"You are wrong," she said, stilling her heart with one hand. "These rooms are mine,—my own, not dear Alan's. I engaged them myself, for my own use, and in my own name, as Herminia Barton. You can stay here if you wish. I will not imitate your cruelty by refusing you access to them; but if you remain here, you must treat me at least with the respect that belongs to my great sorrow, and with the courtesy due to an English lady."
Her words half cowed him. He subsided9 at once. In silence he stepped over to his dead son's bedside. Mechanically, almost unconsciously, Herminia went on with the needful preparations for Alan's funeral. Her grief was so intense that she bore up as if stunned10; she did what was expected of her without thinking or feeling it. Dr. Merrick stopped on at Perugia till his son was buried. He was frigidly11 polite meanwhile to Herminia. Deeply as he differed from her, the dignity and pride with which she had answered his first insult impressed him with a certain sense of respect for her character, and made him feel at least he could not be rude to her with impunity13. He remained at the hotel, and superintended the arrangements for his son's funeral. As soon as that was over, and Herminia had seen the coffin14 lowered into the grave of all her hopes, save one, she returned to her rooms alone,—more utterly15 alone than she had ever imagined any human being could feel in a cityful of fellow-creatures.
She must shape her path now for herself without Alan's aid, without Alan's advice. And her bitterest enemies in life, she felt sure, would henceforth be those of Alan's household.
Yet, lonely as she was, she determined16 from the first moment no course was left open for her save to remain at Perugia. She couldn't go away so soon from the spot where Alan was laid,—from all that remained to her now of Alan. Except his unborn baby,—the baby that was half his, half hers,—the baby predestined to regenerate18 humanity. Oh, how she longed to fondle it! Every arrangement had been made in Perugia for the baby's advent19; she would stand by those arrangements still, in her shuttered room, partly because she couldn't tear herself away from Alan's grave; partly because she had no heart left to make the necessary arrangements elsewhere; but partly also because she wished Alan's baby to be born near Alan's side, where she could present it after birth at its father's last resting-place. It was a fanciful wish, she knew, based upon ideas she had long since discarded; but these ancestral sentiments echo long in our hearts; they die hard with us all, and most hard with women.
She would stop on at Perugia, and die in giving birth to Alan's baby; or else live to be father and mother in one to it.
So she stopped and waited; waited in tremulous fear, half longing20 for death, half eager not to leave that sacred baby an orphan21. It would be Alan's baby, and might grow in time to be the world's true savior. For, now that Alan was dead, no hope on earth seemed too great to cherish for Alan's child within her.
And oh, that it might be a girl, to take up the task she herself had failed in!
The day after the funeral, Dr. Merrick called in for the last time at her lodgings22. He brought in his hand a legal-looking paper, which he had found in searching among Alan's effects, for he had carried them off to his hotel, leaving not even a memento23 of her ill-starred love to Herminia. "This may interest you," he said dryly. "You will see at once it is in my son's handwriting."
Herminia glanced over it with a burning face. It was a will in her favor, leaving absolutely everything of which he died possessed24 "to my beloved friend, Herminia Barton."
Herminia had hardly the means to keep herself alive till her baby was born; but in those first fierce hours of ineffable25 bereavement what question of money could interest her in any way? She stared at it, stupefied. It only pleased her to think Alan had not forgotten her.
The sordid26 moneyed class of England will haggle27 over bequests28 and settlements and dowries on their bridal eve, or by the coffins29 of their dead. Herminia had no such ignoble30 possibilities. How could he speak of it in her presence at a moment like this? How obtrude31 such themes on her august sorrow?
"This was drawn32 up," Dr. Merrick went on in his austere33 voice, "the very day before my late son left London. But, of course, you will have observed it was never executed."
And in point of fact Herminia now listlessly noted34 that it lacked Alan's signature.
"That makes it, I need hardly say, of no legal value," the father went on, with frigid12 calm. "I bring it round merely to show you that my son intended to act honorably towards you. As things stand, of course, he has died intestate, and his property, such as it is, will follow the ordinary law of succession. For your sake, I am sorry it should be so; I could have wished it otherwise. However, I need not remind you"—he picked his phrases carefully with icy precision—"that under circumstances like these neither you nor your child have any claim whatsoever36 upon my son's estate. Nor have I any right over it. Still"—he paused for a second, and that incisive37 mouth strove to grow gentle, while Herminia hot with shame, confronted him helplessly—"I sympathize with your position, and do not forget it was Alan who brought you here. Therefore, as an act of courtesy to a lady in whom he was personally interested . . . if a slight gift of fifty pounds would be of immediate38 service to you in your present situation, why, I think, with the approbation39 of his brothers and sisters, who of course inherit—"
Herminia turned upon him like a wounded creature. She thanked the blind caprice which governs the universe that it gave her strength at that moment to bear up under his insult. With one angry hand she waved dead Alan's father inexorably to the door. "Go," she said simply. "How dare you? how dare you? Leave my rooms this instant."
Dr. Merrick still irresolute40, and anxious in his way to do what he thought was just, drew a roll of Italian bank notes from his waistcoat pocket, and laid them on the table. "You may find these useful," he said, as he retreated awkwardly.
Herminia turned upon him with the just wrath41 of a great nature outraged42. "Take them up!" she cried fiercely. "Don't pollute my table!" Then, as often happens to all of us in moments of deep emotion, a Scripture43 phrase, long hallowed by childish familiarity, rose spontaneous to her lips. "Take them up!" she cried again. "Thy money perish with thee!"
Dr. Merrick took them up, and slank noiselessly from the room, murmuring as he went some inarticulate words to the effect that he had only desired to serve her. As soon as he was gone, Herminia's nerve gave way. She flung herself into a chair, and sobbed44 long and violently.
It was no time for her, of course, to think about money. Sore pressed as she was, she had just enough left to see her safely through her confinement45. Alan had given her a few pounds for housekeeping when they first got into the rooms, and those she kept; they were hers; she had not the slightest impulse to restore them to his family. All he left was hers too, by natural justice; and she knew it. He had drawn up his will, attestation46 clause and all, with even the very date inserted in pencil, the day before they quitted London together; but finding no friends at the club to witness it, he had put off executing it; and so had left Herminia entirely47 to her own resources. In the delirium48 of his fever, the subject never occurred to him. But no doubt existed as to the nature of his last wishes; and if Herminia herself had been placed in a similar position to that of the Merrick family, she would have scorned to take so mean an advantage of the mere35 legal omission49.
By this time, of course, the story of her fate had got across to England, and was being read and retold by each man or woman after his or her own fashion. The papers mentioned it, as seen through the optic lens of the society journalist, with what strange refraction. Most of them descried50 in poor Herminia's tragedy nothing but material for a smile, a sneer7, or an innuendo51. The Dean himself wrote to her, a piteous, paternal52 note, which bowed her down more than ever in her abyss of sorrow. He wrote as a dean must,—gray hairs brought down with sorrow to the grave; infinite mercy of Heaven; still room for repentance53; but oh, to keep away from her pure young sisters! Herminia answered with dignity, but with profound emotion. She knew her father too well not to sympathize greatly with his natural view of so fatal an episode.
So she stopped on alone for her dark hour in Perugia. She stopped on, untended by any save unknown Italians whose tongue she hardly spoke54, and uncheered by a friendly voice at the deepest moment of trouble in a woman's history. Often for hours together she sat alone in the cathedral, gazing up at a certain mild-featured Madonna, enshrined above an altar. The unwedded widow seemed to gain some comfort from the pitying face of the maiden55 mother. Every day, while still she could, she walked out along the shadeless suburban56 road to Alan's grave in the parched57 and crowded cemetery58. Women trudging59 along with crammed60 creels on their backs turned round to stare at her. When she could no longer walk, she sat at her window towards San Luca and gazed at it. There lay the only friend she possessed in Perugia, perhaps in the universe.
The dreaded day arrived at last, and her strong constitution enabled Herminia to live through it. Her baby was born, a beautiful little girl, soft, delicate, wonderful, with Alan's blue eyes, and its mother's complexion61. Those rosy62 feet saved Herminia. As she clasped them in her hands—tiny feet, tender feet—she felt she had now something left to live for,—her baby, Alan's baby, the baby with a future, the baby that was destined17 to regenerate humanity.
So warm! So small! Alan's soul and her own, mysteriously blended.
Still, even so, she couldn't find it in her heart to give any joyous63 name to dead Alan's child. Dolores she called it, at Alan's grave. In sorrow had she borne it; its true name was Dolores.
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1
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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8
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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10
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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11
frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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12
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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13
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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regenerate
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| vt.使恢复，使新生；vi.恢复，再生；adj.恢复的 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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22
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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24
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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26
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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27
haggle
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| vi.讨价还价，争论不休 | |
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28
bequests
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| n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 )；遗产，遗赠物 | |
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29
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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30
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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31
obtrude
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| v.闯入；侵入；打扰 | |
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32
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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33
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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34
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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35
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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36
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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37
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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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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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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40
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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41
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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42
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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43
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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44
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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45
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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46
attestation
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| n.证词 | |
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47
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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48
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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49
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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50
descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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51
innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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52
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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53
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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54
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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56
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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57
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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58
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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59
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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60
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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61
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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62
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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63
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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