The conviction was justified5 by the event. It was on Saturday evening that the Canon returned with his good news, and on Sunday morning Hyacinth received a letter from Miss Goold.
‘You have no doubt heard,’ she wrote, ‘that we have got a new editor for the Croppy—Patrick O’Dwyer, Mary’s brother. Of course, you remember Mary and her unpoetical hysterics the morning after the Rotunda6 meeting. The new editor is a splendid man. He has been on the staff of a New York paper for the last five years, and thoroughly7 understands the whole business. But that’s not the best of him. He hates England worse than I do. I’m only a child beside him, bursting out into fits of temper now and then, and cooling off again. He hates steadily8, quietly, and intensely. But even that is not all that is to be said. He has got brains—brains enough, my dear Hyacinth, to make fools of you and me every day and all day long. He has devised a new policy for Ireland. The plan is simplicity9 itself, like all really great plans, and it must succeed. I won’t go into it now, because I want you to come up to Dublin and see O’Dwyer. He tells me that he needs somebody else besides himself on the staff of the Croppy, which, by the way, is to be enlarged and improved. He wants a man who can write a column a week in Irish, as well as an article now and then in good strong plain English. I suggested your name to him, and showed him some of the articles you had written. He was greatly pleased with the one about O’Dowd’s cheap patriotism10, and liked one or two of the others. He just asked one question about you: “Does Mr. Conneally hate England and the Empire, and everything English, from the Parliament to the police barrack? It is this hatred11 which must animate12 the work.” I said I thought you did. I told him how you had volunteered to fight for the Boers, and about the day you nearly killed that blackguard Shea. He seemed to think that was good enough, and asked me to write to you on the subject. We can’t offer you a big salary. The editor himself is only to get a hundred pounds a year for the present, and I am guaranteeing another hundred for you. I am confident that I shan’t have to pay it for more than six months. The paper is sure to go as it never went before, and in a few years we shall be able to treble O’Dwyer’s salary and double yours. Nothing like such a chance has ever offered itself in Irish history before. Everything goes to show that this is our opportunity. England is weaker than she has been for centuries, is clinging desperately13 to the last tatters of her old prestige. She hasn’t a single statesman capable of thinking or acting14 vigorously. Her Parliament is the laughingstock of Europe. Her Irish policy may be summed up in four words—intrigue with the Vatican. In Ireland the power of the faithful garrison15 is gone. The Protestants in the North are sick of being fooled by one English party after another. The landlords, or what’s left of them, are beginning to discover that they have been bought and sold. The Bishops16, England’s last line of defence, are overreaching themselves, and we are within measurable distance of the day when the Church will be put into her proper place. There is not so much as a shoneen publican in a country town left who believes in the ranting17 of O’Rourke and his litter of blind whelps. Ireland is simply crying out for light and leading, and the Croppy is going to give both. You always wanted to serve Ireland. Now I am offering you the chance. I don’t say you ought to thank me, though you will thank me to the day of your death. I don’t say that you have an opportunity of becoming a great man. I know you, and I know a better way of making sure of you than that. I say to you, Hyacinth Conneally, that we want you—just you and nobody else. Ireland wants you.’
The letter, especially the last part of it, was sufficiently18 ridiculous to have moved Hyacinth to a smile. But it did no such thing. On the contrary, its rhetoric19 excited and touched him. The flattery of the final sentences elated him. The absurdity20 of the idea that Ireland needed him, a fifth-rate office clerk, an out-of-work commercial traveller who had failed to sell blankets and flannels21, did not strike him at all. The figure of Augusta Goold rose to his mind. She flashed before him, an Apocalyptic23 angel, splended and terrible, trumpet-calling him to the last great fight. He forgot in an instant the Quinns and their trouble. The years of quietness in Ballymoy, the daily intercourse24 with gentle people, the atmosphere of the religion in which he had lived, fell away from him suddenly.
He sat absorbed in an ecstasy25 of joyful26 excitement until the jangling of Canon Beecher’s church bell recalled him to common life again. It speaks for the strength of the habits he had formed in Ballymoy that he rose without hesitation27 and went to take his part in the morning service.
He sat down as usual beside Marion Beecher and her harmonium. He listened to her playing until her father entered. He found himself gazing at her when she stood up for the opening words of the service. He felt himself strangely affected28 by the gentleness of her face and the slender beauty of her form. When she knelt down he could not take his eyes off her. There came over him an inexplicable29 softening30, a relaxation31 of the tense excitement of the morning. He thought of her kneeling there in the faded shabby church Sunday after Sunday for years and years, when he was working at hot pressure far away. He knew just how her eyes would look calmly, trustfully up to the God she spoke32 to; how her soul would grow in gentleness; how love would be the very atmosphere around her. And all the while he would struggle and fight, with no inspiration except a bitter hate. Suddenly there came on him a feeling that he could not leave her. The very thought of separation was a fierce pain. A desire of her seized on him like uncontrollable physical hunger. Wherever he might be, whatever life might have in store for him, he knew that his heart would go back to her restlessly, and remain unsatisfied without her. He understood that he loved her. Canon Beecher’s voice came to him as if from an immense distance:
‘O God, make speed to save us.’
Then he heard very clearly Marion’s sweet voice replying:
‘O Lord, make haste to help us.’
There was a faint shuffling33, and the congregation rose to their feet. His eyes were still on Marion, and now his whole body quivered with the force of his newly-found love. She half turned and looked at him. For one instant their eyes met, and he saw in hers a flash of recognition, then a strange look of fear, and she turned away from him, flushed and trembling. He saw that she had read his heart and knew his love.
‘Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost,’ read the Canon heavily.
Hyacinth’s heart swelled34 in him. His whole being seemed to throb35 with exultation36, and he responded in a voice he could not recognise for his.
‘As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.’
Marion stood silent. Her head was bowed down, and her hands clasped tight together.
Of the remainder of the morning’s service Hyacinth could never afterwards remember anything. No doubt Canon Beecher read the Psalms37 and lessons and prayers; no doubt he preached. Probably, also, hymns38 were sung, and Marion played them, but he could not imagine how. It seemed quite impossible that she could have touched the keys with her fingers, or that she could have uttered any sound; yet no one had remarked the absence of hymns or even noticed any peculiarity39 in their performance. Not till after the service was over did he regain40 full consciousness of himself and his surroundings; then he became exceedingly alert. He watched the Canon disappear into the vestry, heard the congregation trample41 down the aisle42, listened to Marion playing a final voluntary. It seemed to him as he sat there waiting for her to stop that she played much longer than usual. He could hear Mrs. Beecher and Mr. Quinn talking in the porch, and every moment he expected the Canon to appear. At last the music ceased, and the lid of the harmonium was closed and locked. He stepped forward and took Marion’s hands in his.
‘Marion,’ he said, ‘I love you. It was only this morning that I found it out, but I know—oh, I know—that I love you far, far more than I can tell you.’
The hand which lay in his grew cold, and the girl’s head was bowed so that he could not see her face. He felt her tremble.
‘Marion, Marion, I love you, love you, love you!’
Then very slowly she raised her head and looked at him. He stooped to kiss her lips, and felt her face flush and glow when he touched it. Then she drew her hands from his and fled down the church to her mother.
Hyacinth stood agape with wonder at the words which he had spoken. The knowledge of his love had come on him like a sudden gust22, and he only half realized what he had done. He walked back to his lodgings43, going over and over the amazing words, recalling with flushed astonishment44 the kiss. Then a chilling doubt beset45 him suddenly. Did Marion know how poor he was? Never in his life had the fear of poverty or the desire of gain determined46 Hyacinth’s plans. He knew very well that no such considerations would have in any way affected his conduct towards Marion. Once he realized that he loved her, the confession47 of his love was quite inevitable48. Yet he felt vaguely49 that he might be judged blameworthy. He had read a few novels, and he knew that even the writers whose chief business it is to glorify50 the passion of love do not dare to represent it as independent of money. He knew, too, that many penniless heroes won admiration—he did not in the least understand why they should—by silently deserting affectionate women. He knew that kisses were immoral51 except for those who possessed52 a modest competence53. These authorized54 ethics55 of marriage engagements were wholly incomprehensible to him, and it in no way disquieted56 his conscience that he had bound Marion to him with his kiss; yet he felt that she had a right to know what income he hoped to earn, and what kind of home he would have to offer her. A hundred pounds a year might be deemed insufficient57, and he knew that, not being either a raven58 or a lily, he could not count on finding food and clothes ready when he wanted them.
The daughters of the Irish Church clergy59, even of the dignitaries, are not brought up in luxury. Still, they are most of them accustomed to a daily supply of food—plain, perhaps, but sufficient—and will look for as much in the homes of their husbands. A girl like Marion Beecher does not expect to secure a position which will enable her to send her own clothes to a laundress or hire a cook who can make pastry60; but it is not fair to ask her to wash the family’s blankets or to boil potatoes for a pig. Probably her friends would think her lucky in marrying a curate or a dispensary doctor with one hundred and fifty pounds a year, and the prospect61 of one-third as much again after a while. But Hyacinth remembered that he was poorer than any curate. He determined to put the matter plainly before Marion without delay.
The Rectory door was opened for him by Elsie Beecher, and, in spite of her wondering protests, Hyacinth walked into the dining-room and asked that Marion should be sent to him. The room was empty, as he expected. He stood and waited for her, deriving62 faint comfort and courage from the threadbare carpet, patched tablecloth63, and poor crazy chairs. They were strange properties for a scene with possibilities of deep romance in it, but they made his confession of poverty easier.
Marion entered at last and stood beside him. He neither took her hand nor looked at her.
‘When I told you to-day that I loved you,’ he said, ‘I ought to have told you that I am very poor.’
‘I know it,’ she said.
‘But I am poorer even than you know. I am not in Mr. Quinn’s employment any more. I have no settled income, and only a prospect of earning a very small one.’ He paused. ‘I shall have to go away from Ballymoy. I must live in Dublin. I do not think it is fair to ask you to marry me. I shall have no more to live upon than——’
She moved a step nearer to him and laid her hand on his arm.
‘Look at me,’ she said.
He raised his eyes to her face, and saw again there, as he had seen in church, the wonderful shining of love, which is stronger than all things and holds poverty and hardship cheap.
‘Keep looking at me still,’ she said. ‘Now tell me: Do you really think it matters that you are poor? Do you think I care whether you have much or little? Tell me.’
He could not answer her, although he knew that there was only one answer to her question.
‘Do you think that I love money? Do you doubt that I love you?’
Her voice sunk almost to a whisper as she spoke, and her eyes fell from looking into his. Just as when he kissed her in the church, she flushed suddenly, but this time she did not try to escape from him. Instead she clung to his arm, and hid her face against his shoulder. He put his arms round her and held her close.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was a fool to come here thinking that my being poor would matter. I might have known. Indeed, I think I did know even before I spoke to you.’
She had no answer except a long soft laugh, which was half smothered64 in his arms.
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1
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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rotunda
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| n.圆形建筑物；圆厅 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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8
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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9
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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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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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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15
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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16
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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17
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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18
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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21
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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22
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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apocalyptic
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| adj.预示灾祸的，启示的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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32
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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33
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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34
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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35
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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38
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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39
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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41
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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42
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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43
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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45
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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48
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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50
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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51
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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52
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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53
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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54
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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55
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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56
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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58
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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59
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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60
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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62
deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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64
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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