“But with me she may,” said Bessy, foreseeing in the midst of her Paradise the storm which would surely come.
“Why should she wish to do so? Why should she not allow me to make myself happy in the only way in which it is possible?” There was such an ecstacy of bliss2 coming from such words as these, such a perfection of the feeling of mutual3 love, that she could not but be exalted4 to the heavens, although she knew that the storm would surely come. If her love would make him happy, then, then, surely he should be happy. “Of course she has given up her idea about that parson,” he said.
“I fear she has not, Philip.”
“It seems to me too monstrous5 that any human being should go to work and settle whom two other human beings are to marry.”
“There was never a possibility of that.”
“She told me it was to be so.”
“It never could have been,” said Bessy with great emphasis. “Not even for her, much as I love her—not even for her to whom I owe everything—could I consent to marry a man I did not love. But——”
“But what?”
“I do not know how I shall answer her when she bids me give you up. Oh, my love, how shall I answer her?”
Then he told her at considerable length what was{130} the answer which he thought should in such circumstances be made to his mother. Bessy was to declare that nothing could alter her intentions, that her own happiness and that of her lover depended on her firmness, and that they two did, in fact, intend to have their own way in this matter sooner or later. Bessy, as she heard the lesson, made no direct reply, but she knew too well that it could be of no service to her. All that it would be possible for her to say, when the resolute6 old woman should declare her purpose, would be that come what might she must always love Philip Launay; that she never, never, never could become the wife of any other man. So much she thought she would say. But as to asserting her right to her lover, that she was sure would be beyond her.
Everyone in the house except Mrs. Miles was aware that Philip and Bessy were lovers, and from the dependents of the house the tidings spread through the parish. There had been no special secrecy7. A lover does not usually pronounce his vows8 in public. Little half-lighted corners and twilight9 hours are chosen, or banks beneath the trees supposed to be safe from vulgar eyes, or lonely wanderings. Philip had followed the usual way of the world in his love-making, but had sought his secret moments with no special secrecy. Before the servants he would whisper to Bessy with that look of thorough confidence in his eyes which servants completely understand; and thus while the poor old woman was still in her bed, while she was unaware10 both of the danger and of her own immediate{131} impotence, the secret—as far as it was a secret—became known to all Launay. Mr. Morrison heard it over at Budcombe, and, with his heart down in his boots, told himself that now certainly there could be no chance for him. At Launay Mr. Gregory was the rector, and it was with his daughters that Bessy had become intimate. Knowing much of the mind of the first lady of the parish, he took upon himself to say a word or two to Philip. “I am so glad to hear that your mother is much better this morning.”
“Very much better.”
“It has been a most serious illness.”
“Terribly serious, Mr. Gregory.”
Then there was a pause, and sundry11 other faltering12 allusions13 were made to the condition of things up at the house, from which Philip was aware that words of counsel or perhaps reproach were coming. “I hope you will excuse me, Philip, if I tell you something.”
“I think I shall excuse anything from you.”
“People are saying about the place that during your mother’s illness you have engaged yourself to Bessy Pryor.”
“That’s very odd,” said Philip.
“Odd!” repeated the parson.
“Very odd indeed, because what the people about the place say is always supposed to be untrue. But this report is true.”
“It is true?”
“Quite true, and I am proud to be in a position to{132} assure you that I have been accepted. I am really sorry for Mr. Morrison, you know.”
“But what will your mother say?”
“I do not think that she or anyone can say that Bessy is not fit to be the wife of the finest gentleman in the land.” This he said with an air of pride which showed plainly enough that he did not intend to be talked out of his purpose.
“I should not have spoken, but that your dear mother is so ill,” rejoined the parson.
“I understand that. I must fight my own battle and Bessy’s as best I may. But you may be quite sure, Mr. Gregory, that I mean to fight it.”
Nor did Bessy deny the fact when her friend Mary Gregory interrogated14 her. The question of Bessy’s marriage with Mr. Morrison had, somewhat cruelly in regard to her and more cruelly still in regard to the gentleman, become public property in the neighbourhood. Everybody had known that Mrs. Miles intended to marry Bessy to the parson of Budcombe, and everybody had thought that Bessy would, as a matter of course, accept her destiny. Everybody now knew that Bessy had rebelled; and, as Mrs. Miles’s autocratic disposition15 was well understood, everybody was waiting to see what would come of it. The neighbourhood generally thought that Bessy was unreasonable16 and ungrateful. Mr. Morrison was a very nice man, and nothing could have been more appropriate. Now, when the truth came out, everybody was very much interested indeed. That Mrs. Miles should assent17 to a marriage{133} between the heir and Bessy Pryor was quite out of the question. She was too well known to leave a doubt on the mind of anyone either in Launay or Budcombe on that matter. Men and women drew their breath and looked at each other. It was just when the parishes thought that she was going to die that the parishioners first heard that Bessy would not marry Mr. Morrison because of the young squire18. And now, when it was known that Mrs. Miles was not going to die, it was known that the young squire was absolutely engaged to Bessy Pryor. “There’ll be a deal o’ vat19 in the voir,” said the old head ploughman of Launay, talking over the matter with the wife of Mr. Gregory’s gardener. There was going to be “a deal of fat in the fire.”
Mrs. Miles was not like other mothers. Everything in respect to present income was in her hands. And Bessy was not like other girls. She had absolutely no “locus standi” in the world, except what came to her from the bounty20 of the old lady. By favour of the Lady of Launay she held her head among the girls of that part of the country as high as any girl there. She was only Bessy Pryor; but, from love and kindness, she was the recognised daughter of the house of Launay. Everybody knew it all. Everybody was aware that she had done much towards reaching her present position by her own special sweetness. But should Mrs. Miles once frown, Bessy would be nobody. “Oh, Bessy, how is this all to be?” asked Mary Gregory.{134}
“As God pleases,” said Bessy, very solemnly.
“What does Mrs. Miles say?”
“I don’t want anybody to ask me about it,” said Bessy. “Of course I love him. What is the good of denying it? But I cannot talk about it.” Then Mary Gregory looked as though some terrible secret had been revealed to her—some secret of which the burden might probably be too much for her to bear.
The first storm arose from an interview which took place between the mother and son as soon as the mother found herself able to speak on a subject which was near her heart. She sent for him and once again besought21 him to take steps towards that combining of the properties which was so essential to the Launay interests generally. Then he declared his purpose very plainly. He did not intend to combine the properties. He did not care for the red-haired Launay cousin. It was his intention to marry—Bessy Pryor; yes—he had proposed to her and she had accepted him. The poor sick mother was at first almost overwhelmed with despair. “What can I do but tell you the truth when you ask me?” he said.
“Do!” she screamed. “What could you do? You could have remembered your honour! You could have remembered your blood! You could have remembered your duty!” Then she bade him leave her, and after an hour passed in thought she sent for Bessy. “I have had my son with me,” she said, sitting bolt upright in her bed, looking awful in her wanness22, speaking with low, studied, harsh voice, with her two{135} hands before her on the counterpane. “I have had my son with me and he has told me.” Bessy felt that she was trembling. She was hardly able to support herself. She had not a word to say. The sick old woman was terrible in her severity. “Is it true?”
“Yes, it is true,” whispered Bessy.
“And this is to be my return?”
“Oh, my dearest, my darling, oh, my aunt, dear, dearest, dearest aunt! Do not speak like that! Do not look at me like that! You know I love you. Don’t you know I love you?” Then Bessy prostrated23 herself on the bed, and getting hold of the old woman’s hand covered it with kisses. Yes, her aunt did know that the girl loved her, and she knew that she loved the girl perhaps better than any other human being in the world. The eldest24 son had become estranged25 from her. Even Philip had not been half so much to her as this girl. Bessy had wound herself round her very heartstrings. It made her happy even to sit and look at Bessy. She had denied herself all pretty things; but this prettiest of all things had grown up beneath her eyes. She did not draw away her hand; but, while her hand was being kissed, she made up her mind that she would do her duty.
“Of what service will be your love,” she said, “if this is to be my return?” Bessy could only lie and sob26 and hide her face. “Say that you will give it up.” Not to say that, not to give him up, was the only resolution at which Bessy had arrived. “If you will not say so, you must leave me, and I shall send you word{136} what you are to do. If you are my enemy you shall not remain here.”
“Pray—pray do not call me an enemy.”
“You had better go.” The woman’s voice as she said this was dreadful in its harshness. Then Bessy, slowly creeping down from the bed, slowly slunk out of the room.
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收听单词发音
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1
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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2
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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3
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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4
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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5
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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6
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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7
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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8
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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9
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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10
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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11
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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12
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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13
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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14
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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15
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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16
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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17
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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18
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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19
vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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20
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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21
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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22
wanness
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| n.虚弱 | |
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23
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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24
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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26
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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