More than a year had gone by since that awful night, and a new Wimperfield House was slowly rising from the ashes of the Bath stone mansion1 with the Grecian portico2. Only the walls and the portico had remained intact after the fire, and these had been pulled down to make room for a spacious3 edifice4 in the Early English manner, the heavy insurances on the old building providing for the cost of this newer and more beautiful Wimperfield. But Ida was not near to watch the new Wimperfield in the progress of erection. She had spent the greater part of the last year at the Homestead with Miss Wendover, and the residue5 with her stepmother at Bournemouth, where Lady Palliser had taken and furnished for herself one of the pretty villas6 on the Boscomb estate, a pleasant home for the placid7 joys of widowhood, and a nice place for Vernon’s holidays, were he contented8 to spend them there, which he was not, greatly preferring the more rustic9 life of Kingthorpe. Here he was a welcome guest both at the Knoll10 and at the Homestead; while there was a third house open to him within a walk of the village, for Mr. Wendover had returned from his distant wanderings, and he and Vernie were on very friendly terms.
Ida had as yet seen but little of the master of the Abbey, albeit11 she heard of him almost daily from some of The Knoll family. He had returned at Easter, unexpectedly, as usual, and much to the surprise of a neighbourhood which had grown accustomed to the idea of his never coming back at all. But although he had settled himself at the Abbey, declaring that he had made an end of his wanderings, seen all he wanted to see, and never meant to go far afield any more, he had taken no share in the picnics and rustic festivities with which the Knoll family celebrated12 their worship of the great god Pan; whereupon Blanche informed her cousin frankly13 that he was not half so nice as he had been seven years ago, when he had joined in their fungus14 hunts and barrow hunts and blackberry gatherings15, just as if he had been one of themselves.
‘Seven years ago I was seven years younger, Blanche. We were all children then.’
Blanche sighed, and shook her head despondently17.
‘As for me, I feel centuries old,’ she said; ‘but that is only natural in such a dead-and-alive hole as Kingthorpe.’
Which speech being interpreted meant that Miss Wendover had not had a new frock or an invitation to a garden party for the last fortnight.
‘Still,’ she argued,’ one ought to make the best of one’s life even at Kingthorpe, and picnics and rambles18 help one to endure existence. You used to be such a delightful19 companion, and now no one but little Vernie ever seems to get any fun out of you. He is always talking of the larks20 he has at the Abbey.’
‘Sir Vernon is good enough to call the mildest form of diversion a lark21!’ said Brian Wendover, smiling at her.
‘Come now, I will make a bargain with you,’ said Blanche.
‘John Jardine and Bess are coming over next week to spend Bessie’s birthday with us, which, as you know, is a family festival that we never allow to be celebrated anywhere else. Bess and John and the babies are coming to us, and Vernon Palliser is going to the Homestead, and his mother is coming over from Bournemouth to stay a few days with Aunt Betsy; so you see it will be a grand family gathering16 of Wendovers and Pallisers. Now, if you are anything like the man you were seven years ago, prove it by joining us on this occasion.’
‘I cannot refuse; and I will try my uttermost to forget that I have lived seven lonely years since that happy summer.’
‘Ah, it was a happy summer!’ sighed Blanche, who affected22 to be weighed down by the burden of mature years. ‘I wasn’t out in those days, and I hadn’t a care.’
‘What form does your festival take this year? and where do you mean to celebrate it?’
‘Oh, a picnic, of course, if this lovely weather only holds out. We have not had one really proper picnic this year.’
‘But don’t you think the seventh of September is just a little late for an al fresco23 feast? Suppose we were to make it luncheon24 and afternoon tea at the Abbey, with unlimited25 tennis in the afternoon.’
‘That would be simply delicious,’ said Blanche, concluding that Mr. Wendover intended to invite all the eligible26 young men of his acquaintance to be found within twenty miles.
‘Then it is agreed. You need give yourself no further trouble. You have only to bring your people — the Knoll party, and the Homestead party.’
‘Precisely. Of course you can ask as many as you like.’
The year which was gone had been one of perfect peace for Ida, peace overshadowed by the memories of pain and horror; but those memories had been lightened, and her mind had been comforted, and soothed27, and fortified28 by Aunt Betsy’s loving companionship, by that common-sense and broad way of thinking which was as a tower of strength in the day of trouble. Yet for months after that awful time at Wimperfield her nights had been broken by dreadful dreams or too vivid reminiscences of her husband’s evil fate, that terrible decay of mind and body, that gradual annihilation of the energies and powers of manhood which it had been her painful lot to witness.
Aunt Betsy took care that the young widow’s days should be too busy for much thought. She found constant occupation for her. She sent her about to the remotest corners of the parish to minister to the sorrows of others; she gave her the sick to nurse, and the old and feeble to care for, and the young to teach; so that there should be no leisure left from dawn to sunset for futile29 lamenting30 over the irrevocable past. But in the silence of night those dreaded31 memories crept out of their hiding-places, as other vermin creep out of their holes under cover of darkness, and it was long before they began to grow less vivid and let a terrible.
From the moment Miss Wendover appeared at Wimperfield on the afternoon after the fire, coming as quickly after the receipt of the news as horses could convey her, Ida had been sheltered and protected by her love. No sooner was Brian laid at rest in his grave in Wimperfield churchyard than Aunt Betsy carried off the hopeless, broken-down widow to the Homestead, where Ida resumed all her old duties; so that there were times when it seemed as if all the years of her married life were but a dream from which she had awakened33, a dream which had subdued34 and saddened her whole nature, and had made her feel old and weary.
But there was much of happiness in her life, so much that she was fain to put aside all signs and tokens of grief except her dense35 black gowns and crape bonnets36, and to rejoice with those who rejoiced; for here was Aunt Betsy, the most cheery and unselfish of women, whose life ought to be all sunshine, inasmuch as she spent so large a portion of it in brightening the lives of others; and here were the boys and girls from the Knoll, always in uproarious spirits, and wanting Ida’s sympathy in all their delights; and here was Vernon coming over from the Vicarage on Salisbury Plain, at all times and seasons, for a few days’ holiday, rosier38 and stronger and more sporting every time she saw him, great upon hawking39 and hunting, and full of grand schemes for his future life at the new Wimperfield. He had forgotten Brian’s melancholy40 doom41, as easily as youth is apt to forget everything, in the hurry and ardour of life’s morning; but his love for his sister knew no abatement42. He wanted her to share in all his future joys.
‘You are not going to stay at the Homestead all your life, are you?’ he asked one day. ‘Of course you are going back to Wimperfield directly the new house is finished?’
‘No, dear, I could never live at Wimperfield again — it would recall too many sad scenes. When Aunt Betsy is tired of me I shall go abroad. I have seen so little of the world, you know.’
‘Oh, if you want to travel, you can go with me when I come of age; but in the meantime you must help mother to keep house at Wimperfield. It will be quite a new place — everything new — nothing to remind you of father or Brian. And then in a few years I shall be of age, and then we can go off to the Rockies together.’
‘With Cheap Jack43 for our guide, philosopher and friend.’ said Ida.
‘Well, no; I’m afraid Cheap Jack won’t go with us!’ answered Vernon, laughing.
‘I have such a reason to be grateful to him that I could hardly object to his company,’ said Ida; ‘and I am quite unhappy at never having been able to thank him or reward him for saving my life.’
‘He didn’t want to be thanked or rewarded. Didn’t I tell you that he was not that kind of man?’
‘But why should any man go through life doing good to others, and never getting thanks or praise for his goodness,’ said Ida. ‘It is a most unpleasant form of misanthropy. I feel quite uncomfortable under the burden of my obligations to Mr. Jack; and though I have made every effort to put myself in communication with him, through Mr. Mason and others, I have not been able to find out where he is or anything about him.’
‘Odd, isn’t it?’ said Vernon. ‘He left the cottage on the day after the fire, didn’t he? shut it up, and took the key to Lord Pontifex’s steward44, and drove off with his books and things packed in his cart, goodness knows where, after having made a free gift of his stock to the villagers.’
‘Not a very profitable way of carrying on business,’ said Ida. ‘He must have had means independent of his trade.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose we shall ever see him again,’ returned Vernon, cheerfully, somewhat to Ida’s disgust; for this indifference45 to the sudden close of a once enthusiastic friendship argued a lightness and fickleness46 of disposition47 in Sir Vernon Palliser.
And now it was again the eve of Bessie’s birthday, that day which had twice been fraught48 with fatal influences for Bessie’s friend; and Ida could not put away the feeling that this seventh of September, finding her once again on the scene of past fatalities49, must needs bring her some new evil, some undreamed of crisis in her life. Yet what would happen to her now? She asked herself. The play was played out. She had lived her life. For her tragedy and comedy were alike over and done with.
The morning of the seventh dawned fair and bright. If there were any omen32 in those pinky clouds which flecked the tender gray of early morning, surely it must be a portent50 of good and not of evil; although Lady Palliser, who was not given to over-cheerful views, declared at breakfast that such roseate hues51 in early morning meant bad weather before noon.
‘Let the weather be never so unkind, we’ll find a way of enjoying ourselves at the Abbey,’ said Aunt Betsy, who was in tremendous spirits —‘Won’t we, Vernie?’
‘Of course,’ answered Vernon. ‘Mother has a new bonnet37, and is afraid of getting it spoiled. The weather won’t interfere52 with us. We can play hide-and-seek in the Abbey cellars.’
‘Oh, Vernie! and get shut behind a secret panel or in a chest, like that poor girl in the poem Ida used to read to us.’
‘Don’t be afraid, mother. If I get into a chest, you may depend I shall know how to get out of it. That girl in the poem was a duffer for not having made more row; and her lover was a beastly sneak53 for not ferreting out her hiding-place.’
‘They ought to have had a detective down from London,’ remarked Lady Palliser, ignoring both the scene and the date of the story.
Her reading had lain much among novels in which the private detective was omnipotent54, the unraveller of all mysteries, the avenger55 of every wrong.
Miss Wendover drove Lady Palliser to the Abbey in her phaeton, and the party from the Knoll went in the roomy family waggonette; but Vernon and his sister walked across the fields and the common, by that path which Ida had trodden on the day she first saw the master of the Abbey. How vividly56 she recalled her feelings on that day — the pain and embarrassment57 she felt in Brian Wendover’s presence, the agony of humiliation58! And then had followed the too happy, too perilous59 days in which he had been her familiar friend, the fatal night on which he had declared himself her lover.
Well, she was free now. She could meet him and think of him without sin; but since his return she had met him at most half a dozen times, and then always in the company of other people. He had greeted her cordially, as friend should greet friend, but he had not sought her society. He knew that she was living in his aunt’s house, but he had only been to that house once since his return.
‘Time was, time is, time’s past,’ said the brazen60 oracle61. Ida began to tell herself that for her time was verily past. Life, and youth, and love had been hers; but fate had been adverse62, and she had wasted them, and they were over and gone.
She had some time for pensive63 reverie, as she walked to the Abbey, Vernon being as usual more occupied by the inhabitants of the hedges and ditches than by his companion; but once arrived at the Abbey, there was no time for sadness. Bessie was on the threshold to welcome her, and the whole Knoll family were swarming64 in the great hall, where Brian, standing65 under the picture of the famous Sir Tristram, was giving cordial welcome to everyone.
How handsome he looked under the likeness66 of his ancestor! and how vividly the modern face recalled the ancestral lineaments! Time had only deepened the noble lines of his countenance67, and added dignity to his figure and bearing. He looked happy, too, like a man upon whom the future smiles assuringly. The fancy flashed across Ida’s mind that he was engaged to be married, and that he meant to announce the fact to his family to-day, perhaps, and to introduce the lady. She looked hastily round the hall, almost expecting to see some new face, young, lovely, beaming with smiles — the face of the chosen one. But there was no one except Lady Palliser and the house of Wendover.
‘I have not asked any strangers, Blanche,’ said Brian. ‘I thought we should all have more fun if we had the old place to ourselves.’
‘How good of you!’ replied the matronly Bess. ‘I’m sure we shall all enjoy ourselves ever so much more.’
Blanche was disappointed. Lawn-tennis among relations was all very well, but she had plenty of that at the Knoll. She felt sorry she had put on her best hat and Indian silk frock, elaborately frilled with twine-coloured lace. A cotton gown, and the oldest thing in garden hats, would have been good enough for such an assembly.
The Colonel and Mrs. Wendover had driven over with their children. It was quite a family party — Bessie’s babies, a girl able to toddle68, and a boy in the nurse’s arms, were the great features of the entertainment, the grandmother openly worshipping them, the grandfather condescending69 to occasional patronage70 of this third generation, but evidently anxious to dissemble his pride.
‘Bessie makes such a preposterous71 fuss about her babies,’ said Blanche, after declining lawn-tennis with Eva and her two brothers. ‘I hope if ever I am deluded72 into marrying, I shall not degenerate73 into an upper nurse.’
The Abbey had been swept and garnished74 in honour of the occasion, every room brightened with flowers — even that sacred apartment, Brian’s study, thrown open to the public. After luncheon it happened somehow — Ida could hardly have explained how — that she and Brian were alone together in this very room, the afternoon sunlight shining on them — for in spite of Lady Palliser’s prophecy the day had been lovely — the scent75 of stocks and mignonette and sweet-peas blowing in upon them from the old-fashioned garden at the back of the Abbey. They had strayed to this spot with the others; and the others had strayed off and left them, Ida looking absently at the backs of the Greek dramatists, Brian looking intently at her.
‘I don’t think you have been in this house since the day we first met in the hall below?’ he said, interrogatively.
‘No, I have never been here since.’
‘And yet you were once fond of the Abbey. You used to like wandering about the old house and gardens. You would sit reading in the library. The housekeeper76 has often talked to me about you.’
She stood before him with lowered eyelids77, pale and dumb, shrinking from him almost as she had shrunk from him seven years ago by the old sundial in the moonlit garden, when it was a sin to listen to his ardent78 avowal79.
‘Ida, why are you silent? Why will you not speak of the past?’
‘The past is past!’ she said, falteringly80. ‘It was full of grief and shame for me. I want to forget it if I can.’
‘Forget all that is bitter, remember all that is sweet!’ he pleaded, drawing nearer to her. ‘There is much of that old time which is unspeakably dear to me — the happy time in which I first loved you, deeming you were free to be loved and won. You are free now, Ida, sole mistress of your fate and mine; and I love you as dearly now as I loved you seven years ago. More I could not love you, for I loved you then with all my heart and mind. Ida, you once talked of being mistress of Wendover Abbey. Its master is at your feet, your faithful slave to the end of his life. Will you have this old house for your own, Ida, and thus, and thus only, make it home for me?
His arm was round her, gently, experimentally, the answer not being quite certain, even yet.
She slowly lifted the dark-fringed lids, looked at him with adoring eyes — eyes which never before had looked thus upon the face of man.
‘Can you be in earnest?’ she asked, in a low sweet voice. ‘Can you lift me so high — I, that had fallen so low?’
He clasped her to his heart, and sealed the promise of their unclouded future with a passionate81 kiss.
‘At last, at last, I hold you in my arms!’ he said, fondly; ‘but not for the first time, my angel!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Who was it carried you out of the burning house last year?’ he asked, smiling at her.
‘Cheap Jack.’
‘I was Cheap Jack.’
‘You!’
‘Yes. I lived far from the sight of this dear face, as long as I could bear my life, and then after five years of exile in far lands, where my soul sickened for the sight of you, I came back to England, heard in London that your husband was an idler and a drunkard, and foresaw evil days for my darling. I could be nothing to her; but at least I could watch over her, near at hand, yet unknown. So I took up my abode82 on the Hanger83 within a mile or so of her dwelling84. Don’t pity me, dearest. It was not a hard life after all. I had my books and Nature for my companions, all the joy I could have, not having you.’
‘However shall I repay you?’
‘Only look up to me as you looked just now, and let me feel you are my own for ever.’
The End
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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residue
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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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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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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fresco
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luncheon
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unlimited
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eligible
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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fortified
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futile
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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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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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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subdued
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dense
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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bonnet
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rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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melancholy
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doom
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abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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fraught
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fatalities
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portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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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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toddle
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| v.（如小孩）蹒跚学步 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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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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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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hanger
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| n.吊架，吊轴承；挂钩 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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