Forced to it by fate, or helped to it by chance, Eunice has made the discovery of her lover’s infidelity. “In all human probability” (as my father says in his sermons), we two sisters are enemies for life.
I am not suspected, as Eunice is, of making appointments with a sweetheart. So I am free to go out alone, and to go where I please. Philip and I were punctual to our appointment this afternoon.
Our place of meeting was in a secluded2 corner of the town park. We found a rustic3 seat in our retirement4, set up (one would suppose) as a concession5 to the taste of visitors who are fond of solitude6. The view in front of us was bounded by the park wall and railings, and our seat was prettily7 approached on one side by a plantation8 of young trees. No entrance gate was near; no carriage road crossed the grass. A more safe and more solitary9 nook for conversation, between two persons desiring to be alone, it would be hard to find in most public parks. Lovers are said to know it well, and to be especially fond of it toward evening. We were there in broad daylight, and we had the seat to ourselves.
My memory of what passed between us is, in some degree, disturbed by the formidable interruption which brought our talk to an end.
But among other things, I remember that I showed him no mercy at the outset. At one time I was indignant; at another I was scornful. I declared, in regard to my object in meeting him, that I had changed my mind, And had decided10 to shorten a disagreeable interview by waiving11 my right to an explanation, and bidding him farewell. Eunice, as I pointed12 out, had the first claim to him; Eunice was much more likely to suit him, as a companion for life, than I was. “In short,” I said, in conclusion, “my inclination13 for once takes sides with my duty, and leaves my sister in undisturbed possession of young Mr. Dunboyne.” With this satirical explanation, I rose to say good-by.
I had merely intended to irritate him. He showed a superiority to anger for which I was not prepared.
“Be so kind as to sit down again,” he said quietly.
He took my letter from his pocket, and pointed to that part of it which alluded14 to his conduct, when we had met in my father’s study.
“You have offered me the opportunity of saying a word in my own defense,” he went on. “I prize that privilege far too highly to consent to your withdrawing it, merely because you have changed your mind. Let me at least tell you what my errand was, when I called on your father. Loving you, and you only, I had forced myself to make a last effort to be true to your sister. Remember that, Helena, and then say—is it wonderful if I was beside myself, when I found You in the study?”
“When you tell me you were beside yourself,” I said, “do you mean, ashamed of yourself?”
That touched him. “I mean nothing of the kind,” he burst out. “After the hell on earth in which I have been living between you two sisters, a man hasn’t virtue15 enough left in him to be ashamed. He’s half mad—that’s what he is. Look at my position! I had made up my mind never to see you again; I had made up my mind (if I married Eunice) to rid myself of my own miserable16 life when I could endure it no longer. In that state of feeling, when my sense of duty depended on my speaking with Mr. Gracedieu alone, whose was the first face I saw when I entered the room? If I had dared to look at you, or to speak to you, what do you think would have become of my resolution to sacrifice myself?”
“What has become of it now?” I asked.
“Tell me first if I am forgiven,” he said—“and you shall know.”
“Do you deserve to be forgiven?”
It has been discovered by wiser heads than mine that weak people are always in extremes. So far, I had seen Philip in the vain and violent extreme. He now shifted suddenly to the sad and submissive extreme. When I asked him if he deserved to be forgiven, he made the humblest of all replies—he sighed and said nothing.
“If I did my duty to my sister,” I reminded him, “I should refuse to forgive you, and send you back to Eunice.”
“Your father’s language and your father’s conduct,” he answered, “have released me from that entanglement17. I can never go back to Eunice. If you refuse to forgive me, neither you nor she will see anything more of Philip Dunboyne; I promise you that. Are you satisfied now?”
After holding out against him resolutely18, I felt myself beginning to yield. When a man has once taken their fancy, what helplessly weak creatures women are! I saw through his vacillating weakness—and yet I trusted him, with both eyes open. My looking-glass is opposite to me while I write. It shows me a contemptible19 Helena. I lied, and said I was satisfied—to please him.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked.
It is absurd to put it on record. Of course, I forgave him. What a good Christian20 I am, after all!
He took my willing hand. “My lovely darling,” he said, “our marriage rests with you. Whether your father approves of it or not, say the word; claim me, and I am yours for life.”
I must have been infatuated by his voice and his look; my heart must have been burning under the pressure of his hand on mine. Was it my modesty21 or my self-control that deserted22 me? I let him take me in his arms. Again, and again, and again I kissed him. We were deaf to what we ought to have heard; we were blind to what we ought to have seen. Before we were conscious of a movement among the trees, we were discovered. My sister flew at me like a wild animal. Her furious hands fastened themselves on my throat. Philip started to his feet. When he touched her, in the act of forcing her back from me, Eunice’s raging strength became utter weakness in an instant. Her arms fell helpless at her sides—her head drooped—she looked at him in silence which was dreadful, at such a moment as that. He shrank from the unendurable reproach in those tearless eyes. Meanly, he turned away from her. Meanly, I followed him. Looking back for an instant, I saw her step forward; perhaps to stop him, perhaps to speak to him. The effort was too much for her strength; she staggered back against the trunk of a tree. Like strangers, walking separate one from the other, we left her to her companion—the hideous23 traitress who was my enemy and her friend.
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1
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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2
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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3
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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4
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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5
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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6
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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8
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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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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10
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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11
waiving
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的现在分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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12
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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13
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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14
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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16
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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19
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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20
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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21
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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22
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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23
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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