George Godolphin leaned against a pillar of the terrace opening from the dining-room. They had not left the Bank yet as a residence, but this was their last day in it. It was the last day they could remain in it, and why they should have lingered in it so long was food for gossip in Prior’s Ash. On the morrow the house would become public property. Men would walk in and ticket all the things, apportion1 them their place in the catalogue, their order in the days of sale; and the public would crowd in also, to feast their eyes upon the household gods hitherto sacred to George Godolphin.
How did he feel as he stood there? Was his spirit in heaviness, as was the case under similar misfortune with another man—if the written record he left to us may be trusted—that great poet, ill-fated in death as in life, whose genius has since found no parallel of its kind:—
“It was a trying moment, that which found him,
While all his household gods lay shivered round him.”
Did George Godolphin find it trying? Was his hearth desolate? Not desolate in the full sense in which that other spoke5, for George Godolphin’s wife was with him still.
She had stood by him. When he first returned to Prior’s Ash, she[383] had greeted him with her kind smile, with words of welcome. She spoke not of what that awful shock had been to her, the discovery of the part he had played in Lord Averil’s bonds; she spoke not of another shock, not less awful. Whatever effect that unpleasant scandal, mentioned by Margery, which it seems had formed a staple6 dish for Prior’s Ash, may have been taking upon her in secret and silence, she gave no sign of it to George. He never suspected that any such whisper, touching7 his worthy8 self, had been breathed to her. Mr. George best knew what grounds there might be for it: whether it bore any foundation, or whether it was but one of those breezy rumours9, false as the wind, which have their rise in ill-nature, and in that alone. But however it may have been, whether true or false, he could not divine that such poison would be dropped into his wife’s ear. If he had thought her greeting to him strange, her manner more utterly10 subdued11 than there was need for, her grief more violent, he attributed it all to the recent misfortunes: and Maria made no other sign.
The effects had been bought in at Ashlydyat, but these had not: and this was the last day, almost the last hour of his occupancy. One would think his eyes would be cast around in lingering looks of farewell—upon chairs and tables, scattered12 ornaments13, and rich carpets, upon the valuable and familiar pictures. Not a bit of it. George’s eyes were bent14 on his nails, which he was trimming to his satisfaction, and he was carolling in an undertone a strain of a new English opera.
They were to go out that evening. At dusk. At dusk, you may be sure. They were to go forth15 from their luxurious16 home, and enter upon obscure lodgings17, and go down in the scale of what the world calls society. Not that the lodgings were obscure, taken in the abstract; but obscure indeed, as compared with their home at the Bank, very obscure beside the home they had sometime thought to remove to—Ashlydyat.
He stood there in his careless beauty, his bright face bent downwards18, his tall, fine form noble in its calmness. The sun was playing with his hair, bringing out its golden tints19, and a smile illumined his face, as he went on with his song. Whatever may have been George Godolphin’s shortcomings in some points of view, none could reproach him on the score of his personal attractions. All the old terror, the gnawing20 care, had gone out of him with the easy bankruptcy21—easy in its results to him, compared with what might have been—and gay George, graceless George, was himself again. There may have been something deficient22 in his moral organization, for he really appeared to take no shame to himself for what had occurred. He stood there calmly self-possessed; the perfect gentleman, so far as appearance and manners could make him one: looking as fit to bend his knee at the proud court of St. James’s as ever that stately gentleman his father had looked when her Majesty23 touched him with the sword-blade and bade him rise up Sir George:
“Once would my heart with the wildest emotion
Throb, dearest Eily, when near me wert thou;
Now I regard thee with deep——”
The strain was interrupted, and George, as he ceased it, glanced up.[384] Meta, looking, it must be confessed, rather black about the hands and pinafore, as if Margery had not had time to attend to her within the last hour, came running in. George shut up his knife and held out his arms.
“Papa, are we to have tea at home, or after we get into the lodgings?”
“Ask mamma,” responded George.
“Mamma told me to ask you. She doesn’t know, she says. She’s too busy to talk to me. She’s getting the great box on to the stand.”
“She’s doing what?” cried George in a quick accent.
“Getting the great box on to the stand,” repeated Meta. “She’s going to pack it. Papa, will the lodgings be better than this? Will there be a big garden? Margery says there’ll be no room for my rocking-horse. Won’t there?”
Something in the child’s questions may have grated on the fine ear of George Godolphin, had he stayed to listen to them. However lightly the bankruptcy might be passing over George’s mind on his own score, he regretted its results most bitterly for his wife and child. To see them turned from their home, condemned24 to descend25 to the inconveniences and obscurity of these lodgings, was the worst pill George Godolphin had ever had to swallow. He would have cut off his right arm to retain them in their position; ay, and also his left: he could have struck himself to the earth in his rage for the disgrace he had brought on them.
Hastening up the stairs he entered his bedroom. It was in a litter; boxes and wearing-apparel lying about. Maria, flushed and breathless, was making great efforts to drag a cumbrous trunk on to a stand, or small bench, for the convenience of filling it. No very extensive efforts either; for she knew that such might harm her at present in her feeble strength.
George raised the trunk to its place with one lift of his manly26 arms, and then forced his wife, with more gentleness, into a chair.
“I was not hurting myself,” she answered. “The things must be packed.”
“Of course they must. But not by you. Where’s Margery?”
“Margery has a great deal to do. She cannot do all.”
“Then where’s Sarah?” resumed George crossly and sharply.
“Sarah’s in the kitchen preparing dinner. We must have some to-day.”
“Show me what the things are, and I will pack them.”
“Nonsense! As if it would hurt me to put the things into the box! You never interfered29 with me before, George.”
“You never attempted this sort of work before. I won’t have it, Maria. Were you in a state of health to be knocking about, you might do it; but you certainly shall not, as it is.”
It was his self-reproach that was causing his angry tone; very keenly at that moment was it making itself heard. And Maria’s spirits were not that day equal to sharpness of speech. It told upon her, and she burst into tears.
[385]How terribly the signs of distress30 vexed him, no words could tell. He took them as a tacit reproach to himself. And they were so: however unintentional on her part such reproach might be.
“Maria, I won’t have this; I can’t bear it,” he cried, his voice hoarse31 with emotion. “If you show this temper, this childish sorrow before me, I shall run away.”
He could have cut his tongue out for so speaking—for his stinging words; for their stinging tone. “Temper! Childish sorrow!” George chafed32 at himself in his self-condemnation: he chafed—he knew how unjustly—at Maria.
Very, very unjustly. She had not annoyed him with reproaches, with complaints, as some wives would have done; she had not, to him, shown symptoms of the grief that was wearing out her heart. She had been considerate to him, bearing up bravely whenever he was at Prior’s Ash. Even now, as she dried away the rebellious33 tears, she would not let him think they were being shed for the lost happiness of the past, but murmured some feeble excuse about a headache.
He saw through the fond deceit; he saw all the generosity34; and the red shame mantled35 in his fair face as he bent down to her, and his voice changed to one of the deepest tenderness.
“If I have lost you this home, Maria, I will get you another,” he whispered. “Only give me a little time. Don’t grieve before me if you can help it, my darling: it is as though you ran a knife into my very soul. I can bear the loud abuse of the whole world, better than one silent reproach from you.”
And the sweet words came to her as a precious balm. However bitter had been the shock of that one rude awaking, she loved him fondly still. It may be that she loved him only the more deeply: for the passions of the human heart are wayward and wilful36, utterly unamenable to control.
Margery came into the room with her hands and arms full. George may have been glad of the divertisement, and turned upon her, his voice resuming its anger. “What’s the meaning of this, Margery? I come up here and I find your mistress packing and dragging boxes about. Can’t you see to these things?”
Margery was as cross as George that day, and her answer in its sharpness rivalled his. Direct reproof38 Margery had never presumed to offer her master, though she would have liked to do it amazingly, for not one of those who condemned him held a more exaggerated view of Mr. George’s past delinquencies than she.
“I can’t be in ten places at once. And I can’t do the work of ten people. If you know them that can, sir, you’d better get them here instead of me.”
“Did I not ask you if you should want assistance in packing, and you told me that you should not?” retorted George.
“No more I don’t want it,” was the answer. “I can do all the packing that is to be done here, if I am let alone, and allowed to take my own time, and do it in my own way. In all that chaffling and changing of houses when my Lady Godolphin chose to move the Ashlydyat things to the Folly39, and when they had to be moved back afterwards in accordance with Sir George’s will, who did the best part[386] of the packing and saw to everything, but me? It would be odd if I couldn’t put up a few gowns and shirts, but I must be talked to about help!”
Poor Margery was evidently in a temper. Time back George would have put her down with a haughty40 word of authority or with joking mockery, as the humour might have taken him. He did not to-day. There had been wrong inflicted41 upon Margery; and it may be that he was feeling it. She had lost the little savings42 of years—the Brays43 had not allowed them to be very great; she had lost the money bequeathed to her by Mrs. Godolphin. All had been in the Bank, and all had gone. In addition to this, there were personal discomforts44. Margery found the work of a common servant thrown upon her in her old age: an under girl, Sarah, was her only help now at the Bank, and Margery alone would follow their fallen fortunes to these lodgings.
“If my mistress chooses to set to work behind my back, I can’t stop it. She knows there’s no need to do it. If you’ll be so good, ma’am,” turning to her mistress, “as just let things alone and leave ’em to me, you’ll find they’ll be done. What’s a few clothes to pack?” indignantly repeated Margery. “And there’s nothing else that we may take. If I put up but a pair of sheets or a tin dish-cover, I should be called a thief, I suppose.”
There lay the great grievance46 of Margery’s present mood—that everything, except the “few clothes,” must be left behind. Margery, for all her crustiness and her outspoken47 temper, was a most faithfully attached servant, and it may be questioned if she did not feel the abandonment of their goods more keenly than did even Maria and George. The things were not hers: every article of her own, even to a silver cream-jug which had been the boasted treasure of her life, she had been allowed to retain; even to the little work-box of white satin-wood, with its landscape, the trees of which Miss Meta had been permitted to paint red, and the cottage blue. Not an article of Margery’s that she could remove but was sacred to her: but in her fidelity48 she did resent bitterly having to leave the property of her master and mistress, that it might all pass into the hands of strangers.
Maria, debarred from assisting, wandered in her restlessness through some of the more familiar rooms. It was well that she should pay them a farewell visit. From the bedroom where the packing was going on, to George’s dressing-room, thence to her own sitting-room49, thence to the drawing-room, all on that floor. She lingered in all. A home sanctified by years of happiness cannot be quitted without regret, even when exchanged at pleasure for another; but to turn out of it in humiliation50, in poverty, in hopelessness, is a trial of the sharpest and sorest kind. Apart from the pain, the feeling was a strange one. The objects crowding these rooms: the necessary furniture costly51 and substantial; the elegant ornaments of various shapes and sorts, the chaste52 works of art, not necessary, but so luxurious and charming, had hitherto been their own—hers in conjunction with her husband’s. They might have done what they pleased with them. Had she broken that Wedgwood vase, there was no one to call her to ac[387] count for it: had she or George chosen to make a present of that rare basket in medallion, with its speaking likenesses of the beauties of the whilom gay French court, there was no one to say them nay53; had they felt disposed to change that fine piano for another, the liberty to do so was theirs. They had been the owners of these surroundings, master and mistress of the house and its contents. And now? Not a single article belonged to them: they were but tenants54 on sufferance: the things remained, but their right in them had passed away. If she dropped and broke only that pretty trifle which her hand was touching now, she must answer for the mishap55. The feeling, I say, was a strange one.
She walked through the rooms with dry eyes and a hot brow. Tears seemed long ago to have gone from her. It is true she had been surprised into a few that day, but the lapse56 was unusual. Why should she make this farewell visit to the rooms, she began asking herself. She needed it not to remember them. Visions of the past came crowding upon her memory; of this or the other happy day spent in them: of the gay meetings when they had received the world; of the sweet home hours when she had sat there alone with him of whom she had well-nigh made an idol57—her husband. Mistaken idolatry, Mrs. George Godolphin! mistaken, useless, vain idolatry. Was there ever an earthly idol yet that did not mock its worshipper? I know of none. We make an idol of our child, and the time comes when it will turn and sting us: we make an idol of the god or goddess of our passionate58 love, and how does it end?
Maria sat down and leaned her head upon her hand, thinking more of the past than of the future. She was getting to have less hope in the future than was good for her. It is a bad sign when a sort of apathy59 with regard to it steals over us; a proof that the mind is not in the healthy state that it ought to be. A time of trial, of danger, was approaching for Maria, and she seemed to contemplate60 the possibility of her sinking under if with strange calmness. A few months ago, the bare glance at such a fear would have unhinged her: she would have clung to her husband and Meta, and sobbed61 out her passionate prayer to God in her dire37 distress, not to be taken from them. Things had changed: the world in which she had been so happy had lost its charm for her; the idol in whose arms she had sheltered herself turned out not to have been of pure gold: and Maria Godolphin began to realize the truth of the words of the wise king of Jerusalem—that the world and its dearest hopes are but vanity.
Meanwhile Mrs. Charlotte Pain, in her looped-up petticoats and nicely-fitting kid boots, was tripping jauntily62 through the streets of Prior’s Ash. Mrs. Pain had been somewhat vacillating in regard to her departure from that long-familiar town; she had reconsidered her determination of quitting it so abruptly63; and on the day she went out of Lady Godolphin’s Folly, she entered on some stylish64 lodgings in the heart of Prior’s Ash. Only for a week or two; just to give her time to take proper leave of her friends she said: but the weeks had gone on and on, and Charlotte was still there.
Society had been glad to keep Charlotte. Society of course shuts its lofty ears to the ill-natured tales spread by low-bred people: that[388] is, when it finds it convenient so to do. Society had been pleased to be deaf to any little obscure tit-bits of scandal which had made vulgarly free with Charlotte’s name: and as to the vague rumours connecting Mr. Verrall with George Godolphin’s ruin, no one knew whether that was not pure scandal too. But if not, why—Mrs. Pain could not be justly reflected on for the faults of Mr. Verrall. So Charlotte was as popular and dashing in her hired rooms as she had been at Lady Godolphin’s Folly, and she had remained in them until now.
But now she was really going. This was the last day of her sojourn65 at Prior’s Ash, and Charlotte was walking about unceremoniously, bestowing66 her farewells on any one who would receive them. It almost seemed as if she had only waited to witness the removal from the Bank of Mr. and Mrs. George Godolphin.
She walked along in exuberant67 spirits, nodding her head to everyone: up at windows, in at doorways68, to poor people on foot, to rich ones in carriages; her good-natured smile was everywhere. She rushed into shops and chatted familiarly, and won the shopkeepers’ hearts by asking if they were not sorry to lose her. She was turning out of one when she came upon the Rector of All Souls’. Charlotte’s petticoats went down in a swimming reverence69.
“I am paying my farewell visits, Mr. Hastings. Prior’s Ash will be rid of me to-morrow.”
Not an answering smile crossed the Rector’s face: it was cold, impassive, haughtily70 civil: almost as if he were thinking that Prior’s Ash might have been none the worse had it been rid of Mrs. Charlotte Pain before.
“How is Mrs. Hastings to-day?” asked Charlotte.
“She is not well.”
“No! I must try and get a minute to call in on her. Adieu for the present. I shall see you again, I hope.”
Down sank the skirts once more, and the Rector lifted his hat in silence. In the ultra-politeness, in the spice of sauciness71 gleaming out from her flashing eyes, the clergyman read incipient72 defiance73. But if Mrs. Pain feared that he might be intending to favour her with a little public clerical censure74, she was entirely75 mistaken. The Rector washed his hands of Mrs. Pain, as Lady Godolphin did of her step-son, Mr. George. He walked on, a flash of scorn lighting76 his face.
Charlotte walked on: and burst into a laugh as she did so. “Was he afraid to forbid my calling at the Rectory?” she asked herself. “He would have liked to, I know. I’ll go there now.”
She was not long reaching it. But Isaac was the only one of the family she saw. He came to her charged with Mrs. Hastings’s compliments—she felt unequal to seeing Mrs. Pain.
“I hear you are going to London,” said Charlotte. “You have found some situation there, George Godolphin tells me.”
Isaac threw his eyes—they were just like the Rector’s—straight and full into her face. In her present spirit, half mischievous77, half defiant78, she had expressly paraded the name of George, as her informant, and Isaac thoroughly79 understood her. Charlotte’s eyes were dancing with a variety of expressions, but the chief one was good-humoured malice80.
[389]“I am going into a bank in Lombard-street. Mr. Godolphin got me into it.”
“You won’t like it,” said Charlotte.
“I dare say not. But I think myself lucky to get it.”
“There will be one advantage,” continued Charlotte good-naturedly—“you can come and see us. You know Mrs. Verrall’s address. Come as often as you can; every Sunday, if you like; any week-day evening: I’ll promise you a welcome beforehand.”
“You are very kind,” briefly81 returned Isaac. They were walking slowly to the gate, and he held it open for her.
“What’s Reginald doing?” she asked. “Have you heard from him lately?”
“Not very lately. You are aware that he is in London, under a master of navigation, preparatory to passing for second officer. As soon as he has passed, he will go to sea again.”
“When you write to him, give him our address, and tell him to come and see me. And now good-bye,” added Charlotte heartily82. “And mind you don’t show yourself a muff, Mr. Isaac, but come and see us. Do you hear?”
“I hear,” said Isaac, smiling, as he thawed83 to her good-humour. “I wish you a pleasant journey, Mrs. Pain.”
“Merci bien. Good-bye.”
The church clock boomed out five as Charlotte passed it, and she came to a standstill of consideration. It was the hour at which she had ordered dinner to be ready.
“Bother dinner!” decided84 she. “I can’t go home for that. I want to see if they are in their lodgings yet. Is that you, Mrs. Bond?”
Sure enough, Mrs. Bond had come into view, and was halting to bob down to Charlotte. Her face looked pale and pinched. There had been no supply of strong waters to-day.
“I be a’most starving, ma’am. I’m waiting here to catch the parson, for I’ve been to his house, and they say he’s out. I dun know as it’s of any good seeing him, either. ’Tain’t much he has to give away now.”
“I am about to leave, Mrs. Bond,” cried Charlotte in her free and communicative humour.
“More’s the ill-luck, and I have heered on’t,” responded Mrs. Bond. “Everybody as is good to us poor goes away, or dies, or fails, or sum’at. There’ll soon be nought85 left for us but the work’us. Many’s the odd bit o’ silver you have given me at times, ma’am.”
“So I have,” said Charlotte, laughing. “What if I were to give you this, as a farewell remembrance?”
She took a half-sovereign out of her purse, and held it up. Mrs. Bond gasped86: the luck seemed too great to be realized.
“Here, you may have it,” said Charlotte, dropping it into the trembling hand held out. “But you know you are nothing but an old sinner, Mrs. Bond.”
“I knows I be,” humbly87 acquiesced88 Mrs. Bond. “’Tain’t of no good denying of it to you, ma’am: you be up to things.”
Charlotte laughed, taking the words, perhaps, rather as a compliment. “You’ll go and change this at the nearest gin-shop, and you’ll reel into[390] bed to-night blindfold89. That’s the only good you’ll do with it. There, don’t say I left Prior’s Ash, forgetting you.”
She walked on rapidly, leaving Mrs. Bond in her ecstasy90 of delight to waste her thanks on the empty air. The lodgings George had taken were at the opposite end of the town, nearer to Ashlydyat, and to them Charlotte was bound. They were not on the high-road, but in a quiet side lane. The house, low and roomy, and built in the cottage style, stood in the midst of a flourishing garden. A small grass-plat and some flowers were before the front windows, but the rest of the ground was filled with fruit and vegetables. Charlotte opened the green gate and walked up the path, which led to the house.
The front door was open to a small hall, and Charlotte went in, finding her way, and turned to a room on the left: a cheerful, good-sized, old-fashioned parlour, with a green carpet, and pink flowers on its walls. There stood Margery, laying out tea-cups and bread and butter. Her eyes opened at the sight of Mrs. Pain.
“Have they come yet, Margery?”
“No,” was Margery’s short answer. “They’ll be here in half an hour, maybe; and that’ll be before I want ’em—with all the rooms and everything to see to, and only me to do it.”
“Is that all you are going to give them for tea?” cried Charlotte, looking contemptuously at the table. “I should surprise them with a dainty dish or two on the table. It would look cheering: and they might soon be cooked.”
“I dare say they might, where there’s time and convenience,” wrathfully returned Margery, who relished91 Mrs. Pain’s interference as little as she liked her presence. “The kitchen we are to have is about as big as a rat-hole, and my hands are full enough this evening without dancing out to buy meats and dainties.”
“Of course you will light a fire here?” said Charlotte, turning to the grate. “I see it is laid.”
“But a fire will be a pleasant welcome. I’ll do it myself.”
She took up a box of matches which stood on the mantel-piece, and set light to the wood under the coal. Margery took no notice one way or the other. The fire in a fair way of burning, Charlotte hastened from the house, and Margery breathed freely again.
Not for very long. A little time, and Charlotte was back again, accompanied by a boy, bearing sundry93 parcels. There was a renowned94 comestible shop in Prior’s Ash, and Charlotte had been ransacking95 it. She had also been home for a small parcel on her own account; but that did not contain eatables.
Taking off her cloak and bonnet96, she made herself at home. Critically surveying the bedrooms; visiting the kitchen to see that the kettle boiled; lighting the lamp on the tea-table, for it was dark then; demanding an unlimited97 supply of plates, and driving Margery nearly wild with her audacity98. But Charlotte was doing it all in good feeling; in her desire to render this new asylum99 bright-looking at the moment of their taking possession of it; to cheat the first entrance of some of its bitterness for Maria. Whatever may have been Mrs. Charlotte Pain’s faults—and Margery, for one, gave her credit for plenty—she[391] was capable of generous impulses. It is probable that in the days gone by, a feeling of jealousy100, of spite, had rankled101 in her heart against George Godolphin’s wife: but that had worn itself out; had been finally lost in the sorrow felt for Maria since misfortune had fallen. When the fly drove up to the door, and George brought in his wife and Meta, the bright room, the well-laden tea-table greeted their surprised eyes, and Charlotte was advancing with open hands.
“I thought you’d like to see some one here to get things comfortable for you, and I knew that cross-grained Margery would have enough to do between the boxes and her temper,” she cried, taking Maria’s hands. “How are you, Mr. George?”
George found his tongue. “This is kind of you, Mrs. Pain.”
Maria felt that it was kind: and in her flow of gratitude102, as her hand lay in Charlotte’s warm grasp, she almost forgot that cruel calumny103. Not quite: it could not be quite forgotten, even momentarily, until earth and its passions should have passed away.
“And mademoiselle?” continued Charlotte. Mademoiselle, little gourmande that she was, was raised on her toes, surveying the table with curious eyes. Charlotte lifted her in her arms, and held up to her view a glass jar, something within it the colour of pale amber104. “This is for good children, Meta.”
“It’s—let me read the label—it’s pine-apple jelly. And that’s boned fowl106; and that’s galantine de veau; and that’s pâté de lapereaux aux truffes—if you understand what it all means, petite marmotte. And—there—you can look at everything and find out for yourself,” concluded Charlotte. “I am going to show mamma her bedroom.”
It opened from the sitting-room: an excellent arrangement, as Charlotte observed, in case of illness. Maria cast her eyes round it, and saw a sufficiently107 comfortable chamber108. It was not their old luxurious chamber at the Bank; but luxuries and they must part company now.
Charlotte reigned109 at the head of the table that night, triumphantly110 gay. Margery waited with a stiffened111 neck and pursed-up lips. Nothing more: there were no other signs of rebellion. Margery had had her say out with that one memorable112 communication, and from thenceforth her lips were closed for ever. Did the woman repent113 of having spoken?—did she now think it better to have let doubt be doubt? It is hard to say. She had made no further objection to Mrs. Pain in words: she intended to make none. If that lady filled Miss Meta to illness to-night with pine-apple jelly and boned fowl, and the other things with unpronounceable names, which Margery regarded as rank poison, when regaling Miss Meta, she should not interfere28. The sin might lie on her master and mistress’s head.
It was close upon ten when Charlotte rose to depart, which she persisted in doing alone, in spite of George’s remonstrance114. Charlotte had no fear of being in the streets alone: she would as soon go through them by night as by day.
As a proof of this, she did not proceed directly homewards, but turned up a road that led to the railway station. She had no objection[392] to a stroll that moonlight night, and she had a fancy for seeing what passengers the ten-o’clock train brought, which was just in.
It brought none. None that Charlotte could see: and she was preparing to turn back on the dull road, when a solitary115 figure came looming116 on her sight in the distance. He was better than no one, regarding him from Charlotte’s sociable117 point of view: but he appeared to be advanced in years. She could see so much before he came up.
Charlotte strolled on, gratifying her curiosity by a good stare. A tall, portly man, with a fresh colour and snow-white hair. She was passing him, when he lifted his face, which had been bent, and turned it towards her. The recognition was mutual118, and she darted119 up to him, and gave his hand a hearty120 shake. It was Mr. Crosse.
“Good gracious me! We thought you never meant to come back again!”
“And I would rather not have come back, Mrs. Pain, than come to hear what I am obliged to hear. I went streaming off from Pau, where I was staying, a confounded, senseless tour into Spain, leaving no orders for letters to be sent to me; and so I heard nothing. What has brought about this awful calamity121?”
“What calamity!” repeated Mr. Crosse, who was rapid in speech and hot in temper. “The failure of the Bank—the Godolphins’ ruin. What else?”
“Oh, that!” slightingly returned Charlotte. “That’s stale news now. Folks are forgetting it. Queen Anne’s dead.”
“What brought it about?” reiterated123 Mr. Crosse, neither words nor tone pleasing him.
“What does bring such things about?” rejoined Charlotte. “Want of money, I suppose. Or bad management.”
“But there was no want of money; there was no bad management in the Godolphins’ house,” raved124 Mr. Crosse, becoming excited. “I wish you’d not play upon my feelings, Mrs. Pain.”
“Who is playing upon them?” cried Charlotte. “If it was not want of money, if it was not bad management, I don’t know what else it was.”
“I was told in London, as I came through it, that George Godolphin had been playing up old Rosemary with everything, and that Verrall has helped him,” continued Mr. Crosse.
“Folks will talk,” said bold Charlotte. “I was told—it was the current report in Prior’s Ash—that the stoppage had occurred through Mr. Crosse withdrawing his money from the concern.”
“What an unfounded assertion,” exclaimed that gentleman in choler. “Prior’s Ash ought to have known better.”
“So ought those who tell you rubbish about George Godolphin and Verrall,” coolly affirmed Charlotte.
“Where’s Thomas Godolphin?”
“At Ashlydyat. He’s in luck. My Lord Averil has bought it all in as it stands, and Mr. Godolphin remains125 in it.”
“He is ill, I hear?”
“Pretty near dead, I hear,” retorted Charlotte. “My lord is to marry Miss Cecilia.”
[393]“And where’s that wicked George?”
“If you call names, I won’t answer you another word, Mr. Crosse.”
“I suppose you don’t like to hear it,” he returned in so pointed126 a manner that Charlotte might have felt it as a lance-shaft. “Well, where is he?”
“Just gone into lodgings with his wife and Margery and Meta. I have been taking tea with them. They left the Bank to-day.”
Mr. Crosse stood, nodding his head in the moonlight, and communing aloud with himself. “And so—and so—it is all a smash together! It is as bad as was said.”
“It couldn’t be worse,” cried Charlotte. “Prior’s Ash won’t hold up its head for many a day. It’s no longer worth living in. I leave it for good to-morrow.”
“Poor Sir George! It’s a good thing he was in his grave. Lord Averil could have prosecuted127 George, I hear.”
“Were I to hear to-morrow that I could be prosecuted for standing here and talking to you to-night, it wouldn’t surprise me,” was the answer.
“What on earth did he do with the money? What went with it?”
“Report runs that he founded a cluster of almhouses with it,” said Charlotte demurely128. “Ten old women, who were to be found in coals and red cloaks, and half-a-crown a week.”
The words angered him beyond everything. Nothing could have been more serious than his mood; nothing could savour of levity129, of mockery, more than hers. “Report runs that he has been giving fabulous130 prices for horses to make presents of,” angrily retorted Mr. Crosse, in a tone of pointed significance.
“Not a bit of it,” returned undaunted Charlotte. “He only gave bills.”
“Good night to you, Mrs. Pain,” came the next words, haughtily and abruptly, and Mr. Crosse turned to continue his way.
Leaving Charlotte standing there. No other passengers came down from the station: there were none to come: and she turned to retrace131 her steps to the town. She walked slowly and moved her head from side to side, as if she would take in all the familiar features of the landscape by way of farewell in anticipation132 of the morrow; the day that was to close her residence at Prior’s Ash for ever.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
apportion
|
|
| vt.（按比例或计划）分配 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
desolate
|
|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
hearth
|
|
| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
staple
|
|
| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
rumours
|
|
| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
subdued
|
|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
ornaments
|
|
| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
luxurious
|
|
| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
lodgings
|
|
| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
downwards
|
|
| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
tints
|
|
| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
gnawing
|
|
| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
bankruptcy
|
|
| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
deficient
|
|
| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
majesty
|
|
| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
descend
|
|
| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
manly
|
|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
vexed
|
|
| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
interfere
|
|
| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
interfered
|
|
| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
hoarse
|
|
| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
chafed
|
|
| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
rebellious
|
|
| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
generosity
|
|
| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
mantled
|
|
| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
wilful
|
|
| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
dire
|
|
| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
reproof
|
|
| n.斥责，责备 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
haughty
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
inflicted
|
|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
savings
|
|
| n.存款，储蓄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
brays
|
|
| n.驴叫声，似驴叫的声音( bray的名词复数 )；（喇叭的）嘟嘟声v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的第三人称单数 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
discomforts
|
|
| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
meddle
|
|
| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
grievance
|
|
| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
outspoken
|
|
| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
fidelity
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
sitting-room
|
|
| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
humiliation
|
|
| n.羞辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
costly
|
|
| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
chaste
|
|
| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
tenants
|
|
| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
mishap
|
|
| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
lapse
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
idol
|
|
| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
apathy
|
|
| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
contemplate
|
|
| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
sobbed
|
|
| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
jauntily
|
|
| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
stylish
|
|
| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
sojourn
|
|
| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
bestowing
|
|
| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
exuberant
|
|
| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
doorways
|
|
| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
reverence
|
|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
haughtily
|
|
| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
sauciness
|
|
| n.傲慢，鲁莽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
72
incipient
|
|
| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
censure
|
|
| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
lighting
|
|
| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
mischievous
|
|
| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
defiant
|
|
| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
malice
|
|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
briefly
|
|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
thawed
|
|
| 解冻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
nought
|
|
| n.／adj.无，零 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
gasped
|
|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
humbly
|
|
| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
acquiesced
|
|
| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
blindfold
|
|
| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
ecstasy
|
|
| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
relished
|
|
| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
grunted
|
|
| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
sundry
|
|
| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
renowned
|
|
| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
ransacking
|
|
| v.彻底搜查( ransack的现在分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
bonnet
|
|
| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
unlimited
|
|
| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
audacity
|
|
| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
asylum
|
|
| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
rankled
|
|
| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
calumny
|
|
| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
amber
|
|
| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
smacking
|
|
| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
fowl
|
|
| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
chamber
|
|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
reigned
|
|
| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
triumphantly
|
|
| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
stiffened
|
|
| 加强的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
memorable
|
|
| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
repent
|
|
| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
remonstrance
|
|
| n抗议，抱怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
looming
|
|
| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
sociable
|
|
| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
mutual
|
|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
darted
|
|
| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
hearty
|
|
| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
calamity
|
|
| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
reiterated
|
|
| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
raved
|
|
| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
prosecuted
|
|
| a.被起诉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
demurely
|
|
| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
levity
|
|
| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
fabulous
|
|
| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
retrace
|
|
| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
anticipation
|
|
| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |