Mr. John Mellish reserved to himself one room upon the ground-floor of his house, a cheerful, airy apartment, with French windows opening upon the lawn — windows that were sheltered from the sun by a veranda1 overhung with jessamine and roses. It was altogether a pleasant room for the summer season, the floor being covered with an India matting instead of a carpet, and many of the chairs being made of light basket-work. Over the chimney-piece hung a portrait of John’s father, and opposite to this work of art there was the likeness2 of the deceased gentleman’s favorite hunter, surmounted3 by a pair of brightly-polished spurs, the glistening4 rowels of which had often pierced the sides of that faithful steed. In this chamber5 Mr. Mellish kept his whips, canes6, foils, single-sticks, boxing-gloves, spurs, guns, pistols, powder and shot flasks7, fishing-tackle, boots and tops, and many happy mornings were spent by the master of Mellish Park in the pleasing occupation of polishing, repairing, inspecting, and otherwise setting in order these possessions. He had as many pairs of hunting-boots as would have supplied half Leicestershire, with tops to match. He had whips enough for half the Melton Hunt. Surrounded by these treasures, as it were in a temple sacred to the deities8 of the race-course and the hunting-field, Mr. John Mellish used to hold solemn audiences with his trainer and his head groom9 upon the business of the stable.
It was Aurora10’s custom to peep into this chamber perpetually, very much to the delight and distraction11 of her adoring husband, who found the black eyes of his divinity a terrible hinderance to business, except, indeed, when he could induce Mrs. Mellish to join in the discussion upon hand, and lend the assistance of her powerful intellect to the little conclave12. I believe that John thought she could have handicapped the horses for the Chester Cup as well as Mr. Topham himself. She was such a brilliant creature that every little smattering of knowledge she possessed13 appeared to such good account as to make her seem an adept14 in any subject of which she spoke15, and the simple Yorkshireman believed in her as the wisest, as well as the noblest and fairest of women.
Mr. and Mrs. Mellish returned to Yorkshire immediately after Lucy’s wedding. Poor John was uneasy about his stables: for his trainer was a victim to chronic16 rheumatism17, and Mr. Pastern had not as yet made any communication respecting the young man of whom he had spoken on the stand at York.
“I shall keep Langley,” John said to Aurora, speaking of his old trainer; “for he’s an honest fellow, and his judgment18 will always be of use to me. He and his wife can still occupy the rooms over the stables, and the new man, whoever he may be, can live in the lodge19 on the north side of the Park. Nobody ever goes in at that gate, so the lodge-keeper’s post is a sinecure20, and the cottage has been shut up for the last year or two. I wish John Pastern would write.”
“And I wish whatever you wish, my dearest life,” Aurora said, dutifully, to her happy slave.
Very little had been seen of Steeve Hargraves, the softy, since the day upon which John Mellish had turned him neck and crop out of his service. One of the grooms22 had seen him in a little village close to the Park, and Stephen had informed the man that he was getting his living by doing odd jobs for the doctor of the parish, and looking after that gentleman’s horse and gig; but the softy had seemed inclined to be sulky, and had said very little about himself or his sentiments. He made very particular inquiries23, though, about Mrs. Mellish, and asked so many questions as to what Aurora did and said, where she went, whom she saw, and how she agreed with her husband, that at last the groom, although only a simple country lad, refused to answer any more interrogatories about his mistress.
Steeve Hargraves rubbed his coarse, sinewy24 hands, and chuckled25 as he spoke of Aurora.
“She’s a rare proud one — a regular high-spirited lady,” he said, in that whispering voice that always sounded strange. “She laid in on me with that riding-whip of hers; but I bear no malice26 — I bear no malice. She’s a beautiful creature, and I wish Mr. Mellish joy of his bargain.”
The groom scarcely knew how to take this, not being fully21 aware whether it was intended as a compliment or an impertinence. So he nodded to the softy and strode off, leaving him still rubbing his hands and whispering about Aurora Mellish, who had long ago forgotten her encounter with Mr. Stephen Hargraves.
How was it likely that she should remember him or take heed27 of him? How was it likely that she should take alarm because the pale-faced widow, Mrs. Walter Powell, sat by her hearth28 and hated her? Strong in her youth and beauty, rich in her happiness, sheltered and defended by her husband’s love, how should she think of danger? How should she dread29 misfortune? She thanked God every day that the troubles of her youth were past, and that her path in life led henceforth through smooth and pleasant places, where no perils30 could come.
Lucy was at Bulstrode Castle, winning upon the affections of her husband’s mother, who patronized her daughter-in-law with lofty kindness, and took the blushing, timorous31 creature under her sheltering wing. Lady Bulstrode was very well satisfied with her son’s choice. He might have done better, certainly, as to position and fortune, the lady hinted to Talbot; and, in her maternal32 anxiety, she would have preferred his marrying any one rather than the cousin of that Miss Floyd, who ran away from school and caused such a scandal at the Parisian seminary. But Lady Bulstrode’s heart warmed to Lucy, who was so gentle and humble33, and who always spoke of Talbot as if he had been a being far “too bright and good,” etc., much to the gratification of her ladyship’s maternal vanity.
“She has a very proper affection for you, Talbot,” Lady Bulstrode said, “and, for so young a creature, promises to make an excellent wife; far better suited to you, I’m sure, than her cousin could ever have been.”
Talbot turned fiercely upon his mother, very much to the lady’s surprise.
“Why will you be for ever bringing Aurora’s name into the question, mother?” he cried. “Why can not you let her memory rest? You parted us for ever — you and Constance — and is not that enough? She is married, and she and her husband are a very happy couple. A man might have a worse wife than Mrs. Mellish, I can tell you; and John seems to appreciate her value in his rough way.”
“You need not be so violent, Talbot,” Lady Bulstrode said with offended dignity. “I am very glad to hear that Miss Floyd has altered since her school-days, and I hope that she may continue to be a good wife,” she added, with an emphasis which expressed that she had no very great hopes of the continuance of Mr. Mellish’s happiness.
“My poor mother is offended with me,” Talbot thought, as Lady Bulstrode swept out of the room. “I know I am an abominable34 bear, and that nobody will ever truly love me so long as I live. My poor little Lucy loves me after her fashion — loves me in fear and trembling, as if she and I belonged to different orders of beings — very much as the flying woman must have loved my countryman, Peter Wilkins, I think. But, after all, perhaps my mother is right, and my gentle little wife is better suited to me than Aurora would have been.”
So we dismiss Talbot Bulstrode for a while, moderately happy, and yet not quite satisfied. What mortal ever was quite satisfied in this world? It is a part of our earthly nature always to find something wanting, always to have a vague, dull, ignorant yearning35 which can not be appeased36. Sometimes, indeed, we are happy; but in our wildest happiness we are still unsatisfied, for it seems then sin if the cup of joy were too full, and we grow cold with terror at the thought that, even because of its fulness, it may possibly be dashed to the ground. What a mistake this life would be, what a wild, feverish37 dream, what an unfinished and imperfect story, if it were not a prelude38 to something better! Taken by itself, it is all trouble and confusion; but, taking the future as the key-note of the present, how wondrously39 harmonious40 the whole becomes! How little does it signify that our hearts are not complete, our wishes not fulfilled, if the completion and the fulfilment are to come hereafter!
Little more than a week after Lucy’s wedding Aurora ordered her horse immediately after breakfast, upon a sunny summer morning, and, accompanied by the old groom who had ridden behind John’s father, went out on an excursion among the villages round Mellish Park, as it was her habit to do once or twice a week.
The poor in the neighborhood of the Yorkshire mansion41 had good reason to bless the coming of the banker’s daughter. Aurora loved nothing better than to ride from cottage to cottage, chatting with the simple villagers, and finding out their wants. She never found the worthy42 creatures very remiss43 in stating their necessities, and the housekeeper44 at Mellish Park had enough to do in distributing Aurora’s bounties45 among the cottagers who came to the servants’ hall with pencil orders from Mrs. Mellish. Mrs. Walter Powell sometimes ventured to take Aurora to task on the folly46 and sinfulness of what she called indiscriminate almsgiving; but Mrs. Mellish would pour such a flood of eloquence47 upon her antagonist48 that the ensign’s widow was always glad to retire from the unequal contest. Nobody had ever been able to argue with Archibald Floyd’s daughter. Impulsive49 and impetuous, she had always taken her own course, whether for weal or woe50, and nobody had been strong enough to hinder her.
Returning on this lovely June morning from one of these charitable expeditions, Mrs. Mellish dismounted from her horse at a little turnstile leading into the wood, and ordered the groom to take the animal home.
“I have a fancy for walking through the wood, Joseph,” she said, “it’s such a lovely morning. Take care of Mazeppa; and if you see Mr. Mellish, tell him that I shall be home directly.”
The man touched his hat, and rode off, leading Aurora’s horse.
Mrs. Mellish gathered up the folds of her habit and strolled slowly into the wood under whose shadow Talbot Bulstrode and Lucy had wandered on that eventful April day which sealed the young lady’s fate.
Now, Aurora had chosen to ramble51 homeward through this wood because, being thoroughly52 happy, the warm gladness of the summer weather filled her with a sense of delight which she was loath53 to curtail54. The drowsy55 hum of the insects, the rich coloring of the woods, the scent56 of wild flowers, the ripple57 of water, all blended into one delicious whole, and made the earth lovely.
There is something satisfactory, too, in the sense of possession; and Aurora felt, as she looked down the long avenues, and away through distant loop-holes in the wood to the wide expanse of park and lawn, and the picturesque58 irregular pile of building beyond, half Gothic, half Elizabethan, and so lost in a rich tangle59 of ivy60 and bright foliage61 as to be beautiful at every point — she felt, I say, that all the fair picture was her own, or her husband’s, which was the same thing. She had never for one moment regretted her marriage with John Mellish. She had never, as I have said already, been inconstant to him by one thought.
In one part of the wood the ground rose considerably62, so that the house, which lay low, was distinctly visible whenever there was a break in the trees. The rising ground was considered the prettiest spot in the wood, and here a summer-house had been erected63 — a fragile wooden building, which had fallen into decay of late years, but which was still a pleasant resting-place upon a summer’s day, being furnished with a wooden table and a broad bench, and sheltered from the sun and wind by the lower branches of a magnificent beech65. A few paces away from this summerhouse there was a pool of water, the surface of which was so covered with lilies and tangled66 weeds as to have beguiled67 a short-sighted traveller into forgetfulness of the danger beneath. Aurora’s way led her past this spot, and she started with a momentary68 sensation of terror on seeing a man lying asleep by the side of the pool. She quickly recovered herself, remembering that John allowed the public to use the footpath69 through the wood; but she started again when the man, who must have been a bad sleeper70, to be aroused by her light footstep, lifted his head and displayed the white face of the softy.
He rose slowly from the ground upon seeing Mrs. Mellish, and crawled away, looking at her as he went, but not making any acknowledgment of her presence.
Aurora could not repress a brief terrified shudder71; it seemed as if her footfall had startled some viperish72 creature, some loathsome73 member of the reptile74 race, and scared it from its lurking-place.
Steeve Hargraves disappeared among the trees as Mrs. Mellish walked on, her head proudly erect64, but her cheek a shade paler than before this unexpected encounter with the softy.
Her joyous75 gladness in the bright summer’s day had forsaken76 her as suddenly as she had met Stephen Hargraves; that bright smile, which was even brighter than the morning sunshine, faded out, and left her face unnaturally77 grave.
“Good Heavens!” she exclaimed, “how foolish I am! I am actually afraid of that man — afraid of that pitiful coward who could hurt my feeble old dog. As if such a creature as that could do one any mischief78!”
Of course this was very wisely argued, as no coward ever by any chance worked any mischief upon this earth, since the Saxon prince was stabbed in the back while drinking at his kinswoman’s gate, or since brave King John and his creature plotted together what they should do with the little boy Arthur.
Aurora walked slowly across the lawn toward that end of the house at which the apartment sacred to Mr. Mellish was situated79. She entered softly at the open window, and laid her hand upon John’s shoulder as he sat at a table covered with a litter of account-books, racing-lists, and disorderly papers.
He started at the touch of the familiar hand.
“My darling, I’m so glad you’ve come in. How long you’ve been!”
She looked at her little jewelled watch. Poor John had loaded her with trinkets and gewgaws. His chief grief was that she was a wealthy heiress, and that he could give her nothing but the adoration80 of his simple, honest heart.
“Only half-past one, you silly old John,” she said. “What made you think me late?”
“Because I wanted to consult you about something, and to tell you something. Such good news!”
“About what?”
“About the trainer.”
She shrugged81 her shoulders, and pursed up her red lips with a bewitching little gesture of indifference82.
“Is that all?” she said.
“Yes; but a’n’t you glad we’ve got the man at last — the very man to suit us, I think? Where’s John Pastern’s letter?”
Mr. Mellish searched among the litter of papers upon the table, while Aurora, leaning against the frame-work of the open window, watched him, and laughed at his embarrassment83.
She had recovered her spirits, and looked the very picture of careless gladness as she leaned in one of those graceful84 and unstudied attitudes peculiar85 to her, supported by the frame-work of the window, and with the trailing jessamine waving round her in the soft summer breeze. She lifted her ungloved hand and gathered the roses above her head as she talked to her husband.
“You most disorderly and unmethodic of men,” she said, laughing, “I would n’t mind betting you won’t find it.”
I’m afraid that Mr. Mellish muttered an oath as he tossed about the heterogeneous86 mass of papers in his search for the missing document.
“I had it five minutes before you came in, Aurora,” he said, “and now there’s not a sign of it — oh, here it is!”
Mr. Mellish unfolded the letter, and, smoothing it out upon the table before him, cleared his throat preparatory to reading the epistle. Aurora still leaned against the window-frame, half in and half out of the room, singing a snatch of a popular song, and trying to gather an obstinate87 half-blown rose which grew provokingly out of reach.
“You’re attending, Aurora?”
“Yes, dearest and best.”
“But do come in. You can’t hear a word there.”
Mrs. Mellish shruggéd her shoulders, as who should say, “I submit to the command of a tyrant,” and advanced a couple of paces from the window; then, looking at John with an enchantingly insolent88 toss of her head, she folded her hands behind her, and told him she would “be good.” She was a careless, impetuous creature, dreadfully forgetful of what Mrs. Walter Powell called her “responsibilities;” every mortal thing by turns, and never any one thing for two minutes together; happy, generous, affectionate; taking life as a glorious summer’s holiday, and thanking God for the bounty89 which made it so pleasant to her.
Mr. John Pastern began his letter with an apology for having so long deferred90 writing. He had lost the address of the person he had wished to recommend, and had waited until the man wrote to him.
“I think he will suit you very well,” the letter went on to say, “as he is well up in his business, having had plenty of experience as groom, jockey, and trainer. He is only thirty years of age, but met with an accident some time since, which lamed91 him for life. He was half killed in a steeple-chase in Prussia, and was for upward of a year in a hospital at Berlin. His name is James Conyers, and he can have a character from —”
The letter dropped out of John Mellish’s hand as he looked up at his wife. It was not a scream which she had uttered. It was a gasping92 cry, more terrible to hear than the shrillest scream that ever came from the throat of woman in all the long history of womanly distress93.
“Aurora! Aurora!”
He looked at her, and his own face changed and whitened at the sight of hers. So terrible a transformation94 had come over her during the reading of that letter that the shock could scarcely have been greater had he looked up and seen another person in her place.
“It’s wrong! it’s wrong!” she cried, hoarsely95; “you’ve read the wrong name. It can’t be that!”
“What name?”
“What name?” she echoed fiercely, her face flaming up with a wild fury —“that name! I tell you it can’t be. Give me the letter.”
He obeyed her mechanically, picking up the paper and handing it to her, but never removing his eyes from her face.
She snatched it from him; looked at it for a few moments with her eyes dilated96 and her lips apart; then, reeling back two or three paces, her knees bent97 under her, and she fell heavily to the ground.
收听单词发音 |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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flasks
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| n.瓶，长颈瓶， 烧瓶( flask的名词复数 ) | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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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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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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sinewy
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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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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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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curtail
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| vt.截短，缩短；削减 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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58
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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59
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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60
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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61
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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62
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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65
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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66
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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67
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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68
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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69
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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70
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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71
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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72
viperish
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| adj.毒蛇般的，阴险的 | |
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73
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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74
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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75
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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78
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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81
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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83
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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84
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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85
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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86
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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87
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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89
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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90
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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91
lamed
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| 希伯莱语第十二个字母 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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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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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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95
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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96
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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