“Is Mrs. George Godolphin within?”
The inquiry1 came from Grace Akeman. She put it in a sharp, angry tone, something like the sharp, angry peal2 she had just rung at the hall-bell. Pierce answered in the affirmative, and showed her in.
The house seemed gloomy and still, as one in a state of bankruptcy3 does seem. Mrs. Akeman thought so as she crossed the hall. The days had gone on to the Thursday, the bankruptcy had been declared, and those pleasant visitors, foretold4 by Charlotte Pain, had entered on their duties at the Bank and at Ashlydyat. Fearfully ill looked Maria: dark circles had formed under her eyes, her face had lost its bloom, and an expression as of some ever-present dread5 had seated itself upon her features. When Pierce opened the door to usher6 in her sister, she started palpably.
Things, with regard to George Godolphin, remained as they were. He had not made his appearance at Prior’s Ash, and Thomas did not know where to write to him. Maria did. She had heard from him on the Tuesday morning. His letter was written apparently8 in the gayest of spirits. The contrast that was presented between his state of mind (if the tone of the letter might be trusted) and Maria’s was something marvellous. A curiosity in metaphysics, as pertaining9 to the spiritual organization of humanity. He sent gay messages to Meta, he sent teasing ones to Margery, he never so much as hinted to Maria that he had a knowledge of anything being wrong. He should soon be home, he said; but meanwhile Maria was to write him word all news, and address the letter under cover to Mr. Verrall. But she was not to give that address to any one. George Godolphin knew he could rely upon the good faith of his wife. He wrote also to his brother: a letter which Thomas burnt as soon as read. Probably it was intended for his eye alone. But he expressed no wish to hear from Thomas; neither did he say how a letter might reach him. He may have felt himself in the light of a guilty schoolboy, who knows he merits a lecture, and would escape from it as long as possible. Maria’s suspense10 was almost unbearable—and Lord Averil had given no sign of what his intentions might be.
Seeing it was her sister who entered, she turned to her with a sort of relief. “Oh, Grace!” she said, “I thought I was never going to see any of you again.”
Grace would not meet the offered hand. Never much given to ceremony, she often came in and went out without giving hers. But[344] this time Grace had come in anger. She blamed Maria for what had occurred, almost as much as she blamed George. Not of the highly refined organization that Maria was, Grace possessed11 far keener penetration12. Had her husband been going wrong, Grace would inevitably13 have discovered it; and she could not believe but that Maria must have suspected George Godolphin. In her angry feeling against George, whom she had never liked, Grace would have deemed it right that Maria should denounce him. Whether she had been wilfully14 blind, or really blind, Grace alike despised her for it. “I shall not spare her,” Grace said to her husband: and she did not mean to spare her, now she had come.
“I have intruded15 here to ask if you will go to the Rectory and see mamma,” Grace began. “She is not well, and cannot come to you.”
Grace’s manner was strangely cold and stern. And Maria did not like the word “intruded.” “I am glad to see you,” she replied in a gentle voice. “It is very dull here, now. No one has been near me, except Bessy Godolphin.”
“You cannot expect many visitors,” said Grace in her hard manner—very hard to-day.
“I do not think I could see them if they came,” was Maria’s answer. “I was not speaking of visitors. Is mamma ill?”
“Yes, she is; and little wonder,” replied Grace. “I almost wish I was not married, now this misfortune has fallen upon us: it would at any rate be another pair of hands at the Rectory, and I am more capable of work than mamma or Rose. But I am married; and of course my place must be my husband’s home.”
“What do you mean by another pair of hands, Grace?”
“There are going to be changes at the Rectory,” returned Grace, staring at the wall behind Maria, apparently to avoid looking at her. “One servant only is to be retained, and the two little Chisholm girls are coming there to be kept and educated. Mamma will have all the care upon her; she and Rose must both work and teach. Papa will keep the little boy at school, and have him home in the holidays, to make more trouble at the Rectory. They, papa and mamma, will have to pinch and screw; they must deprive themselves of every comfort; bare necessaries alone must be theirs; and, all that can be saved from their income will be put by towards paying the trust-money.”
“It is decided so far as papa can decide anything,” sharply rejoined Grace. “If the law is put in force against him, by his co-trustee, for the recovery of the money, he does not know what he would do. Possibly the living would have to be sequestered17.”
Maria did not speak. What Grace was saying was all too true and terrible. Grace flung up her hand with a passionate18 movement.
“Had I been the one to bring this upon my father and mother, Maria, I should wish I had been out of the world before it had come to pass.”
“I did not bring it upon them, Grace,” was Maria’s scarcely-breathed answer.
[345]“Yes, you did. Maria, I have come here to speak my mind, and I must speak it. I may seem hard, but I can’t help it. How could you, for shame, let papa pay in that money, the nine thousand pounds? If you and George Godolphin must have flaunted19 your state and your expense in the eyes of the world, and ruined people to do it, you might have spared your father and mother.”
“Grace, why do you blame me?”
Mrs. Akeman rose from her chair, and began pacing the room. She did not speak in a loud tone; not so much in an angry one, as in a clear, sharp, decisive one. It was just the tone used by the Rector of All Souls’ when in his cynical20 moods.
“He has been a respected man all his life; he has kept up his position——”
“Of whom do you speak?” interrupted Maria, really not sure whether she was applying the words satirically to George Godolphin.
“Of whom do I speak!” retorted Grace. “Of your father and mine. I say he has been respected all his life; has maintained his position as a clergyman and a gentleman, has reared his children suitably, has exercised moderate hospitality at the Rectory, and yet was putting something by that we might have a few pounds each, at his death, to help us on in the world. Not one of his children but wants helping21 on: except the grand wife of Mr. George Godolphin.”
“Grace! Grace!”
“And what have you brought him to?” continued Grace, lifting her hand in token that she would have out her say. “To poverty in his old age—he is getting old, Maria—to trouble, to care, to privation: perhaps to disgrace as a false trustee. I would have sacrificed my husband, rather than my father.”
Maria lifted her aching head. The reproaches were cruel, and yet they told home. It was her husband who had ruined her father: and it may be said, ruined him deliberately22. Grace resumed, answering the last thought almost as if she had divined it.
“If ever a shameless fraud was committed upon another, George Godolphin wilfully committed it when he took that nine thousand pounds. Prior’s Ash may well be calling him a swindler!”
“Oh, Grace, don’t!” she said imploringly23. “He could not have known that it was unsafe to take it.”
“Could not have known!” indignantly returned Grace. “You are either a fool, Maria, or you are deliberately saying what you know to be untrue. You must be aware that he never entered it in the books—that he appropriated it to his own use. He is a heartless, bad man! He might have chosen somebody else to prey24 upon, rather than his wife’s father. Were I papa, I should prosecute25 him.”
“I make no doubt you have. I should be sorry to have to bear the half. But you have brought it upon yourself, Maria. What though George Godolphin was your husband, you need not have upheld him in his course. Look at the ruin that has fallen upon Prior’s Ash. I can tell you that your name and George Godolphin’s will be remembered for many a long day. But it won’t be with a blessing28!”
[346]“Grace,” she said, lifting her streaming eyes, for tears had at length come to her relief, “have you no pity for me?”
“What pity have you had for others?” was Grace Akeman’s retort. “How many must go down to their graves steeped in poverty, who, but for George Godolphin’s treachery, would have passed the rest of their lives in comfort! You have been a blind simpleton, and nothing else. George Godolphin has lavished29 his money and his attentions broadcast elsewhere, and you have looked complacently30 on. Do you think Prior’s Ash has had its eyes closed, if you have?”
“What do you mean, Grace?”
“Never mind what I mean,” was Grace’s answer. “I am not going to tell you what you might have seen for yourself. It is all of a piece. If people will marry gay and attractive men, they must pay for it.”
Maria remained silent. Grace also for a time. Then she ceased her walking, and sat down opposite her sister.
“I came to ask you whether it is not your intention to go down and see mamma. She is in bed. Suffering from a violent cold, she says. I know; suffering from anguish31 of mind. If you would not add ingratitude32 to what has passed, you will pay her a visit to-day. She wishes to see you.”
“I will go,” said Maria. But as she spoke33 the words, the knowledge that it would be a fearful trial—showing herself in the streets of the town—was very present to her. “I will go to-day, Grace.”
“Very well,” said Grace, rising; “that’s all I came for.”
“Not quite all, Grace. You came, I think, to make me more unhappy than I was.”
“I cannot gloss34 over facts; it is not in my nature to do so,” was the reply of Grace. “If black is black, I must call it black; and white, white. I have not said all I could say, Maria. I have not spoken of our loss; a very paltry35 one, but a good deal to us. I have not alluded36 to other and worse rumours37, touching38 your husband. I have spoken of the ruin brought on our father and mother, and I hold you nearly as responsible for it as George Godolphin. Where’s Meta?” she added, after a short pause.
Grace turned sharply round. “And you can let her go there!”
“Mrs. Pain has been kind, I say, in coming for her. This is a dull house now for Meta. Margery went out on Monday, and has been detained by her sister’s illness.”
“Let Meta come to me, if you want to get rid of her,” returned Grace in a tone more stern than any that had gone before it. “If you knew the comments indulged in by the public, you would not let a child of yours be at Lady Godolphin’s Folly, while Charlotte Pain inhabits it.”
Somehow, Maria had not the courage to inquire more particularly as to the “comments:” it was a subject that she shrank from, though vague and uncertain at the best. Mrs. Akeman went out; and Maria, the strings40 of her grief loosened, sat down and cried as if her heart would break.
With quite a sick feeling of dread she dressed herself to go to the Rectory. But not until later in the day. She put it off, and put it off,[347] with some faint wish, foolish and vain, that dusk would forestall41 its usual hour. The western sun, drawing towards its setting, streamed full on the street of Prior’s Ash as she walked down it. Walked down it, almost as a criminal, a black veil over her face, flushed with its sensitive dread. No one but herself knew how she shrank from the eyes of her fellow-creatures.
She might have ordered the close carriage and gone down in it—for the carriages and horses were yet at her disposal. But that, to Maria, would have been worse. To go out in state in her carriage, attended by her men-servants, would have seemed more defiant42 of public feelings than to appear on foot. Were these feelings ultra-sensitive? absurd? Not altogether. At any rate, I am relating the simple truth—the facts as they occurred—the feelings that actuated her.
“Look at her, walking there! She’s as fine as a queen!” The words, in an insolent43, sneering44 tone, caught her ear as she passed a group of low people gathered at the corner of a street. They would not be likely to come from any other. That they were directed to her there was no doubt; and Maria’s ears tingled45 as she hastened on.
Was she so fine? she could not help asking herself. She had put on the plainest things she had. A black silk dress and a black mantle47, a white silk bonnet48 and a black veil. All good things, certainly, but plain, and not new. She began to feel that reproaches were cast upon her which she did not deserve: but they were not the less telling upon her heart.
Did she dread going into the Rectory? Did she dread the reproaches she might be met with there?—the coldness? the slights? If so, she did not find them. She was met by the most considerate kindness, and perhaps it wrung49 her heart all the more.
They had seen her coming, and Rose ran forward to meet her in the hall, and kissed her; Reginald came boisterously50 out with a welcome; a chart in one hand, parallel-rulers and a pair of compasses in the other: he was making a pretence52 of work, was pricking53 off a ship’s place in the chart. The Rector and Isaac were not at home.
“Is mamma in bed?” she asked of Rose.
“Yes. But her cold is better this evening. She will be so glad to see you.”
Maria went up the stairs and entered the room alone. The anxious look of trouble on Mrs. Hastings’s face, its feverish54 hue55, struck her forcibly, as she advanced with timidity, uncertain of her reception. Uncertain of the reception of a mother?? With an eagerly fond look, a rapid gesture of love, Mrs. Hastings drew Maria’s face down to her for an embrace.
It unhinged Maria. She fell on her knees at the side of the bed, and gave vent56 to a passionate flood of tears. “Oh mother, mother, I could not help it!” she wailed. “It has been no fault of mine.”
Mrs. Hastings did not speak. She put her arm round Maria’s neck, and let it rest there. But the sobs58 were redoubled.
“Don’t, child!” she said then. “You will make yourself ill. My poor child!”
“I am ill, mamma; I think I shall never be well again,” sobbed[348] Maria, losing some of her reticence59. “I feel sometimes that it would be a relief to die.”
“Hush, my love! Keep despair from you, whatever you do.”
“I could bear it better but for the thought of you and papa. That is killing me. Indeed, indeed I have not deserved the blame thrown upon me. I knew nothing of what was happening.”
“My dear, we have not blamed you.”
“Oh yes, every one blames me!” wailed Maria. “And I know how sad it is for you all—to suffer by us. It breaks my heart to think of it. Mamma, do you know I dreamt last night that a shower of gold was falling down to me, faster than I could gather it in my hands. I thought I was going to pay every one, and I ran away laughing, oh so glad! and held out some to papa. ‘Take them,’ I said to him, ‘they are slipping through my fingers.’ I fell down when I was near him, and awoke. I awoke—and—then”—she could scarcely speak for sobbing—“I remembered. Mamma, but for Meta I should have been glad in that moment to die.”
The emotion of both was very great, nearly overpowering Maria. Mrs. Hastings could not say much to comfort, she was too prostrated60 herself. Anxious as she had been to see Maria, for she could not bear the thought of her being left alone and unnoticed in her distress—she almost repented61 having sent for her. Neither was strong enough to bear this excess of agitation62.
Not a word was spoken of George Godolphin. Mrs. Hastings did not mention him; Maria could not. The rest of the interview was chiefly spent in silence, Maria holding her mother’s hand and giving way to a rising sob57 now and then. Into the affairs of the Bank Mrs. Hastings felt that she could not enter. There must be a wall of silence between them on that point, as on the subject of George.
At the foot of the stairs, as she went down, she met her father. “Oh, is it you, Maria?” he said. “How are you?”
His tone was kindly63. But Maria’s heart was full, and she could not answer. He turned into the room by which they were standing64, and she went in after him.
“When is your husband coming back? I suppose you don’t know?”
“No,” she answered, obliged to confess it.
“My opinion is, it would be better for him to face it, than to remain away,” said the Rector. “A more honourable65 course, at any rate.”
Still there was no reply. And Mr. Hastings, looking at his daughter’s face in the twilight66 of the evening, saw that it was working with emotion; that she was striving, almost in vain, to repress her feelings.
“It must be very dull for you at the Bank now, Maria,” he resumed in a gentle tone: “dull and unpleasant. Will you come to the Rectory for a week or two, and bring Meta?”
The tears streamed from her eyes then, unrepressed. “Thank you, papa! thank you for all your kindness,” she answered, striving not to choke. “But I must stay at home as long as I may.”
Reginald put on his cap to see her home, and they departed together, Reginald talking gaily67, as if there were not such a thing as care in the world; Maria unable to answer him. The pain in her throat was worse than usual then. In turning out of the Rectory gate, whom should they[349] come upon but old Jekyl, walking slowly along, nearly bent68 double with rheumatism69. Reginald accosted70 him.
“Why, old Jekyl! it’s never you! Are you in the land of the living still?”
“Ay, it is me, sir. Old bones don’t get laid so easy; in spite, maybe, of their wishing it. Ma’am,” added the old man, turning to Maria, “I’d like to make bold to say a word to you. That sixty pound of mine, what was put in the Bank—you mind it?”
“Yes,” said Maria faintly.
“The losing of it’ll be just dead ruin to me, ma’am. I lost my bees last summer, as you heard on, and that bit o’ money was all, like, I had to look to. One must have a crust o’ bread and a sup o’ tea as long as it pleases the Almighty71 to keep one above ground: one can’t lie down and clam72. Would you be pleased just to say a word to the gentlemen, that that trifle o’ money mayn’t be lost to me? Mr. Godolphin will listen to you.”
Maria scarcely knew what to answer. She had not the courage to tell him the money was lost; she did not like to raise delusive73 hopes by saying that it might be saved.
Old Jekyl wrongly interpreted the hesitation74. “It was you yourself, ma’am, as advised my putting it there; for myself, I shouldn’t have had a thought on’t: surely you won’t object to say a word for me, that I mayn’t lose it now. My two sons, David and Jonathan, come home one day when they had been working at your house, and telled me, both of ’em, that you recommended me to take my money to the Bank; it would be safe and sure. I can’t afford to lose it,” he added in a pitiful tone; “it’s all my substance on this side the grave.”
“Of course she’ll speak to them, Jekyl,” interposed Reginald, answering for Maria just as freely and lightly as he would have answered for himself. “I’ll speak to Mr. George Godolphin for you when he comes home; I don’t mind; I can say anything to him. It would be too bad for you to lose it. Good evening. Don’t go pitch-polling over! you haven’t your sea-legs on to-night.”
The feeble old man continued his way, a profusion75 of thanks breaking from him. They fell on Maria’s heart as a knell76. Old Jekyl’s money had as surely gone as had the rest! And, but for her, it might never have been placed with the Godolphins.
When they arrived at the Bank, Reginald gave a loud and flourishing knock, pulled the bell with a peal that alarmed the servants, and then made off with a hasty good-night, leaving Maria standing there alone, in his careless fashion. At the same moment there advanced from the opposite direction a woman carrying a brown-paper parcel.
It was Margery. Detained where she had gone to meet her sister by that sister’s sudden illness, she had been unable to return until now. It had put Margery out considerably77, and altogether she had come home in anything but a good humour.
“I knew there’d be no luck in the journey,” she cried, in reply to Maria’s salutation. “The night before I started I was in the midst of a muddy pool all night in my dream, and couldn’t get out of it.”
“Is your sister better?” asked Maria.
[350]“She’s better: and gone on into Wales. But she’s the poorest creature I ever saw. Is all well at home, ma’am?”
“All well,” replied Maria, her tone subdued78, as she thought how different it was in one sense from “well.”
“And how has Harriet managed with the child?” continued Margery in a tart7 tone, meant for the unconscious Harriet.
“Very well indeed,” answered Maria. “Quite well.”
The door had been opened, and they were then crossing the hall. Maria turned into the dining-room, and Margery continued her way upstairs, grumbling79 as she did so. To believe that Harriet, or any one else, herself excepted, could do “Quite well” by Meta, was a stretch of credulity utterly80 inadmissible to Margery’s biased81 mind. In the nursery sat Harriet, a damsel in a smart cap with flying pink ribbons.
“What, is it you?” was her welcome to Margery. “We thought you had taken up your abode82 yonder for good.”
“Did you?” said Margery. “What else did you think?”
“And your sister, poor dear!” continued Harriet, passing over the retort, and speaking sympathizingly, for she generally found it to her interest to keep friends with Margery. “Has she got well?”
“As well as she ever will be, I suppose,” was Margery’s crusty answer.
She sat down, untied83 her bonnet and threw it off, and unpinned her shawl. Harriet snuffed the candle and resumed her work, which appeared to be sewing tapes on a pinafore of Meta’s.
“Has she torn ’em off again?” asked Margery, her eyes following the progress of the needle.
“She’s always tearing ’em off,” responded Harriet, biting the end of her thread.
“And how’s things going on here?” demanded Margery, her voice assuming a confidential84 tone, as she drew her chair nearer to Harriet’s. “The Bank’s not opened again, I find, for I asked so much at the station.”
“Things couldn’t be worse,” said Harriet. “It’s all a smash together. The house is bankrupt.”
“Lord help us!” ejaculated Margery.
Harriet let her work fall on the table, and leant her head towards Margery’s, her voice dropped to a whisper.
“I say! We have a man in here!”
“In here!” breathlessly rejoined Margery.
Harriet nodded. “Since last Tuesday. There’s one stopping here, and there’s another at Ashlydyat. Margery, I declare to you when they were going through the house, them creatures, I felt that sick, I didn’t know how to bear it. If I had dared I’d have upset a bucket of boiling water over the lot as they came up the stairs.”
“We shall all have to leave, every soul of us: and soon, too, we expect. I don’t know about you, you know. I am so sorry for my mistress!”
“Well!” burst forth86 Margery, giving vent to her indignation; “he has brought matters to a fine pass!”
[351]“Meaning master?” asked Harriet.
“Meaning nobody else,” was the tart rejoinder.
“He just has,” said Harriet. “Prior’s Ash is saying such things that it raises one’s hair to hear them. We don’t like to repeat them again, only just among ourselves.”
“What’s the drift of ’em?” inquired Margery.
“All sorts of drifts. About his having took and made away with the money in the tills: and those bonds of my Lord Averil’s, that there was so much looking after—it was he took them. Who’d have believed it, Margery, of Mr. George Godolphin, with his gay laugh and his handsome face?”
“Better for him if his laugh had been a bit less gay and his face less handsome,” was the sharp remark of Margery. “He might have been steadier then.”
“Folks talk of the Verralls, and that set, up at Lady Godolphin’s Folly,” rejoined Harriet, her voice falling still lower. “Prior’s Ash says he has had too much to do with them, and——”
“I don’t want that scandal repeated over to me,” angrily reprimanded Margery. “Perhaps other people know as much about it as Prior’s Ash; they have eyes, I suppose. There’s no need for you to bring it up to one’s face.”
“But they talk chiefly about Mr. Verrall,” persisted Harriet, with a stress upon the name. “It’s said that he and master have had business dealings together of some sort, and that that’s where the money’s gone. I was not going to bring up anything else. The man downstairs—and upon my word, Margery, he’s a decent man enough, if you can only forget who he is—says that there are thousands and thousands gone into Verrall’s pockets, which ought to be in master’s.”
“They’d ruin a saint, and I have always said it,” was Margery’s angry remark. “See her tearing about with her horses and her carriages, in her feathers and her brass87; and master after her! Many’s the time I’ve wondered that Mr. Godolphin has put up with it. I’d have given him a word of a sort, if I had been his brother.”
“I should if I’d been his wife——” Harriet was beginning, but Margery angrily arrested her. Her own tongue might be guilty of many slips in the heat of argument; but it was high treason for Harriet to lapse88 into them.
“Hold your sauce, girl! How dare you bring your mistress’s name up in any such thing? I don’t know what you mean, for my part. When she complains of her husband, it will be time enough then for you to join in the chorus. Could you wish to see a better husband, pray?”
“He is quite a model husband to her face,” replied saucy89 Harriet. “And the old saying’s a true one: What the eye don’t see, the heart won’t grieve. Where’s the need for us to quarrel over it?” she added, taking up her work again. “You have your opinion and I have mine, and if they were laid side by side, it’s likely they’d not be far apart from each other. But let them be bad or good, it can’t change the past. What’s done, is done: and the house is broken up.”
Margery flung off her shawl just as Charlotte Pain had flung off hers the previous Monday morning in the breakfast-room, and a silence ensued.
[352]“Perhaps the house may go on again?” said Margery, presently, in a dreamy tone.
“Why, how can it?” returned Harriet, looking up from her work at the pinafore, which she had resumed. “All the money’s gone. A bank can’t go on without money.”
“What does he say to it?” very sharply asked Margery.
“What does who say to it?”
“He is not here,” said Harriet. “He has not been home since he left last Saturday. It’s said he is in London.”
“And Mr. Godolphin?”
“Mr. Godolphin’s here. And a nice task he has of it every day with the angry creditors. If we have had one of the bank creditors bothering at the hall-door for Mr. George, we have had fifty. At first, they wouldn’t believe he was away, and wouldn’t be got rid of. Creditors of the house, too, have come, worrying my mistress out of her life. There’s a sight of money owing in the town. Cook says she wouldn’t have believed there was a quarter of the amount only just for household things, till it came to be summed up. Some of them downstairs are wondering if they will get their wages. And—I say, Margery, have you heard about Mr. Hastings?”
“What about him?” asked Margery.
“He has lost every shilling he had. It was in the Bank, and——”
“He couldn’t have had so very much to lose,” interposed Margery, who was in a humour to contradict everything. “What can a parson save? Not much.”
“But it is not that—not his money. The week before the Bank went, he had lodged91 between nine and ten thousand pounds in it for safety. He was left trustee, you know, to dead Mr. Chisholm’s children, and their money was paid to him, it turns out, and he brought it to the Bank. It’s all gone.”
Margery lifted her hands in dismay. “I have heard say that failures are like nothing but a devouring92 fire, for the money they swallow up,” she remarked. “It seems to be true.”
“My mistress has looked so ill ever since! And she can eat nothing. Pierce says it would melt the heart of a stone to see her make believe to eat before him, waiting at dinner, trying to get a morsel93 down her throat, and not able to do it. My belief is, that she’s thinking of her father’s ruin night and day. Report is, that master took the money from the Rector, knowing it would never be paid back again, and used it for himself.”
Margery got up with a jerk. “If I stop here I shall be hearing worse and worse,” she remarked. “This will be enough to kill Miss Janet. That awful Shadow hasn’t been on the Dark Plain this year for nothing. We might well notice that it never was so dark before!”
Perching her bonnet on her head, and throwing her shawl over her arm, Margery lighted a candle and opened a door leading from the room into a bed-chamber. Her own bed stood opposite to her, and in a corner at the opposite end was Miss Meta’s little bed. She laid her[353] shawl and bonnet on the drawers, and advanced on tiptoe, shading the light with her hand.
Intending to take a fond look at her darling. But, like many more of us who advance confidently on some pleasure, Margery found nothing but disappointment. The place where Meta ought to have been was empty. Nothing to be seen but the smooth white bed-clothes, laid ready open for the young lady’s reception. Did a fear dart94 over Margery’s mind that she must be lost? She certainly flew back as if some such idea occurred to her.
“Where’s the child?” she burst out.
“She has not come home yet,” replied Harriet, with composure. “I was waiting here for her.”
“Come home from where? Where is she?”
“At Lady Godolphin’s Folly. But Mrs. Pain has never kept her so late as this before.”
“She has been there every day this week. Mrs Pain has either come or sent for her. Look there,” added Harriet, pointing to a collection of toys in a corner of the nursery. “She has brought home all those things. Mrs. Pain loads her with them.”
Margery answered not a word. She blew out her candle, and went downstairs to the dining-room. Maria, her things never taken off, was sitting just as she had come in, apparently lost in thought. She rose up when Margery entered, and began untying96 her bonnet.
“Harriet says that the child’s at Mrs. Pain’s: that she has been there all the week,” began Margery, without circumlocution97.
“Yes,” replied Maria. “I cannot think why she has not come home. Mrs. Pain——”
“And you could let her go there, ma’am!” interrupted Margery’s indignant voice, paying little heed98 or deference99 to what her mistress might be saying. “There! If anybody had come and told it to me before this night, I would not have believed it.”
“But, Margery, it has done her no harm. There’s a pinafore or two torn, I believe, and that’s the worst. Mrs. Pain has been exceedingly kind. She has kept her dogs shut up all the week.”
“Kind! She!” repeated Margery, almost beside herself. “Why, then, if it’s come to this pass, you had better have your eyes opened, ma’am, if nothing else will stop the child’s going there. Your child at Mrs. Charlotte Pain’s! Prior’s Ash will talk more than it has talked before.”
“What has Prior’s Ash said?” asked Maria, an uncomfortable feeling stealing over her.
“It has wondered whether Mrs. George Godolphin has been wholly blind or only partially101 so; that’s what it has done, ma’am” returned Margery, quite forgetting herself in her irritation102. “And the woman coming here continually with her bold face! I’d rather see Meta——”
Margery’s eloquence103 was brought to a summary end. A noise in the hall was followed by the boisterous51 entrance of the ladies in question, Miss Meta and Mrs. Charlotte Pain. Charlotte—really she was wild[354] at times—had brought Meta home on horseback. Late as it was, she had mounted her horse to give the child pleasure, had mounted the child on the saddle before her, and so they had cantered down, attended by a groom104. Charlotte wore her habit, and held her whip in her hand. She came in pretending to beat an imaginary horse, for the delectation of Meta. Meta was furnished with a boy’s whip, a whistle at one end, a lash105 at the other. She was beating an imaginary horse too, varying the play with an occasional whistle. What with the noise, the laughing, the lashes106, and the whistle, it was as if Bedlam107 had broken loose. To crown the whole, Meta’s brown-holland dress was wofully torn, and the brim of her straw hat was almost separated from the crown.
Meta caught sight of Margery and flew to her. But not before Margery had made a sort of grab at the child. Clasping her in her arms, she held her there, as if she would protect her from some infection. To be clasped in arms, however, and thus deprived of the delights of whip-smacking and whistling, did not accord with Miss Meta’s inclinations108, and she struggled to get free.
“You’d best stop here and hide yourself, poor child!” cried Margery in a voice excessively pointed109.
“It’s not much,” said Charlotte, supposing the remark applied110 to the damages. “The brim is only unsewn, and the blouse is an old one. She did it in swinging.”
“Who’s talking of that?” fiercely responded Margery to Mrs. Pain. “If folks had to hide their faces for nothing worse than torn clothes, it wouldn’t be of much account.”
Charlotte did not like the tone. “Perhaps you will wait until your opinion’s asked for,” said she, turning haughtily111 on Margery. There had been incipient112 warfare113 between those two for years: and they both were innately114 conscious of it.
A shrill115 whistle from Meta interrupted the contest. She had escaped and was standing in the middle of the room, her legs astride, her damaged hat set rakishly on the side of her head, her attitude altogether not unlike that of a man standing to see a horse go through his paces. It was precisely116 what the young lady was imitating: she had been taken by Charlotte to the stable-yard that day, to witness the performance.
Clack, clack! “Lift your feet up, you lazy brute117!” Clack, clack, clack! “Mamma, I am making a horse canter.”
Charlotte looked on with admiring ecstasy118, and clapped her hands. Maria seemed bewildered: Margery stood with dilating119 eyes and open mouth. There was little doubt that Miss Meta, under the able tuition of Mrs. Pain, might become an exceedingly fast young lady in time.
“You have been teaching her that!” burst forth Margery to Mrs. Pain in her uncontrollable anger. “What else might you have been teaching her? It’s fit, it is, for you to be let have the companionship of Miss Meta Godolphin!”
Charlotte laughed in her face defiantly—contemptuously—with a gleeful, merry accent. Margery, perhaps distrustful of what she might be further tempted120 to say herself, put an end to the scene by catching121 up Meta and forcibly carrying her off, in spite of rebellious122 kicks and screams. In her temper, she flung the whip to the other end of the[355] hall as she passed through it. “They’d make you into a boy, and worse, if they had their way. I wish Miss Janet had been here to-night!”
“What an idiotic123 old maid she is, that Margery!” exclaimed Charlotte, laughing still. “Good night. I can’t stay. I shall come for Meta to-morrow.”
“Not to-morrow,” dissented124 Maria, feeling that the struggle with Margery would be too formidable. “I thank you very much for your kindness, Mrs. Pain,” she heartily125 added; “but now that Margery has returned, she will not like to part with Meta.”
“As you will,” said Charlotte, with a laugh. “Margery would not let her come, you think. Good night. Dormez bien.”
Before the sound of the closing of the hall-door had ceased its echoes through the house, Margery was in the dining-room again, her face white with anger. Her mistress, a thing she very rarely did, ventured on a reproof126.
“You forgot yourself, Margery, when you spoke just now to Mrs. Pain. I felt inclined to apologize to her for you.”
This was the climax127. “Forgot myself!” echoed Margery, her face growing whiter. “No, ma’am, it’s because I did not forget myself that she’s gone out of the house without her ears tingling128. I should have made ’em tingle46 if I had spoke out. Not that some folk’s ears can tingle,” added Margery, amending129 her proposition. “Hers is of the number, so I should have spent my words for nothing. If Mr. George had spent his words upon somebody else, it might be the better for us all now.”
“Margery!”
“I can’t help it, ma’am, I must have my say. Heaven knows I wouldn’t have opened my mouth to you; I’d have kept it closed for ever, though I died for it—and it’s not five minutes ago that I pretty well snapped Harriet’s nose off for daring to give out hints and to bring up your name—but it’s time you did know a little of what has been going on, to the scandal of Prior’s Ash. Meta up at Lady Godolphin’s Folly with that woman!”
“Margery!” again interrupted her mistress. But Margery’s words were as a torrent130 that bears down all before it.
“It has been the talk of the town; it has been the talk of the servants here; it has been the talk among the servants at Ashlydyat. If I thought you’d let the child go out with her in public again, I’d pray that I might first follow her to the grave in her little coffin131.”
Maria’s face had turned as white as Margery’s. She sat as a statue, gazing at the woman with eyes in which there shone a strange kind of fear.
“I—don’t—know—what—it—is—you—mean,” she said, the words coming out disjointedly.
“It means, ma’am, that you have lived with a mist before your eyes. You have thought my master a saint and a paragon132, and he was neither the one nor the other. And now I hope you’ll pardon me for saying to your face what others have been long saying behind your back.”
She turned sharply off as she concluded, and quitted the room[356] abruptly133 as she had entered it, leaving Maria motionless, her breath coming in gasps134, and the dewdrops cold on her brow.
The substance of what Margery had spoken out so broadly had sometimes passed through her mind as a dim shadow. But never to rest there.
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收听单词发音
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1
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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4
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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6
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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8
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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10
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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12
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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14
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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15
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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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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17
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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18
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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19
flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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20
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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21
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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22
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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24
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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25
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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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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27
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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29
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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31
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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32
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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33
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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34
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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35
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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38
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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39
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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40
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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41
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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42
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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43
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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44
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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45
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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47
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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48
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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49
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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50
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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51
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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52
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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53
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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54
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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55
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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56
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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57
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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58
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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59
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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60
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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61
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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63
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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64
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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65
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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66
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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67
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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68
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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69
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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70
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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71
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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72
clam
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| n.蛤，蛤肉 | |
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73
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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75
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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76
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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77
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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78
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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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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80
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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81
biased
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| a.有偏见的 | |
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82
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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83
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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84
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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85
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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86
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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87
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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88
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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89
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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90
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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91
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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92
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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93
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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94
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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95
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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97
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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98
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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103
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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104
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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105
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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106
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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108
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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113
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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innately
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| adv.天赋地；内在地，固有地 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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118
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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119
dilating
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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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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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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dissented
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| 不同意，持异议( dissent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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126
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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127
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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129
amending
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| 改良，修改，修订( amend的现在分词 )； 改良，修改，修订( amend的第三人称单数 )( amends的现在分词 ) | |
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130
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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