“If the telegram mean anything,” he wrote, “it means that the fragments of the torn letter have been cast into the housemaid’s bucket (along with the dust, the ashes, and the rest of the litter in the room), and have been emptied on the dust-heap at Gleninch. Since this was done, the accumulated refuse collected from the periodical cleansings of the house, during a term of nearly three years—including, of course, the ashes from the fires kept burning, for the greater part of the year, in the library and the picture-gallery—have been poured upon the heap, and have buried the precious morsels3 of paper deeper and deeper, day by day. Even if we have a fair chance of finding these fragments, what hope can we feel, at this distance of time, of recovering them with the writing in a state of preservation4? I shall be glad to hear, by return of post if possible, how the matter strikes you. If you could make it convenient to consult with me personally in Edinburgh, we should save time, when time may be of serious importance to us. While you are at Doctor Starkweather’s you are within easy reach of this place. Please think of it.”
I thought of it seriously enough. The foremost question which I had to consider was the question of my husband.
The departure of the mother and son from Spain had been so long delayed, by the surgeon’s orders, that the travelers had only advanced on their homeward journey as far as Bordeaux, when I had last heard from Mrs. Macallan three or four days since. Allowing for an interval5 of repose6 at Bordeaux, and for the slow rate at which they would be compelled to move afterward7, I might still expect them to arrive in England some time before a letter from the agent in America could reach Mr. Playmore. How, in this position of affairs, I could contrive8 to join the lawyer in Edinburgh, after meeting my husband in London, it was not easy to see. The wise and the right way, as I thought, was to tell Mr. Playmore frankly9 that I was not mistress of my own movements, and that he had better address his next letter to me at Benjamin’s house.
Writing to my legal adviser10 in this sense, I had a word of my own to add on the subject of the torn letter.
In the last years of my father’s life I had traveled with him in Italy, and I had seen in the Museum at Naples the wonderful relics11 of a bygone time discovered among the ruins of Pompeii. By way of encouraging Mr. Playmore, I now reminded him that the eruption12 which had overwhelmed the town had preserved, for more than sixteen hundred years, such perishable13 things as the straw in which pottery14 had been packed; the paintings on house walls; the dresses worn by the inhabitants; and (most noticeable of all, in our case) a piece of ancient paper, still attached to the volcanic15 ashes which had fallen over it. If these discoveries had been made after a lapse16 of sixteen centuries, under a layer of dust and ashes on a large scale, surely we might hope to meet with similar cases of preservation, after a lapse of three or four years only, under a layer of dust and ashes on a small scale. Taking for granted (what was perhaps doubtful enough) that the fragments of the letter could be recovered, my own conviction was that the writing on them, though it might be faded, would certainly still be legible. The very accumulations which Mr. Playmore deplored17 would be the means of preserving them from the rain and the damp. With these modest hints I closed my letter; and thus for once, thanks to my Continental18 experience, I was able to instruct my lawyer!
Another day passed; and I heard nothing of the travelers.
I began to feel anxious. I made my preparations for my journey southward overnight; and I resolved to start for London the next day—unless I heard of some change in Mrs. Macallan’s traveling arrangements in the interval.
The post of the next morning decided19 my course of action. It brought me a letter from my mother-in-law, which added one more to the memorable20 dates in my domestic calendar.
Eustace and his mother had advanced as far as Paris on their homeward journey, when a cruel disaster had befallen them. The fatigues21 of traveling, and the excitement of his anticipated meeting with me, had proved together to be too much for my husband. He had held out as far as Paris with the greatest difficulty; and he was now confined to his bed again, struck down by a relapse. The doctors, this time, had no fear for his life, provided that his patience would support him through a lengthened22 period of the most absolute repose.
“It now rests with you, Valeria,” Mrs. Macallan wrote, “to fortify23 and comfort Eustace under this new calamity24. Do not suppose that he has ever blamed or thought of blaming you for leaving him with me in Spain, as soon as he was declared to be out of danger. ‘It was I who left her,’ he said to me, when we first talked about it; ‘and it is my wife’s right to expect that I should go back to her.’ Those were his words, my dear; and he has done all he can to abide25 by them. Helpless in his bed, he now asks you to take the will for the deed, and to join him in Paris. I think I know you well enough, my child, to be sure that you will do this; and I need only add one word of caution, before I close my letter. Avoid all reference, not only to the Trial (you will do that of your own accord), but even to our house at Gleninch. You will understand how he feels, in his present state of nervous depression, when I tell you that I should never have ventured on asking you to join him here, if your letter had not informed me that your visits to Dexter were at an end. Would you believe it?—his horror of anything which recalls our past troubles is still so vivid that he has actually asked me to give my consent to selling Gleninch!”
So Eustace’s mother wrote of him. But she had not trusted entirely26 to her own powers of persuasion27. A slip of paper was inclosed in her letter, containing these two lines, traced in pencil—oh, so feebly and so wearily!—by my poor darling himself:
“I am too weak to travel any further, Valeria. Will you come to me and forgive me?” A few pencil-marks followed; but they were illegible28. The writing of those two short sentences had exhausted29 him.
It is not saying much for myself, I know—but, having confessed it when I was wrong, let me, at least, record it when I did what was right—I decided instantly on giving up all further connection with the recovery of the torn letter. If Eustace asked me the question, I was resolved to be able to answer truly: “I have made the sacrifice that assures your tranquillity30. When resignation was hardest, I have humbled31 my obstinate32 spirit, and I have given way for my husband’s sake.”
There was half an hour to spare before I left the vicarage for the railway station. In that interval I wrote again to Mr. Playmore, telling him plainly what my position was, and withdrawing, at once and forever, from all share in investigating the mystery which lay hidden under the dust-heap at Gleninch.
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1
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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3
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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4
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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5
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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6
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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7
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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8
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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9
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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11
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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12
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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13
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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14
pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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15
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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16
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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17
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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19
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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20
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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21
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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22
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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24
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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25
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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26
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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27
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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28
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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29
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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30
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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31
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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32
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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