heap of papers in andbefore Barnet's grate had reached formidable dimensions, and hebegan to burn them. This, owing to their quantity, it was not soeasy to do as he had expected, and he sat long into the night tocomplete the task.
The next morning Barnet departed for London, leaving a note forDowne to inform him of Mrs. Barnet's sudden death, and that he wasgone to bury her; but when a thrice-sufficient time for that purposehad elapsed, he was not seen again in his accustomed walks, or inhis new house, or in his old one. He was gone for good, nobody knewwhither. It was soon discovered that he had empowered his lawyer todispose of all his property, real and personal, in the borough44, andpay in the proceeds to the account of an unknown person at one ofthe large London banks. The person was by some supposed to behimself under an assumed name; but few, if any, had certainknowledge of that fact.
The elegant new residence was sold with the rest of his possessions;and its purchaser was no other than Downe, now a thriving man in theborough, and one whose growing family and new wife required moreroomy accommodation than was afforded by the little house up thenarrow side street. Barnet's old habitation was bought by thetrustees of the Congregational Baptist body in that town, who pulleddown the time-honoured dwelling45 and built a new chapel46 on its site.
By the time the last hour of that, to Barnet, eventful year hadchimed, every vestige47 of him had disappeared from the precincts ofhis native place, and the name became extinct in the borough ofPort-Bredy, after having been a living force therein for more thantwo hundred years.
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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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manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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melodiously
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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10
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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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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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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16
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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18
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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19
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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24
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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26
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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27
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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29
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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31
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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34
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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35
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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36
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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39
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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41
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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42
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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43
overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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44
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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45
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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46
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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