The apartment thus swept by an eye from without was occupied by two persons; they were sitting over dessert, the tablecloth4 having been removed in the old-fashioned way. The fruits were local, consisting of apples, pears, nuts, and such other products of the summer as might be presumed to grow on the estate. There was strong ale and rum on the table, and but little wine. Moreover, the appointments of the dining-room were simple and homely5 even for the date, betokening6 a countrified household of the smaller gentry7, without much wealth or ambition—formerly a numerous class, but now in great part ousted8 by the territorial9 landlords.
One of the two sitters was a young lady in white muslin, who listened somewhat impatiently to the remarks of her companion, an elderly, rubicund10 personage, whom the merest stranger could have pronounced to be her father. The watcher evinced no signs of moving, and it became evident that affairs were not so simple as they first had seemed. The tall farmer was in fact no accidental spectator, and he stood by premeditation close to the trunk of a tree, so that had any traveller passed along the road without the park gate, or even round the lawn to the door, that person would scarce have noticed the other, notwithstanding that the gate was quite near at hand, and the park little larger than a paddock. There was still light enough in the western heaven to brighten faintly one side of the man’s face, and to show against the trunk of the tree behind the admirable cut of his profile; also to reveal that the front of the manor-house, small though it seemed, was solidly built of stone in that never-to-be-surpassed style for the English country residence—the mullioned and transomed Elizabethan.
The lawn, although neglected, was still as level as a bowling-green—which indeed it might once have served for; and the blades of grass before the window were raked by the candle-shine, which stretched over them so far as to touch the yeoman’s face in front.
Within the dining-room there were also, with one of the twain, the same signs of a hidden purpose that marked the farmer. The young lady’s mind was straying as clearly into the shadows as that of the loiterer was fixed12 upon the room—nay, it could be said that she was quite conscious of his presence outside. Impatience13 caused her foot to beat silently on the carpet, and she more than once rose to leave the table. This proceeding14 was checked by her father, who would put his hand upon her shoulder and unceremoniously press her down into her chair, till he should have concluded his observations. Her replies were brief enough, and there was factitiousness in her smiles of assent15 to his views. A small iron casement16 between two of the mullions was open, and some occasional words of the dialogue were audible without.
‘As for drains—how can I put in drains? The pipes don’t cost much, that’s true; but the labour in sinking the trenches17 is ruination. And then the gates—they should be hung to stone posts, otherwise there’s no keeping them up through harvest.’ The Squire’s voice was strongly toned with the local accent, so that he said ‘draïns’ and ‘geäts’ like the rustics18 on his estate.
The landscape without grew darker, and the young man’s figure seemed to be absorbed into the trunk of the tree. The small stars filled in between the larger, the nebulae between the small stars, the trees quite lost their voice; and if there was still a sound, it was from the cascade19 of a stream which stretched along under the trees that bounded the lawn on its northern side.
At last the young girl did get to her feet and secure her retreat. ‘I have something to do, papa,’ she said. ‘I shall not be in the drawing-room just yet.’
‘Very well,’ replied he. ‘Then I won’t hurry.’ And closing the door behind her, he drew his decanters together and settled down in his chair.
Three minutes after that a woman’s shape emerged from the drawing-room window, and passing through a wall-door to the entrance front, came across the grass. She kept well clear of the dining-room window, but enough of its light fell on her to show, escaping from the dark-hooded cloak that she wore, stray verges21 of the same light dress which had figured but recently at the dinner-table. The hood20 was contracted tight about her face with a drawing-string, making her countenance22 small and baby-like, and lovelier even than before.
Without hesitation23 she brushed across the grass to the tree under which the young man stood concealed24. The moment she had reached him he enclosed her form with his arm. The meeting and embrace, though by no means formal, were yet not passionate25; the whole proceeding was that of persons who had repeated the act so often as to be unconscious of its performance. She turned within his arm, and faced in the same direction with himself, which was towards the window; and thus they stood without speaking, the back of her head leaning against his shoulder. For a while each seemed to be thinking his and her diverse thoughts.
‘You have kept me waiting a long time, dear Christine,’ he said at last. ‘I wanted to speak to you particularly, or I should not have stayed. How came you to be dining at this time o’ night?’
‘Father has been out all day, and dinner was put back till six. I know I have kept you; but Nicholas, how can I help it sometimes, if I am not to run any risk? My poor father insists upon my listening to all he has to say; since my brother left he has had nobody else to listen to him; and to-night he was particularly tedious on his usual topics—draining, and tenant-farmers, and the village people. I must take daddy to London; he gets so narrow always staying here.’
‘And what did you say to it all?’
‘Well, I took the part of the tenant-farmers, of course, as the beloved of one should in duty do.’ There followed a little break or gasp26, implying a strangled sigh.
‘You are sorry you have encouraged that beloving one?’
‘O no, Nicholas . . . What is it you want to see me for particularly?’
‘I know you are sorry, as time goes on, and everything is at a dead-lock, with no prospect27 of change, and your rural swain loses his freshness! Only think, this secret understanding between us has lasted near three year, ever since you was a little over sixteen.’
‘Yes; it has been a long time.’
‘And I an untamed, uncultivated man, who has never seen London, and knows nothing about society at all.’
‘Not uncultivated, dear Nicholas. Untravelled, socially unpractised, if you will,’ she said, smiling. ‘Well, I did sigh; but not because I regret being your promised one. What I do sometimes regret is that the scheme, which my meetings with you are but a part of, has not been carried out completely. You said, Nicholas, that if I consented to swear to keep faith with you, you would go away and travel, and see nations, and peoples, and cities, and take a professor with you, and study books and art, simultaneously28 with your study of men and manners; and then come back at the end of two years, when I should find that my father would by no means be indisposed to accept you as a son-in-law. You said your reason for wishing to get my promise before starting was that your mind would then be more at rest when you were far away, and so could give itself more completely to knowledge than if you went as my unaccepted lover only, fuming29 with anxiety as to how I should be when you came back. I saw how reasonable that was; and solemnly swore myself to you in consequence. But instead of going to see the world you stay on and on here to see me.’
‘And you don’t want me to see you?’
‘Yes—no—it is not that. It is that I have latterly felt frightened at what I am doing when not in your actual presence. It seems so wicked not to tell my father that I have a lover close at hand, within touch and view of both of us; whereas if you were absent my conduct would not seem quite so treacherous30. The realities would not stare at one so. You would be a pleasant dream to me, which I should be free to indulge in without reproach of my conscience; I should live in hopeful expectation of your returning fully31 qualified32 to boldly claim me of my father. There, I have been terribly frank, I know.’
He in his turn had lapsed33 into gloomy breathings now. ‘I did plan it as you state,’ he answered. ‘I did mean to go away the moment I had your promise. But, dear Christine, I did not foresee two or three things. I did not know what a lot of pain it would cost to tear myself from you. And I did not know that my stingy uncle—heaven forgive me calling him so!—would so flatly refuse to advance me money for my purpose—the scheme of travelling with a first-rate tutor costing a formidable sum o’ money. You have no idea what it would cost!’
‘But I have said that I’ll find the money.’
‘Ah, there,’ he returned, ‘you have hit a sore place. To speak truly, dear, I would rather stay unpolished a hundred years than take your money.’
‘But why? Men continually use the money of the women they marry.’
‘Yes; but not till afterwards. No man would like to touch your money at present, and I should feel very mean if I were to do so in present circumstances. That brings me to what I was going to propose. But no—upon the whole I will not propose it now.’
‘Ah! I would guarantee expenses, and you won’t let me! The money is my personal possession: it comes to me from my late grandfather, and not from my father at all.’
He laughed forcedly and pressed her hand. ‘There are more reasons why I cannot tear myself away,’ he added. ‘What would become of my uncle’s farming? Six hundred acres in this parish, and five hundred in the next—a constant traipsing from one farm to the other; he can’t be in two places at once. Still, that might be got over if it were not for the other matters. Besides, dear, I still should be a little uneasy, even though I have your promise, lest somebody should snap you up away from me.’
‘Ah, you should have thought of that before. Otherwise I have committed myself for nothing.’
‘I should have thought of it,’ he answered gravely. ‘But I did not. There lies my fault, I admit it freely. Ah, if you would only commit yourself a little more, I might at least get over that difficulty! But I won’t ask you. You have no idea how much you are to me still; you could not argue so coolly if you had. What property belongs to you I hate the very sound of; it is you I care for. I wish you hadn’t a farthing in the world but what I could earn for you!’
‘I don’t altogether wish that,’ she murmured.
‘I wish it, because it would have made what I was going to propose much easier to do than it is now. Indeed I will not propose it, although I came on purpose, after what you have said in your frankness.’
‘Look at this then, Christine dear.’ He drew from his breast-pocket a sheet of paper and unfolded it, when it was observable that a seal dangled35 from the bottom.
‘What is it?’ She held the paper sideways, so that what there was of window-light fell on its surface. ‘I can only read the Old English letters—why—our names! Surely it is not a marriage-licence?’
‘It is.’
She trembled. ‘O Nic! how could you do this—and without telling me!’
‘Why should I have thought I must tell you? You had not spoken “frankly” then as you have now. We have been all to each other more than these two years, and I thought I would propose that we marry privately36, and that I then leave you on the instant. I would have taken my travelling-bag to church, and you would have gone home alone. I should not have started on my adventures in the brilliant manner of our original plan, but should have roughed it a little at first; my great gain would have been that the absolute possession of you would have enabled me to work with spirit and purpose, such as nothing else could do. But I dare not ask you now—so frank as you have been.’
She did not answer. The document he had produced gave such unexpected substantiality to the venture with which she had so long toyed as a vague dream merely, that she was, in truth, frightened a little. ‘I—don’t know about it!’ she said.
‘Perhaps not. Ah, my little lady, you are wearying of me!’
‘No, Nic,’ responded she, creeping closer. ‘I am not. Upon my word, and truth, and honour, I am not, Nic.’
‘A mere11 tiller of the soil, as I should be called,’ he continued, without heeding37 her. ‘And you—well, a daughter of one of the—I won’t say oldest families, because that’s absurd, all families are the same age—one of the longest chronicled families about here, whose name is actually the name of the place.’
‘That’s not much, I am sorry to say! My poor brother—but I won’t speak of that . . . Well,’ she murmured mischievously38, after a pause, ‘you certainly would not need to be uneasy if I were to do this that you want me to do. You would have me safe enough in your trap then; I couldn’t get away!’
‘That’s just it!’ he said vehemently39. ‘It is a trap—you feel it so, and that though you wouldn’t be able to get away from me you might particularly wish to! Ah, if I had asked you two years ago you would have agreed instantly. But I thought I was bound to wait for the proposal to come from you as the superior!’
‘Now you are angry, and take seriously what I meant purely40 in fun. You don’t know me even yet! To show you that you have not been mistaken in me, I do propose to carry out this licence. I’ll marry you, dear Nicholas, to-morrow morning.’
‘Ah, Christine! I am afraid I have stung you on to this, so that I cannot—’
‘No, no, no!’ she hastily rejoined; and there was something in her tone which suggested that she had been put upon her mettle41 and would not flinch42. ‘Take me whilst I am in the humour. What church is the licence for?’
‘That I’ve not looked to see—why our parish church here, of course. Ah, then we cannot use it! We dare not be married here.’
‘We do dare,’ said she. ‘And we will too, if you’ll be there.’
‘If I’ll be there!’
They speedily came to an agreement that he should be in the church-porch at ten minutes to eight on the following morning, awaiting her; and that, immediately after the conclusion of the service which would make them one, Nicholas should set out on his long-deferred educational tour, towards the cost of which she was resolving to bring a substantial subscription43 with her to church. Then, slipping from him, she went indoors by the way she had come, and Nicholas bent44 his steps homewards.
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1
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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2
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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3
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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4
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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5
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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6
betokening
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的现在分词 ) | |
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7
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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8
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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9
territorial
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| adj.领土的，领地的 | |
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10
rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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11
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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12
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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13
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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14
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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15
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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16
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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17
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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18
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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19
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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20
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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21
verges
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| 边，边缘，界线( verge的名词复数 ) | |
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22
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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23
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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24
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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25
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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26
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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27
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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28
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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29
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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30
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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31
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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32
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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33
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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34
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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35
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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36
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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37
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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38
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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39
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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40
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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41
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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42
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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43
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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44
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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