We will now turn to a certain still, cold, cloudy afternoon about the commencement of December, when the first fall of snow lay thinly scattered1 over the blighted2 fields and frozen roads, or stored more thickly in the hollows of the deep cart-ruts and footsteps of men and horses impressed in the now petrified3 mire4 of last month's drenching5 rains. I remember it well, for I was walking home from the vicarage with no less remarkable6 a personage than Miss Eliza Millward by my side. I had been to call upon her father, - a sacrifice to civility undertaken entirely7 to please my mother, not myself, for I hated to go near the house; not merely on account of my antipathy8 to the once so bewitching Eliza, but because I had not half forgiven the old gentleman himself for his ill opinion of Mrs. Huntingdon; for though now constrained9 to acknowledge himself mistaken in his former judgment10, he still maintained that she had done wrong to leave her husband; it was a violation11 of her sacred duties as a wife, and a tempting12 of Providence13 by laying herself open to temptation; and nothing short of bodily ill-usage (and that of no trifling14 nature) could excuse such a step - nor even that, for in such a case she ought to appeal to the laws for protection. But it was not of him I intended to speak; it was of his daughter Eliza. Just as I was taking leave of the vicar, she entered the room, ready equipped for a walk.
'I was just coming to see, your sister, Mr. Markham,' said she; 'and so, if you have no objection, I'll accompany you home. I like company when I'm walking out - don't you?'
'Yes, when it's agreeable.'
'That of course,' rejoined the young lady, smiling archly.
So we proceeded together.
'Shall I find Rose at home, do you think?' said she, as we closed the garden gate, and set our faces towards Linden-Car.
'I believe so.'
'I trust I shall, for I've a little bit of news for her - if you haven't forestalled15 me.'
'I?'
'Yes: do you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone for?' She looked up anxiously for my reply.
'Is he gone?' said I; and her face brightened.
'Ah! then he hasn't told you about his sister?'
'What of her?' I demanded in terror, lest some evil should have befallen her.
'Oh, Mr. Markham, how you blush!' cried she, with a tormenting16 laugh. 'Ha, ha, you have not forgotten her yet. But you had better be quick about it, I can tell you, for - alas17, alas! - she's going to be married next Thursday!'
'No, Miss Eliza, that's false.'
'Do you charge me with a falsehood, sir?'
'You are misinformed.'
'Am I? Do you know better, then?'
'I think I do.'
'What makes you look so pale then?' said she, smiling with delight at my emotion. 'Is it anger at poor me for telling such a fib? Well, I only "tell the tale as 'twas told to me:" I don't vouch18 for the truth of it; but at the same time, I don't see what reason Sarah should have for deceiving me, or her informant for deceiving her; and that was what she told me the footman told her:- that Mrs. Huntingdon was going to be married on Thursday, and Mr. Lawrence was gone to the wedding. She did tell me the name of the gentleman, but I've forgotten that. Perhaps you can assist me to remember it. Is there not some one that lives near - or frequently visits the neighbourhood, that has long been attached to her? - a Mr. - oh, dear! Mr. - '
'Hargrave?' suggested I, with a bitter smile.
'You're right,' cried she; 'that was the very name.'
'Impossible, Miss Eliza!' I exclaimed, in a tone that made her start.
'Well, you know, that's what they told me,' said she, composedly staring me in the face. And then she broke out into a long shrill19 laugh that put me to my wit's end with fury.
'Really you must excuse me,' cried she. 'I know it's very rude, but ha, ha, ha! - did you think to marry her yourself? Dear, dear, what a pity! - ha, ha, ha! Gracious, Mr. Markham, are you going to faint? Oh, mercy! shall I call this man? Here, Jacob - ' But checking the word on her lips, I seized her arm and gave it, I think, a pretty severe squeeze, for she shrank into herself with a faint cry of pain or terror; but the spirit within her was not subdued20: instantly rallying, she continued, with well-feigned concern, 'What can I do for you? Will you have some water - some brandy? I daresay they have some in the public-house down there, if you'll let me run.'
'Have done with this nonsense!' cried I, sternly. She looked confounded - almost frightened again, for a moment. 'You know I hate such jests,' I continued.
'Jests indeed! I wasn't jesting!'
'You were laughing, at all events; and I don't like to be laughed at,' returned I, making violent efforts to speak with proper dignity and composure, and to say nothing but what was coherent and sensible. 'And since you are in such a merry mood, Miss Eliza, you must be good enough company for yourself; and therefore I shall leave you to finish your walk alone - for, now I think of it, I have business elsewhere; so good-evening.'
With that I left her (smothering her malicious21 laughter) and turned aside into the fields, springing up the bank, and pushing through the nearest gap in the hedge. Determined22 at once to prove the truth - or rather the falsehood - of her story, I hastened to Woodford as fast as my legs could carry me; first veering23 round by a circuitous24 course, but the moment I was out of sight of my fair tormentor25 cutting away across the country, just as a bird might fly, over pasture-land, and fallow, and stubble, and lane, clearing hedges and ditches and hurdles26, till I came to the young squire's gates. Never till now had I known the full fervour of my love - the full strength of my hopes, not wholly crushed even in my hours of deepest despondency, always tenaciously27 clinging to the thought that one day she might be mine, or, if not that, at least that something of my memory, some slight remembrance of our friendship and our love, would be for ever cherished in her heart. I marched up to the door, determined, if I saw the master, to question him boldly concerning his sister, to wait and hesitate no longer, but cast false delicacy28 and stupid pride behind my back, and know my fate at once.
'Is Mr. Lawrence at home?' I eagerly asked of the servant that opened the door.
'No, sir, master went yesterday,' replied he, looking very alert.
'Went where?'
'To Grassdale, sir - wasn't you aware, sir? He's very close, is master,' said the fellow, with a foolish, simpering grin. 'I suppose, sir - '
But I turned and left him, without waiting to hear what he supposed. I was not going to stand there to expose my tortured feelings to the insolent29 laughter and impertinent curiosity of a fellow like that.
But what was to be done now? Could it be possible that she had left me for that man? I could not believe it. Me she might forsake30, but not to give herself to him! Well, I would know the truth; to no concerns of daily life could I attend while this tempest of doubt and dread31, of jealousy32 and rage, distracted me. I would take the morning coach from L- (the evening one would be already gone), and fly to Grassdale - I must be there before the marriage. And why? Because a thought struck me that perhaps I might prevent it - that if I did not, she and I might both lament33 it to the latest moment of our lives. It struck me that someone might have belied34 me to her: perhaps her brother; yes, no doubt her brother had persuaded her that I was false and faithless, and taking advantage of her natural indignation, and perhaps her desponding carelessness about her future life, had urged her, artfully, cruelly, on to this other marriage, in order to secure her from me. If this was the case, and if she should only discover her mistake when too late to repair it - to what a life of misery35 and vain regret might she be doomed36 as well as me; and what remorse37 for me to think my foolish scruples38 had induced it all! Oh, I must see her - she must know my truth even if I told it at the church door! I might pass for a madman or an impertinent fool - even she might be offended at such an interruption, or at least might tell me it was now too late. But if I could save her, if she might be mine! - it was too rapturous a thought!
Winged by this hope, and goaded39 by these fears, I hurried homewards to prepare for my departure on the morrow. I told my mother that urgent business which admitted no delay, but which I could not then explain, called me away.
My deep anxiety and serious preoccupation could not be concealed40 from her maternal41 eyes; and I had much ado to calm her apprehensions42 of some disastrous43 mystery.
That night there came a heavy fall of snow, which so retarded44 the progress of the coaches on the following day that I was almost driven to distraction45. I travelled all night, of course, for this was Wednesday: to-morrow morning, doubtless, the marriage would take place. But the night was long and dark: the snow heavily clogged46 the wheels and balled the horses' feet; the animals were consumedly lazy; the coachman most execrably cautious; the passengers confoundedly apathetic47 in their supine indifference48 to the rate of our progression. Instead of assisting me to bully49 the several coachmen and urge them forward, they merely stared and grinned at my impatience50: one fellow even ventured to rally me upon it - but I silenced him with a look that quelled51 him for the rest of the journey; and when, at the last stage, I would have taken the reins52 into my own hand, they all with one accord opposed it.
It was broad daylight when we entered M- and drew up at the 'Rose and Crown.' I alighted and called aloud for a post-chaise to Grassdale. There was none to be had: the only one in the town was under repair. 'A gig, then - a fly - car - anything - only be quick!' There was a gig, but not a horse to spare. I sent into the town to seek one: but they were such an intolerable time about it that I could wait no longer - I thought my own feet could carry me sooner; and bidding them send the conveyance53 after me, if it were ready within an hour, I set off as fast as I could walk. The distance was little more than six miles, but the road was strange, and I had to keep stopping to inquire my way; hallooing to carters and clodhoppers, and frequently invading the cottages, for there were few abroad that winter's morning; sometimes knocking up the lazy people from their beds, for where so little work was to be done, perhaps so little food and fire to be had, they cared not to curtail54 their slumbers55. I had no time to think of them, however; aching with weariness and desperation, I hurried on. The gig did not overtake me: and it was well I had not waited for it; vexatious rather, that I had been fool enough to wait so long.
At length, however, I entered the neighbourhood of Grassdale. I approached the little rural church - but lo! there stood a train of carriages before it; it needed not the white favours bedecking the servants and horses, nor the merry voices of the village idlers assembled to witness the show, to apprise56 me that there was a wedding within. I ran in among them, demanding, with breathless eagerness, had the ceremony long commenced? They only gaped57 and stared. In my desperation, I pushed past them, and was about to enter the churchyard gate, when a group of ragged58 urchins59, that had been hanging like bees to the window, suddenly dropped off and made a rush for the porch, vociferating in the uncouth60 dialect of their country something which signified, 'It's over - they're coming out!'
If Eliza Millward had seen me then she might indeed have been delighted. I grasped the gate-post for support, and stood intently gazing towards the door to take my last look on my soul's delight, my first on that detested61 mortal who had torn her from my heart, and doomed her, I was certain, to a life of misery and hollow, vain repining - for what happiness could she enjoy with him? I did not wish to shock her with my presence now, but I had not power to move away. Forth62 came the bride and bridegroom. Him I saw not; I had eyes for none but her. A long veil shrouded63 half her graceful64 form, but did not hide it; I could see that while she carried her head erect65, her eyes were bent66 upon the ground, and her face and neck were suffused67 with a crimson68 blush; but every feature was radiant with smiles, and gleaming through the misty69 whiteness of her veil were clusters of golden ringlets! Oh, heavens! it was not my Helen! The first glimpse made me start - but my eyes were darkened with exhaustion70 and despair. Dare I trust them? 'Yes - it is not she! It was a younger, slighter, rosier71 beauty - lovely indeed, but with far less dignity and depth of soul - without that indefinable grace, that keenly spiritual yet gentle charm, that ineffable72 power to attract and subjugate73 the heart - my heart at least. I looked at the bridegroom - it was Frederick Lawrence! I wiped away the cold drops that were trickling74 down my forehead, and stepped back as he approached; but, his eyes fell upon me, and he knew me, altered as my appearance must have been.
'Is that you, Markham?' said he, startled and confounded at the apparition75 - perhaps, too, at the wildness of my looks.
'Yes, Lawrence; is that you?' I mustered76 the presence of mind to reply.
He smiled and coloured, as if half-proud and half-ashamed of his identity; and if he had reason to be proud of the sweet lady on his arm, he had no less cause to be ashamed of having concealed his good fortune so long.
'Allow me to introduce you to my bride,' said he, endeavouring to hide his embarrassment77 by an assumption of careless gaiety. 'Esther, this is Mr. Markham; my friend Markham, Mrs. Lawrence, late Miss Hargrave.'
I bowed to the bride, and vehemently78 wrung79 the bridegroom's hand.
'Why did you not tell me of this?' I said, reproachfully, pretending a resentment80 I did not feel (for in truth I was almost wild with joy to find myself so happily mistaken, and overflowing81 with affection to him for this and for the base injustice82 I felt that I had done him in my mind - he might have wronged me, but not to that extent; and as I had hated him like a demon83 for the last forty hours, the reaction from such a feeling was so great that I could pardon all offences for the moment - and love him in spite of them too).
'I did tell you,' said he, with an air of guilty confusion; 'you received my letter?'
'What letter?'
'The one announcing my intended marriage.'
'I never received the most distant hint of such an intention.'
'It must have crossed you on your way then - it should have reached you yesterday morning - it was rather late, I acknowledge. But what brought you here, then, if you received no information?'
It was now my turn to be confounded; but the young lady, who had been busily patting the snow with her foot during our short sotto- voce colloquy84, very opportunely85 came to my assistance by pinching her companion's arm and whispering a suggestion that his friend should be invited to step into the carriage and go with them; it being scarcely agreeable to stand there among so many gazers, and keeping their friends waiting into the bargain.
'And so cold as it is too!' said he, glancing with dismay at her slight drapery, and immediately handing her into the carriage. 'Markham, will you come? We are going to Paris, but we can drop you anywhere between this and Dover.'
'No, thank you. Good-by - I needn't wish you a pleasant journey; but I shall expect a very handsome apology, some time, mind, and scores of letters, before we meet again.'
He shook my hand, and hastened to take his place beside his lady. This was no time or place for explanation or discourse86: we had already stood long enough to excite the wonder of the village sight-seers, and perhaps the wrath87 of the attendant bridal party; though, of course, all this passed in a much shorter time than I have taken to relate, or even than you will take to read it. I stood beside the carriage, and, the window being down, I saw my happy friend fondly encircle his companion's waist with his arm, while she rested her glowing cheek on his shoulder, looking the very impersonation of loving, trusting bliss88. In the interval89 between the footman's closing the door and taking his place behind she raised her smiling brown eyes to his face, observing, playfully, - 'I fear you must think me very insensible, Frederick: I know it is the custom for ladies to cry on these occasions, but I couldn't squeeze a tear for my life.'
He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to his bosom90.
'But what is this?' he murmured. 'Why, Esther, you're crying now!'
'Oh, it's nothing - it's only too much happiness - and the wish,' sobbed91 she, 'that our dear Helen were as happy as ourselves.'
'Bless you for that wish!' I inwardly responded, as the carriage rolled away - 'and heaven grant it be not wholly vain!'
I thought a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband's face as she spoke92. What did he think? Could he grudge93 such happiness to his dear sister and his friend as he now felt himself? At such a moment it was impossible. The contrast between her fate and his must darken his bliss for a time. Perhaps, too, he thought of me: perhaps he regretted the part he had had in preventing our union, by omitting to help us, if not by actually plotting against us. I exonerated94 him from that charge now, and deeply lamented95 my former ungenerous suspicions; but he had wronged us, still - I hoped, I trusted that he had. He had not attempted to cheek the course of our love by actually damming up the streams in their passage, but he had passively watched the two currents wandering through life's arid96 wilderness97, declining to clear away the obstructions98 that divided them, and secretly hoping that both would lose themselves in the sand before they could be joined in one. And meantime he had been quietly proceeding99 with his own affairs; perhaps, his heart and head had been so full of his fair lady that he had had but little thought to spare for others. Doubtless he had made his first acquaintance with her - his first intimate acquaintance at least - during his three months' sojourn100 at F-, for I now recollected101 that he had once casually102 let fall an intimation that his aunt and sister had a young friend staying with them at the time, and this accounted for at least one-half his silence about all transactions there. Now, too, I saw a reason for many little things that had slightly puzzled me before; among the rest, for sundry103 departures from Woodford, and absences more or less prolonged, for which he never satisfactorily accounted, and concerning which he hated to be questioned on his return. Well might the servant say his master was 'very close.' But why this strange reserve to me? Partly, from that remarkable idiosyncrasy to which I have before alluded104; partly, perhaps, from tenderness to my feelings, or fear to disturb my philosophy by touching105 upon the infectious theme of love.
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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hurdles
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| n.障碍( hurdle的名词复数 )；跳栏；（供人或马跳跃的）栏架；跨栏赛 | |
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tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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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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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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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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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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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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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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51
quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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53
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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54
curtail
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| vt.截短，缩短；削减 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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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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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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subjugate
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| v.征服；抑制 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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81
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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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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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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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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93
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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exonerated
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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97
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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100
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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101
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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103
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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104
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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