The first night, in particular, was a very painful trial to her. By evening, they had brought back Franz’s body from the snowdrift; and now it lay with Ludwig Dangl beside her dead husband’s in the dancing-hall that stood just below the very room where Linnet had to spend the first night of her widowhood. Though she kept the candle burning, and the crucifix by her side, the awful sense of solitude7 through the long slow hours, with those three hostile corpses8 lying side by side in the hall beneath her, made her shudder9 with affright each time she woke with a start from a snatch of hurried sleep, much disturbed by hateful dreams, to the reality of her still more hateful position.
Early next morning, however, a messenger arrived post haste from Zell, with a telegram directed to Frau Hausberger, St Valentin. Linnet tore it open mechanically, half dreading10 some fresh surprise. As she read it, she drew a deep breath. Oh, that dear, dear Rue11! This was quite too good of her. “Have heard of your trouble, and sympathise with you deeply. Am on my way to join you. Shall reach St Valentin to-morrow evening.”
It was a measure to Linnet of how English she had become, that, as she stood on the platform at Jenbach next day, awaiting the arrival of Rue’s train from Innsbruck, she felt as though she were expecting the advent12 of some familiar home-friend, coming to cheer her solitude in a land of strangers. When at last the train drew up, Rue leapt from the carriage into her rival’s arms, and caressed13 her tenderly. Linnet looked sweet in her simple dark dress, the plainest she possessed14, for she hadn’t yet had time to get her mourning ready. “How did you hear of it all, you dear kind Rue?” she inquired, half-hysterically, clasping her new friend to her bosom15 in a sudden outburst of sated sympathy. “It couldn’t surely have got so soon into the English papers.”
“No, dear,” Rue answered, in her tenderest tone, laying one soft hand soothingly16 on the pale cheek as she answered. “I’d written to St Valentin beforehand, to some one whose address Will Deverill gave me, asking for news of you every day, and enclosing money; and he telegraphed to me at once as soon as all this happened. His name’s Fridolin Telser, and Will says he is a cousin of yours. So, of course, as soon as I heard, I felt I must come out, post haste, to join you; for I knew, Linnet, how lonely you’d be?—?and how much in need of a woman’s sympathy.”
Linnet answered nothing. That “of course” was too much for her. She burst into tears instead, and sobbed17 her full heart out contentedly18 on Rue’s friendly shoulder. They drove back to St Valentin hand-in-hand together. That night, Rue slept with her, in a little room in the village; and though they talked for hours with one another, and only dozed19 at intervals20, Linnet rose next morning fresher and stronger by far than she had felt at any time since the day of the murder.
Rue stopped on with her all that week, till Andreas was buried, and she could leave St Valentin. Linnet shrank now from taking anything that had ever been his. The Wirthshaus was to be sold: Cousin Fridolin bought it at a low price with his hoarded21 savings22, and the proceeds were to be devoted23 to a new school for the village. The Herr Vicar, too, was richer by many masses for the repose24 of the unworthy soul which Linnet felt sure had now much need of his orisons. Nor were even Franz Lindner and Ludwig Dangl forgotten: the shrine25 on the hill-top, by the Chamois Rocks, marking the spot whence they took their fatal leap, was erected26, the guides will tell you, “by the famous singer, Casalmonte, who came originally from this village.”
Rue went back with her friend to London, stopping a week or two by the way at quiet country spots in the Bavarian Highlands, on the Rhine, and in Belgium. ’Twas early June when they reached town. Rue wouldn’t hear of Linnet’s returning to her old house in St John’s Wood, where everything would remind her of that hateful past: she insisted that her “new sister,” as she called her, must share for the present her home in Hans Place, till other arrangements could be made for her. “Besides,” she added, with a little smile, full of deeper import, “it’ll save scandal, you know. You mustn’t live alone. It’s best you should stop in some other woman’s house, till you’ve arrived at some fixed27 understanding as to your future.”
It was in Rue’s drawing-room, accordingly, a few weeks later, that Linnet for the first time saw Will Deverill once more after all that had happened. With the same generous self-restraint he had always shown wherever Linnet’s reputation was concerned, Will had denied himself for many days the pleasure of calling upon her. When at last he came, Linnet made up her mind beforehand she should receive him with becoming calmness and dignity. But the moment Will entered the room, and took her two hands in his, and looked deep into her dark eyes, and stood there silent, thrilling through from head to foot at sight of her, yet rejoicing in heart at his one love recovered?—?why, as for Linnet, she just looked up at him, and drew short gasps28 of breath, and held his hands tight in her own, and then with a sweet half-unconscious self-surrender let herself fall slowly, slowly upon his bosom. There he allowed her to lie long without speaking one word to her. What need of words between those two who understood one another instinctively29? what chance of concealing30 the hope and joy each felt, and knew, and communicated, unspoken, by mere32 contact to the other? For touch is to love the most eloquent33 of the senses.
At last they found words, and talked long and eagerly. There was no question between them now in what relation they must henceforth stand to one another. It was mere details of time, and place, and propriety34?—?the when and how and where?—?that interested them at present. “But you can get a dispensation for me?” Linnet asked, nestling close to him.
Will smiled a gentle smile. “There’s little need of dispensation, for you and me, my darling,” he said, holding her hand tenderly. “You would have given me yourself once, in spite of the Church and the world: you can surely give me yourself now without a qualm of conscience, when the Church and the world will both smile approval. To me, Linnet, the whole sanctity of a union between us lies infinitely35 deeper than any man’s sanction, be he priest or Pope or king or lawgiver. As I said to you, once before, you are mine, and I am yours, not by any artificial bond, but by the voice of our hearts, which is the voice of nature and of God within us: and whom God hath joined together, man cannot join firmer, nor yet put asunder36. But if it pleases you to ask some priest’s leave for the union no priest on earth can possibly make sacreder?—?yes; set your heart at rest about that, darling;?—?I’ve seen the Archbishop already, and he’s promised to get you the regular papal dispensation.”
Linnet leant back, and gazed up at him. Her gaze was half fear, half frank admiration37. “Dearest Will,” she said, pleadingly, in her pretty foreign English, “you’re a man, I’m a woman, and therefore illogical: forgive me. I’ve been brought up to think one way, which I know is a dreadful way: my own heart tells me how foolish and cruel and wicked it is to think so; and yet?—?may the Blessed Madonna and all holy saints forgive me for saying it?—?I should be afraid of their anger and the eternal hell if I dared to disbelieve in what seems so cruel. You speak to me of another way, which my own heart tells me is just and pure and good and beautiful?—?which my head approves as common-sense and sound reasoning; and yet?—?may the Blessed Madonna forgive me again?—?though I try hard to believe it, the teachings of my childhood rise up at every step and prevent my accepting it. I can’t understand this mystery of open war between God and our hearts?—?between God, who made them, on the one hand, and what is best, not what is worst, within them, on the other. I pray for light, but no light comes. Why should God’s law fight so hard against God’s instincts in our souls?—?against all that we feel to be purest, noblest, truest, best in our nature?”
“Not God’s law,” Will said gently, smoothing her hand with his own, “but the priests’, Linnet, the priests’,?—?which is something quite different. God’s law is never some precept38 beyond and outside us: it is the law of our own being, the law of our own hearts, the law of the native instincts and impulses that stir us. Your marriage with Andreas, were it twenty times blessed by priest or by Pope, was from the very first moment an unholy and unnatural39 one. It was a sin against purity and your own body; it was a legalised lie, a lifelong adultery. You felt its shame yourself, and shrank from the man physically40. Your heart was not his, so how could your body be? Even the laws of men would have allowed you to leave him and come home to me, whose complement41 and mate you are by nature, after his treatment of you that day, and your discovery of his letter to Philippina. But the laws of your Church, which are not the laws of men but the laws of priests?—?and therefore worse and more unnatural than even the common laws of mankind?—?forbade you to take advantage of the loophole of escape which divorce would permit you from that wicked union your priests had imposed upon you. The Church or the law that bids you live with a man you loathe42 and despise, that Church or law dishonours44 your own nature; that Church and that law is not of God, nor even of man, but of priests and the devil. The Church or the law that forbids you to live with the man your own heart dictates45 and points out to you, is equally of the devil. And see how it proves itself so! It needed the intervention46 of Franz Lindner’s knife to free you from your false union with Andreas Hausberger! Can that Church and that law be right or sound which make a murder the one loophole by which a soul can free itself from the unholy bond they would unwillingly47 impose upon it? Your own heart told you it was wrong and dishonouring48 to live with Andreas; your own heart shrank from his loveless embraces; your own heart showed you it was right to leave him, and fly away to the man you loved, the man that loved you. Will you believe that God’s law is worse than your own heart? Will you think there’s something divine in an institution of men which compels you to degrade and dishonour43 your own body, to sin so cruelly against your own pure instincts? Nothing can be wickeder, I say, than for a woman to sell herself or to yield herself in any way to a man she loathes49. No Church and no law can make right of that wrong: it’s degrading and debasing to her moral nature. The moment a woman feels she gives herself up against her own free will and the instincts of her own heart, she is living in sin?—?and you know it, Linnet?—?though all the priests and all the Popes on earth should stretch robed arms and hands to bless and absolve50 her.”
He spoke31 with fierce conviction. Linnet nestled against his breast: his words overcame her. “I know it, Will, I know it,” she exclaimed, half-hysterically. “My heart told me so always?—?but I couldn’t believe it. I can’t believe it now,?—?though I know you’re right when I hear you speak so. Perhaps, some day, when I’ve lived with you long enough, I shall come to think and feel as you do. . . . But for the present, my darling, I’m so glad, oh, so glad,?—?don’t laugh at me for saying it?—?that you’ve got a dispensation.”
W. H. WHITE AND CO. LTD., RIVERSIDE PRESS, EDINBURGH
The End
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1
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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2
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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3
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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5
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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6
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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7
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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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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10
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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11
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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12
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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13
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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15
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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16
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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17
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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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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19
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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20
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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21
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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23
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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24
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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25
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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26
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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27
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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28
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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29
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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30
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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31
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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32
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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33
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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34
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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35
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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37
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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38
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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39
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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40
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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41
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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42
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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43
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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44
dishonours
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| 不名誉( dishonour的名词复数 )； 耻辱； 丢脸； 丢脸的人或事 | |
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45
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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46
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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47
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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48
dishonouring
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| 使（人、家族等）丧失名誉（dishonour的现在分词形式） | |
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49
loathes
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的第三人称单数 )；极不喜欢 | |
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50
absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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