“Dear Mrs. Miles,—My sister Amelia is living at Avranches, where she has a pleasant little house on the outskirts1 of the town, with a garden. An old friend was living with her, but she died last year, and my sister is now alone. If you think that Bessy would like to sojourn2 for awhile in Normandy, I will write to Amelia and make the proposition. Bessy will find my sister good-tempered and kind-hearted.—Faithfully yours, Joshua Gregory.”
Mrs. Miles did not care much for the good temper and the kind heart. Had she asked herself whether she wished Bessy to be happy she would no doubt have{145} answered herself in the affirmative. She would probably have done so in regard to any human being or animal in the world. Of course, she wanted them all to be happy. But happiness was to her thinking of much less importance than duty; and at the present moment her duty and Bessy’s duty and Philip’s duty were so momentous3 that no idea of happiness ought to be considered in the matter at all. Had Mr. Gregory written to say that his sister was a woman of severe morals, of stern aspect, prone4 to repress all youthful ebullitions, and supposed to be disagreeable because of her temper, all that would have been no obstacle. In the present condition of things suffering would be better than happiness; more in accord with the feelings and position of the person concerned. It was quite intelligible5 to Mrs. Miles that Bessy should really love Philip almost to the breaking of her heart, quite intelligible that Philip should have set his mind upon the untoward6 marriage with all the obstinacy7 of a proud man. When young men and young women neglect their duty, hearts have to be broken. But it is not a soft and silken operation, which can be made pleasant by good temper and social kindness. It was necessary, for certain quite adequate reasons, that Bessy should be put on the wheel, and be racked and tormented8. To talk to her of the good temper of the old woman who would have to turn the wheel would be to lie to her. Mrs. Miles did not want her to think that things could be made pleasant for her.
Soon after the receipt of Mr. Gregory’s letter she{146} sent for Bessy, who was then brought into the room under the guard, as it were, of Mrs. Knowl. Mrs. Knowl accompanied her along the corridor, which was surely unnecessary, as Bessy’s door had not been locked upon her. Her imprisonment9 had only come from obedience10. But Mrs. Knowl felt that a great trust had been confided11 to her, and was anxious to omit none of her duties. She opened the door so that the invalid12 on the bed could see that this duty had been done, and then Bessy crept into the room. She crept in, but very quickly, and in a moment had her arms round the old woman’s back and her lips pressed to the old woman’s forehead. “Why may not I come and be with you?” she said.
“Because you are disobedient.”
“No, no; I do all that you tell me. I have not stirred from my room, though it was hard to think you were ill so near me, and that I could do nothing. I did not try to say a word to him, or even to look at him; and now that he has gone, why should I not be with you?”
“It cannot be.”
“But why not, aunt? Even though you would not speak to me I could be with you. Who is there to read to you?”
“There is no one. Of course it is dreary13. But there are worse things than dreariness14.”
“Why should not I come back, now that he has gone?” She still had her arm round the old woman’s back, and had now succeeded in dragging herself on to{147} the bed and in crouching15 down by her aunt’s side. It was her perseverance16 in this fashion that had so often forced Mrs. Miles out of her own ordained17 method of life, and compelled her to leave for a moment the strictness which was congenial to her. It was this that had made her declare to Mr. Gregory, in the midst of her severity, that Bessy had been like a gleam of sunshine in the house. Even now she knew not how to escape from the softness of an embrace which was in truth so grateful to her. It was a consciousness of this,—of the potency18 of Bessy’s charm even over herself,—which had made her hasten to send her away from her. Bessy would read to her all the day, would hold her hand when she was half dozing19, would assist in every movement with all the patience and much more than the tenderness of a waiting-maid. There was no voice so sweet, no hand so cool, no memory so mindful, no step so soft as Bessy’s. And now Bessy was there, lying on her bed, caressing20 her, more closely bound to her than had ever been any other being in the world, and yet Bessy was an enemy from whom it was imperatively21 necessary that she should be divided.
“Get down, Bessy,” she said; “go off from me.”
“No, no, no,” said Bessy, still clinging to her and kissing her.
“I have that to say to you which must be said calmly.”
“I am calm,—quite calm. I will do whatever you tell me; only pray, pray, do not send me away from you.{148}”
“You say that you will obey me.”
“I will; I have. I always have obeyed you.”
“Will you give up your love for Philip?”
“Could I give up my love for you, if anybody told me? How can I do it? Love comes of itself. I did not try to love him. Oh, if you could know how I tried not to love him! If somebody came and said I was not to love you, would it be possible?”
“I am speaking of another love.”
“Yes; I know. One is a kind of love that is always welcome. The other comes first as a shock, and one struggles to avoid it. But when it has come, how can it be helped? I do love him, better than all the world.” As she said this she raised herself upon the bed, so as to look round upon her aunt’s face; but still she kept her arm upon the old woman’s shoulder. “Is it not natural? How could I have helped it?”
“You must have known that it was wrong.”
“No!”
“You did not know that it would displease22 me?”
“I knew that it was unfortunate,—not wrong. What did I do that was wrong? When he asked me, could I tell him anything but the truth?”
“You should have told him nothing.” At this reply Bessy shook her head. “It cannot be that you should think that in such a matter there should be no restraint. Did you expect that I should give my consent to such a marriage? I want to hear from yourself what you thought of my feelings.”
“I knew you would be angry.{149}”
“Well?”
“I knew you must think me unfit to be Philip’s wife.”
“Well?”
“I knew that you wanted something else for him, and something else also for me.”
“And did such knowledge go for nothing?”
“It made me feel that my love was unfortunate,—but not that it was wrong. I could not help it. He had come to me, and I loved him. The other man came, and I could not love him. Why should I be shut up for this in my own room? Why should I be sent away from you, to be miserable23 because I know that you want things done? He is not here. If he were here and you bade me not to go near him, I would not go. Though he were in the next room I would not see him. I would obey you altogether, but I must love him. And as I love him I cannot love another. You would not wish me to marry a man when my heart has been given to another.”
The old woman had not at all intended that there should be such arguments as these. It had been her purpose simply to communicate her plan, to tell Bessy that she would have to live probably for a few years at Avranches, and then to send her back to her prison. But Bessy had again got the best of her, and then had come caressing, talking, and excuses. Bessy had been nearly an hour in her room before Mrs. Miles had disclosed her purpose, and had hovered24 round her aunt, doing as had been her wont25 when she was recognised as having all the powers of head nurse in her hands.{150} Then at last, in a manner very different from that which had been planned, Mrs. Miles proposed the Normandy scheme. She had been, involuntarily, so much softened26 that she condescended27 even to repeat what Mr. Gregory had said as to the good temper and general kindness of his maiden28 sister. “But why should I go?” asked Bessy, almost sobbing29.
“I wonder that you should ask.”
“He is not here.”
“But he may come.”
“If he came ever so I would not see him if you bade me not. I think you hardly understand me, aunt. I will obey you in everything. I am sure you will not now ask me to marry Mr. Morrison.”
She could not say that Philip would be more likely to become amenable30 and marry the Cornish heiress if Bessy were away at Avranches than if she still remained shut up at Launay. But that was her feeling. Philip, she knew, would be less obedient than Bessy. But then, too, Philip might be less obstinate31 of purpose. “You cannot live here, Bessy, unless you will say that you will never become the wife of my son.”
“Never?”
“Never!”
“I cannot say that.” There was a long pause before she found the courage to pronounce these words, but she did pronounce them at last.
“Then you must go.”
“I may stay and nurse you till you are well. Let me do that. I will go whenever you may bid me.{151}”
“No. There shall be no terms between us. We must be friends, Bessy, or we must be enemies. We cannot be friends as long as you hold yourself to be engaged to Philip Launay. While that is so I will not take a cup of water from your hands. No, no,” for the girl was again trying to embrace her. “I will not have your love, nor shall you have mine.”
“My heart would break were I to say it.”
“Then let it break! Is my heart not broken? What is it though our hearts do break,—what is it though we die,—if we do our duty? You owe this for what I have done for you.”
“I owe you everything.”
“Then say that you will give him up.”
“I owe you everything, except this. I will not speak to him, I will not write to him, I will not even look at him, but I will not give him up. When one loves, one cannot give it up.” Then she was ordered to go back to her room, and back to her room she went.
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1
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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2
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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3
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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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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5
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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6
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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7
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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11
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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12
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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13
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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14
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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15
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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16
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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17
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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18
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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19
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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20
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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21
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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22
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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23
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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24
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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26
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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27
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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28
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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29
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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30
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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31
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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