Was any man more pitiful, more foolish, more pathetically lonely, more grotesquely1 fooled by Fate than I?
Was all the world a lie?
Upon the face of my love was a trouble that for once clouded its wondrous2 beauty. I tried to touch her hair, but she avoided me by a gesture that made me shrink a little.
The years, the tranquil3 sorrow of my late life dropped from me; I became again only the fierce, fearless, thoughtless lover; the man who had walked with her and adored her beside that summer sea so long ago.
A madness of determination came to me. At all hazards she should be mine. Shacklock was a liar4 and a schemer, a thief and an adventurer. I would bear witness against him, even at risk of the vendetta5 which would inevitably6 fall upon me.
She saw my changed face, and for the first time clung to me.
“Godfrey!” she whispered hoarsely8, “have pity upon me, and remain silent. Any word from you must reflect upon myself.”
“I will not allow you to make this self-sacrifice,” I cried fiercely. “Remember Blumenthal.”
“It was for my father’s sake,” she replied. “To save him.”
“And now?”
She did not answer for several moments. Then in a low voice broken by emotion she said:—
“To save myself.”
“But it is madness!” I cried. “In what manner can you be in the power of such a man? You surely know what he is?”
“Alas9! I do—too well. If he had one grain of sympathy or feeling he would surely release me.”
“And your father approves of this shameful10 engagement?”
“He does, because he is ignorant of the truth.”
“Then I will tell him,” I said. “You shall never fall into that man’s hands. I love you, Ella—I love you with all the strength of my being—with all my soul. If you are beneath the thrall11 of this adventurer, it is my duty to extricate12 you.”
“Ah! you can’t—you can’t,” she cried. “If you only could, how gladly would I welcome freedom—freedom to love you, Godfrey!” and she clung to me tremblingly. “But it is all a vague dream of the unattainable,” she went on. “My whole life is on fire with shame, and my whole soul is sick with falsehood. Between your life and mine, Godfrey, there is a deep gulf13 fixed14. I lied to you long ago—lied to save my dear father from ruin, and you have forgiven. And now—Oh! God! I shudder15 as I think—my life will be alone, all alone always.”
I held her trembling hand in silence, and saw the tears streaming down her white cheeks. I could utter no word. What she had said thrust home to me the bitter truth that she must bow to that man’s will, even though I stood firm and valiant16 as her champion. My defiance17 would only mean her ruin.
I had met my love again only to lose her in that unfathomable sea of plot and mystery.
All the dark past, those years of yearning18 and black bitterness, came back to me. I had thought her dead, and lived with her sweet tender remembrance ever with me. Yet in future I should know that she lived, the wife of an adventurer, suffering a good woman’s martyrdom.
My heart grew sick with dread19 and longing20. Again I would mourn the dead indeed; dead days, dead love. It pressed upon my life like lead. What beauty now would the daybreak smile on me? What fragrance21 would the hillside bear for me as I roamed again the face of Europe?
I should see the sun for ever through my unshed tears. Around me on the summer earth of Italy or the wintry gloom of the Russian steppe there would be for ever silence. My love had passed beyond me.
Unconsciously we moved forward, I still holding her hand and looking into the tearful eyes of her whom I had believed dead. Was it not the perversity22 of life that snatched her again from me, even though we had met to find that we still loved one another? Yes, it was decreed that I should ever be a cosmopolitan23, a wanderer, a mere24 wayfarer25 on the great highways of Europe, always filled with longing regrets of the might-have-been.
I remembered too well those gay Continental26 cities wherein I had spent the most recent years of my weary life; cities where feasts and flowers reign27, where the golden louis jingle28 upon the green cloth, where the passionate29 dark faces of the women glow, where voices pour forth30 torrents31 of joyous32 words, where holiday dresses gleam gaily33 against the shadows; cities of frolic and brilliancy, of laughter and music, where vice34 runs riot hand in hand with wealth, and where God is, alas! forgotten. Ah! how nauseous was it all to me. I had lived that life, I had rubbed shoulders with those reckless multitudes, I had laughed amid that sorry masquerade, yet I had shut my eyes to shut out from me the frolic and brilliancy around, and stumbled on, sad, thoughtful, and yet purposeless.
The gladness made me colder and wearier as I went. The light and laughter would have driven me homeward in desolation, had I a home to shelter me.
But, alas! I was only a wanderer—and alone.
“Tell me, darling,” I whispered to my love, my heart bursting, “is there absolutely no hope? Can you never free yourself from this man?”
“Never,” was her despairing response.
And in that one single word was my future written upon my heart.
I spoke35 to her again. What I uttered I hardly knew. A flood of fierce, passionate words arose to my lips, and then bending I kissed her—kissed her with that same fierce passion of long ago, when we were both younger, and when we had wandered hand in hand beside the lapping waves at sunset.
She did not draw back, but, on the contrary, she kissed me fondly in return. Her thin white hand stroked my brow tenderly, as though she touched a child.
No words left her lips, but in her soft dear eyes I saw the truth—that truth that held me to her with a band that was indivisible, a bond that, though our lives lay apart, would still exist as strong as it had ever been.
“Ella,” I whispered at last, holding her slight, trembling form in my embrace, and kissing her again upon the lips, “will you not tell me the reason you dare not allow me to denounce this fellow? Is it not just that I should know?”
She shook her head sadly, and, sighing deeply, answered:—
“I cannot tell you.”
“You mean that you refuse?”
“I refuse because I am not permitted, and further, I—”
“You what?”
“I should be revealing to you his secret.”
“And what of that?”
“If you knew everything, you would certainly go to the police and tell them the truth. They would arrest him, and I—I should die.”
“Die? What do you mean?” I asked quickly.
“I could not live to face the exposure and the shame. He would seek to revenge himself by making counter-charges against me—a terrible allegation—but—but before he could do so they would find me dead.”
“And I?”
“Ah! you, dear one! Yes, I know all that you must suffer. Your heart is torn like my own. You love just as fondly as I do, and you have mourned just as bitterly. To you, the parting is as hard as to myself. My life had been one of darkness and despair ever since that night in London when I was forced to lie to you. I wrecked36 your happiness because circumstances conspired37 against us—because it was my duty as a daughter to save my father from ruin and penury38. Have you really in your heart forgiven me, Godfrey?”
“Yes, my darling. How can I blame you for what was, after all, the noblest sacrifice a woman could make?”
“Then let me go,” she urged, speaking in a low, distinct voice, pale almost to the lips. “We must part—therefore perhaps the sooner the better, and the sooner my life is ended the more swiftly will peace and happiness come to me. For me the grave holds no terrors. Only because I leave you alone shall I regret,” she sobbed39.
“And yet I must in future be alone,” I said, swallowing the lump that arose in my throat. “No, Ella!” I cried, “I cannot bear it. I cannot again live without your presence.”
“Alas! you must,” was her hoarse7 reply. “You must—you must.”
Wandering full of grief and bitter thoughts, vivid and yet confused, the hours sped by uncounted.
To the cosmopolitan, like I had grown to be, green plains have a certain likeness40, whether in Belgium, Germany or Britain. A row of poplars quivering in the sunshine looks much alike in Normandy or in Northamptonshire. A deep forest all aglow41 with red and gold in autumn tints42 is the same thing, after all, in Tuscany, as in Yorkshire.
But England, our own dear old England, has also a physiognomy that is all her own; that is like nothing else in all the world; pastures intensely green, high hawthorn43 hedges and muddy lanes, which to some minds is sad and strange and desolate44 and painful, and which to others is beautiful, but which, be it what else it may, is always wholly and solely45 English, can never be met with elsewhere, and has a smile of peace and prosperity upon it, and a sigh in it that make other lands beside it seem as though they were soulless and were dumb.
We had unconsciously taken a path that, skirting a wood, ran up over a low hill southward. To our left lay the beautiful Cornish country in the sweet misty46 grey of the morning light. The sun was shining and the tremulous wood smoke curled up in the rosy47 air from a cottage chimney.
Was that to be our last walk together, I wondered? I sighed when I recollected48 how utterly49 we were the children of circumstance.
Beside her I walked with a swelling50 heart. I consumed my soul in muteness and bitterness, my eyes set before me to the grey hills behind which the sun had risen.
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1
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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7
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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8
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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9
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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10
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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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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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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28
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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29
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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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32
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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34
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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35
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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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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40
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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41
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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42
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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43
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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44
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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45
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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46
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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47
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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48
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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50
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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