AND after this neither Sir Edward nor his young friend appeared for two whole days. Any girl of Winifred Seton’s impetuous character, who has ever been left in such a position on the very eve of the telling of that love-tale, which had been all but told for several weeks past, but now seemed suddenly and artificially arrested just at the moment of utterance—will be able to form some idea of Winnie’s feelings during this dreadful interval2. She heard the latch3 of the gate lifted a hundred times in the day, when, alas4, there was no one near to lift the latch. She was afraid to go out for an instant, lest in that instant “they” should come; her brain was ringing with supposed sounds of footsteps and echoes of voices, and yet the road lay horribly calm and silent behind the garden hedge, with no passengers upon it. And these two evenings the light came early into Sir Edward’s window, and glared cruelly over the trees. And to be turned inward upon the sweet old life from which the charm had fled, and to have to content one’s self with flowers and embroidery5, and the canary singing, and the piano, and Aunt Agatha! Many another girl has passed through the same interval of torture, and felt the suspense6 to be killing7, and the crisis tragic8—but yet to older eyes perhaps even such a dread1 suspension of all the laws of being has also its comic side. Winnie, however, took care to keep anybody from laughing at it in the cottage. It was life and death to her, or at least so she thought. And her suppressed frenzy9 of anxiety, and doubt, and fear, were deep earnest to Aunt Agatha, who seemed now to be living her own early disappointments over again, and more bitterly than in the first version of them. She tried hard to remember the doubt thrown upon Captain Percival by Mary, and to persuade herself that this interposition was providential, and meant to save her child from an unhappy marriage. But when Miss Seton saw Winnie’s tragic countenance10, her belief in Providence11 was shaken. She could not see the good of anything that made her darling suffer. Mary might be wrong, she might be prejudiced, or have heard a false account, and it might be simply herself who was to blame for shutting her doors, or seeming to shut her doors, against her nearest and oldest neighbours. Could it be supposed that Sir Edward would bring any one to her house who was not a fit associate or a fit suitor, if things should take such a turn, for Winnie? Under the painful light thrown upon the subject by Winnie’s looks, Aunt Agatha came altogether to ignore that providential view which had comforted her at first, and was so far driven in the other direction at last as to write Sir Edward a little note, and take the responsibility upon her own shoulders. What Miss Seton wrote was, that though, in consequence of their late affliction, the family were not equal to seeing visitors in a general way, yet that it would be strange indeed if they were to consider Sir Edward a stranger, and that she hoped he would not stay away, as she was sure his company would be more a comfort to Mary than anything else. And she also hoped Captain Percival would not leave the Hall without coming to see them. It was such a note as a maiden12 lady was fully13 justified14 in writing to an old friend—an invitation, but yet given with a full consideration of all the proprieties15, and that tender regard for Mary’s feelings which Aunt Agatha had shown throughout. It was written and despatched when Winnie had gone out, as she did on the third day, in proud defiance16 and desperation, so that if Sir Edward’s sense of propriety17 and respect for Mary’s cap should happen to be stronger than Aunt Agatha’s, no further vexation might come to the young sufferer from this attempt to set all right.
And Winnie went out without knowing of this effort for her consolation18. She went down by the Kirtell, winding19 down the wooded banks, in the sweet light and shade of the August morning, seeing nothing of the brightness, wrapped up and absorbed in her own sensations. She felt now that the moment of fate had passed,—that moment that made or marred20 two lives;—and had in her heart, in an embryo21 unexpressed condition, several of Mr. Browning’s minor22 poems, which were not then written; and felt a general bitterness against the world for the lost climax23, the dénouement which had not come. She thought to herself even, that if the tale had been told, the explanation made, and something, however tragical24, had happened after, it would not have been so hard to bear. But now it was clear to Winnie that her existence must run on soured and contracted in the shade, and that young Percival must stiffen25 into a worldly and miserable26 old bachelor, and that their joint27 life, the only life worth living, had been stolen from them, and blighted28 in the bud. And what was it all for?—because Mary, who had had all the good things of this life, who had loved and been married in the most romantic way, and had been adored by her husband, and reigned29 over him, had come, so far, to an end of her career. Mary was over thirty, an age at which Winnie could not but think it must be comparatively indifferent to a woman what happened—at which the snows of age must have begun to benumb her feelings, under any circumstances, and the loss of a husband or so did not much matter; but at eighteen, and to lose the first love that had ever touched your heart! to lose it without any reason—without the satisfaction of some dreadful obstacle in the way, or misunderstanding still more dreadful; without ever having heard the magical words and tasted that first rapture30!—Ah, it was hard, very hard; and no wonder that Winnie was in a turmoil31 of rage, and bitterness, and despair.
The fact was, that she was so absorbed in her thoughts as not to see him there where he was waiting for her. He had seen her long ago, as she came down the winding road, betraying herself at the turnings by the flutter of her light dress—for Winnie’s mourning was slight—and he had waited, as glad as she could be of the opportunity, and the chance of seeing her undisturbed, and free from all critical eyes. There is a kind of popular idea that it is only a good man, or one with a certain “nobility” in his character, who is capable of being in love; but the idea is not so justifiable32 as it would seem to be. Captain Percival was not a good young man, nor would it be safe for any conscientious33 historian to claim for him generous or noble qualities to any marked degree; but at the same time I am not disposed to qualify the state of his sentiments by saying, as is generally said of unsatisfactory characters, that he loved Winnie as much as he could love anything. He was in love with her, heart and soul, as much as if he had been a paladin. He would not have stayed at any obstacle, nor regarded either his own comfort or hers, or any other earthly bar between them. When Winnie thought him distant from her, and contemplating34 his departure, he had been haunting all the old walks which he knew Miss Seton and her niece were in the habit of taking. He was afraid of Mary—that was one thing indisputable—and he thought she would harm him, and bring up his old character against him; and felt instinctively36 that the harm which he thought he knew of her, could not be used against her here. And it was for this reason that he had not ventured again to present himself at the cottage; but he had been everywhere about, wherever he thought there was any chance of meeting the lady of his thoughts. And if Winnie had not been so anxious not to miss that possible visitor; if she had been coming and going, and doing all she usually did, their meeting must have taken place two days ago, and all the agony and trouble been spared. He watched her now, and held his breath, and traced her at all the turnings of the road, now by a puff37 of her black and white muslin dress, and then by a long streaming ribbon catching38 among the branches—for Winnie was fond of long ribbons wherever she could introduce them. And she was so absorbed with her own settled anguish39, that she had stepped out upon him from among the trees before she was aware.
“Captain Percival!” said Winnie, with an involuntary cry; and she felt the blood so rush to her cheeks with sudden delight and surprise, that she was in an instant put on her guard, and driven to account for it.—“I did not see there was any one here—what a fright you have given me. And we, who thought you had gone away,” added Winnie, looking suddenly at him with blazing defiant40 eyes.
If he had not been in love, probably he would have known what it all meant—the start, the blush, the cry, and that triumphant41, indignant, reproachful, exulting42 look. But he had enough to do with his own sensations, which makes a wonderful difference in such a case.
“Gone away!” he said, on the spur of the moment—“as if I could go away—as if you did not know better than that.”
“I was not aware that there was anything to detain you,” said Winnie; and all at once from being so tragical, her natural love of mischief43 came back, and she felt perfectly44 disposed to play with her mouse. “Tell me about it. Is it Sir Edward? or perhaps you, too, have had an affliction in your family. I think that is the worst of all,” she said, shaking her pretty head mournfully—and thus the two came nearer to each other and laughed together, which was as good a means of rapprochement as anything else.
But the young soldier had waited too long for this moment to let it all go off in laughter. “If you only knew how I have been trying to see you,” he said. “I have been at the school and at the mill, and in the woods—in all your pet places. Are you condemned45 to stay at home because of this affliction? I could not come to the cottage because, though Miss Seton is so kind, I am sure your sister would do me an ill turn if she could.”
Winnie was startled, and even a little annoyed by this speech—for it is a fact always to be borne in mind by social critics, that one member of a family may be capable of saying everything that is unpleasant about another, without at the same time being disposed to hear even an echo of his or her own opinion from stranger lips. Winnie was of this way of thinking. She had not taken to her sister, and was quite ready herself to criticise46 her very severely47; but when somebody else did it, the result was very different. “Why should my sister do you an ill turn?” she said.
“Oh!” said young Percival; “it is because you know she knows that I know all about it——”
“All about it!” said Winnie. She was tall already, but she grew two inches taller as she stood and expanded and looked her frightened lover into nothing. “There can be nothing about Mary, Captain Percival, which you and all the world may not know.”
And then the young man saw he had made a wrong move. “I have not been haunting the road for hours to talk about Mrs. Ochterlony,” he said. “She does not like me, and I am frightened for her. Oh, Winnie, you know very well why. You know I would tremble before anybody who might make you think ill of me. It is cruel to pretend you don’t understand.”
And then he took her hand and told her everything—all that she looked for, and perhaps more than all—for there are touches of real eloquence48 about what a man says when he is really in love (even if he should be no great things in his own person) which transcend49 as much as they fall short of, the suggestions of a woman’s curious fancy. She had said it for him two or three times in her own mind, and had done it far more elegantly and neatly50. But still there was something about the genuine article which had not been in Winnie’s imagination. There were fewer words, but there was a great deal more excitement, though it was much less cleverly expressed. And then, before they knew how, the crisis was over, the dénouement accomplished51, and the two sitting side by side as in another world. They were sitting on the trunk of an old beech-tree, with the leaves rustling52 and the birds twittering over them, and Kirtell running, soft and sweet, hushed in its scanty53 summer whisper at their feet; all objects familiar, and well-known to them—and yet it was another world. As for Mr. Browning’s poems about the unlived life, and the hearts all shrivelled up for want of a word at the right moment, Winnie most probably would have laughed with youthful disdain54 had they been suggested to her now. This little world, in which the fallen beech-tree was the throne, and the fairest hopes and imaginations possible to man, crowded about the youthful sovereigns, and paid them obsequious55 court, was so different from the old world, where Sir Edward at the Hall, and Aunt Agatha in the Cottage, were expecting the young people, that these two, as was not unnatural56, forgot all about it, and lingered together, no one interfering57 with them, or even knowing they were there, for long enough to fill Miss Seton’s tender bosom58 with wild anxieties and terrors. Winnie had not reached home at the early dinner-hour—a thing which was to Aunt Agatha as if the sun had declined to rise, or the earth (to speak more correctly) refused to perform her proper revolutions. She became so restless, and anxious, and unhappy, that Mary, too, was roused into uneasiness. “It must be only that she is detained somewhere,” said Mrs. Ochterlony. “She never would allow herself to be detained,” cried Aunt Agatha, “and oh, Mary, my darling is unhappy. How can I tell what may have happened?” Thus some people made themselves very wretched about her, while Winnie sat in perfect blessedness, uttering and listening to all manner of heavenly nonsense on the trunk of the fallen tree.
Aunt Agatha’s wretchedness, however, dispersed59 into thin air the moment she saw Winnie come in at the garden-gate, with Captain Percival in close attendance. Then Miss Seton, with natural penetration60, saw in an instant what had happened; felt that it was all natural, and wondered why she had not foreseen this inevitable61 occurrence. “I might have known,” she said to Mary, who was the only member of the party upon whom this wonderful event had no enlivening effect; and then Aunt Agatha recollected62 herself, and put on her sad face, and faltered63 an apology. “Oh, my dear love, I know it must be hard upon you to see it,” she said, apologizing as it were to the widow for the presence of joy.
“I would be a poor soul indeed, if it was hard upon me to see it,” said Mary. “No, Aunt Agatha, I hope I am not so shabby as that. I have had my day. If I look grave, it is for other reasons. I was not thinking of myself.”
“My love! you were always so unselfish,” said Miss Seton. “Are you really anxious about him? See how happy he looks—he cannot be so fond of her as that, and so happy, and yet a deceiver. It is not possible, Mary.”
This was in the afternoon, when they had come out to the lawn with their work, and the two lovers were still together—not staying in one place, as their elders did, but flitting across the line of vision now and then, and, as it were, pervading64 the atmosphere with a certain flavour of romance and happiness.
“I did not say he was a deceiver—he dared not be a deceiver to Winnie,” said Mrs. Ochterlony; “there may be other sins than that.”
“Oh, Mary, don’t speak as if you thought it would turn out badly,” cried Aunt Agatha, clasping her hands; and she looked into Mrs. Ochterlony’s face as if somehow she had the power by retracting65 her opinion to prevent things from turning out badly. Mary was not a stoic66, nor above the sway of all the influences around her. She could not resist the soft pleading eyes that looked into her face, nor the fascination67 of her young sister’s happiness. She held her peace, and even did her best to smile upon the spectacle, and to hope in her heart that true love might work magically upon the man who had now, beyond redemption, Winnie’s future in his hands. For her own part, she shrank from him with a vague sense of alarm and danger; and had it been possible to do any good by it, would have felt herself capable of any exertion68 to cast the intruder out. But it was evident that under present circumstances there was no good to be done. She kept her boys out of his way with an instinctive35 dread which she could not explain to herself, and shuddered69 when poor Aunt Agatha, hoping to conciliate all parties, set little Wilfrid for a moment on their visitor’s knee, and with a wistful wile70 reminded him of the new family relationships Winnie would bring him. Mary took her child away with a shivering sense of peril71 which was utterly72 unreasonable73. Why had it been Wilfrid of all others who was brought thus into the foreground? Why should it be he who was selected as a symbol of the links of the future? Wilfrid was but an infant, and derived74 no further impression from his momentary75 perch76 upon Captain Percival’s knee, than that of special curiosity touching77 the beard which was a new kind of ornament78 to the fatherless baby, and tempting79 for closer investigation80; but his mother took him away, and carried him indoors, and disposed of him carefully in the room which Miss Seton had made into a nursery, with an anxious tremor81 which was utterly absurd and out of all reason. But though instinct acted upon her to this extent, she made no further attempt to warn Winnie or hinder the course of events which had gone too fast for her. Winnie would not have accepted any warning—she would have scorned the most trustworthy advice, and repulsed82 even the most just and right interference—and so would Mary have done in Hugh Ochterlony’s case, when she was Winnie’s age. Thus her mouth was shut, and she could say nothing. She watched the two with a pathetic sense of impotence as they went and came, thinking, oh, if she could but make him what Hugh Ochterlony was; and yet the Major had been far, very far from perfect, as the readers of this history are aware. When Captain Percival went away, the ladies were still in the garden; for it was necessary that the young man should go home to the Hall to join Sir Edward at dinner, and tell his story. Winnie, a changed creature, stood at the garden-gate, leaning upon the low wall, and watched him till he was out of sight; and her aunt and her sister looked at her, each with a certain pathos83 in her face. They were both women of experience in their different ways, and there could not but be something pathetic to them in the sight of the young creature at the height of her happiness, all-confident and fearing no evil. It came as natural to them to think of the shadows that must, even under the happiest conditions, come over that first incredible brightness, as it was to her to feel that every harm and fear was over, and that now nothing could touch or injure her more. Winnie turned sharp round when her lover disappeared, and caught Mary’s eye, and its wistful expression, and blazed up at once into momentary indignation, which, however, was softened84 by the contempt of youth for all judgment85 other than its own, and by the kindly86 influence of her great happiness. She turned round upon her sister, sudden and sharp as some winged creature, and set her all at once on her defence.
“You do not like him,” she said, “but you need not say anything, Mary. It does not matter what you say. You had your day, and would not put up with any interference—and I know him a hundred—a thousand times better than you can do; and it is my day now.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “I did not mean to say anything. I do not like him, and I think I have reason; but Winnie, dear, I would give anything in the world to believe that you know best now.”
“Oh, yes, I know best,” said Winnie, with a soft laugh; “and you will soon find out what mistakes people make who pretend to know—for I am sure he thinks there could be something said, on the other side, about you.”
“About me,” said Mary—and though she did not show it, but stood before her sister like a stately tower firm on its foundation, she was aware of a thrill of nervous trembling that ran through her limbs, and took the strength out of them. “What did he say about me?”
“He seemed to think there was something that might be said,” said Winnie, lightly. “He was afraid of you. He said you knew that he knew all about you; see what foolish ideas people take up! and I said,” Winnie went on, drawing herself up tall and straight by her stately sister’s side, with that superb assumption of dignity which is fair to see at her age, “that there never could be anything about you that he and all the world might not know!”
Mary put out her hand, looking stately and firm as she did so—but in truth it was done half groping, out of a sudden mist that had come up about her. “Thank you, Winnie,” she said, with a smile that had anguish in it; and Winnie with a sudden tender impulse out of her own happiness, feeling for the first time the contrast, looked at Mary’s black dress beside her own light one, and at Mary’s hair as bright as her own, which was put away beneath that cap which she had so often mocked at, and threw her arms round her sister with a sudden thrill of compassion87 and tenderness unlike anything she had ever felt before.
“Oh, Mary, dear!” she cried, “does it seem heartless to be so happy and yet to know that you——”
“No,” said Mary, steadily—taking the girl, who was as passionate88 in her repentance89 as in her rebellion, to her own bosom. “No, Winnie; no, my darling—I am not such a poor soul as that. I have had my day.”
And it was thus that the cloud rolled off, or seemed to roll off, and that even in the midst of that sharp reminder90 of the pain which life might still have in store for her, the touch of nature came to heal and help. The enemy who knew all about it might have come in bringing with him sickening suggestions of horrible harm and mischief; but anything he could do would be in vain here, where everybody knew more about her still; and to have gained as she thought her little sister’s heart, was a wonderful solace91 and consolation. Thus Mary’s faith was revived again at the moment when it was most sorely shaken, and she began to feel, with a grateful sense of peace and security, the comfort of being, as Aunt Agatha said, among her own friends.
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1
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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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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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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6
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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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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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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42
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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43
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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45
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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46
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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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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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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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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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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retracting
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的现在分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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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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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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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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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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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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91
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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