When the time of delay had passed, it was arranged that the wedding ceremony should be held—after due publication of Banns—at the parish church of the London suburb in which my house was situated2. Miss Jillgall was bridesmaid, and I gave away the bride. Before we set out for the church, Eunice asked leave to speak with me for a moment in private.
“Don’t think,” she said, “that I am forgetting my promise to be content with what you have told me about myself. I am not so ungrateful as that. But I do want, before I consent to be Philip’s wife, to feel sure that I am not quite unworthy of him. Is it because I am of mean birth that you told me I was Mr. Gracedieu’s adopted child—and told me no more?”
I could honestly satisfy her, so far. “Certainly not!” I said.
She put her arms round my neck. “Do you say that,” she asked, “to make my mind easy? or do you say it on your word of honor?”
“On my word of honor.”
We arrived at the church. Let Miss Jillgall describe the marriage, in her own inimitable way.
“No wedding breakfast, when you don’t want to eat it. No wedding speeches, when nobody wants to make them, and nobody wants to hear them. And no false sentiment, shedding tears and reddening noses, on the happiest day in the whole year. A model marriage! I could desire nothing better, if I had any prospect3 of being a bride myself.”
They went away for their honeymoon4 to a quiet place by the seaside, not very far from the town in which Eunice had passed some of the happiest and the wretchedest days in her life. She persisted in thinking it possible that Mr. Gracedieu might recover the use of his faculties5, at the last, and might wish to see her on his death-bed. “His adopted daughter,” she gently reminded me, “is his only daughter now.” The doctor shook his head when I told him what Eunice had said to me—and, the sad truth must be told, the doctor was right.
Miss Jillgall returned, on the wedding-day, to take care of the good man who had befriended her in her hour of need.
Before the end of the week, I heard from her, and was disagreeably reminded of an incident which we had both forgotten, absorbed as we were in other and greater interests, at the time.
Mrs. Tenbruggen had again appeared on the scene! She had written to Miss Jillgall, from Paris, to say that she had heard of old Mr. Dunboyne’s death, and that she wished to have the letter returned, which she had left for delivery to Philip’s father on the day when Philip and Eunice were married. I had my own suspicions of what that letter might contain; and I regretted that Miss Jillgall had sent it back without first waiting to consult me. My misgivings6, thus excited, were increased by more news of no very welcome kind. Mrs. Tenbruggen had decided7 on returning to her professional pursuits in England. Massage8, now the fashion everywhere, had put money into her pocket among the foreigners; and her husband, finding that she persisted in keeping out of his reach, had consented to a compromise. He was ready to submit to a judicial9 separation; in consideration of a little income which his wife had consented to settle on him, under the advice of her lawyer.
Some days later, I received a delightful10 letter from Philip and Eunice; reminding me that I had engaged to pay them a visit at the seaside. My room was ready for me, and I was left to choose my own day. I had just begun to write my reply, gladly accepting the invitation, when an ominous11 circumstance occurred. My servant announced “a lady”; and I found myself face to face with—Mrs. Tenbruggen!
She was as cheerful as ever, and as eminently12 agreeable as ever.
“I have heard it all from Selina,” she said. “Philip’s marriage to Eunice (I shall go and congratulate them, of course), and the catastrophe13 (how dramatic!) of Helena Gracedieu. I warned. Selina that Miss Helena would end badly. To tell the truth, she frightened me. I don’t deny that I am a mischievous14 woman when I find myself affronted15, quite capable of taking my revenge in my own small spiteful way. But poison and murder—ah, the frightful16 subject! let us drop it, and talk of something that doesn’t make my hair (it’s really my own hair) stand on end. Has Selina told you that I have got rid of my charming husband, on easy pecuniary17 terms? Oh, you know that? Very well. I will tell you something that you don’t know. Mr. Governor, I have found you out.”
“May I venture to ask how?”
“When I guessed which was which of those two girls,” she answered, “and guessed wrong, you deliberately18 encouraged the mistake. Very clever, but you overdid19 it. From that moment, though I kept it to myself, I began to fear I might be wrong. Do you remember Low Lanes, my dear sir? A charming old church. I have had another consultation20 with my lawyer. His questions led me into mentioning how it happened that I heard of Low Lanes. After looking again at his memorandum21 of the birth advertised in the newspaper without naming the place—he proposed trying the church register at Low Lanes. Need I tell you the result? I know, as well as you do, that Philip has married the adopted child. He has had a mother-in-law who was hanged, and, what is more, he has the honor, through his late father, of being otherwise connected with the murderess by marriage—as his aunt!”
Bewilderment and dismay deprived me of my presence of mind. “How did you discover that?” I was foolish enough to ask.
“Do you remember when I brought the baby to the prison?” she said. “The father—as I mentioned at the time—had been a dear and valued friend of mine. No person could be better qualified22 to tell me who had married his wife’s sister. If that lady had been living, I should never have been troubled with the charge of the child. Any more questions?”
“Only one. Is Philip to hear of this?”
“Oh, for shame! I don’t deny that Philip insulted me grossly, in one way; and that Philip’s late father insulted me grossly, in another way. But Mamma Tenbruggen is a Christian23. She returns good for evil, and wouldn’t for the world disturb the connubial24 felicity of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Dunboyne.”
The moment the woman was out of my house, I sent a telegram to Philip to say that he might expect to see me that night. I caught the last train in the evening; and I sat down to supper with those two harmless young creatures, knowing I must prepare the husband for what threatened them, and weakly deferring25 it, when I found myself in their presence, until the next day. Eunice was, in some degree, answerable for this hesitation26 on my part. No one could look at her husband, and fail to see that he was a supremely27 happy man. But I detected signs of care in the wife’s face.
Before breakfast the next morning I was out on the beach, trying to decide how the inevitable28 disclosure might be made. Eunice joined me. Now, when we were alone, I asked if she was really and completely happy. Quietly and sadly she answered: “Not yet.”
I hardly knew what to say. My face must have expressed disappointment and surprise.
“I shall never be quite happy,” she resumed, “till I know what it is that you kept from me on that memorable29 day. I don’t like having a secret from my husband—though it is not my secret.”
“Remember your promise,” I said
“I don’t forget it,” she answered. “I can only wish that my promise would keep back the thoughts that come to me in spite of myself.”
“What thoughts?”
“There is something, as I fear, in the story of my parents which you are afraid to confide30 to me. Why did Mr. Gracedieu allow me to believe and leave everybody to believe, that I was his own child?”
“My dear, I relieved your mind of those doubts on the morning of your marriage.”
“No. I was only thinking of myself at that time. My mother—the doubt of her is the doubt that torments31 me now.”
“What do you mean?”
She put her arm in mine, and held by it with both hands.
“The mock-mother!” she whispered. “Do you remember that dreadful Vision, that horrid32 whispering temptation in the dead of night? Was it a mock-mother? Oh, pity me! I don’t know who my mother was. One horrid thought about her is a burden on my mind. If she was a good woman, you who love me would surely have made me happy by speaking of her?”
Those words decided me at last. Could she suffer more than she had suffered already, if I trusted her with the truth? I ran the risk. There was a time of silence that filled me with terror. The interval33 passed. She took my hand, and put it to her heart. “Does it beat as if I was frightened?” she asked.
No! It was beating calmly.
“Does it relieve your anxiety?”
It told me that I had not surprised her. That unforgotten Vision of the night had prepared her for the worst, after the time when I had told her that she was an adopted child. “I know,” I said, “that those whispered temptations overpowered you again, when you and Helena met on the stairs, and you forbade her to enter Philip’s room. And I know that love had conquered once more, when you were next seen sitting by Philip’s bedside. Tell me—have you any misgivings now? Is there fear in your heart of the return of that tempting34 spirit in you, in the time to come?”
“Not while Philip lives!”
There, where her love was—there her safety was. And she knew it! She suddenly left me. I asked where she was going.
“To tell Philip,” was the reply.
She was waiting for me at the door, when I followed her to the house.
“Is it done?” I said.
“It is done,” she answered.
“What did he say?”
“He said: ‘My darling, if I could be fonder of you than ever, I should be fonder of you now.’”
I have been blamed for being too ready to confide to Philip the precious trust of Eunice’s happiness. If that reply does not justify35 me, where is justification36 to be found?
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1
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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6
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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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massage
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| n.按摩，揉；vt.按摩，揉，美化，奉承，篡改数据 | |
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9
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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10
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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13
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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14
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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15
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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16
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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17
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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18
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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19
overdid
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去式 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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20
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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23
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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connubial
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妇的 | |
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25
deferring
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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26
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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27
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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28
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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31
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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33
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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34
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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35
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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36
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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