The footman had thoughtfully lighted the carriage lamps. Carrying one of them to serve as a lantern, he lighted us over the wilds of the brick desert, and landed us safely on the path by the high-road.
“Well!” said my mother-in-law, when we were comfortably seated in the carriage again. “You have seen Miserrimus Dexter, and I hope you are satisfied. I will do him the justice to declare that I never, in all my experience, saw him more completely crazy than he was to-night. What do you say?”
“I don’t presume to dispute your opinion,” I answered. “But, speaking for myself, I’m not quite sure that he is mad.”
“Not mad!” cried Mrs. Macallan, “after those frantic4 performances in his chair? Not mad, after the exhibition he made of his unfortunate cousin? Not mad, after the song that he sang in your honor, and the falling asleep by way of conclusion? Oh, Valeria! Valeria! Well said the wisdom of our ancestors—there are none so blind as those who won’t see.”
“Pardon me, dear Mrs. Macallan, I saw everything that you mention, and I never felt more surprised or more confounded in my life. But now I have recovered from my amazement5, and can think it over quietly, I must still venture to doubt whether this strange man is really mad in the true meaning of the word. It seems to me that he only expresses—I admit in a very reckless and boisterous6 way—thoughts and feelings which most of us are ashamed of as weaknesses, and which we keep to ourselves accordingly. I confess I have often fancied myself transformed into some other person, and have felt a certain pleasure in seeing myself in my new character. One of our first amusements as children (if we have any imagination at all) is to get out of our own characters, and to try the characters of other personages as a change—to fairies, to be queens, to be anything, in short, but what we really are. Mr. Dexter lets out the secret just as the children do, and if that is madness, he is certainly mad. But I noticed that when his imagination cooled down he became Miserrimus Dexter again—he no more believed himself than we believed him to be Napoleon or Shakespeare. Besides, some allowance is surely to be made for the solitary7, sedentary life that he leads. I am not learned enough to trace the influence of that life in making him what he is; but I think I can see the result in an over-excited imagination, and I fancy I can trace his exhibiting his power over the poor cousin and his singing of that wonderful song to no more formidable cause than inordinate8 self-conceit. I hope the confession9 will not lower me seriously in your good opinion; but I must say I have enjoyed my visit, and, worse still, Miserrimus Dexter really interests me.”
“Does this learned discourse10 on Dexter mean that you are going to see him again?” asked Mrs. Macallan.
“I don’t know how I may feel about it tomorrow morning,” I said; “but my impulse at this moment is decidedly to see him again. I had a little talk with him while you were away at the other end of the room, and I believe he really can be of use to me—”
“Of use to you in what?” interposed my mother-in-law.
“In the one object which I have in view—the object, dear Mrs. Macallan, which I regret to say you do not approve.”
“And you are going to take him into your confidence? to open your whole mind to such a man as the man we have just left?”
“Yes, if I think of it to-morrow as I think of it to-night. I dare say it is a risk; but I must run risks. I know I am not prudent12; but prudence13 won’t help a woman in my position, with my end to gain.”
Mrs. Macallan made no further remonstrance14 in words. She opened a capacious pocket in front of the carriage, and took from it a box of matches and a railway reading-lamp.
“You provoke me,” said the old lady, “into showing you what your husband thinks of this new whim15 of yours. I have got his letter with me—his last letter from Spain. You shall judge for yourself, you poor deluded16 young creature, whether my son is worthy17 of the sacrifice—the useless and hopeless sacrifice—which you are bent18 on making of yourself for his sake. Strike a light!”
I willingly obeyed her. Ever since she had informed me of Eustace’s departure to Spain I had been eager for more news of him, for something to sustain my spirits, after so much that had disappointed and depressed19 me. Thus far I did not even know whether my husband thought of me sometimes in his self-imposed exile. As to this regretting already the rash act which had separated us, it was still too soon to begin hoping for that.
The lamp having been lighted, and fixed20 in its place between the two front windows of the carriage, Mrs. Macallan produced her son’s letter. There is no folly21 like the folly of love. It cost me a hard struggle to restrain myself from kissing the paper on which the dear hand had rested.
“There!” said my mother-in-law. “Begin on the second page, the page devoted22 to you. Read straight down to the last line at the bottom, and, in God’s name, come back to your senses, child, before it is too late!”
I followed my instructions, and read these words:
“Can I trust myself to write of Valeria? I must write of her. Tell me how she is, how she looks, what she is doing. I am always thinking of her. Not a day passes but I mourn the loss of her. Oh, if she had only been contented23 to let matters rest as they were! Oh, if she had never discovered the miserable24 truth!
“She spoke25 of reading the Trial when I saw her last. Has she persisted in doing so? I believe—I say this seriously, mother—I believe the shame and the horror of it would have been the death of me if I had met her face to face when she first knew of the ignominy that I have suffered, of the infamous26 suspicion of which I have been publicly made the subject. Think of those pure eyes looking at a man who has been accused (and never wholly absolved) of the foulest27 and the vilest28 of all murders, and then think of what that man must feel if he have any heart and any sense of shame left in him. I sicken as I write of it.
“Does she still meditate29 that hopeless project—the offspring, poor angel, of her artless, unthinking generosity30? Does she still fancy that it is in her power to assert my innocence31 before the world? Oh, mother (if she do), use your utmost influence to make her give up the idea! Spare her the humiliation32, the disappointment, the insult, perhaps, to which she may innocently expose herself. For her sake, for my sake, leave no means untried to attain33 this righteous, this merciful end.
“I send her no message—I dare not do it. Say nothing, when you see her, which can recall me to her memory. On the contrary, help her to forget me as soon as possible. The kindest thing I can do—the one atonement I can make to her—is to drop out of her life.”
With those wretched words it ended. I handed his letter back to his mother in silence. She said but little on her side.
“If this doesn’t discourage you,” she remarked, slowly folding up the letter, “nothing will. Let us leave it there, and say no more.”
I made no answer—I was crying behind my veil. My domestic prospect34 looked so dreary35! my unfortunate husband was so hopelessly misguided, so pitiably wrong! The one chance for both of us, and the one consolation36 for poor Me, was to hold to my desperate resolution more firmly than ever. If I had wanted anything to confirm me in this view, and to arm me against the remonstrances37 of every one of my friends, Eustace’s letter would have proved more than sufficient to answer the purpose. At least he had not forgotten me; he thought of me, and he mourned the loss of me every day of his life. That was encouragement enough—for the present. “If Ariel calls for me in the pony-chaise to-morrow,” I thought to myself, “with Ariel I go.”
Mrs. Macallan set me down at Benjamin’s door.
I mentioned to her at parting—I stood sufficiently38 in awe39 of her to put it off till the last moment—that Miserrimus Dexter had arranged to send his cousin and his pony-chaise to her residence on the next day; and I inquired thereupon whether my mother-in-law would permit me to call at her house to wait for the appearance of the cousin, or whether she would prefer sending the chaise on to Benjamin’s cottage. I fully3 expected an explosion of anger to follow this bold avowal40 of my plans for the next day. The old lady agreeably surprised me. She proved that she had really taken a liking41 to me: she kept her temper.
“If you persist in going back to Dexter, you certainly shall not go to him from my door,” she said. “But I hope you will not persist. I hope you will awake a wiser woman to-morrow morning.”
The morning came. A little before noon the arrival of the pony-chaise was announced at the door, and a letter was brought in to me from Mrs. Macallan.
“I have no right to control your movements,” my mother-in-law wrote. “I send the chaise to Mr. Benjamin’s house; and I sincerely trust that you will not take your place in it. I wish I could persuade you, Valeria, how truly I am your friend. I have been thinking about you anxiously in the wakeful hours of the night. How anxiously, you will understand when I tell you that I now reproach myself for not having done more than I did to prevent your unhappy marriage. And yet, what more I could have done I don’t really know. My son admitted to me that he was courting you under an assumed name, but he never told me what the name was. Or who you were, or where your friends lived. Perhaps I ought to have taken measures to find this out. Perhaps, if I had succeeded, I ought to have interfered42 and enlightened you, even at the sad sacrifice of making an enemy of my own son. I honestly thought I did my duty in expressing my disapproval43, and in refusing to be present at the marriage. Was I too easily satisfied? It is too late to ask. Why do I trouble you with an old woman’s vain misgivings44 and regrets? My child, if you come to any harm, I shall feel (indirectly) responsible for it. It is this uneasy state of mind which sets me writing, with nothing to say that can interest you. Don’t go to Dexter! The fear has been pursuing me all night that your going to Dexter will end badly. Write him an excuse. Valeria! I firmly believe you will repent45 it if you return to that house.”
Was ever a woman more plainly warned, more carefully advised, than I? And yet warning and advice were both thrown away on me.
Let me say for myself that I was really touched by the kindness of my mother-in-law’s letter, though I was not shaken by it in the smallest degree. As long as I lived, moved, and thought, my one purpose now was to make Miserrimus Dexter confide11 to me his ideas on the subject of Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s death. To those ideas I looked as my guiding stars along the dark way on which I was going. I wrote back to Mrs. Macallan, as I really felt gratefully and penitently46. And then I went out to the chaise.
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1
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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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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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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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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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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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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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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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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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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42
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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43
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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45
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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46
penitently
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