Twenty-one years and six months do not pass without setting a markeven upon durable1 stone and triple brass2; upon humanity such aperiod works nothing less than transformation3. In Barnet's oldbirthplace vivacious4 young children with bones like india-rubber hadgrown up to be stable men and women, men and women had dried in theskin, stiffened5, withered6, and sunk into decrepitude7; whileselections from every class had been consigned8 to the outlyingcemetery. Of inorganic9 differences the greatest was that a railwayhad invaded the town, tying it on to a main line at a junction10 adozen miles off. Barnet's house on the harbour-road, once soinsistently new, had acquired a respectable mellowness11, with ivy,Virginia creepers, lichens12, damp patches, and even constitutionalinfirmities of its own like its elder fellows. Its architecture,once so very improved and modern, had already become stale in style,without having reached the dignity of being old-fashioned. Treesabout the harbour-road had increased in circumference13 or disappearedunder the saw; while the church had had such a tremendous practicaljoke played upon it by some facetious14 restorer or other as to bescarce recognizable by its dearest old friends.
During this long interval15 George Barnet had never once been seen orheard of in the town of his fathers.
It was the evening of a market-day, and some half-dozen middle-agedfarmers and dairymen were lounging round the bar of the Black-BullHotel, occasionally dropping a remark to each other, and lessfrequently to the two barmaids who stood within the pewter-toppedcounter in a perfunctory attitude of attention, these latter sighingand making a private observation to one another at odd intervals16, onmore interesting experiences than the present.
'Days get shorter,' said one of the dairymen, as he looked towardsthe street, and noticed that the lamp-lighter was passing by.
The farmers merely acknowledged by their countenances18 the proprietyof this remark, and finding that nobody else spoke20, one of thebarmaids said 'yes,' in a tone of painful duty.
'Come fair-day we shall have to light up before we start for home-along.'
'That's true,' his neighbour conceded, with a gaze of blankness.
'And after that we shan't see much further difference all's winter.'
The rest were not unwilling21 to go even so far as this.
The barmaid sighed again, and raised one of her hands from thecounter on which they rested to scratch the smallest surface of herface with the smallest of her fingers. She looked towards the door,and presently remarked, 'I think I hear the 'bus coming in fromstation.'
The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to the glass doordividing the hall from the porch, and in a minute or two the omnibusdrew up outside. Then there was a lumbering22 down of luggage, andthen a man came into the hall, followed by a porter with aportmanteau on his poll, which he deposited on a bench.
The stranger was an elderly person, with curly ashen23 white hair, adeeply-creviced outer corner to each eyelid24, and a countenance19 bakedby innumerable suns to the colour of terra-cotta, its hue25 and thatof his hair contrasting like heat and cold respectively. He walkedmeditatively and gently, like one who was fearful of disturbing hisown mental equilibrium26. But whatever lay at the bottom of hisbreast had evidently made him so accustomed to its situation therethat it caused him little practical inconvenience.
He paused in silence while, with his dubious27 eyes fixed28 on thebarmaids, he seemed to consider himself. In a moment or two headdressed them, and asked to be accommodated for the night. As hewaited he looked curiously29 round the hall, but said nothing. Assoon as invited he disappeared up the staircase, preceded by achambermaid and candle, and followed by a lad with his trunk. Not asoul had recognized him.
A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers and dairymen had drivenoff to their homesteads in the country, he came downstairs, took abiscuit and one glass of wine, and walked out into the town, wherethe radiance from the shop-windows had grown so in volume of lateyears as to flood with cheerfulness every standing30 cart, barrow,stall, and idler that occupied the wayside, whether shabby orgenteel. His chief interest at present seemed to lie in the namespainted over the shop-fronts and on door-ways, as far as they werevisible; these now differed to an ominous31 extent from what they hadbeen one-and-twenty years before.
The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller's, where helooked in through the glass door. A fresh-faced young man wasstanding behind the counter, otherwise the shop was empty. Thegray-haired observer entered, asked for some periodical by way ofpaying for admission, and with his elbow on the counter began toturn over the pages he had bought, though that he read nothing wasobvious.
At length he said, 'Is old Mr. Watkins still alive?' in a voicewhich had a curious youthful cadence32 in it even now.
'My father is dead, sir,' said the young man.
'Ah, I am sorry to hear it,' said the stranger. 'But it is so manyyears since I last visited this town that I could hardly expect itshould be otherwise.' After a short silence he continued--'And isthe firm of Barnet, Browse33, and Company still in existence?--theyused to be large flax-merchants and twine-spinners here?'
'The firm is still going on, sir, but they have dropped the name ofBarnet. I believe that was a sort of fancy name--at least, I neverknew of any living Barnet. 'Tis now Browse and Co.'
'And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect?'
'He's dead, sir.'
'And the Vicar of St. Mary's--Mr. Melrose?'
'He's been dead a great many years.'
'Dear me!' He paused yet longer, and cleared his voice. 'Is Mr.
Downe, the solicitor35, still in practice?'
'No, sir, he's dead. He died about seven years ago.'
Here it was a longer silence still; and an attentive36 observer wouldhave noticed that the paper in the stranger's hand increased itsimperceptible tremor37 to a visible shake. That gray-haired gentlemannoticed it himself, and rested the paper on the counter. 'Is MRS.
Downe still alive?' he asked, closing his lips firmly as soon as thewords were out of his mouth, and dropping his eyes.
'Yes, sir, she's alive and well. She's living at the old place.'
'In East Street?'
'O no; at Chateau38 Ringdale. I believe it has been in the family forsome generations.'
'She lives with her children, perhaps?'
'No; she has no children of her own. There were some Miss Downes; Ithink they were Mr. Downe's daughters by a former wife; but they aremarried and living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe livesalone.'
'Quite alone?'
'Yes, sir; quite alone.'
The newly-arrived gentleman went back to the hotel and dined; afterwhich he made some change in his dress, shaved back his beard to thefashion that had prevailed twenty years earlier, when he was youngand interesting, and once more emerging, bent39 his steps in thedirection of the harbour-road. Just before getting to the pointwhere the pavement ceased and the houses isolated40 themselves, heovertook a shambling, stooping, unshaven man, who at first sightappeared like a professional tramp, his shoulders having aperceptible greasiness41 as they passed under the gaslight. Eachpedestrian momentarily turned and regarded the other, and the tramp-like gentleman started back.
'Good--why--is that Mr. Barnet? 'Tis Mr. Barnet, surely!'
'Yes; and you are Charlson?'
'Yes--ah--you notice my appearance. The Fates have rather ill-usedme. By-the-bye, that fifty pounds. I never paid it, did I? . . .
But I was not ungrateful!' Here the stooping man laid one handemphatically on the palm of the other. 'I gave you a chance, Mr.
George Barnet, which many men would have thought full valuereceived--the chance to marry your Lucy. As far as the world wasconcerned, your wife was a DROWNED WOMAN, hey?'
'Heaven forbid all that, Charlson!'
'Well, well, 'twas a wrong way of showing gratitude42, I suppose. Andnow a drop of something to drink for old acquaintance' sake! AndMr. Barnet, she's again free--there's a chance now if you care forit--ha, ha!' And the speaker pushed his tongue into his hollowcheek and slanted43 his eye in the old fashion.
'I know all,' said Barnet quickly; and slipping a small present intothe hands of the needy44, saddening man, he stepped ahead and was soonin the outskirts45 of the town.
He reached the harbour-road, and paused before the entrance to awell-known house. It was so highly bosomed46 in trees and shrubsplanted since the erection of the building that one would scarcelyhave recognized the spot as that which had been a mere17 neglectedslope till chosen as a site for a dwelling47. He opened the swing-gate, closed it noiselessly, and gently moved into the semicirculardrive, which remained exactly as it had been marked out by Barnet onthe morning when Lucy Savile ran in to thank him for procuring48 herthe post of governess to Downe's children. But the growth of treesand bushes which revealed itself at every step was beyond allexpectation; sun-proof and moon-proof bowers49 vaulted50 the walks, andthe walls of the house were uniformly bearded with creeping plantsas high as the first-floor windows.
After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk of the bending boughs,the visitor rang the door-bell, and on the servant appearing, heannounced himself as 'an old friend of Mrs. Downe's.'
The hall was lighted, but not brightly, the gas being turned low, asif visitors were rare. There was a stagnation51 in the dwelling; itseemed to be waiting. Could it really be waiting for him? Thepartitions which had been probed by Barnet's walking-stick when themortar was green, were now quite brown with the antiquity52 of theirvarnish, and the ornamental53 woodwork of the staircase, which hadglistened with a pale yellow newness when first erected54, was now ofa rich wine-colour. During the servant's absence the followingcolloquy could be dimly heard through the nearly closed door of thedrawing-room.
'He didn't give his name?'
'He only said "an old friend," ma'am.'
'What kind of gentleman is he?'
'A staidish gentleman, with gray hair.'
The voice of the second speaker seemed to affect the listenergreatly. After a pause, the lady said, 'Very well, I will see him.'
And the stranger was shown in face to face with the Lucy who hadonce been Lucy Savile. The round cheek of that formerly55 young ladyhad, of course, alarmingly flattened56 its curve in her modernrepresentative; a pervasive57 grayness overspread her once dark brownhair, like morning rime58 on heather. The parting down the middle waswide and jagged; once it had been a thin white line, a narrowcrevice between two high banks of shade. But there was still enoughleft to form a handsome knob behind, and some curls beneathinwrought with a few hairs like silver wires were very becoming. Inher eyes the only modification59 was that their originally mildrectitude of expression had become a little more stringent60 thanheretofore. Yet she was still girlish--a girl who had beengratuitously weighted by destiny with a burden of five-and-fortyyears instead of her proper twenty.
'Lucy, don't you know me?' he said, when the servant had closed thedoor.
'I knew you the instant I saw you!' she returned cheerfully. 'Idon't know why, but I always thought you would come back to your oldtown again.'
She gave him her hand, and then they sat down. 'They said you weredead,' continued Lucy, 'but I never thought so. We should haveheard of it for certain if you had been.'
'It is a very long time since we met.'
'Yes; what you must have seen, Mr. Barnet, in all these rovingyears, in comparison with what I have seen in this quiet place!'
Her face grew more serious. 'You know my husband has been dead along time? I am a lonely old woman now, considering what I havebeen; though Mr. Downe's daughters--all married--manage to keep mepretty cheerful.'
'And I am a lonely old man, and have been any time these twentyyears.'
'But where have you kept yourself? And why did you go off somysteriously?'
'Well, Lucy, I have kept myself a little in America, and a little inAustralia, a little in India, a little at the Cape61, and so on; Ihave not stayed in any place for a long time, as it seems to me, andyet more than twenty years have flown. But when people get to myage two years go like one!--Your second question, why did I go awayso mysteriously, is surely not necessary. You guessed why, didn'tyou?'
'No, I never once guessed,' she said simply; 'nor did Charles, nordid anybody as far as I know.'
'Well, indeed! Now think it over again, and then look at me, andsay if you can't guess?'
She looked him in the face with an inquiring smile. 'Surely notbecause of me?' she said, pausing at the commencement of surprise.
Barnet nodded, and smiled again; but his smile was sadder than hers.
'Because I married Charles?' she asked.
'Yes; solely62 because you married him on the day I was free to askyou to marry me. My wife died four-and-twenty hours before you wentto church with Downe. The fixing of my journey at that particularmoment was because of her funeral; but once away I knew I shouldhave no inducement to come back, and took my steps accordingly.'
Her face assumed an aspect of gentle reflection, and she looked upand down his form with great interest in her eyes. 'I never thoughtof it!' she said. 'I knew, of course, that you had once impliedsome warmth of feeling towards me, but I concluded that it passedoff. And I have always been under the impression that your wife wasalive at the time of my marriage. Was it not stupid of me!--But youwill have some tea or something? I have never dined late, you know,since my husband's death. I have got into the way of making aregular meal of tea. You will have some tea with me, will you not?'
The travelled man assented63 quite readily, and tea was brought in.
They sat and chatted over the meal, regardless of the flying hour.
'Well, well!' said Barnet presently, as for the first time heleisurely surveyed the room; 'how like it all is, and yet howdifferent! Just where your piano stands was a board on a couple oftrestles, bearing the patterns of wall-papers, when I was last here.
I was choosing them--standing in this way, as it might be. Then myservant came in at the door, and handed me a note, so. It was fromDowne, and announced that you were just going to be married to him.
I chose no more wall-papers--tore up all those I had selected, andleft the house. I never entered it again till now.'
'Ah, at last I understand it all,' she murmured.
They had both risen and gone to the fireplace. The mantel camealmost on a level with her shoulder, which gently rested against it,and Barnet laid his hand upon the shelf close beside her shoulder.
'Lucy,' he said, 'better late than never. Will you marry me now?'
She started back, and the surprise which was so obvious in herwrought even greater surprise in him that it should be so. It wasdifficult to believe that she had been quite blind to the situation,and yet all reason and common sense went to prove that she was notacting.
'You take me quite unawares by such a question!' she said, with aforced laugh of uneasiness. It was the first time she had shown anyembarrassment at all. 'Why,' she added, 'I couldn't marry you forthe world.'
'Not after all this! Why not?'
'It is--I would--I really think I may say it--I would upon the wholerather marry you, Mr. Barnet, than any other man I have ever met, ifI ever dreamed of marriage again. But I don't dream of it--it isquite out of my thoughts; I have not the least intention of marryingagain.'
'But--on my account--couldn't you alter your plans a little? Come!'
'Dear Mr. Barnet,' she said with a little flutter, 'I would on youraccount if on anybody's in existence. But you don't know in theleast what it is you are asking--such an impracticable thing--Iwon't say ridiculous, of course, because I see that you are reallyin earnest, and earnestness is never ridiculous to my mind.'
'Well, yes,' said Barnet more slowly, dropping her hand, which hehad taken at the moment of pleading, 'I am in earnest. The resolve,two months ago, at the Cape, to come back once more was, it is true,rather sudden, and as I see now, not well considered. But I am inearnest in asking.'
'And I in declining. With all good feeling and all kindness, let mesay that I am quite opposed to the idea of marrying a second time.'
'Well, no harm has been done,' he answered, with the same subduedand tender humorousness that he had shown on such occasions in earlylife. 'If you really won't accept me, I must put up with it, Isuppose.' His eye fell on the clock as he spoke. 'Had you anynotion that it was so late?' he asked. 'How absorbed I have been!'
She accompanied him to the hall, helped him to put on his overcoat,and let him out of the house herself.
'Good-night,' said Barnet, on the doorstep, as the lamp shone in hisface. 'You are not offended with me?'
'Certainly not. Nor you with me?'
'I'll consider whether I am or not,' he pleasantly replied. 'Good-night.'
She watched him safely through the gate; and when his footsteps haddied away upon the road, closed the door softly and returned to theroom. Here the modest widow long pondered his speeches, with eyesdropped to an unusually low level. Barnet's urbanity under the blowof her refusal greatly impressed her. After having his long periodof probation64 rendered useless by her decision, he had shown noanger, and had philosophically65 taken her words as if he deserved nobetter ones. It was very gentlemanly of him, certainly; it was morethan gentlemanly; it was heroic and grand. The more she meditated,the more she questioned the virtue66 of her conduct in checking him soperemptorily; and went to her bedroom in a mood of dissatisfaction.
On looking in the glass she was reminded that there was not so muchremaining of her former beauty as to make his frank declaration animpulsive natural homage67 to her cheeks and eyes; it must undoubtedlyhave arisen from an old staunch feeling of his, deserving tenderestconsideration. She recalled to her mind with much pleasure that hehad told her he was staying at the Black-Bull Hotel; so that if,after waiting a day or two, he should not, in his modesty68, callagain, she might then send him a nice little note. To alter herviews for the present was far from her intention; but she wouldallow herself to be induced to reconsider the case, as any generouswoman ought to do.
The morrow came and passed, and Mr. Barnet did not drop in. Atevery knock, light youthful hues69 flew across her cheek; and she wasabstracted in the presence of her other visitors. In the eveningshe walked about the house, not knowing what to do with herself; theconditions of existence seemed totally different from those whichruled only four-and-twenty short hours ago. What had been at firsta tantalizing70 elusive71 sentiment was getting acclimatized within heras a definite hope, and her person was so informed by that emotionthat she might almost have stood as its emblematical72 representativeby the time the clock struck ten. In short, an interest in Barnetprecisely resembling that of her early youth led her present heartto belie34 her yesterday's words to him, and she longed to see himagain.
The next day she walked out early, thinking she might meet him inthe street. The growing beauty of her romance absorbed her, and shewent from the street to the fields, and from the fields to theshore, without any consciousness of distance, till reminded by herweariness that she could go no further. He had nowhere appeared.
In the evening she took a step which under the circumstances seemedjustifiable; she wrote a note to him at the hotel, inviting74 him totea with her at six precisely73, and signing her note 'Lucy.'
In a quarter of an hour the messenger came back. Mr. Barnet hadleft the hotel early in the morning of the day before, but he hadstated that he would probably return in the course of the week.
The note was sent back, to be given to him immediately on hisarrival.
There was no sign from the inn that this desired event had occurred,either on the next day or the day following. On both nights she hadbeen restless, and had scarcely slept half-an-hour.
On the Saturday, putting off all diffidence, Lucy went herself tothe Black-Bull, and questioned the staff closely.
Mr. Barnet had cursorily75 remarked when leaving that he might returnon the Thursday or Friday, but they were directed not to reserve aroom for him unless he should write.
He had left no address.
Lucy sorrowfully took back her note went home, and resolved to wait.
She did wait--years and years--but Barnet never reappeared.
April 1880.
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durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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decrepitude
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| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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inorganic
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| adj.无生物的；无机的 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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mellowness
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| 成熟； 芳醇； 肥沃； 怡然 | |
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lichens
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circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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mere
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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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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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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lumbering
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ashen
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eyelid
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hue
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equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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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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curiously
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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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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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browse
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| vi.随意翻阅，浏览；(牛、羊等)吃草 | |
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belie
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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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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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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greasiness
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| n.多脂，油腻，阿谀 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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bosomed
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| 胸部的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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rime
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| n.白霜；v.使蒙霜 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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stringent
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| adj.严厉的；令人信服的；银根紧的 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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emblematical
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| adj.标志的，象征的，典型的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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