On the self-same day which had witnessed Mr. Thacker's visit to Middlemeads, and the failure of his application to Mrs. Gordon Frere--on which he had expressed himself with so much resentment6 to Charles Yeldham--and at the self-same hour at which the project of his vengeance7 began to take shape in the brain of the angry Hebrew,--Dr. Hudson was seated in his study, conversing8 earnestly with a lady, who wore the mournful garb9 of widowhood in the English form. The frank, thoughtful face of the physician was clouded, and his voice was low and troubled, as he spoke10 to the lady.
"I don't like to let you go, Katharine. You have been doing too much. This long attendance upon poor Louise has been too much for you already; and now the care of an old blind woman--no, no; it ought not to be."
"The care of your mother, my best friend!" returned the lady in a tone of remonstrance11; "does that not make all the difference? Besides, what does it matter? here, or in Brittany? The work has to be done, and place does not make the smallest difference. You cannot bring the old lady to Paris; and since Marion's death you have had no peace of mind, no confidence about your mother. Let us look at this rationally. Is there any one in whom you have such confidence as in me?"
"Certainly not, Katharine, though----"
"Though I do not return it. Well, in one sense I do not; but let us not discuss that for the present. If you do not let me go to Morlaix, to your mother, you must send some one in whom you have less confidence. That's a 'logical sequence,' as you learned people say, isn't it?--and I should also call it a very silly proceeding12. Next, you must provide me with work here; and I can assure you, you can give me none I should like half so well. I am free too, and I don't know that any other of your helpers are:--let me see the list."
She took a manuscript volume from the table, turned to a certain page, and ran over a list of names.
"No; I thought not. All busy, and with serious cases,--'long jobs,' as the 'regulars' call them. You see Fate and my self-will are against you--and I must go; so that's settled. And now, Mr. Doctor, let me make my report."
"This was your last visit to Louise, I think?" he asked absently.
"My last regular visit. She is quite well now; but I shall never lose sight of her, I hope. She is a good girl and a grateful; and so long as she has this illness, and I have Martigny to talk about and the same rescuer to praise--though she little knows how small an item in the account between him and me Martigny is--we are not likely to tire of each other's company. Where are your wits wandering to? you are not listening to a word I am saying to you."
He turned his face fully13 towards her, and the serious expression it bore increased. He took an ivory paper-knife from off his desk, and beat it softly upon his open palm as he spoke.
"My wits are wandering to speculations14 about you, my dear. How long are you going to lead this life? and when am I to know the meaning of it all? It is not fit for you, Katharine; you must rest."
"No, no," she said nervously15; "you know the only thing I cannot do when you bid me, is rest. Besides, I am going to be very quiet, you know, down in Brittany----"
"That will not be for long, if even I let you go. My poor old mother's life is nearly ended; and then----"
"And then--for I mean to go; it is quite settled---are there no more duties for me? are the poor and the sick to cease out of the land?"
"No, it is not that; I am thinking of you seriously, Katharine, and wondering whether I am doing right by you. I had no doubt, when you came to me, and claimed the fulfilment of the promise I made to you at Martigny--there was such desperation, such utter self-abandonment about you--that I, who knew the symptoms of despair, and their deadliness, could not hesitate about what was to be done. But now, Katharine, now, has not time made any difference?--it has made a great alteration16 in you, my dear--a very great and blessed change; not time alone, I know, but life and suffering and self-knowledge, and a higher wisdom still--has it not changed circumstances too? You told me your return to your husband's home was an impossibility then; and I knew, I felt it was so. You never told me why; you never placed the secret of his sin, whatever it may have been, in my possession. Now I ask you--the matter has been pressing long upon my mind, and is daily growing heavier--is the same impossibility in force still?"
Katharine did not make any answer, but she looked at him, pale and tearful. Then he continued:
"Think of your youth, Katharine. Your life is almost all before you; and you have no friend but me. Supposing I were to die, my dear, how would it be with you then? For though you are not so helpless and so ignorant of the world's ways as when you came to me that winter's night, and told me I must hide you, and that without a question, and I did it--you are as little fitted as any woman I know for the loneliness of a friendless life. Is this offence quite past forgiveness? is there no way of reconciliation17?"
"None, none," she murmured. "O, do not talk to me of the past."
"Katharine," he said, with deeper solemnity still, "think, be very sure, before you answer. Remember that nothing but the extremest injury can justify18 the course you are pursuing. Your name is false, your position is false, your very dress"--he stretched out his hand and touched it--"is a lie!"
"My poor child, I don't doubt that. I know it is; but the evils dealt by man's hand are often of God's sending. Are you resisting God, and not man only? I am talking to you in the dark about many things, but there are some broad truths applicable to all circumstances. One of them is, that no self-imposed duties can stand in the place of those which God has appointed. When I watch--and I watch it closely--your exemplary life of usefulness, your self-denial, your promptitude in doing good--and see that you are not at peace in it, I cannot but think that you are doing this--that you are trying to do your own will, and not God's will; and that you are reaping the inevitable20 consequences."
Her head was bowed now, and she was crying.
"I don't know why I have felt forced to say all this to you to-day, Katharine. Something has forced me to say it, certainly. Think of it, my dear; and if there be any possible way to reconciliation with your home and your former life, turn your steps towards it."
"Are you weary of the charge of me? are you tired of the thankless task?"
He smiled, very slowly and tenderly; then rose; and, arranging some papers on his desk, said:
"Do you think to turn away my meaning by such a silly subterfuge21? I am going out now: think of what I have said, Katharine; and, remember, if I have hurt you, it is because of my ignorance. I don't reproach you that you have kept me in it; but you must not wonder if it sometimes tells against yourself. Be sure of this, Katharine, there is no life so acceptable as that in which we carry our own burdens, without selecting them; and no spirit so safe as that which takes trials as they are sent, not sought for--kissing the rod."
He was leaving the room, when she rose impetuously and went up to him. She caught his arm, and pressed it to her closely, as she said:
"Don't say more to me now; I can't bear it. I wonder why you have spoken like this again--it is so long since you did so before. Let me go to your mother, and think it all out there--all you know and all you don't know; and when I come back I will tell you every thing."
"My dear, you mistake me. I don't want to know; it is from no feeling of that kind I speak;--it is for your own sake, and because of the treacheries and changes of life----"
"Yes, yes; I know. When had you any but good motives22, or did any but good deeds? Just give me this little time, and keep your vow23 to me, that you will never answer a question about me, or give any human being a clue to finding me; and when I come back you shall know all, and judge for me."
"Agreed," said Dr. Hudson; "I will keep my promise, and you will keep yours."
A day or two later Katharine Streightley left Paris.
"I give you my word of honour--I will take the most solemn and sacred oath you can dictate24 to me, that nothing you can tell me, of what I ask you, can harm the lady. I am here on behalf of her husband."
"Her husband!" said Louise Hartmann, with a disdainful smile; "now I know you are deceiving me. She is a widow--her husband is dead."
"Indeed--indeed he is not, my dear young lady; for God's sake listen to me! Her husband is alive, and he loves her better than his life. Indeed he is dying, I truly believe, because he cannot find or hear of her. A quarrel--a misunderstanding parted them, and he has sought her vainly ever since. Just think of the dreadful weary time, and have pity on this poor man."
Charley Yeldham's friends would have been only less astonished than himself had they heard him thus eloquently25 pleading the cause of Robert to the inflexible26 little German girl, who stood before him, the very image of immovable fidelity27.
"See! look at her portrait again; you have acknowledged that you know it, and that it is Madame Sidney's likeness28. Well, I tell you her husband has worn it on his breast night and day for nearly three years, and would not have parted with it for a moment for any less object than enabling me to trace her by it. He asks nothing but to know where she is--nothing but the means of communicating with her. Surely you will tell him that much?"
"Have you asked Dr. Hudson? he knows her better than I," was the cautious questioning reply of the German girl.
"Yes," said Yeldham incautiously; "I went to his house at once, and I waited a long time to see him, but all in vain. He knew Madame Sidney, but he would tell me nothing about her--not even whether she was now in Paris, or ever in the habit of residing in Paris."
"And yet Dr. Hudson is her best friend, and knows more about her than any one in the world."
"Yes, yes; we heard that: then so much was right at least."
Louise Hartmann deliberately29 sat down, tucked her feet comfortably under her chair, and folded her hands in her lap. Yeldham waited, breathlessly anxious for her to speak. She kept him waiting for some time; but at length she said, slowly and emphatically:
"Soh! you fine English gentleman, who give your word of honour and your sacred and solemn oath, you come to a poor girl like me, and you try to make me tell you about Madame Sidney--who nursed me, and was more good to me than ever any one in the world was before--what the good doctor, her own friend, refuses to tell you. You may go away, sir, back to England; I will tell you nothing--no, not one single word. If this lady's husband is alive, he has done something that makes her think of him as dead, and she knows best. He has made her miserable30; for she is not happy, I know that--I often saw that; and he shall never render her miserable again through help of mine."
Yeldham was utterly31 confounded by the girl's calm speech, and the resolution which showed itself in her face and sounded in her voice. He stood bewildered and silent for several minutes. At length Louise spoke again:
"Please to go away, sir; you have nothing to hear from me, and nothing to say to me more."
He caught joyfully32 at the anxiety she expressed to get rid of him. Was it not a proof that Katharine was in Paris still--was near; that she was then expecting or fearing her coming? He made another appeal.
"Listen to me, my dear young lady," he said. "No one can honour your fidelity to your friend, or respect you for keeping your word so firmly, more than I do; but I swear to you you are acting33 under a mistake,--a most fatal and lamentable34 mistake. At all events, I, who am not this lady's husband, cannot injure her--cannot force her to do any thing against her will. Let me see her. I swear to you, if you will, that if she bids me be silent, I will not utter a word; and I will neither follow her nor have her followed. I ask you this, because if you will only do it, you shall see for yourself the error there is in all this, and you will probably be the means of richly rewarding your friend for all she has done for you, by restoring her confidence in her husband."
Louise had looked at Charles Yeldham with earnest intentness all the time he was speaking, and the incredulous scorn which had possessed35 her wholly during the earlier part of their interview began to give way. She dropped her eyes, put her hand to her brow, and thought intently.
"I dare not believe you," said she at last; "I dare not listen longer to you, lest I might be persuaded to do Madame Sidney a wrong. So now you must go away. You had better; if you stay here a month, I will tell you no more than this--and it cannot harm her, if her husband, and you too--and perhaps you are her husband--bah, how can I tell?--were ever so wicked and cruel. She is not in Paris. Now go; you shall not got another answer out of me."
She rose, and stepped towards the door, as though about to open it for his departure.
"Thanks," he exclaimed, "a thousand thanks, even for that information; and, as you say, it could not harm her, if we, who are her devoted36 servants, desired to do so. Yes," for she had her hand on the latch37 of the door, "I will leave you immediately; only let me say a few words more."
"O yes, I think you will, when I have spoken them. If Madame Sidney ever comes back to Paris--I don't ask whether you expect her-- (here he stole a quick glance at her, but she was prepared to meet and conquer it--there was not the smallest change in her face, from its expression of sullen38 waiting)--but if she comes back, and comes to see you, tell her about my visit; tell her I came from her husband--here is my card. There can be no harm in telling her, you know, and then it will depend on herself--not on you, or on me, but on herself only--whether she will let any one who loves her see her again in this world. You understand me in this, do you not, mademoiselle? You see that I am speaking now what must be the truth, and cannot by possibility deceive any one."
Louise appeared to be moved by this direct appeal to her understanding. She took up the card, which he had laid on the table, and read the name aloud.
"Mr. Yeldham! Yes; I understand that if I tell her you have been here, she will be free to choose whether you shall come again; and unless she or I tell you, you can never know whether she comes again. So it will be her own affair, and I cannot be betrayed into injuring her. Yes,"--she looked up suddenly at him,--"I will tell her if she comes here ever again."
"Thank God!" exclaimed Yeldham in a tone of infinite relief; "then all will be right, and it is only waiting a little longer; for I am sure she will come back at some time. God bless you for that promise! You do not know all the good you may do, all the ill you may prevent, by keeping it."
"I always keep my promises," said Louise coldly, rather offended by his thanks.
"Yes, yes, I know that; but O, if I could but make you understand! She will make you understand, some day, all I could never explain. A word more, and I leave you. When you tell her that I was here, and the story I have told you of my business and my hopes--she will believe it, though it is quite natural and right that you should hesitate to do so--tell her this, that I entreated40 you to write to me and let me know that she had returned to Paris. You will do this too, will you not? You see it is only a part of what you have already promised: it is not a new thing. I cannot know that she has returned, unless she permits you to tell me, and so only can harm her. You see I take your own view, with her own consent."
"I see that," said Louise; "it follows from the first. Yes, if she gives me leave, I will write to you."
He contented41 himself with a more moderate expression of gratitude42 than was natural to him under the circumstances; and then, having written his address in full, and very distinctly, on the card Louise had consented to keep, he took his leave.
He had been defeated in the greater purpose, but he had achieved a less one, whose gain would have seemed to the friends priceless good fortune a little while ago, but which was robbed of its fail proportions by the larger hope unfulfilled.
Yeldham communicated to Robert the result of his expedition by letter the same evening, and the following day he returned to London.
"I am thankful, Charley, for the light I have been granted. It is dawn after dark, and now I will wait and hope for the day," said Robert; and Yeldham rejoiced to see his fortitude43.
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1
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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2
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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3
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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4
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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6
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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7
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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8
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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9
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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10
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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11
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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12
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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13
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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14
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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15
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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16
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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17
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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18
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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19
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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20
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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21
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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22
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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23
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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24
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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25
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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28
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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30
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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32
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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33
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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34
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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35
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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36
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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38
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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39
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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40
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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42
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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43
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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44
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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