Lucy went down immediately to the Isle4 of Wight, and there engaged rooms in the house of a woman who had formerly6 served her at Hamlyn's Purlieu.
It was midwinter, and a cold drizzle7 was falling when she waited for him at the prison gates. Three years had passed since they had parted. She took him in her arms and kissed him silently. Her heart was too full for words. A carriage was waiting for them, and she drove to the lodging-house; breakfast was ready, and Lucy had seen that good things which he liked should be ready for him to eat. Fred Allerton looked wistfully at the clean table-cloth, and at the flowers and the dainty scones8; but he shook his head. He did not speak, and the tears ran slowly down his cheeks. He sank wearily into a chair. Lucy tried to induce him to eat; she brought him a cup of tea, but he put it away. He looked at her with haggard, bloodshot eyes.
'Give me the flowers,' he muttered.
They were his first words. There was a large bowl of daffodils in the middle of the table, and she took them out of the water, deftly9 dried their stalks, and gave them to him. He took them with trembling hands and pressed them to his heart, then he buried his face in them, and the tears ran afresh, bedewing the yellow flowers.
Lucy put her arm around her father's neck and placed her cheek against his.
'Don't, father,' she whispered. 'You must try and forget.'
'You know why they've let me out?' he said.
She kissed him, but did not answer.
'I'm so glad that we're together again,' she murmured.
'It's because I'm going to die.'
'No, you mustn't die. In a little while you'll get strong again. You have many years before you, and you'll be very happy.'
He gave her a long, searching look; and when he spoke11, his voice had a hollowness in it that was strangely terrifying.
'Do you think I want to live?'
The pain seemed almost greater than Lucy could bear, and for a moment she had to remain silent so that her voice might grow steady.
'You must live for my sake.'
'Don't you hate me?' he asked.
'No, I love you more than I ever did. I shall never cease to love you.'
'I suppose no one would marry you while I was in prison.'
His remark was so inconsequent that Lucy found nothing to say. He gave a bitter, short laugh.
'I ought to have shot myself. Then people would have forgotten all about it, and you might have had a chance. Why didn't you marry Bobbie?'
'I haven't wanted to marry.'
He was so tired that he could only speak a little at a time, and now he closed his eyes. Lucy thought that he was dozing13, and began to pick up the fallen flowers. But he noticed what she was doing.
'Let me hold them,' he moaned, with the pleading quaver of a sick child.
'The only thing for me is to hurry up and finish with life. I'm in the way. Nobody wants me, and I shall only be a burden. I didn't want them to let me go. I wanted to die there quietly.'
Lucy sighed deeply. She hardly recognised her father in the bent15, broken man who was sitting beside her. He had aged5 very much and seemed now to be an old man, but it was a premature16 aging, and there was a horror in it as of a process contrary to nature. He was very thin, and his hands trembled constantly. Most of his teeth had gone; his cheeks were sunken, and he mumbled17 his words so that it was difficult to distinguish them. There was no light in his eyes, and his short hair was quite white. Now and again he was shaken with a racking cough, and this was followed by an attack of such pain in his heart that it was anguish18 even to watch it. The room was warm, but he shivered with cold and cowered19 over the roaring fire.
'I'm afraid nothing can be done,' he said. 'His heart is all wrong, and he's thoroughly21 broken up.'
'Is there no chance of recovery?'
'And how long can he live?'
'It's impossible to say. He may die to-morrow, he may last six months.'
The doctor was an old man, and his heart was touched by the sight of Lucy's grief. He had seen more cases than one of this kind.
'He doesn't want to live. It will be a mercy when death releases him.'
Lucy did not answer. When she returned to her father, she could not speak. He was apathetic23 and did not ask what the doctor had said. Lady Kelsey, hating the thought of Lucy and her father living amid the discomfort24 of furnished lodgings25, had written to offer the use of her house in Charles Street; and Mrs. Crowley, in case they wanted complete solitude26, had put Court Leys at their disposal. Lucy waited a few days to see whether her father grew stronger, but no change was apparent in him, and it seemed necessary at last to make some decision. She put before him the alternative plans, but he would have none of them.
'Then would you rather stay here?' she said.
He looked at the fire and did not answer. Lucy thought the sense of her question had escaped him, for often it appeared to her that his mind wandered. She was on the point of repeating it when he spoke.
'I want to go back to the Purlieu.'
Lucy stifled27 a gasp28 of dismay. She stared at the wretched man. Had he forgotten? He thought that the house of his fathers was his still; and all that had parted him from it was gone from his memory. How could she tell him?
Lucy was in a turmoil30 of anxiety. She must make some reply. What he asked was impossible, and yet it was cruel to tell him the whole truth.
'There are people living there,' she answered.
'Are there?' he said, indifferently.
He looked at the fire still. The silence was dreadful.
'When can we go?' he said at last. 'I want to get there quickly.'
Lucy hesitated.
'We shall have to go into rooms.'
'I don't mind.'
He seemed to take everything as a matter of course. It was clear that he had forgotten the catastrophe31 that had parted him from Hamlyn's Purlieu, and yet, strangely, he asked no questions. Lucy was tortured by the thought of revisiting the place she loved so well. She had been able to deaden her passionate32 regret only by keeping her mind steadfastly33 averted34 from all thoughts of it, and now she must actually go there. The old wounds would be opened. But it was impossible to refuse, and she set about making the necessary arrangements. The rector, who had been given the living by Fred Allerton, was an old friend, and Lucy knew that she could trust in his affection. She wrote and told him that her father was dying and had set his heart on seeing once more his old home. She asked him to find rooms in one of the cottages. She did not mind how small nor how humble35 they were. The rector answered by telegram. He begged Lucy to bring her father to stay with him. She would be more comfortable than in lodgings, and, since he was a bachelor, there was plenty of room in the large rectory. Lucy, immensely touched by his kindness, gratefully accepted the invitation.
Next day they took the short journey across the Solent.
The rector had been a don, and Fred Allerton had offered him the living in accordance with the family tradition that required a man of attainments36 to live in the neighbouring rectory. He had been there now for many years, a spare, grey-haired, gentle creature, who lived the life of a recluse37 in that distant village, doing his duty exactly, but given over for the most part to his beloved books. He seldom went away. The monotony of his daily round was broken only by the occasional receipt of a parcel of musty volumes, which he had ordered to be bought for him at some sale. He was a man of varied38 learning, full of remote information, eccentric from his solitariness39, but with a great sweetness of nature. His life was simple, and his wants were few.
In this house, in rooms lined from floor to ceiling with old books, Lucy and her father took up their abode40. It seemed that Fred Allerton had been kept up only by the desire to get back to his native place, for he had no sooner arrived than he grew much worse. Lucy was busily occupied with nursing him and could give no time to the regrets which she had imagined would assail41 her. She spent long hours in her father's room; and while he dozed42, half-comatose, the kindly43 parson sat by the window and read to her in a low voice from queer, forgotten works.
One day Allerton appeared to be far better. For a week he had wandered much in his mind, and more than once Lucy had suspected that the end was near; but now he was singularly lucid44. He wanted to get up, and Lucy felt it would be brutal45 to balk46 any wish he had. He asked if he might go out. The day was fine and warm. It was February, and there was a feeling in the air as if the spring were at hand. In sheltered places the snowdrops and the crocuses gave the garden the blitheness47 of an Italian picture; and you felt that on that multi-coloured floor might fitly trip the delicate angels of Messer Perugino. The rector had an old pony-chaise, in which he was used to visit his parishioners, and in this all three drove out.
They drove slowly along the winding49 road till they came to the broad salt marshes. Beyond glittered the placid50 sea. There was no wind. Near them a cow looked up from her grazing and lazily whisked her tail. Lucy's heart began to beat more quickly. She felt that her father, too, looked upon that scene as the most typical of his home. Other places had broad acres and fine trees, other places had forest land and purple heather, but there was something in those green flats that made them seem peculiarly their own. She took her father's hand, and silently their eyes looked onwards. A more peaceful look came into Fred Allerton's worn face, and the sigh that broke from him was not altogether of pain. Lucy prayed that it might still remain hidden from him that those fair, broad fields were his no longer.
That night, she had an intuition that death was at hand. Fred Allerton was very silent. Since his release from prison he had spoken barely a dozen sentences a day, and nothing served to wake him from his lethargy. But there was a curious restlessness about him now, and he would not go to bed. He sat in an armchair, and begged them to draw it near the window. The sky was cloudless, and the moon shone brightly. Fred Allerton could see the great old elms that surrounded Hamlyn's Purlieu; and his eyes were fixed51 steadily52 upon them. Lucy saw them, too, and she thought sadly of the garden which she had loved so well, and of the dear trees which old masters of the place had tended so lovingly. Her heart filled when she thought of the grey stone house and its happy, spacious53 rooms.
Suddenly there was a sound, and she looked up quickly. Her father's head had fallen back, and he was breathing with a strange noisiness. She called her friend.
'I think the end has come at last,' she said.
'Would you like me to fetch the doctor?'
'It will be useless.'
The rector looked at the man's wan12 face, lit dimly by the light of the shaded lamp, and falling on his knees, began to recite the prayers for the dying. A shiver passed through Lucy. In the farmyard a cock crew, and in the distance another cock answered cheerily. Lucy put her hand on the good rector's shoulder.
'It's all over,' she whispered.
She bent down and kissed her father's eyes.
A week later Lucy took a walk by the seashore. They had buried Fred Allerton three days before among the ancestors whom he had dishonoured54. It was a lonely funeral, for Lucy had asked Robert Boulger, her only friend then in England, not to come; and she was the solitary55 mourner. The coffin56 was lowered into the grave, and the rector read the sad, beautiful words of the burial service. She could not grieve. Her father was at peace. She could only hope that his errors and his crimes would be soon forgotten; and perhaps those who had known him would remember then that he had been a charming friend, and a clever, sympathetic companion. It was little enough in all conscience that Lucy asked.
On the morrow she was leaving the roof of the hospitable57 parson. Surmising58 her wish to walk alone once more through the country which was so dear to her, he had not offered his company. Lucy's heart was full of sadness, but there was a certain peace in it, too; the peace of her father's death had entered into her, and she experienced a new feeling, the feeling of resignation.
Now her mind was set upon the future, and she was filled with hope. She stood by the water's edge, looking upon the sea as three years before, when she was staying at Court Leys, she had looked upon the sea that washed the shores of Kent. Many things had passed since then, and many griefs had fallen upon her; but for all that she was happier than then; since on that distant day—and it seemed ages ago—there had been scarcely a ray of brightness in her life, and now she had a great love which made every burden light.
Low clouds hung upon the sky, and on the horizon the greyness of the heavens mingled59 with the greyness of the sea. She looked into the distance with longing60 eyes. Now all her life was set upon that far-off corner of unknown Africa, where Alec and George were doing great deeds. She wondered what was the meaning of the silence which had covered them so long.
'Oh, if I could only see,' she murmured.
She sent her spirit upon that vast journey, trying to pierce the realms of space, but her spirit came back baffled. She could not know what they were at.
If Lucy's love had been able to bridge the abyss that parted them, if in some miraculous61 way she had been able to see what actions they did at that time, she would have witnessed a greater tragedy than any which she had yet seen.
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1
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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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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remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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11
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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12
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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14
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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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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16
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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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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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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28
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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29
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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30
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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32
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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33
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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34
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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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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solitariness
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| n.隐居；单独 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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41
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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42
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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45
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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blitheness
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| n.blithe（快乐的）的变形 | |
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48
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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49
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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50
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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51
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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52
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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53
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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54
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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55
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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56
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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57
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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58
surmising
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的现在分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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59
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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60
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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