“My dear Bessy,—Though I had told you not to write to me, still I am glad to hear that you are well, and that your new home has been made as comfortable{160} for you as circumstances will permit. Launay has not been comfortable since you went. I miss you very much. You have become so dear to me that my life is sad without you. My days have never been bright, but now they are less so than ever. I should scruple1 to admit so much as this to you, were it not that I intend it as a prelude2 to that which will follow.
“We have been sent into this world, my child, that we may do our duties, independent of that fleeting3 feeling which we call happiness. In the smaller affairs of life I am sure you would never seek a pleasure at the cost of your conscience. If not in the smaller things, then certainly should you not do so in the greater. To deny yourself, to remember the welfare of others, when temptation is urging you to do wrong, then do that which you know to be right,—that is your duty as a Christian4, and especially your duty as a woman. To sacrifice herself is the special heroism5 which a woman can achieve. Men who are called upon to work may gratify their passions and still be heroes. A woman can soar only by suffering.
“You will understand why I tell you this. I and my son have been born into a special degree of life which I think it to be my duty and his to maintain. It is not that I or that he may enjoy any special delights that I hold fast to this opinion, but that I may do my part towards maintaining that order of things which has made my country more blessed than others. It would take me long to explain all this, but I know you will believe me when I say that an{161} imperative6 sense of duty is my guide. You have not been born into that degree. That this does not affect my own personal feeling to you, you must know. You have had many signs how dear you are to me. At this moment my days are heavy to bear because I have not my Bessy with me,—my Bessy who has been so good to me, so loving, such an infinite blessing7 that to see the hem8 of her garments, to hear the sound of her foot, has made things bright around me. Now, there is nothing to see, nothing to hear, that is not unsightly and harsh of sound. Oh, Bessy, if you could come back to me!
“But I have to do that duty of which I have spoken, and I shall do it. Though I were never to see you again I shall do it. I am used to suffering, and sometimes think it wrong even to wish that you were back with me. But I write to you thus that you may understand everything. If you will say that you will give him up, you shall return to me and be my own, own beloved child. I tell you that you are not of the same degree. I am bound to tell you so. But you shall be so near my heart that nothing shall separate us.
“You two cannot marry while I am living. I do not think it possible that you should be longing10 to be made happy by my death. And you should remember that he cannot be the first to break away from this foolish engagement without dishonour11. As he is the wealthy one, and the higher born, and as he is the man, he ought not to be the first to say the word.{162} You may say it without falsehood and without disgrace. You may say it, and all the world will know that you have been actuated only by a sense of duty. It will be acknowledged that you have sacrificed yourself,—as it becomes a woman to do.
“One word from you will be enough to assure me. Since you came to me you have never been false. One word, and you shall come back to me and to Launay, my friend and my treasure! If it be that there must be suffering, we will suffer together. If tears are necessary there shall be joint12 tears. Though I am old still I can understand. I will acknowledge the sacrifice. But, Bessy, my Bessy, dearest Bessy, the sacrifice must be made.
“Of course he must live away from Launay for awhile. The fault will have been his, and what of inconvenience there may be he must undergo. He shall not come here till you yourself shall say that you can bear his presence without an added sorrow.
“I know you will not let this letter be in vain. I know you will think it over deeply, and that you will not keep me too long waiting for an answer. I need hardly tell you that I am
“Your most loving friend,
M. Miles.”
When Bessy was reading this, when the strong words with which her aunt had pleaded her cause were harrowing her heart, she had clasped in her hand this{163} other letter from her lover. This too was written from Launay.
“My own dearest Bessy,—It is absolutely only now that I have found out where you are, and have done so simply because the people at the rectory could not keep the secret. Can anything be more absurd than supposing that my mother can have her way by whisking you away, and shutting you up in Normandy? It is too foolish! She has sent for me, and I have come like a dutiful son. I have, indeed, been rejoiced to see her looking again so much like herself. But I have not extended my duty to obeying her in a matter in which my own future happiness is altogether bound up; and in which, perhaps, the happiness of another person may be slightly concerned. I have told her that I would venture to say nothing of the happiness of the other person. The other person might be indifferent, though I did not believe it was so; but I was quite sure of my own. I have assured her that I know what I want myself, and that I do not mean to abandon my hope of achieving it. I know that she is writing to you. She can of course say what she pleases.
“The idea of separating two people who are as old as you and I, and who completely know our own minds,—you see that I do not really doubt as to yours,—is about as foolish as anything well can be. It is as though we were going back half a dozen centuries into the tyrannies of the middle ages. My object shall be to induce her to let you come home and be married{164} properly from Launay. If she will not consent by the end of this month I shall go over to you, and we must contrive13 to be married at Avranches. When the thing has been once done all this rubbish will be swept away. I do not believe for a moment that my mother will punish us by any injustice14 as to money.
“Write and tell me that you agree with me, and be sure that I shall remain, as I am, always altogether your own,
“Truly and affectionately,
Philip Miles.”
When Bessy Pryor began to consider these two letters together, she felt that the task was almost too much for her. Her lover’s letter had been the first read. She had known his handwriting, and of course had read his the first. And as she had read it everything seemed to be of rose colour. Of course she had been filled with joy. Something had been done by the warnings of Miss Gregory, something, but not much, to weaken her strong faith in her lover. The major-general had been worldly and untrue, and it had been possible that her Philip should be as had been the major-general. There had been moments of doubt in which her heart had fainted a little; but as she read her lover’s words she acknowledged to herself how wrong she had been to faint at all. He declared it to be “a matter in which his own future happiness was altogether bound up.” And then there had been his playful allusion15 to her happiness, which was not the{165} less pleasant to her because he had pretended to think that the “other person might be indifferent.” She pouted16 her lips at him, as though he were present while she was reading, with a joyous17 affectation of disdain18. No, no; she could not consent to an immediate19 marriage at Avranches. There must be some delay. But she would write to him and explain all that. Then she read her aunt’s letter.
It moved her very much. She had read it all twice before there came upon her a feeling of doubt, an acknowledgment to herself that she must reconsider the matter. But even when she was only reading it, before she had begun to consider, her former joy was repressed and almost quenched20. So much of it was too true, terribly true. Of course her duty should be paramount21. If she could persuade herself that duty required her to abandon Philip, she must abandon him, let the suffering to herself or to others be what it might. But then, what was it that duty required of her? “To sacrifice herself is the special heroism which a woman can achieve.” Yes, she believed that. But then, how about sacrificing Philip, who, no doubt, was telling the truth when he said that his own happiness was altogether bound up in his love?
She was moved too by all that which Mrs. Miles said as to the grandeur22 of the Launay family. She had learned enough of the manners of Launay to be quite alive to the aristocratic idiosyncrasies of the old woman. She, Bessy Pryor, was nobody. It would have been well that Philip Launay should have founded his happiness{166} on some girl of higher birth. But he had not done so. King Cophetua’s marriage had been recognised by the world at large. Philip was no more than King Cophetua, nor was she less than the beggar-girl. Like to like in marriages was no doubt expedient,—but not indispensable. And though she was not Philip’s equal, yet she was a lady. She would not disgrace him at his table, or among his friends. She was sure that she could be a comfort to him in his work.
But the parts of the old woman’s letter which moved her most were those in which she gave full play to her own heart, and spoke9, without reserve, of her own love for her dearest Bessy. “My days are heavy to bear because I have not my Bessy with me.” It was impossible to read this and not to have some desire to yield. How good this lady had been to her! Was it not through her that she had known Philip? But for Mrs. Miles, what would her own life have been? She thought that had she been sure of Philip’s happiness, could she have satisfied herself that he would bear the blow, she would have done as she was asked. She would have achieved her heroism, and shown the strength of her gratitude23, and would have taken her delight in administering to the comforts of her old friend,—only that Philip had her promise. All that she could possibly owe to all the world beside must be less, so infinitely24 less, than what she owed to him.
She would have consulted Miss Gregory, but she knew so well what Miss Gregory would have advised. Miss Gregory would only have mentioned the major-general{167} and her own experiences. Bessy determined25, therefore, to lie awake and think of it, and to take no other counsellor beyond her own heart.
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1
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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2
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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7
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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8
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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9
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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10
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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11
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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12
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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13
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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14
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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15
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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16
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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18
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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19
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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20
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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21
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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23
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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24
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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