Mr. Rambert (with whom Mr. Carling was well acquainted) greeted him at the dinner-party with friendly expressions of regret at the time that had elapsed since they had last seen each other, and mentioned that he had recently been adding to his collection of books some rare old volumes of theology, which he thought the rector might find it useful to look over. Mr. Carling, with the necessity of finishing his pamphlet uppermost in his mind, replied, jestingly, that the species of literature which he was just then most interested in examining happened to be precisely2 of the sort which (excepting novels, perhaps) had least affinity3 to theological writing. The necessary explanation followed this avowal4 as a matter of course, and, to Mr. Carling’s great delight, his friend turned on him gayly with the most surprising and satisfactory of answers:
“You don’t know half the resources of my miles of bookshelves,” he said, “or you would never have thought of going to London for what you can get from me. A whole side of one of my rooms upstairs is devoted5 to periodical literature. I have reviews, magazines, and three weekly newspapers, bound, in each case, from the first number; and, what is just now more to your purpose, I have the Times for the last fifteen years in huge half-yearly volumes. Give me the date to-night, and you shall have the volume you want by two o’clock to-morrow afternoon.”
The necessary information was given at once, and, with a great sense of relief, so far as his literary anxieties were concerned, Mr. Carling went home early to see what the quieting medicine had done for his wife.
She had dozed6 a little, but had not slept. However, she was evidently better, for she was able to take an interest in the sayings and doings at the dinner-party, and questioned her husband about the guests and the conversation with all a woman’s curiosity about the minutest matters. She lay with her face turned toward him and her eyes meeting his, until the course of her inquiries7 drew an answer from him, which informed her of his fortunate discovery in relation to Mr. Rambert’s library, and of the prospect8 it afforded of his resuming his labors9 the next day.
When he mentioned this circumstance, she suddenly turned her head on the pillow so that her face was hidden from him, and he could see through the counterpane that the shivering, which he had observed when her illness had seized her in the morning, had returned again.
“I am only cold,” she said, in a hurried way, with her face under the clothes.
He rang for the maid, and had a fresh covering placed on the bed. Observing that she seemed unwilling10 to be disturbed, he did not remove the clothes from her face when he wished her goodnight, but pressed his lips on her head, and patted it gently with his hand. She shrank at the touch as if it hurt her, light as it was, and he went downstairs, resolved to send for the doctor again if she did not get to rest on being left quiet. In less than half an hour afterward11 the maid came down and relieved his anxiety by reporting that her mistress was asleep.
The next morning he found her in better spirits. Her eyes, she said, felt too weak to bear the light, so she kept the bedroom darkened. But in other respects she had little to complain of.
After answering her husband’s first inquiries, she questioned him about his plans for the day. He had letters to write which would occupy him until twelve o’clock. At two o’clock he expected the volume of the Times to arrive, and he should then devote the rest of the afternoon to his work. After hearing what his plans were, Mrs. Carling suggested that he should ride out after he had done his letters, so as to get some exercise at the fine part of the day; and she then reminded him that a longer time than usual had elapsed since he had been to see a certain old pensioner12 of his, who had nursed him as a child, and who was now bedridden, in a village at some distance, called Tringweighton. Although the rector saw no immediate13 necessity for making this charitable visit, the more especially as the ride to the village and back, and the intermediate time devoted to gossip, would occupy at least two hours and a half, he assented14 to his wife’s proposal, perceiving that she urged it with unusual earnestness, and being unwilling to thwart15 her, even in a trifle, at a time when she was ill.
Accordingly, his horse was at the door at twelve precisely. Impatient to get back to the precious volume of the Times, he rode so much faster than usual, and so shortened his visit to the old woman, that he was home again by a quarter past two. Ascertaining16 from the servant who opened the door that the volume had been left by Mr. Rambert’s messenger punctually at two, he ran up to his wife’s room to tell her about his visit before he secluded17 himself for the rest of the afternoon over his work. On entering the bedroom he found it still darkened, and he was struck by a smell of burned paper in it.
His wife (who was now dressed in her wrapper and lying on the sofa) accounted for the smell by telling him that she had fancied the room felt close, and that she had burned some paper — being afraid of the cold air if she opened the window — to fumigate18 it. Her eyes were evidently still weak, for she kept her hand over them while she spoke19. After remaining with her long enough to relate the few trivial events of his ride, Mr. Carling descended20 to his study to occupy himself at last with the volume of the Times.
It lay on his table in the shape of a large flat brown paper package. On proceeding21 to undo22 the covering, he observed that it had been very carelessly tied up. The strings23 were crooked24 and loosely knotted, and the direction bearing his name and address, instead of being in the middle of the paper, was awkwardly folded over at the edge of the volume. However, his business was with the inside of the parcel; so he tossed away the covering and the string, and began at once to hunt through the volume for the particular number of the paper which he wished first to consult.
He soon found it, with the report of the speeches delivered by the members of the deputation, and the answer returned by the minister. After reading through the report, and putting a mark in the place where it occurred, he turned to the next day’s number of the paper, to see what further hints on the subject the letters addressed to the editor might happen to contain.
To his inexpressible vexation and amazement25, he found that one number of the paper was missing.
He bent26 the two sides of the volume back, looked closely between the leaves, and saw immediately that the missing number had been cut out.
A vague sense of something like alarm began to mingle27 with his first feeling of disappointment. He wrote at once to Mr. Rambert, mentioning the discovery he had just made, and sent the note off by his groom28, with orders to the man to wait for an answer.
The reply with which the servant returned was almost insolent29 in the shortness and coolness of its tone. Mr. Rambert had no books in his library which were not in perfect condition. The volume of the Times had left his house perfect, and whatever blame might attach to the mutilation of it rested therefore on other shoulders than those of the owner.
Like many other weak men, Mr. Carling was secretly touchy30 on the subject of his dignity. After reading the note and questioning his servants, who were certain that the volume had not been touched till he had opened it, he resolved that the missing number of the Times should be procured31 at any expense and inserted in its place; that the volume should be sent back instantly without a word of comment; and that no more books from Mr. Rambert’s library should enter his house.
He walked up and down the study considering what first step he should take to effect the purpose in view. Under the quickening influence of his irritation32, an idea occurred to him, which, if it had only entered his mind the day before, might probably have proved the means of saving him from placing himself under an obligation to Mr. Rambert. He resolved to write immediately to his bookseller and publisher in London (who knew him well as an old and excellent customer), mentioning the date of the back number of the Times that was required, and authorizing33 the publisher to offer any reward he judged necessary to any person who might have the means of procuring34 it at the office of the paper or elsewhere. This letter he wrote and dispatched in good time for the London post, and then went upstairs to see his wife and to tell her what had happened. Her room was still darkened and she was still on the sofa. On the subject of the missing number she said nothing, but of Mr. Rambert and his note she spoke with the most sovereign contempt. Of course the pompous35 old fool was mistaken, and the proper thing to do was to send back the volume instantly and take no more notice of him.
“It shall be sent back,” said Mr. Carling, “but not till the missing number is replaced.” And he then told her what he had done.
The effect of that simple piece of information on Mrs. Carling was so extraordinary and so unaccountable that her husband fairly stood aghast. For the first time since their marriage he saw her temper suddenly in a flame. She started up from the sofa and walked about the room as if she had lost her senses, upbraiding36 him for making the weakest of concessions37 to Mr. Rambert’s insolent assumption that the rector was to blame. If she could only have laid hands on that letter, she would have consulted her husband’s dignity and independence by putting it in the fire! She hoped and prayed the number of the paper might not be found! In fact, it was certain that the number, after all these years, could not possibly be hunted up. The idea of his acknowledging himself to be in the wrong in that way, when he knew himself to be in the right! It was almost ridiculous — no, it was quite ridiculous! And she threw herself back on the sofa, and suddenly burst out laughing.
At the first word of remonstrance38 which fell from her husband’s lips her mood changed again in an instant. She sprang up once more, kissed him passionately39, with the tears streaming from her eyes, and implored40 him to leave her alone to recover herself. He quitted the room so seriously alarmed about her that he resolved to go to the doctor privately41 and question him on the spot. There was an unspeakable dread42 in his mind that the nervous attack from which she had been pronounced to be suffering might be a mere43 phrase intended to prepare him for the future disclosure of something infinitely44 and indescribably worse.
The doctor, on hearing Mr. Carling’s report, exhibited no surprise and held to his opinion. Her nervous system was out of order, and her husband had been needlessly frightened by a hysterical45 paroxysm. If she did not get better in a week, change of scene might then be tried. In the meantime, there was not the least cause for alarm.
On the next day she was quieter, but she hardly spoke at all. At night she slept well, and Mr. Carling’s faith in the medical man revived again.
The morning after was the morning which would bring the answer from the publisher in London. The rector’s study was on the ground floor, and when he heard the postman’s knock, being especially anxious that morning about his correspondence, he went out into the hall to receive his letters the moment they were put on the table.
It was not the footman who had answered the door, as usual, but Mrs. Carling’s maid. She had taken the letters from the postman, and she was going away with them upstairs.
He stopped her, and asked her why she did not put the letters on the hall table as usual. The maid, looking very much confused, said that her mistress had desired that whatever the postman had brought that morning should be carried up to her room. He took the letters abruptly46 from the girl, without asking any more questions, and went back into his study.
Up to this time no shadow of a suspicion had fallen on his mind. Hitherto there had been a simple obvious explanation for every unusual event that had occurred during the last three or four days; but this last circumstance in connection with the letters was not to be accounted for. Nevertheless, even now, it was not distrust of his wife that was busy at his mind — he was too fond of her and too proud of her to feel it — the sensation was more like uneasy surprise. He longed to go and question her, and get a satisfactory answer, and have done with it. But there was a voice speaking within him that had never made itself heard before — a voice with a persistent47 warning in it, that said, Wait; and look at your letters first.
He spread them out on the table with hands that trembled he knew not why. Among them was the back number of the Times for which he had written to London, with a letter from the publisher explaining the means by which the copy had been procured.
He opened the newspaper with a vague feeling of alarm at finding that those letters to the editor which he had been so eager to read, and that perfecting of the mutilated volume which he had been so anxious to accomplish, had become objects of secondary importance in his mind. An inexplicable48 curiosity about the general contents of the paper was now the one moving influence which asserted itself within him, he spread open the broad sheet on the table.
The first page on which his eye fell was the page on the right-hand side. It contained those very letters — three in number — which he had once been so anxious to see. He tried to read them, but no effort could fix his wandering attention. He looked aside to the opposite page, on the left hand. It was the page that contained the leading articles.
They were three in number. The first was on foreign politics; the second was a sarcastic49 commentary on a recent division in the House of Lords; the third was one of those articles on social subjects which have greatly and honorably helped to raise the reputation of the Times above all contest and all rivalry50.
The lines of this third article which first caught his eye comprised the opening sentence of the second paragraph, and contained these words:
It appears, from the narrative51 which will be found in another part of our columns, that this unfortunate woman married, in the spring of the year 18 — one Mr. Fergus Duncan, of Glendarn, in the Highlands of Scotland . . .
The letters swam and mingled52 together under his eyes before he could go on to the next sentence. His wife exhibited as an object for public compassion53 in the Times newspaper! On the brink54 of the dreadful discovery that was advancing on him, his mind reeled back, and a deadly faintness came over him. There was water on a side-table — he drank a deep draught55 of it — roused himself — seized on the newspaper with both hands, as if it had been a living thing that could feel the desperate resolution of his grasp, and read the article through, sentence by sentence, word by word.
The subject was the Law of Divorce, and the example quoted was the example of his wife.
At that time England stood disgracefully alone as the one civilized56 country in the world having a divorce law for the husband which was not also a divorce law for the wife. The writer in the Times boldly and eloquently57 exposed this discreditable anomaly in the administration of justice; hinted delicately at the unutterable wrongs suffered by Mrs. Duncan; and plainly showed that she was indebted to the accident of having been married in Scotland, and to her consequent right of appeal to the Scotch58 tribunals, for a full and final release from the tie that bound her to the vilest59 of husbands, which the English law of that day would have mercilessly refused.
He read that. Other men might have gone on to the narrative extracted from the Scotch newspaper. But at the last word of the article he stopped.
The newspaper, and the unread details which it contained, lost all hold on his attention in an instant, and in their stead, living and burning on his mind, like the Letters of Doom60 on the walls of Belshazzar, there rose up in judgment61 against him the last words of a verse in the Gospel of Saint Luke —
“Whosoever marrieth her that is put away from her husband, commiteth adultery.“
He had preached from these words, he had warned his hearers, with the whole strength of the fanatical sincerity62 that was in him, to beware of prevaricating63 with the prohibition64 which that verse contained, and to accept it as literally65, unreservedly, finally forbidding the marriage of a divorced woman. He had insisted on that plain interpretation66 of plain words in terms which had made his congregation tremble. And now he stood alone in the secrecy67 of his own chamber68 self-convicted of the deadly sin which he had denounced — he stood, as he had told the wicked among his hearers that they would stand at the Last Day, before the Judgment Seat.
He was unconscious of the lapse1 of time; he never knew whether it was many minutes or few before the door of his room was suddenly and softly opened. It did open, and his wife came in.
In her white dress, with a white shawl thrown over her shoulders; her dark hair, so neat and glossy69 at other times, hanging tangled70 about her colorless cheeks, and heightening the glassy brightness of terror in her eyes — so he saw her; the woman put away from her husband — the woman whose love had made his life happy and had stained his soul with a deadly sin.
She came on to within a few paces of him without a word or a tear, or a shadow of change passing over the dreadful rigidity71 of her face. She looked at him with a strange look; she pointed72 to the newspaper crumpled73 in his hand with a strange gesture; she spoke to him in a strange voice.
“You know it!” she said.
His eyes met hers — she shrank from them — turned — and laid her arms and her head heavily against the wall.
“Oh, Alfred,” she said, “I was so lonely in the world, and I was so fond of you!”
The woman’s delicacy74, the woman’s trembling tenderness welled up from her heart, and touched her voice with a tone of its old sweetness as she murmured those simple words.
She said no more. Her confession75 of her fault, her appeal to their past love for pardon, were both poured forth76 in that one sentence. She left it to his own heart to tell him the rest. How anxiously her vigilant77 love had followed his every word and treasured up his every opinion in the days when they first met; how weakly and falsely, and yet with how true an affection for him, she had shrunk from the disclosure which she knew but too well would have separated them even at the church door; how desperately78 she had fought against the coming discovery which threatened to tear her from the bosom79 she clung to, and to cast her out into the world with the shadow of her own shame to darken her life to the end — all this she left him to feel; for the moment which might part them forever was the moment when she knew best how truly, how passionately he had loved her.
His lips trembled as he stood looking at her in silence, and the slow, burning tears dropped heavily, one by one, down his cheeks. The natural human remembrance of the golden days of their companionship, of the nights and nights when that dear head — turned away from him now in unutterable misery80 and shame — had nestled itself so fondly and so happily on his breast, fought hard to silence his conscience, to root out his dreadful sense of guilt81, to tear the words of Judgment from their ruthless hold on his mind, to claim him in the sweet names of Pity and of Love. If she had turned and looked at him at that moment, their next words would have been spoken in each other’s arms. But the oppression of her despair under his silence was too heavy for her, and she never moved.
He forced himself to look away from her; he struggled hard to break the silence between them.
“God forgive you, Emily!” he said.
As her name passed his lips, his voice failed him, and the torture at his heart burst its way out in sobs82. He hurried to the door to spare her the terrible reproof83 of the grief that had now mastered him. When he passed her she turned toward him with a faint cry.
He caught her as she sank forward, and saved her from dropping on the floor. For the last time his arms closed round her. For the last time his lips touched hers — cold and insensible to him now. He laid her on the sofa and went out.
One of the female servants was crossing the hall. The girl started as she met him, and turned pale at the sight of his face. He could not speak to her, but he pointed to the study door. He saw her go into the room, and then left the house.
He never entered it more, and he and his wife never met again.
Later on that last day, a sister of Mr. Carling’s — a married woman living in the town — came to the rectory. She brought an open note with her, addressed to the unhappy mistress of the house. It contained these few lines, blotted84 and stained with tears:
May God grant us both the time for repentance85! If I had loved you less, I might have trusted myself to see you again. Forgive me, and pity me, and remember me in your prayers, as I shall forgive, and pity, and remember you.
He had tried to write more, but the pen had dropped from his hand. His sister’s entreaties86 had not moved him. After giving her the note to deliver, he had solemnly charged her to be gentle in communicating the tidings that she bore, and had departed alone for London. He heard all remonstrances87 with patience. He did not deny that the deception88 of which his wife had been guilty was the most pardonable of all concealments of the truth, because it sprang from her love for him; but he had the same hopeless answer for every one who tried to plead with him — the verse from the Gospel of Saint Luke.
His purpose in traveling to London was to make the necessary arrangements for his wife’s future existence, and then to get employment which would separate him from his home and from all its associations. A missionary89 expedition to one of the Pacific Islands accepted him as a volunteer. Broken in body and spirit, his last look of England from the deck of the ship was his last look at land. A fortnight afterward, his brethren read the burial-service over him on a calm, cloudless evening at sea. Before he was committed to the deep, his little pocket Bible, which had been a present from his wife, was, in accordance with his dying wishes, placed open on his breast, so that the inscription90, “To my dear Husband,” might rest over his heart.
His unhappy wife still lives. When the farewell lines of her husband’s writing reached her she was incapable91 of comprehending them. The mental prostration92 which had followed the parting scene was soon complicated by physical suffering — by fever on the brain. To the surprise of all who attended her, she lived through the shock, recovering with the complete loss of one faculty93, which, in her situation, poor thing, was a mercy and a gain to her — the faculty of memory. From that time to this she has never had the slightest gleam of recollection of anything that happened before her illness. In her happy oblivion, the veriest trifles are as new and as interesting to her as if she was beginning her existence again. Under the tender care of the friends who now protect her, she lives contentedly94 the life of a child. When her last hour comes, may she die with nothing on her memory but the recollection of their kindness!
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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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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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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fumigate
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| v.烟熏；用香薰 | |
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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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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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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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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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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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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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authorizing
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| 授权，批准，委托( authorize的现在分词 ) | |
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procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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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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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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54
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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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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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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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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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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prevaricating
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| v.支吾( prevaricate的现在分词 )；搪塞；说谎 | |
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prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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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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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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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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rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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82
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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89
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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92
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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