of
The Parson’s Scruple1.
Chapter i.
IF you had been in the far West of England about thirteen years since, and if you had happened to take up one of the Cornish newspapers on a certain day of the month, which need not be specially2 mentioned, you would have seen this notice of a marriage at the top of a column:
On the third instant, at the parish church, the Reverend Alfred Carling, Rector of Penliddy, to Emily Harriet, relict of the late Fergus Duncan, Esq., of Glendarn, N. B.
The rector’s marriage did not produce a very favorable impression in the town, solely3 in consequence of the unaccountable private and unpretending manner in which the ceremony had been performed. The middle-aged4 bride and bridegroom had walked quietly to church one morning, had been married by the curate before any one was aware of it, and had embarked5 immediately afterward6 in the steamer for Tenby, where they proposed to pass their honeymoon7. The bride being a stranger at Penliddy, all inquiries8 about her previous history were fruitless, and the townspeople had no alternative but to trust to their own investigations9 for enlightenment when the rector and his wife came home to settle among their friends.
After six weeks’ absence Mr. and Mrs. Carling returned, and the simple story of the rector’s courtship and marriage was gathered together in fragments, by inquisitive10 friends, from his own lips and from the lips of his wife.
Mr. Carling and Mrs. Duncan had met at Torquay. The rector, who had exchanged houses and duties for the season with a brother clergyman settled at Torquay, had called on Mrs. Duncan in his clerical capacity, and had come away from the interview deeply impressed and interested by the widow’s manners and conversation. The visits were repeated; the acquaintance grew into friendship, and the friendship into love — ardent11, devoted12 love on both sides.
Middle-aged man though he was, this was Mr. Carling’s first attachment13, and it was met by the same freshness of feeling on the lady’s part. Her life with her first husband had not been a happy one. She had made the fatal mistake of marrying to please her parents rather than herself, and had repented14 it ever afterward. On her husband’s death his family had not behaved well to her, and she had passed her widowhood, with her only child, a daughter, in the retirement15 of a small Scotch16 town many miles away from the home of her married life. After a time the little girl’s health had begun to fail, and, by the doctor’s advice, she had migrated southward to the mild climate of Torquay. The change had proved to be of no avail; and, rather more than a year since, the child had died. The place where her darling was buried was a sacred place to her and she remained a resident at Torquay. Her position in the world was now a lonely one. She was herself an only child; her father and mother were both dead; and, excepting cousins, her one near relation left alive was a maternal17 uncle living in London.
These particulars were all related simply and unaffectedly before Mr. Carling ventured on the confession19 of his attachment. When he made his proposal of marriage, Mrs. Duncan received it with an excess of agitation20 which astonished and almost alarmed the inexperienced clergyman. As soon as she could speak, she begged with extraordinary earnestness and anxiety for a week to consider her answer, and requested Mr. Carling not to visit her on any account until the week had expired.
The next morning she and her maid departed for London. They did not return until the week for consideration had expired. On the eighth day Mr. Carling called again and was accepted.
The proposal to make the marriage as private as possible came from the lady. She had been to London to consult her uncle (whose health, she regretted to say, would not allow him to travel to Cornwall to give his niece away at the altar), and he agreed with Mrs. Duncan that the wedding could not be too private and unpretending. If it was made public, the family of her first husband would expect cards to be sent to them, and a renewal21 of intercourse22, which would be painful on both sides, might be the consequence. Other friends in Scotland, again, would resent her marrying a second time at her age, and would distress23 her and annoy her future husband in many ways. She was anxious to break altogether with her past existence, and to begin a new and happier life untrammeled by any connection with former times and troubles. She urged these points, as she had received the offer of marriage, with an agitation which was almost painful to see. This peculiarity24 in her conduct, however, which might have irritated some men, and rendered others distrustful, had no unfavorable effect on Mr. Carling. He set it down to an excess of sensitiveness and delicacy25 which charmed him. He was himself — though he never would confess it — a shy, nervous man by nature. Ostentation26 of any sort was something which he shrank from instinctively27, even in the simplest affairs of daily life; and his future wife’s proposal to avoid all the usual ceremony and publicity28 of a wedding was therefore more than agreeable to him — it was a positive relief.
The courtship was kept secret at Torquay, and the marriage was celebrated29 privately30 at Penliddy. It found its way into the local newspapers as a matter of course, but it was not, as usual in such cases, also advertised in the Times. Both husband and wife were equally happy in the enjoyment31 of their new life, and equally unsocial in taking no measures whatever to publish it to others.
Such was the story of the rector’s marriage. Socially, Mr. Carling’s position was but little affected18 either way by the change in his life. As a bachelor, his circle of friends had been a small one, and when he married he made no attempt to enlarge it. He had never been popular with the inhabitants of his parish generally. Essentially32 a weak man, he was, like other weak men, only capable of asserting himself positively33 in serious matters by running into extremes. As a consequence of this moral defect, he presented some singular anomalies in character. In the ordinary affairs of life he was the gentlest and most yielding of men, but in all that related to strictness of religious principle he was the sternest and the most aggressive of fanatics34. In the pulpit he was a preacher of merciless sermons — an interpreter of the Bible by the letter rather than by the spirit, as pitiless and gloomy as one of the Puritans of old; while, on the other hand, by his own fireside he was considerate, forbearing, and humble35 almost to a fault. As a necessary result of this singular inconsistency of character, he was feared, and sometimes even disliked, by the members of his congregation who only knew him as their pastor36, and he was prized and loved by the small circle of friends who also knew him as a man.
Those friends gathered round him more closely and more affectionately than ever after his marriage, not on his own account only, but influenced also by the attractions that they found in the society of his wife. Her refinement37 and gentleness of manner; her extraordinary accomplishments38 as a musician; her unvarying sweetness of temper, and her quick, winning, womanly intelligence in conversation, charmed every one who approached her. She was quoted as a model wife and woman by all her husband’s friends, and she amply deserved the character that they gave her. Although no children came to cheer it, a happier and a more admirable married life has seldom been witnessed in this world than the life which was once to be seen in the rectory house at Penliddy.
With these necessary explanations, that preliminary part of my narrative39 of which the events may be massed together generally, for brevity’s sake, comes to a close. What I have next to tell is of a deeper and a more serious interest, and must be carefully related in detail.
The rector and his wife had lived together without, as I honestly believe, a harsh word or an unkind look once passing between them for upward of two years, when Mr. Carling took his first step toward the fatal future that was awaiting him by devoting his leisure hours to the apparently40 simple and harmless occupation of writing a pamphlet.
He had been connected for many years with one of our great Missionary41 Societies, and had taken as active a part as a country clergyman could in the management of its affairs. At the period of which I speak, certain influential42 members of the society had proposed a plan for greatly extending the sphere of its operations, trusting to a proportionate increase in the annual subscriptions43 to defray the additional expenses of the new movement. The question was not now brought forward for the first time. It had been agitated44 eight years previously45, and the settlement of it had been at that time deferred46 to a future opportunity. The revival47 of the project, as usual in such cases, split the working members of the society into two parties; one party cautiously objecting to run any risks, the other hopefully declaring that the venture was a safe one, and that success was sure to attend it. Mr. Carling sided enthusiastically with the members who espoused48 this latter side of the question, and the object of his pamphlet was to address the subscribers to the society on the subject, and so to interest them in it as to win their charitable support, on a larger scale than usual, to the new project.
He had worked hard at his pamphlet, and had got more than half way through it, when he found himself brought to a stand-still for want of certain facts which had been produced on the discussion of the question eight years since, and which were necessary to the full and fair statement of his case.
At first he thought of writing to the secretary of the society for information; but, remembering that he had not held his office more than two years, he had thought it little likely that this gentleman would be able to help him, and looked back to his own Diary of the period to see if he had made any notes in it relating to the original discussion of the affair. He found a note referring in general terms only to the matter in hand, but alluding49 at the end to a report in the Times of the proceedings50 of a deputation from the society which had waited on a member of the government of that day, and to certain letters to the editor which had followed the publication of the report. The note described these letters as “very important,” and Mr. Carling felt, as he put his Diary away again, that the successful conclusion of his pamphlet now depended on his being able to get access to the back numbers of the Times of eight years since.
It was winter time when he was thus stopped in his work, and the prospect51 of a journey to London (the only place he knew of at which files of the paper were to be found) did not present many attractions; and yet he could see no other and easier means of effecting his object. After considering for a little while and arriving at no positive conclusion, he left the study, and went into the drawing-room to consult his wife.
He found her working industriously52 by the blazing fire. She looked so happy and comfortable — so gentle and charming in her pretty little lace cap, and her warm brown morning-dress, with its bright cherry-colored ribbons, and its delicate swan’s down trimming circling round her neck and nestling over her bosom53, that he stooped and kissed her with the tenderness of his bridegroom days before he spoke54. When he told her of the cause that had suspended his literary occupation, she listened, with the sensation of the kiss still lingering in her downcast eyes and her smiling lips, until he came to the subject of his Diary and its reference to the newspaper.
As he mentioned the name of the Times she altered and looked him straight in the face gravely.
“Can you suggest any plan, love,” he went on, “which may save me the necessity of a journey to London at this bleak55 time of the year? I must positively have this information, and, so far as I can see, London is the only place at which I can hope to meet with a file of the Times.”
“A file of the Times?” she repeated.
“Yes — of eight years since,” he said.
The instant the words passed his lips he saw her face overspread by a ghastly paleness; her eyes fixed56 on him with a strange mixture of rigidity57 and vacancy58 in their look; her hands, with her work held tight in them, dropped slowly on her lap, and a shiver ran through her from head to foot.
He sprang to his feet, and snatched the smelling-salts from her work-table, thinking she was going to faint. She put the bottle from her, when he offered it, with a hand that thrilled him with the deadly coldness of its touch, and said, in a whisper:
“A sudden chill, dear — let me go upstairs and lie down.”
He took her to her room. As he laid her down on the bed, she caught his hand, and said, entreatingly59:
“You won’t go to London, darling, and leave me here ill?”
He promised that nothing should separate him from her until she was well again, and then ran downstairs to send for the doctor. The doctor came, and pronounced that Mrs. Carling was only suffering from a nervous attack; that there was not the least reason to be alarmed; and that, with proper care, she would be well again in a few days.
Both husband and wife had a dinner engagement in the town for that evening. Mr. Carling proposed to write an apology and to remain with his wife. But she would not hear of his abandoning the party on her account. The doctor also recommended that his patient should be left to her maid’s care, to fall asleep under the influence of the quieting medicine which he meant to give her. Yielding to this advice, Mr. Carling did his best to suppress his own anxieties, and went to the dinner-party.
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1
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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5
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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8
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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9
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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10
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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14
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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16
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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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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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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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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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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42
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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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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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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50
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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52
industriously
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53
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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54
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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55
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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