"I do not remember that I ever asked you as to her fortune," Arthur replied.
"Certainly not. If you had I should not have told you. But as I named a sum, it is right that I should explain to you that that man succeeded in lessening5 it by six or seven thousand pounds."
"If that were all!"
"And I have promised Sir Alured that Everett, as his heir, should have the use of a considerable portion of his share without waiting for my death. It is odd that the one of my children from whom I certainly expected the greater trouble should have fallen so entirely6 on his feet; and that the other—; well, let us hope for the best. Everett seems to have taken up with Wharton as though it belonged to him already. And Emily—! Well, my dear boy, let us hope that it may come right yet. You are not drinking your wine. Yes,—pass the bottle; I'll have another glass before I go upstairs."
In this way the time went by till Emily returned to town. The Ministry7 had just then resigned, but I think that "this great reactionary8 success," as it was called by the writer in the "People's Banner," affected9 one member of the Lower House much less than the return to London of Mrs. Lopez. Arthur Fletcher had determined10 that he would renew his suit as soon as a year should have expired since the tragedy which had made his love a widow,—and that year had now passed away. He had known the day well,—as had she, when she passed the morning weeping in her own room at Wharton. Now he questioned himself whether a year would suffice,—whether both in mercy to her and with the view of realizing his own hopes he should give her some longer time for recovery. But he had told himself that it should be done at the end of a year, and as he had allowed no one to talk him out of his word, so neither would he be untrue to it himself. But it became with him a deep matter of business, a question of great difficulty, how he should arrange the necessary interview,—whether he should plead his case with her at their first meeting, or whether he had better allow her to become accustomed to his presence in the house. His mother had attempted to ridicule12 him, because he was, as she said, afraid of a woman. He well remembered that he had never been afraid of Emily Wharton when they had been quite young,—little more than a boy and girl together. Then he had told her of his love over and over again, and had found almost a comfortable luxury in urging her to say a word, which she had never indeed said, but which probably in those days he still hoped that she would say. And occasionally he had feigned13 to be angry with her, and had tempted11 her on to little quarrels with a boyish idea that quick reconciliation14 would perhaps throw her into his arms. But now it seemed to him that an age had passed since those days. His love had certainly not faded. There had never been a moment when that had been on the wing. But now the azure15 plumage of his love had become grey as the wings of a dove, and the gorgeousness of his dreams had sobered into hopes and fears which were a constant burden to his heart. There was time enough, still time enough for happiness if she would yield;—and time enough for the dull pressure of unsatisfied aspirations16 should she persist in her refusal.
At last he saw her, almost by accident, and that meeting certainly was not fit for the purpose of his suit. He called at Stone Buildings the day after her arrival, and found her at her father's chambers17. She had come there keeping some appointment with him, and certainly had not expected to meet her lover. He was confused and hardly able to say a word to account for his presence, but she greeted him with almost sisterly affection, saying some word of Longbarns and his family, telling him how Everett, to Sir Alured's great delight, had been sworn in as a magistrate18 for the County, and how at the last hunt meeting John Fletcher had been asked to take the County hounds, because old Lord Weobly at seventy-five had declared himself to be unable any longer to ride as a master of hounds ought to ride. All these things Arthur had of course heard, such news being too important to be kept long from him; but on none of these subjects had he much to say. He stuttered and stammered19, and quickly went away;—not, however, before he had promised to come and dine as usual on the next Sunday, and not without observing that the anniversary of that fatal day of release had done something to lighten the sombre load of mourning which the widow had hitherto worn.
Yes;—he would dine there on the Sunday, but how would it be with him then? Mr. Wharton never went out of the house on a Sunday evening, and could hardly be expected to leave his own drawing-room for the sake of giving a lover an opportunity. No;—he must wait till that evening should have passed, and then make the occasion for himself as best he might. The Sunday came and the dinner was eaten, and after dinner there was the single bottle of port and the single bottle of claret. "How do you think she is looking?" asked the father. "She was as pale as death before we got her down into the country."
"Upon my word, sir," said he, "I've hardly looked at her. It is not a matter of looks now, as it used to be. It has got beyond that. It is not that I am indifferent to seeing a pretty face, or that I have no longer an opinion of my own about a woman's figure. But there grows up, I think, a longing20 which almost kills that consideration."
"To me she is as beautiful as ever," said the father proudly.
Fletcher did manage, when in the drawing-room, to talk for a while about John and the hounds, and then went away, having resolved that he would come again on the very next day. Surely she would not give an order that he should be denied admittance. She had been too calm, too even, too confident in herself for that. Yes;—he would come and tell her plainly what he had to say. He would tell it with all the solemnity of which he was capable, with a few words, and those the strongest which he could use. Should she refuse him,—as he almost knew that she would at first,—then he would tell her of her father and of the wishes of all their joint21 friends. "Nothing," he would say to her, "nothing but personal dislike can justify22 you in refusing to heal so many wounds." As he fixed23 on these words he failed to remember how little probable it is that a lover should ever be able to use the phrases he arranges.
On Monday he came, and asked for Mrs. Lopez, slurring24 over the word as best he could. The butler said his mistress was at home. Since the death of the man he had so thoroughly25 despised, the old servant had never called her Mrs. Lopez. Arthur was shown upstairs, and found the lady he sought,—but he found Mrs. Roby also. It may be remembered that Mrs. Roby, after the tragedy, had been refused admittance into Mr. Wharton's house. Since that there had been some correspondence, and a feeling had prevailed that the woman was not to be quarrelled with for ever. "I did not do it, papa, because of her," Emily had said with some scorn, and that scorn had procured26 Mrs. Roby's pardon. She was now making a morning call, and suiting her conversation to the black dress of her niece. Arthur was horrified27 at seeing her. Mrs. Roby had always been to him odious28, not only as a personal enemy but as a vulgar woman. He, at any rate, attributed to her a great part of the evil that had been done, feeling sure that had there been no house round the corner, Emily Wharton would never have become Mrs. Lopez. As it was he was forced to shake hands with her, and forced to listen to the funereal29 tone in which Mrs. Roby asked him if he did not think that Mrs. Lopez looked much improved by her sojourn30 in Herefordshire. He shrank at the sound, and then, in order that it might not be repeated, took occasion to show that he was allowed to call his early playmate by her Christian31 name. Mrs. Roby, thinking that she ought to check him, remarked that Mrs. Lopez's return was a great thing for Mr. Wharton. Thereupon Arthur Fletcher seized his hat off the ground, wished them both good-bye, and hurried out of the room. "What a very odd manner he has taken up since he became a member of Parliament," said Mrs. Roby.
Emily was silent for a moment, and then with an effort,—with intense pain,—she said a word or two which she thought had better be at once spoken. "He went because he does not like to hear that name."
"Good gracious!"
"And papa does not like it. Don't say a word about it, aunt; pray don't;—but call me Emily."
"Are you going to be ashamed of your name?"
"Never mind, aunt. If you think it wrong you must stay away;—but I will not have papa wounded."
"Oh;—if Mr. Wharton wishes it;—of course." That evening Mrs. Roby told Dick Roby, her husband, what an old fool Mr. Wharton was.
The next day, quite early, Fletcher was again at the house and was again admitted upstairs. The butler, no doubt, knew well enough why he came, and also knew that the purport32 of his coming had at any rate the sanction of Mr. Wharton. The room was empty when he was shown into it, but she came to him very soon. "I went away yesterday rather abruptly," he said. "I hope you did not think me rude."
"Oh no."
"Your aunt was here, and I had something I wished to say but could not say very well before her."
"I knew that she had driven you away. You and Aunt Harriet were never great friends."
"Never;—but I will forgive her everything. I will forgive all the injuries that have been done me if you now will do as I ask you."
Of course she knew what it was that he was about to ask. When he had left her at Longbarns without saying a word of his love, without giving her any hint whereby she might allow herself to think that he intended to renew his suit, then she had wept because it was so. Though her resolution had been quite firm as to the duty which was incumbent33 on her of remaining in her desolate34 condition of almost nameless widowhood, yet she had been unable to refrain from bitter tears because he also had seemed to see that such was her duty. But now again, knowing that the request was coming, feeling once more confident of the constancy of his love, she was urgent with herself as to that heavy duty. She would be unwomanly, dead to all shame, almost inhuman35, were she to allow herself again to indulge in love after all the havoc36 she had made. She had been little more than a bride when that husband, for whom she had so often been forced to blush, had been driven by the weight of his misfortunes and disgraces to destroy himself! By the marriage she had made she had overwhelmed her whole family with dishonour37. She had done it with a persistency38 of perverse39 self-will which she herself could not now look back upon without wonder and horror. She, too, should have died as well as he,—only that death had not been within the compass of her powers as of his. How then could she forget it all, and wipe it away from her mind, as she would figures from a slate40 with a wet towel? How could it be fit that she should again be a bride with such a spectre of a husband haunting her memory? She had known that the request was to be made when he had come so quickly, and had not doubted it for a moment when he took his sudden departure. She had known it well, when just now the servant told her that Mr. Fletcher was in the drawing-room below. But she was quite certain of the answer she must make. "I should be sorry you should ask me anything I cannot do," she said in a very low voice.
"I will ask you for nothing for which I have not your father's sanction."
"The time has gone by, Arthur, in which I might well have been guided by my father. There comes a time when personal feelings must be stronger than a father's authority. Papa cannot see me with my own eyes; he cannot understand what I feel. It is simply this,—that he would have me to be other than I am. But I am what I have made myself."
"You have not heard me as yet. You will hear me?"
"Oh, yes."
"I have loved you ever since I was a boy." He paused as though he expected that she would make some answer to this; but of course there was nothing that she could say. "I have been true to you since we were together almost as children."
"It is your nature to be true."
"In this matter, at any rate, I shall never change. I never for a moment had a doubt about my love. There never has been any one else whom I have ventured to compare with you. Then came that great trouble. Emily, you must let me speak freely this once, as so much, to me at least, depends on it."
"Say what you will, Arthur. Do not wound me more than you can help."
"God knows how willingly I would heal every wound without a word if it could be done. I don't know whether you ever thought what I suffered when he came among us and robbed me,—well, I will not say robbed me of your love, because it was not mine—but took away with him that which I had been trying to win."
"I did not think a man would feel it like that."
"Why shouldn't a man feel as well as a woman? I had set my heart on having you for my wife. Can any desire be dearer to a man than that? Then he came. Well, dearest; surely I may say that he was not worthy of you."
"We were neither of us worthy," she said.
"I need not tell you that we all grieved. It seemed to us down in Herefordshire as though a black cloud had come upon us. We could not speak of you, nor yet could we be altogether silent."
"Of course you condemned41 me,—as an outcast."
"Did I write to you as though you were an outcast? Did I treat you when I saw you as an outcast? When I come to you to-day, is that proof that I think you to be an outcast? I have never deceived you, Emily."
"Never."
"Then you will believe me when I say that through it all not one word of reproach or contumely has ever passed my lips in regard to you. That you should have given yourself to one whom I could not think to be worthy of you was, of course, a great sorrow. Had he been a prince of men it would, of course, have been a sorrow to me. How it went with you during your married life I will not ask."
"I was unhappy. I would tell you everything if I could. I was very unhappy."
"Then came—the end." She was now weeping, with her face buried in her handkerchief. "I would spare you if I knew how, but there are some things which must be said."
"No;—no. I will bear it all—from you."
"Well! His success had not lessened42 my love. Though then I could have no hope,—though you were utterly43 removed from me,—all that could not change me. There it was,—as though my arm or my leg had been taken from me. It was bad to live without an arm or leg, but there was no help. I went on with my life and tried not to look like a whipped cur;—though John from time to time would tell me that I failed. But now;—now that it has again all changed,—what would you have me do now? It may be that after all my limb may be restored to me, that I may be again as other men are, whole, and sound, and happy;—so happy! When it may possibly be within my reach am I not to look for my happiness?" He paused, but she wept on without speaking a word. "There are those who will say that I should wait till all these signs of woe44 have been laid aside. But why should I wait? There has come a great blot45 upon your life, and is it not well that it should be covered as quickly as possible?"
"It can never be covered."
"You mean that it can never be forgotten. No doubt there are passages in our life which we cannot forget, though we bury them in the deepest silence. All this can never be driven out of your memory,—nor from mine. But it need not therefore blacken all our lives. In such a condition we should not be ruled by what the world thinks."
"Not at all. I care nothing for what the world thinks. I am below all that. It is what I think: I myself,—of myself."
"Will you think of no one else? Are any of your thoughts for me,—or for your father?"
"Oh, yes;—for my father."
"I need hardly tell you what he wishes. You must know how you can best give him back the comfort he has lost."
"But, Arthur, even for him I cannot do everything."
"There is one question to be asked," he said, rising from her feet and standing1 before her;—"but one; and what you do should depend entirely on the answer which you may be able truly to make to that."
This he said so solemnly that he startled her.
"What question, Arthur?"
"Do you love me?" To this question at the moment she could make no reply. "Of course I know that you did not love me when you married him."
"Love is not all of one kind."
"You know what love I mean. You did not love me then. You could not have loved me,—though, perhaps, I thought I had deserved your love. But love will change, and memory will sometimes bring back old fancies when the world has been stern and hard. When we were very young I think you loved me. Do you remember seven years ago at Longbarns, when they parted us and sent me away, because—because we were so young? They did not tell us then, but I think you knew. I know that I knew, and went nigh to swear that I would drown myself. You loved me then, Emily."
"I was a child then."
"Now you are not a child. Do you love me now,—to-day? If so, give me your hand, and let the past be buried in silence. All this has come, and gone, and has nearly made us old. But there is life before us yet, and if you are to me as I am to you it is better that our lives should be lived together." Then he stood before her with his hand stretched out.
"I cannot do it," she said.
"And why?"
"I cannot be other than the wretched thing I have made myself."
"But do you love me?"
"I cannot analyse my heart. Love you;—yes! I have always loved you. Everything about you is dear to me. I can triumph in your triumphs, rejoice at your joy, weep at your sorrows, be ever anxious that all good things may come to you;—but, Arthur, I cannot be your wife."
"Not though it would make us happy,—Fletchers and Whartons all alike?"
"Do you think I have not thought it over? Do you think that I have forgotten your first letter? Knowing your heart, as I do know it, do you imagine that I have spent a day, an hour, for months past, without asking myself what answer I should make to you if the sweet constancy of your nature should bring you again to me? I have trembled when I have heard your voice. My heart has beat at the sound of your footstep as though it would burst! Do you think I have never told myself what I had thrown away? But it is gone, and it is not now within my reach."
"It is; it is," he said, throwing himself on his knees, and twining his arms round her.
"No;—no;—no;—never. I am disgraced and shamed. I have lain among the pots till I am foul46 and blackened. Take your arms away. They shall not be defiled," she said as she sprang to her feet. "You shall not have the thing that he has left."
"Emily,—it is the only thing in the world that I crave47."
"Be a man and conquer your love,—as I will. Get it under your feet and press it to death. Tell yourself that it is shameful48 and must be abandoned. That you, Arthur Fletcher, should marry the widow of that man,—the woman that he had thrust so far into the mire49 that she can never again be clean;—you, the chosen one, the bright star among us all;—you, whose wife should be the fairest, the purest, the tenderest of us all, a flower that has yet been hardly breathed on! While I— Arthur," she said, "I know my duty better than that. I will not seek an escape from my punishment in that way,—nor will I allow you to destroy yourself. You have my word as a woman that it shall not be so. Now I do not mind your knowing whether I love you or no." He stood silent before her, not able for the moment to go on with his prayer. "And now, go," she said. "God bless you, and give you some day a fair and happy wife. And, Arthur, do not come again to me. If you will let it be so, I shall have a delight in seeing you;—but not if you come as you have come now. And, Arthur, spare me with papa. Do not let him think that it is all my fault that I cannot do the thing which he wishes." Then she left the room before he could say another word to her.
But it was all her fault. No;—in that direction he could not spare her. It must be told to her father, though he doubted his own power of describing all that had been said. "Do not come again to me," she had said. At the moment he had been left speechless; but if there was one thing fixed in his mind, it was the determination to come again. He was sure now, not only of love that might have sufficed,—but of hot, passionate50 love. She had told him that her heart had beat at his footsteps, and that she had trembled as she listened to his voice;—and yet she expected that he would not come again! But there was a violence of decision about the woman which made him dread51 that he might still come in vain. She was so warped52 from herself by the conviction of her great mistake, so prone53 to take shame to herself for her own error, so keenly alive to the degradation54 to which she had been submitted, that it might yet be impossible to teach her that, though her husband had been vile55 and she mistaken, yet she had not been soiled by his baseness.
He went at once to the old barrister's chambers and told him the result of the meeting. "She is still a fool," said the father, not understanding at second-hand56 the depths of his daughter's feeling.
"No, sir,—not that. She feels herself degraded by his degradation. If it be possible we must save her from that."
"She did degrade herself."
"Not as she means it. She is not degraded in my eyes."
"Why should she not take the only means in her power of rescuing herself and rescuing us all from the evil that she did? She owes it to you, to me, and to her brother."
"I would hardly wish her to come to me in payment of such a debt."
"There is no room left," said Mr. Wharton angrily, "for soft sentimentality. Well;—she must take her bed as she makes it. It is very hard on me, I know. Considering what she used to be, it is marvellous to me that she should have so little idea left of doing her duty to others."
Arthur Fletcher found that the barrister was at the moment too angry to hear reason, or to be made to understand anything of the feelings of mixed love and admiration57 with which he himself was animated58 at the moment. He was obliged therefore to content himself with assuring the father that he did not intend to give up the pursuit of his daughter.
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1
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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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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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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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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slurring
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| 含糊地说出( slur的现在分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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51
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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52
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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54
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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