Miss Gregory was certainly surprised when, on the entrance of the young man, Bessy jumped from her chair and rushed into his arms. She knew that Bessy had no brother, and her instinct rather than her experience told her that the greeting which she saw was more than fraternal,—more than cousinly. She did not doubt but that the young man was Philip Launay, and knowing what she knew she was not disposed to make spoken complaints. But when Bessy lifted her face to be kissed, Miss Gregory became red and very uneasy. It is probable that she herself had never progressed as far as this with the young man who afterwards became the major-general.
Bessy herself, had a minute been allowed to her for reflection, would have been less affectionate. She knew nothing of the cause which had brought Philip to Avranches. She only knew that her dear friend at Launay had declared her to be an enemy, and that she had determined1 that she could not, for years, become{183} the wife of Philip Launay, without the consent of her who had used that cruel word. And at the moment of Philip’s entering the room her heart had been sore with reproaches against him. “He ought at any rate to write.” The words had been on her lips as the door had been opened, and the words had been spoken in the soreness of heart coming from a fear that she was to be abandoned.
Then he was there. In the moment that sufficed for the glance of his eye to meet hers she knew that she was not abandoned. With whatever tidings he had come that was not to be the burden of his news. No man desirous of being released from his vows2 ever looked like that. So up she jumped and flew to him, not quite knowing what she intended, but filled with delight when she found herself pressed to his bosom3. Then she had to remember herself, and to escape from his arms. “Philip,” she said, “this is Miss Gregory. Miss Gregory, I do not think you ever met Mr. Launay.”
Then Miss Gregory had to endeavour to look as though nothing particular had taken place,—which was a trial. But Bessy bore her part, if not without a struggle, at least without showing it. “And now, Philip,” she said, “how is my aunt?”
“A great deal stronger than when you left her.”
“Quite well?”
“Yes; for her, I think I may say quite well.”
“She goes out every day?”
“Every day,—after the old plan. The carriage{184} toddles4 round to the door at three, and then toddles about the parish at the rate of four miles an hour, and toddles home exactly at five. The people at Launay, Miss Gregory, don’t want clocks to tell them the hour in the afternoon.”
“I do love punctuality,” said Miss Gregory.
“I wish I were with her,” said Bessy.
“I have come to take you,” said Philip.
“Have you?” Then Bessy blushed,—for the first time. She blushed as a hundred various thoughts rushed across her mind. If he had been sent to take her back, sent by her aunt, instead of Mrs. Knowl, what a revulsion of circumstances must there not have been at Launay! How could it all have come to pass? Even to have been sent for at all, to be allowed to go back even in disgrace, would have been an inexpressible joy. Had Knowl come for her, with a grim look and an assurance that she was to be brought back because a prison at Launay was thought to be more secure than a prison at Avranches, the prospect5 of a return would have been hailed with joy. But now,—to be taken back by Philip to Launay! There was a whole heaven of delight in the thought of the very journey.
Miss Gregory endeavoured to look pleased, but in truth the prospect to her was not so pleasant as to Bessy. She was to be left alone again. She was to lose her pensioner6. After so short a fruition of the double bliss7 of society and pay, she was to be deserted8 without a thought. But to be deserted without many thoughts had been her lot in life, and now she bore{185} her misfortune like a heroine. “You will be glad to go back to your aunt, Bessy; will you not?”
“Glad!” The ecstacy was almost unkind, but poor Miss Gregory bore it, and maintained that pretty smile of gratified serenity9 as though everything were well with all of them.
But Bessy felt that she had as yet heard nothing of the real news, and that the real news could not be told in the presence of Miss Gregory. It had not even yet occurred to her that Mrs. Miles had actually given her sanction to the marriage. “This is a very pretty place,” said Philip.
“What, Avranches?” said Miss Gregory, mindful of future possible pensioners10. “Oh, delightful11. It is the prettiest place in Normandy, and I think the most healthy town in all France.”
“It seemed nice as I came up from the hotel. Suppose we go out for a walk, Bessy. We have to start back to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” ejaculated Bessy. She would have been ready to go in half an hour had he demanded it.
“If you can manage it. I promised my mother to be as quick as I could; and, when I arranged to come, I had ever so many engagements.”
“If she must go to-morrow, she won’t have much time for walking,” said Miss Gregory, with almost a touch of anger in her voice. But Bessy was determined to have her walk. All her fate in life was to be disclosed to her within the next few minutes. She was already exultant12, but she was beginning to think that{186} there was a heaven, indeed, opening for her. So she ran away for her hat and gloves, leaving her lover and Miss Gregory together.
“It is very sudden,” said the poor old lady with a gasp13.
“My mother felt that, and bade me tell you that, of course, the full twelvemonth——”
“I was not thinking about that,” said Miss Gregory. “I did not mean to allude14 to such a thing. Mrs. Miles has always been so kind to my brother, and anything I could have done I should have been so happy, without thinking of money. But——” Philip sat with the air of an attentive15 listener, so that Miss Gregory could get no answer to her question without absolutely asking it. “But there seems to be a change.”
“Yes, there is a change, Miss Gregory.”
“We were afraid that Mrs. Miles had been offended.”
“It is the old story, Miss Gregory. Young people and old people very often will not think alike: but it is the young people who generally have their way.”
She had not had her way. She remembered that at the moment. But then, perhaps, the major-general had had his. When a period of life has come too late for success, when all has been failure, the expanding triumphs of the glorious young, grate upon the feelings even of those who are generous and self-denying. Miss Gregory was generous by nature and self-denying by practice, but Philip’s p?an and Bessy’s wondrous16 prosperity were for a moment a little hard upon her.{187} There had been a comfort to her in the conviction that Philip was no better than the major-general. “I suppose it is so,” she said. “That is, if one of them has means.”
“Exactly.”
“But if they are both poor, I don’t see how their being young can enable them to live upon nothing.” She intended to imply that Philip probably would have been another major-general, but that he was heir to Launay.
Philip, who had never heard of the major-general, was a little puzzled; nevertheless, he acceded17 to the proposition, not caring, however, to say anything as to his own circumstances on so very short an acquaintance.
Then Bessy came down with her hat, and they started for their walk. “Now tell me all about it,” she said, in a fever of expectation, as soon as the front door was closed behind them.
“There is nothing more to tell,” said he.
“Nothing more?”
“Unless you want me to say that I love you.”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, then,—I love you. There!”
“Philip, you are not half nice to me.”
“Not after coming all the way from Launay to say that?”
“There must be so much to tell me? Why has my aunt sent for me?”
“Because she wants you.”
“And why has she sent you?{188}”
“Because I want you too.”
“But does she want me?”
“Certainly she does.”
“For you?” If he could say this, then everything would have been said. If he could say this truly, then everything would have been done necessary for the perfection of her happiness. “Oh, Philip, do tell me. It is so strange that she should send for me! Do you know what she said to me in her last letter? It was not a letter. It was only a word. She said that I was her enemy.”
“All that is changed.”
“She will be glad to have me again?”
“Very glad. I fancy that she has been miserable18 without you.”
“I shall be as glad to be with her again, Philip. You do not know how I love her. Think of all she has done for me!”
“She has done something now that I hope will beat everything else.”
“What has she done?”
“She has consented that you and I shall be man and wife. Isn’t that more than all the rest?”
“But has she? Oh, Philip, has she really done that?”
Then at last he told his whole story. Yes; his mother had yielded. From the moment in which she had walked out of the room, having said that he might “go and tell her,” she had never endeavoured to renew the fight. When he had spoken to her, endeavouring{189} to draw from her some warmth of assent19, she had generally been very silent. She had never brought herself absolutely to wish him joy. She had not as yet so crucified her own spirit in the matter as to be able to tell him that he had chosen his wife well; but she had shown him in a hundred ways that her anger was at an end, and that if any feeling was left opposed to his own happiness, it was simply one of sorrow. And there were signs which made him think that even that was not deep-seated. She would pat him, stroking his hair, and leaning on his shoulder, administering to his comforts with a nervous accuracy as to little things which was peculiar20 to her. And then she gave him an infinity21 of directions as to the way in which it would be proper that Bessy should travel, being anxious at first to send over a maid for her behoof,—not Mrs. Knowl, but a younger woman, who would have been at Bessy’s command. Philip, however, objected to the maid. And when Mrs. Miles remarked that if it was Bessy’s fate to become mistress of Launay, Bessy ought to have a maid to attend her, Philip said that that would be very well a month or two hence, when Bessy would have become,—not mistress of Launay, which was a place which he trusted might not be vacant for many a long day,—but first lieutenant22 to the mistress, by right of marriage. He refused altogether to take the maid with him, as he explained to Bessy with much laughter. And so they came to understand each other thoroughly23, and Bessy knew that the great trouble of her life, which had been as a{190} mountain in her way, had disappeared suddenly, as might some visionary mountain. And then, when they thoroughly understood each other, they started back to England and to Launay together.
点击收听单词发音
1 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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2 vows | |
誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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3 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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4 toddles | |
v.(幼儿等)东倒西歪地走( toddle的第三人称单数 );蹒跚行走;溜达;散步 | |
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5 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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6 pensioner | |
n.领养老金的人 | |
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7 bliss | |
n.狂喜,福佑,天赐的福 | |
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8 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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9 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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10 pensioners | |
n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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11 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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12 exultant | |
adj.欢腾的,狂欢的,大喜的 | |
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13 gasp | |
n.喘息,气喘;v.喘息;气吁吁他说 | |
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14 allude | |
v.提及,暗指 | |
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15 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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16 wondrous | |
adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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17 acceded | |
v.(正式)加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 );答应;(通过财产的添附而)增加;开始任职 | |
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18 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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19 assent | |
v.批准,认可;n.批准,认可 | |
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20 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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21 infinity | |
n.无限,无穷,大量 | |
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22 lieutenant | |
n.陆军中尉,海军上尉;代理官员,副职官员 | |
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23 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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