The Lady Letitia, who was preparing for her departure from Rodenham, treated her nephew very courteously1, and with a species of pitying kindness that suggested how profound and melancholy2 her forebodings were as to the future. She had received the news of the betrothal3 from Richard with unruffled dignity, showing neither malice4 nor irritation5, and even deigning6 to wish her nephew a happy and prosperous marriage.
“Ah, mon cher Richard,” she said, sitting very stiff and straight on her brocaded fauteuil before the fire, “since I am the beaten party you must permit me to march out of Rodenham with the honors of war. I have been holding out for your liberty, sir, for you are young yet, Richard, nor have you seen a great deal of the world. There, sir, don’t shake your head at me; I will cease croaking7. May you and your sweet Jilian be happy.”
“I trust that there is no ill-feeling left between us, madam,” he said.
Aunt Letitia remembered her nephew’s loan, and declared that she had never been out of temper with Richard personally.
“You are one of those sweet fellows, nephew,” she explained, “who need defending against their own generosity9. Your honor is a sensitive and untarnished virtue10, sir, nor have you learned what the world is worth. And now, my dear Richard, may an old woman be permitted to give you some last fragments of advice?”
Jeffray, both amused and interested, expressed himself eager to be benefited by the Lady Letitia’s wisdom.
“Well, sir,” she said, settling herself in her chair, “in the first place, do not count too much on marriage. It is not always the honey-pot young people imagine. And if you find your wife a little gay, Richard, don’t weep over it and make a misery11 of life, but be gay in turn. You will soon accustom12 yourself to being amused and satisfied by other women.”
The old lady was as grave and solemn over her cynicisms as a bishop14 over the expounding15 of the creed16. Jeffray was not a little surprised at receiving such strange and ominous17 advice.
“Frankly, madam,” he said, “I must confess that I look for better things for Jilian and myself.”
The Lady Letitia was stern as some ancient druidess.
“Do not hope for anything in this life, sir,” she said; “take pleasure as it comes, and make the most of it. Do not be deceived by sentimental18 notions of propriety19, and do not count on the future, for our expectations generally turn out to be ridiculous. Drink the wine in the cup, sir, and don’t plot for the morrow. And stick to your money, Richard; for whatever poets may say, money is the only sure friend in this world.”
The Lady Letitia’s philosophy was not vastly cheering to her nephew’s spirit, but then the sordid20 truth is never welcome to the ardent21 soul of youth. He pitied her for the poverty of her sentiments, and yet felt uncomfortably conscious all the while that there was much shrewd wisdom in her words. His money, yes! Would Miss Jilian Hardacre have loved him if he had been without a penny? Would Sir Peter have waxed so amiable22 and hearty23? Would the rough boors24 touch their hats to him and the farmers wax obsequious25 in his presence? Richard smiled somewhat sadly over these thoughts, like a man finding his creed light in the balance. Yet there was Dick Wilson, the rough knave26 whose tongue was clumsy. Jeffray believed in him. And Bess? Why should he think of Bess at such a moment? Bess Grimshaw was inclined to pout27 and quarrel with his wealth because—and Richard flushed at the conviction—because his gentility threw up a barrier between them. Jeffray had never contrasted Miss Jilian and the forest child in this bright light before.
The morning after his talk with Aunt Letitia, Jeffray walked in his garden and watched the spring flowers that were spearing through the brown earth in the borders. The snowdrops had melted away, and gaudy28 crocuses, purple and gold, blazed beyond the hedges of close-clipped box. Hyacinths were thrusting up, tulips spreading their stout29 leaves. On the lawns below the terrace daffodils were nodding in the wind, lighting30 the sombreness of the yews31 and cedars32.
As Richard walked his gravel-paths, thinking of Bess and of her shrouded33 history, a short, sturdy figure in black appeared upon the terrace and came down the steps towards the garden. It was Dr. Sugg, the fat rector of Rodenham, whose red face shone forth34 with fiery35 solemnity under his powdered wig36.
Dr. Barnabas Sugg was a favorite with the villagers. He could drink good beer, preach short sermons, and refrain from poking37 his amiable nose too parsonically into his parishoners’ affairs. He was a good man, though no ascetic38, a round and rich-voiced gentleman, who was ready to put his hand into his pocket on occasions, and to give comfort to such as came to see him in his stuffy39 and smoke-haunted little parlor40. Dr. Sugg was a high authority with the women. Had he not “churched” them and baptized their babies? Who could handle an erring41 wench and her lad so well, or persuade them to satisfy the prejudices of society? Who could sit and listen more good-naturedly to the small woes42 of the rough cottagers? The rector was no fire-fly, no sweating, shrieking43 Jonah, making hell lurid44 to the frightened oafs and wenches. A very human rogue45, he lived his life among the rustics47, worked with them, ay, swore at them when the occasion called for unshrinking eloquence48. As for Mr. Wesley and his preachers, they had made no conquests in the rector’s kingdom. More than one gospeller had sampled the bottom of the village pond.
Dr. Sugg approached Jeffray with an expression of unusual solemnity that morning, while the peacocks strutted49 in sapphire50 and gold and the white pigeons coquetted on the columbary roof.
“Good-morning, sir. I hope the Lady Letitia is well?”
Jeffray answered for his aunt’s health and shook the parson by the hand. They boasted a mutual51 liking52 for each other, for though poor Sugg did not live the life of a St. Francis, he was a veritable mine of culture and erudition when compared with the squirearchs of the Sussex weald.
“What evil tidings am I to hear?” asked Jeffray, smiling.
“Just this, sir, that the small-pox is said to be in Rodenham.”
“The small-pox, Sugg!”
“A bad business, Mr. Richard, for we have been free of the plague these many years. I refer to the plague, sir, and not to the Methodists.”
“How was it brought into the village?”
“By a peddler fellow from Lewes, I have heard. He had an attic54 at the Wheat Sheaf for a night, and George Gogg’s girl, Kate, has sickened with what Surgeon Stott says is the yellow-pox, and I suppose he knows. Where it will end, sir, God only can tell.”
Richard was no coward, but he looked grave enough over Dr. Sugg’s tidings. He knew that the disease was Death’s right-hand man in England, and that there were more folk who were scarred than there were folk who had gone free. High and low dreaded55 the scourge56; the toper went white over his punch-bowl; madam in her perfumed boudoir shivered at the thought of the marring of her face.
“What is being done?” he asked, quietly.
“Done, sir; what can be done? I don’t suppose there are five souls in the village who have ever been inoculated57. I trust, Mr. Richard, that you are one of them.”
“I followed Lady Montague’s example—before I went abroad.”
“Then you should be safe, sir. But those cottagers yonder would breed the pest as a dunghill breeds flies. Then there is my poor Mary. If it spreads, sir, she’ll take it as she takes everything—mumps, measles58, and the ague. Good God, Mr. Richard, I lost my wife by the small-pox! What should I do if I lost my girl?”
The rector’s voluminous voice quavered with honest feeling. He blew his nose vigorously, blinked his eyes, and looked at Jeffray with lugubrious59 eagerness. Richard was touched by the old man’s distress60. Poor Mary Sugg; her plain face could not bear further detractions from its beauty.
“Why not take her away?” he asked.
A mild frown spread itself across the rector’s forehead. He stared into the distance and shook his head.
“The girl might go,” he observed, slowly, “and yet I don’t think it is right lest she might carry the pest with her. No, sir, I don’t think it would be honest. As for me, Mr. Jeffray, I have no intention of turning tail. What would the poor folk think of their spiritual father if he tucked up his gown and scuttled61 directly the devil came down on them in the shape of a damnable disease?”
There was a look of blunt heroism62 on Dr. Sugg’s commonplace old countenance63 that refreshed Jeffray’s spirit of revolt against the Lady Letitia’s cynicism.
“You are right, sir,” he said. “I respect you for your sense of duty. The priory is a safer place than the rectory. Let Mary come up here to-morrow. Of course I shall forbid my servants going down into the village.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, “I thank you from my heart. And shall you remain at Rodenham yourself?”
Richard smiled.
“I have no intention of running away,” he answered, “since I may be of some use if the plague spreads. What are they doing down at the Wheat Sheaf? There is the old pest-house down by the brook65, is there not?”
The rector sighed and shook his head.
“George Gogg won’t let his daughter be moved, sir,” he said, “in spite of Surgeon Stott’s fuming66. As for the pest-house, the roof’s half in, and Farmer Summers has been keeping his cattle in it. It ain’t fit for use.”
Richard took the responsibility to himself.
“I am afraid the fault is mine,” he said; “I ought to have had the place kept in repair. Well, send Mary and her boxes up to-morrow. We will take her in till the danger is over.”
Richard rode over to Hardacre that same afternoon and found his betrothed67 in the garden, a coquettish straw hat on her auburn head, the blue ribbons tied in a bow under her chin. Miss Hardacre carried a basket and a rake, and looked as rustic46 as a somewhat gorgeous blue gown and green hoop68 would suffer. Miss Jilian’s gowns were legion, and it appeared as though she had one for each day of the month. They were part of the munitions69 of war, and Sir Peter flattered himself that now Mr. Richard had surrendered, he would no longer receive such outrageously70 long bills from the smart millinery establishment at Tunbridge Wells.
Richard made his betrothed a very fine bow, and was permitted to kiss the hand upon whose third finger shone the diamonds and rubies71 he had given her.
“La, Richard,” quoth Miss Jilian, looking coy, “you have caught me in my oldest clothes, sir. You must remember that I have my housewifely duties. Sir Peter never troubles his head about the garden, and I have to see that the rascals72 weed the paths.”
“But really, Jilian,” he said, innocently, “your old clothes look very handsome. May I carry the basket for you?”
Miss Hardacre simpered, looked at her little feet, and blushed. She took care to be very coy and quaint75 with Richard, tricked out with charming affectations of simplicity76, altogether a pretty pastoral of the cream and rose bloom order. No unspoiled youth would ever have fancied that many a male arm had circled that slim waist, or that sundry77 and several gallants had tasted those cherry lips.
“I hope you like pretty clothes, Richard,” she said, archly, handing him the basket, and wafting78 odors of lavender and of violet from her laced bosom79 like a living flower.
“Indeed, Jilian, I am proud to see you look so gay.”
“La, sir, I shall be a terrible expense to you, I am sure. What will you give me to dress myself on? Twenty pounds, eh, cousin?”
“Just as much as you like, Jilian.”
“Oh, Richard, how generous you are!”
“Am I?”
“You will be spoiling me, sir. But I do love pretty clothes, Richard, and scarves and perfumes and jewelry80. Is it vanity, sir?”
“Very natural vanity,” quoth Mr. Richard, smiling, yet looking a little thoughtful.
Miss Hardacre glanced at him and arched her brows.
“There, you are teasing me, Richard,” she said; “I am sure you are.”
“I, laughing at you, Jilian?”
“Now you are frowning, to be sure. Is ought amiss with you, mon cher? You looked quite troubled and absent. Does my silly chatter81 tire you? I am such a gay, thoughtless little thing, and you, sir, are so terribly clever. Oh, I do hope I shall make you happy!”
Jeffray, angry with himself for the rebellious82 thoughts that were in his heart, pressed Miss Hardacre’s hand, and poured a pretty speech or two into her ear.
“I am a little troubled, Jilian,” he confessed. “Dr. Sugg told me this morning that there is a case of small-pox in Rodenham.”
“Oh, Richard, how terrible!”
“Yes—terrible.”
She had shrunk almost imperceptibly away from him.
“I hope you have not been in any of those horrid84 cottages, Richard? The wretched people are so dirty and careless. Oh, the thought of the plague always terrifies me.”
Jeffray glanced at her gravely and with slight surprise. Miss Hardacre’s expression was one of petulant85 impatience86.
“It will be a terrible thing, Jilian,” he said, “if the villagers are stricken down. The poor people are so ignorant that they cannot help themselves.”
“La, Richard, it will be their own fault, the silly, dirty wretches87. Let me implore88 you not to go into Rodenham village.”
“I am not afraid,” quoth Mr. Richard, quietly.
“But you must think of me, sir. I do not want to be disfigured for life. Sir Peter would never let me be inoculated—or whatever they call it. He always said it was a nasty piece of nonsense.”
Richard hung his head a little, and noticed that Miss Hardacre still held her perfumed person at some slight distance from him.
“But, Jilian,” he said, “if the poor folk are ill I must try to do something to help them.”
The sweet angel showed further symptoms of impatience, even of temper. She carried her head very haughtily89, and looked with some imperiousness at her betrothed.
“I suppose my wishes are of no account, Richard?”
“Jilian!”
“Oh yes, sir, it will be very nice for you to come and make love to me after you have been sitting in some dirty, festering hovel! Really, Richard, you must consider your position and my wishes. I suppose I have more claim upon your consideration than some frowsy cottage woman, eh?”
Miss Hardacre appeared in peril90 of tears, and Richard was moved to appease91 her with promises as best he could. Being a sensitive and somewhat diffident youth, he supposed himself wholly at fault in so delicate a matter, and apologized to his betrothed for seeming so careless of her health and happiness. After much sentimental persuasion92 Miss Hardacre deigned93 to smile and to receive him again into favor, ordering him, however, on pain of her extreme displeasure not to contaminate his person in the thatched hovels of Rodenham.
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1
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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53
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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munitions
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| n.军火，弹药；v.供应…军需品 | |
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outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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71
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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wafting
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的现在分词 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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80
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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81
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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90
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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