"I am fortunate in finding you at home, Lady Mitford," said Alsager.
She answered by a smile They had got beyond the talking of commonplaces to each other, these two, in general; but there was a sense of oppression over them both to-day, and each was conscious that it weighed upon the other. The remembrance of the talk to which he had listened at the Club, of the light discussion of Sir Charles's conduct, of the flippant censure25 of the woman who had won him from his wife, was very strong upon Alsager; while she,--of what was she thinking? Who could undertake to tell that? who could categorize the medley26 which must occupy the mind of a woman so situated27? Was she suffering the sharp pangs28 of outraged love? or was she enduring the hardly less keen torture of discovering that that which she had believed to be love, had cherished in her breast as the true deity29, had given, in that belief, to her husband, was not love, but only a skilful30 (and innocent) counterfeit31, only a mock jewel which she had offered in good faith for the flawless pearl of price? Who can tell? She could hardly have answered such a question truly, if she had put it to herself at the close of the interview which began after so commonplace a fashion.
"I have not seen you since your father's death," said Lady Mitford, gently; and in a tone which lent the simple words all the effect of a formal condolence. "You have not been long in town, I'm sure?"
"No, indeed," he said; "I have but just returned. There is so much to be done on these occasions; there are so many forms to be gone through; there is so much immediate32 business to be transacted33, in the interests of the living, that--that,"--he hesitated; for he had neared that precipice34 so dreaded35 by all now-a-days, the exhibition of natural emotion.
"That one has to wait for leisure to mourn for the dead," said Lady Mitford. "Ah, yes, I understand that. But you remain in town now, do you not?"
There was a tone of anxiety in the question which struck on Alsager's ear with a sound of music. She had missed him, then,--she would miss him if he went away again! He loved her well, ay, and worthily36, contradictory37 though that may seem; but his heart was stirred with a joy which he dared not analyze38, but could not deny, at the thought. He answered hurriedly, "Yes, I remain here now." And then he changed his tone, and said eagerly,
"Tell me something of yourself. How has it been with you since we met last?"
"Of myself!" she replied sadly; and her colour flushed and faded as she spoke39, and her restless fingers trifled with the ornaments40 of her dress. "Myself is an unprofitable subject, and one I am weary of. I have nothing new to tell,--nothing you would care to hear."
He dissented41 by an eager gesture; but she appeared not to perceive it, and went on, with attempted gaiety:
"We have missed you dreadfully, of course. I need not tell you what a void your absence must necessarily make. We all know you are beyond spoiling."
She looked at him, and something in his face warned her not to pursue this tone. She felt vaguely43 that the position was unreal, and must be changed. He knew, as she supposed, what she was thinking of; she knew, as he fancied, what he was thinking of; and though, as it happened, each was wrong, it was manifestly absurd to carry on false pretences45 any longer. Woman-like, she was the first to brave the difficulty of the situation.
"You have come to me," she said steadily46, and looking at him with the clear upheld gaze peculiar47 to her, "because you have heard something which concerns me nearly, and because, man of the world,--of this heartless world around us,--as you are, and accustomed to such things, still you feel for me; because you would have prevented this thing if you could; because you tried to prevent it, and failed; because you knew--yes, Sir Laurence Alsager, because you knew the extent and the power of the danger that menaced me, and my helplessness: say, am I right?--for these reasons you are here to-day."
The composure of her voice was gone, but not its sweetness; her colour had faded to a marble paleness; and her hands were firmly clasped together. Alsager had risen as she spoke, and was standing49 now, leaning against the low velvet-covered mantelpiece. He answered hurriedly, and with scant50 composure:
"Yes, Lady Mitford, for these reasons, and for others."
"For what others?"
This almost in a whisper.
"Never mind them now," he said impetuously; and then the superficial restraint which he had imposed upon himself gave way, broke down before that strongest and most terrible of temptations, the sight of the sorrow and the silent confidence of the woman one loves, granted at the moment when a hope, a guilty hope, that that love may not be vain, begins to stir, like life, at one's heart. She shrank a little back in the chair, but she looked at him as earnestly as before.
"It's all true, then," he said,--and there was a tone of deep and bitter hatred52 in his voice,--"all true. The prophecy I heard among those fellows the first time I ever heard your name--the coarse language, the cynical53 foresight,--all true. That heartless demon54 has caught his shallow nature in her shallow lure55, and worked the woe56 of an angel!"
His voice rang with a passionate57 tremor58, his eyes deepened and darkened with the passionate fervour which glowed in them. His impetuous feeling mastered her. She had no power to arrest him by a conventional phrase, though he had overstepped more than conventionality by invading the sacred secrecy59 of her domestic grief.
"Yes, Lady Mitford," he went on; "I have returned to find that all I feared,--more than I feared,--has befallen you. It was an unequal contest; you had only innocence60 and purity, an old-fashioned belief in the stability of human relations and the sanctity of plighted61 faith; and what weapons were these in such a fight? No wonder you are vanquished62. No wonder she is triumphant--shameless as she is heartless. I wound you," he said, for she cowered63 and trembled at his words; "but I cannot keep silence. I have seen shameful64 things,--I am no stranger to the dark passages of life; but this is worse than all. Good God! to think that a man like Mitford should have had such a chance and have thrown it away! To think that--"
"Hush65, Sir Laurence!" she said, and stretched her hand appealingly towards him; "I must not hear you. I cannot, I will not affect to misunderstand you; but there must be no more of this. I am an unhappy woman--a most wretched wife; all the world--all the little world we think so great, and suffer to torment67 us so cruelly--knows that. Pretence44 between us would be idle; but confidence is impossible. I cannot discuss Sir Charles Mitford's conduct with any one, least of all with you." She seemed to have spoken the last words unawares, or at least involuntarily, for a painful blush, rose on her face and throat.
"And why," he eagerly asked,--"why least of all with me? I have been honoured by your friendship,--I have not forfeited68 it, have I? I know that conventionality, which is a systematic69 liar48 and a transparent70 hypocrite, would condemn71 in theory a woman to keep her garments folded decorously over such mortal heart-wounds; I know that poets snivel rhymes which tell us how grand and great, how high and mighty72, it is 'to suffer and be strong.' I know how easy some people find it to see others suffer, and be perfectly73 strong in the process; but such rubbish is not for you nor for me. I cannot return to London and hear all that I have heard; I cannot come here and look upon you--" his voice faltered74, but he forced it into the same hurried composure with which he had been speaking. "I cannot see you as I see you now, and talk to you as an ordinary morning visitor might talk, or even as we have talked together, when these things were coming indeed, but had not yet come."
She was leaning forward now, her face turned towards him, but hidden in her hands. He gazed at her with a kindling75 glance, and strode fiercely backward and forward across the wide space which lay before the window.
"I am not a good man," he went on, "according to your standard of goodness, Lady Mitford; but I am not a bad man according to my own. I have had rough tussles76 with life, and some heavy falls; but I swear there is a dastardly, cold, heartless ingratitude77 in this business which I cannot bear; and in the sight of you there is something terrible to me. Men know this man's history; we know from what degradation78 you raised him; we are not so blind and coarse that we cannot guess with what fidelity79 and patience you loved him when it was at its deepest. And now, to see him return to it; to see him, without any excuse of poverty or struggle, in the enjoyment80 of all that fate and fortune have blindly given him; to see him play the part of a liar and a villain81 to you--to you--to see you left unprotected, openly neglected and betrayed, to run the gauntlet of society such as ours! I cannot see all this, Lady Mitford, and pretend that I do not see it; and what is more, you do not wish that I could. You are too true, too womanly to form such a wish; and you are too honest to express it, in obedience82 to any laws of cant51."
He went near to her; he bent83 down, he lowered his voice, he gently drew away the hands that hid her face from him; they dropped into her lap, nerveless and idle; the first tears he had ever seen in her eyes dimmed them now.
"You mean kindly84, as you have always meant to me, Sir Laurence," she said; "but we cannot discuss this matter,--indeed we cannot. I am weaker than I ought to be,--I should not listen to this; but oh, God help me, I have no friends; I am all alone, all alone!"
If she had been beautiful in the pride and dignity of her sorrowful composure, if his strong heart had quailed85 and his firm nerve had shrunk at the sight of her pale and placid86 grief, how far more beautiful was she now, when the restraint had fallen from her, when the eyes looked at him from the shadow of wet lashes87, and the perfect lips trembled with irrepressible emotion.
"No!" he said vehemently88; and as he spoke he stood close before her, and stretched his hands towards her, but without taking hers; the gesture was one of mingled89 denial and appeal, and had no touch of boldness in it; "no, you are not alone; yes, you have friends,--at least you have one friend. Listen to me,--do not fear to hear me; let us at least venture to tell and listen to the truth. This man, to whom you were given as a guardian90 angel, is quite unworthy of you. You know it; your keen intellect accepts a fact and all its consequences, however terrible to your woman's heart, and does not palter with the truth. Are you to be always miserable92 because you have been once mistaken? If you had known, if you had been able to comprehend the real nature of this man, would you, could you ever have loved him?"
She put up her hand with a faint gesture of protest; but he impetuously waved it away, and went on, once more striding up and down.
"No, no; I must speak! There can be more reticence93 now. You would not, you could not have loved him, this heartless, ungrateful profligate94, as tasteless and low as he is faithless and vicious,--this scoundrel, who, holding good in his grasp, has deliberately95 chosen evil. Ay, I will say it, Lady Mitford! You could not have loved him, and you know it well; you have admitted it to yourself before now, when you little dreamed that anyone--that I--would ever dare to put your thought in form and shape before you. What did you love? A girl's fancy,--a shadow, a dream! It was no reality, it had no foundation, and it has vanished. Your imagination drew a picture of an injured victim of circumstances,--a weak being, to be pitied and admired, to be restored and loved! The truth was a selfish scoundrel, who has returned in wealth with fresh zest96 to the miserable pleasures for which he lived in poverty; a mean-hearted wretch66, who could care for your beauty while it was new to him indeed, but to whose perception you, your heart and soul, your intellect and motives97, were mysteries as high and as far off as heaven. Are you breaking your heart, Lady Mitford, under the kindly scrutiny98 of the world, because the thistle has not borne figs99 and the thorn has not given you purple grapes? Are you sitting down in solitary100 grief because the animal has done according to its kind, because effect has resulted from cause, because the wisdom of the world, wise in the ways of such men, has verified itself? Do you love this man now? Are you suffering the pangs of jealousy101, of despair? No, you do not love him; you are suffering no such pangs. You are truth itself,--the truest and the bravest, as you are the most beautiful of women; and you cannot, you dare not tell me that you love this man still, knowing him as you know him now." He stopped close beside her, and looked at her with an eager, almost a fierce glance.
"Why do you ask me?" she gasped102 out faintly. There was a sudden avoidance of him in her expression, a shadow of fear. "Why do you speak to me thus? Oh, Sir Laurence, this--this is the worst of all." She was not conscious of the effect of the tone in which these words were spoken, of the pathos103, the helplessness, the pleading tenderness it implied. But he heard them, and they were enough. They were faint as the murmur104 of a brook in summer, but mighty as an Alpine105 storm; and the barriers of conventional restriction106, the scruples108 of conscience, the timidity of a real love, were swept away like straws before their power.
"Why?" he repeated, "because I love you!"
She uttered a faint exclamation109; she half rose from her chair, but he caught her hands and stopped her.
"Hush!" he said; "I implore110 you not to speak till you have heard me! Do not wrong me by supposing that I have come here to urge on your unwilling111 ear a tale of passion, to take advantage of your husband's crime, your husband's cowardice112, to extenuate113 crime and cowardice in myself. Before God, I have no such meaning! But I love you--I love you as I never even fancied I loved any woman before; though I am no stranger to the reality or the mockery of passion, though I have received deep and smarting wounds in my time. I wish to make myself no better in your eyes than I am. And I love you--love you so much better than myself; that I would fain see you happy with this man, even with him, if it could be. But it cannot, and you know it. You know in your true heart, that if he came back to his allegiance to you now--poor bond of custom as it is--you could not love him, any more than you could return to the toys of your childhood. I read you aright; I know you with the intuitive knowledge which love, and love only, lends to a man, when he would learn the mystery of a woman's nature. You are too noble, too true, to be bound by the petty rules, to be governed by the small scruples, which dominate nine-tenths of the women who win the suffrages114 of society. You have the courage of your truthfulness115."
He stood before her, looking steadfastly116 down upon her, his arms tightly folded across his chest, his breath coming quickly in hurried gasps117. She had shrunken into the recesses118 of her velvet chair, and she looked up at him with parted lips and wild eyes, her hands holding the cushions tightly, the fingers hidden in the purple fringes. Was it that she could not speak, or that she would not? However that may have been, she did not, and he went on.
"Yes, yes, I love you. I think you knew it before?" She made no reply. "I think I have loved you from the first,--from the moment when, callous119 and blasé as I had come to believe myself--as, God knows, I had good right to be, if human nature may ever claim such a right--I could not bear to see the way your fate was drifting, or to hear the chances for and against you calculated, as men calculate such odds120. I think I loved you from the moment I perceived how completely you had mistaken your own heart, and how beautifully, how innocently loyal you were to the error. While your delusion121 lasted, Lady Mitford, you were safe with me and from me, for in that delusion there was security. While you loved Mitford, and believed that he returned your love, you would never have perceived that any other man loved you. But you are a woman who cannot be partially122 deceived or undeceived; therefore I tell you now, when your delusion is wholly at an end, when it can come no more to blind your eyes, and rend123 your heart with the removal of the bandage, that I love you,--devotedly125, changelessly, eternally. You must take this fact into account when you meditate126 upon your future; you must number this among the component127 parts of your life. Hush! not yet. I am not speaking thus through reckless audacity128, availing itself of your position; you know I am not, and you must hear me to the end."
She had made a movement as if about to speak, but he had again checked her; and they maintained their relative positions, he looking down at her, she looking up at him.
"We are facing facts, Lady Mitford. I love you, not as the man who left you, in your first year of marriage, for the worthless woman who forsook129 me for a richer lover, and would have wronged the fool who bought her without a scruple107, could she have got me into her power again--not as he loved you, even when he came nearest to the truth of love. That woman, your enemy, your rival,"--he spoke the word with a stringent130 scorn which would have been the keenest punishment in human power to have inflicted131 on the woman it designated,--"she knows I love you, and she has struck at me through you; struck at me, poor fool--for she is fool as well as fiend--a blow which has recoiled132 upon herself. She has taught me how much, how well, how devotedly I love you, and learned the lesson herself thereby133, for the intuition of hate is no less keen than that of love. But why do I speak of her? Only to make you understand that I am a portion of your fate,--only to lay the whole truth before you; only to make it clear to you that mine is no chance contact, no mere134 intrusion. I am not a presumptuous135 fool, who has dared to use a generously-granted friendship as a cover for an illicit136 passion. Have patience with me a little longer. Let me tell you all the truth. You cannot dismiss me from your presence as you might another who had dared to love you, and dared to tell you so; you cannot do this."
"Why?" she asked faintly, but with an angry sparkle in her eyes. For the second time she said that one word.
"Because I have injured you, Lady Mitford,--injured you unconsciously, unintentionally; and that is a plea which cannot fail, addressed to such as you. Had I never crossed your path, the woman for whom your husband has wronged you would never have crossed it either. I am the object, you are the victim, of the hatred of a she-devil. You don't suppose she cares for Mitford, do you?"
"Not if she ever loved you," was the reply.
Alsager passed it over, but a sudden light flashed into his face.
"Of course she does not. She has played her ruthless game skilfully138 according to her lights, and your happiness has been staked and lost. Indirectly139, I am the cause of this. Was the feeling which came over me the first time I saw you a presentiment140, I wonder? Well, no matter; you see now that I am a portion of your fate. You see now that a hidden tie binds141 us together, and the folly142, the delusion of my youth, and the mistaken love of your girlhood, have borne mysterious common fruit."
She sat like one enthralled143, entranced, and listened to him; she bent her head for a moment as he took an instant's breath, but she did not attempt to speak. His manner changed, grew softer, and his voice fell to almost a whisper:
"May not this mysterious tie of misfortune mean more to us?" he said. "May not the consolation144 come, as the curse has come, and all the designs of our enemies be disconcerted? I do not say my love is worthy91 of your acceptance,--I am too much travel-stained in my wanderings in the world's ways to make any such pretension145; but it is yours, such as it is--faulty, imperfect, but loyal and eternal. I love you, Lady Mitford, and I ask nothing of you but permission to love you freely and fully42; I ask your leave to give you all the devotion of my heart, all the loyalty146 of my life. I know how the world would hold such a demand; but I care nothing for the world, and I fancy you know it too well to care much for it now. You cherished a delusion long and sacredly; it was at least a noble one, but it is gone, and the world can neither satisfy you for its loss nor substitute another. Dearest--" he paused; she shivered, but she said not a word,--"dearest, what remains147? Inexpressible tenderness was in his voice, in his bending figure, in his moistened eyes. There was a moment's silence, and then she spoke, replying to his last words:
"Duty, Sir Laurence,--duty, the only thing which is not a delusion; that remains."
He drew back a little, looking at her. She raised herself in her chair, and pointed148 to a seat at a little distance from her own. She was deadly pale, but she did not tremble, and her voice was firm and low as she said:
"Sit down, and listen to me."
He obeyed, silent and wondering. Perhaps he had not told himself exactly what he had expected,--perhaps no one ever does, when the emotions of the heart are called into evidence; but he knew that it was not this. Had he more to learn of this woman whom he had so closely studied; had her nature heights which he had not seen, and depths which he had not comprehended? Breathless he waited for her words. In an agony of suspense149 he looked at her averted150 face, which appeared to address itself to something in the distance,--which had settled into a wondrous151 composure at the command of the strong will. He had not estimated that strength of will aright; he had made the common mistake of overlooking a quality because he had not seen it in active employment. There was neither confusion nor weakness in the manner of the woman to whom he had just spoken such words as no woman could hear unmoved; and there mingled strangely with his love something of wonder and of awe152.
After a little interval153, which seemed endless to him, she turned her face towards him again, laid her hand heavily upon her breast, and spoke:
"You have been cruel to me, Sir Laurence, in all that you have said; but men, I believe, are always cruel to women if they love them, or have loved them. I acquit154 you of intentional137 cruelty, and I accept all you say of the necessity for the truth being spoken between us in the new phase of our relation which you have brought about to-day."
The intensity155 of her face deepened, and the pressure of her hand grew heavier. He muttered a few words of protest, but she went on as if she had not heard him.
"You have spoken words to me, Sir Laurence, which I should not have heard; but they have been spoken, and the wrong cannot be undone156. It may be atoned157 for, and it must. Neither these words nor any other must be spoken between us henceforth--"
He started up.
"You cannot mean this," he said; "it is impossible; I do not believe it.--I will not bear it."
"Be still and hear me," she replied; "I kept silence at your desire,--you will not, I am sure, do less at mine. I too must speak to you, uninterrupted, in the spirit of that truth of which you have spoken so eloquently158 and with such sophistry159--yes, with such sophistry."
Once more she paused and sighed.
"Speak to me, then," he said; and there was true, real anguish160 in his tone. "Say what you will, but do not be too hard on me. I am only a mortal man; if I have offended you, it is because you are an angel."
"You have not offended me," she said very slowly: "perhaps I ought to be offended, but I am not. I think you judge me aright when you say that truth holds the foremost place in and for me: therefore I tell you truth. You have grieved me; you have added a heavy burden to a load which is not very easy to bear, though the world, which you exhort161 me to despise and to deny, cannot lay a feather's weight upon it. Your friendship was very dear to me,--very precious; I did not know how dear, I think, until to-day."
How eagerly he listened to the thrilling voice! how ardently162 he gazed into the dreamy beautiful eyes! how breathlessly he kept the silence so hard to maintain!
"If I could use any further disguise with myself, Sir Laurence, if self-deception could have any further power over me, I might terminate this interview here, and tell you, and tell myself, that it should be forgotten. But I have done with self-deception."
"For God's sake, don't speak in that bitter tone!" Alsager said entreatingly163; "spare me, if you will not spare yourself."
"No," she replied; "I will spare neither you nor myself. Why should I? The world has spared neither of us--will spare neither of us; only it will tell lies, and I will tell truths,--that's all."
Her colour was heightened, and her eyes were flashing now; but the pressure of her hand upon her bosom164 was steady.
"You have read my story aright: I know not by what art or science--but you have read it. If, as you say, you have an involuntary share, an unconscious responsibility in my heavy trial, it is a misfortune, which I put away from my thoughts; I hold you in no way accountable. My sorrow is my own; my delusion is over; my duty remains."
"Yes," she said gently; "I do. Your tone is unworthy of you, Sir Laurence; but I pass it by; for it is the tone of a man of the world, to whom inclination is a law. Can my husband's faithlessness absolve166 me from fidelity? Is his sin any excuse for my defection from my duty? You say truly, I cannot love him now as I loved him when I did not know him as he is; but I can do my duty to him still--a hard duty, but imperative167. The time will come when this woman will weary of him, of her vain and futile168 vengeance169; and then--"
"Well, Lady Mitford, and then--?" asked Alsager in a cold hard voice.
She looked at him with eyes in which a holy calm had succeeded to her transient passion, and replied:
"Then he will return to me, and I must be ready to meet him without a shade upon my conscience, without a blush upon my cheek."
He started up angrily, and exclaimed:
"You pass all comprehension! What! You are no longer in error about this man; the glamour170 has passed. You know him for the cold cynical profligate he is; and you talk of welcoming him like a repentant171 prodigal172; only yourself it is you are prepared to kill--your own pride, your own delicacy173, your own heart! Good God! what are good women made of, that they set such monstrous174 codes up for themselves, and adhere to them so mercilessly!"
"He is my husband," she faltered out; and for a moment her courage seemed to fail. The next she rose, and standing by the mantelpiece, where he had stood before, she went on, with hurry and agitation175 in her voice: "Don't mistake me. Love is dead and gone for me. But this world is not the be-all and the end-all; there is an inheritance beyond it, reserved for those who have 'overcome.' Duty is hard, but it is never intolerable to a steadfast will, and a mind, fixed176 on the truth. Time is long, and the round of wrong is tedious; but the day wears through best to those who subdue177 impatience178, and wrong loses half its bitterness when self is conquered. I have learned my lesson, Sir Laurence, and chosen my part."
"And what is to be mine?" he said with angry impatience,--"what is to be mine? You moralize charmingly, Lady Mitford; and your system is perfect, with one little exception--and what is that? A mere nothing, a trifle--only a man's heart, only a love that is true! You are all alike, I believe, bad or good, in this,--you will pine after, you will endure anything for, a man who is false to you, and you will tread upon the heart of one who is true. What do you care? We do not square with the moral code of the good among you, nor with the caprice and devilment of the bad; and so away with us! I am 'cruel' to you, forsooth, because I tell you that you no longer love a worthless profligate, who sports with your peace and your honour at the bidding of a wanton! I am 'cruel' because I tell you that I, who have innocently wronged you, love you with every pulse of my heart and every impulse of my will! Is there any cruelty on your side, do you think, when you talk, not puling sentiment--I could more easily pardon that; it would be mere conventional silliness--but these chilly179, chilling moralities, which are fine in copy-books, but which men and women abandon with their writing-lessons?"
"Do they?" she said with imperturbable180 gentleness; "I think not. You are angry and unjust, Sir Laurence,--angry with me, unjust to me!"
"Yes," he cried; "I am unjust, and you are an angel of goodness; but--I love you,--ah, how I love you!--and you reject me, utterly, utterly. You reject me, and for him! You give her a double triumph; you lay my life waste once more."
He stopped in his hurried walk close to her. She laid her hand upon his arm, and they looked at one another in silence for a little. She broke it first.
"And if I did not reject you, as you say--if I accepted this love, this compensating182 truth and loyalty, which you offer me, what should I be, Laurence Alsager, but her compeer? Have you thought of that? Have you remembered that there is a law in marriage apart from and above all feeling? Have you considered what she who breaks that law is, in the sight of God, in the unquenchable light of her own conscience, though her conduct were as pure from stain as the ermine of a royal robe? I am speaking, not chilly, chilling moralities, but immortal183, immutable184 truth. In the time to come you will remember it, and believe it; and then there will be no bitterness in your heart when you recollect185 how I bade you farewell!"
The lustrous186 eyes looked into his with a gaze as pure as an infant's, as earnest as a sibyl's, and the gentle hand lay motionless upon his arm.
"How you bade me farewell!" he repeated in a hoarse187 voice. "What do you mean? Are you sending me from you?"
"Yes," she answered; "I am sending you from me. We have met once too often, and we must meet no more. You say you love me;" she shrunk and shivered again,--"and--and I believe you. Therefore you will obey me."
"No," he said resolutely188; "I will not obey you! I will see you,--I must. What is there in my love to frighten or to harm you? I ask for nothing which even your scrupulous189 conscience might hesitate to give; I seek no change in the relation that has subsisted190 between us for some time now."
"Dreams, dreams," she said, sadly; "unworthy of your sense,--unworthy of your knowledge of the world. Nothing can ever replace us on our old footing. The words you have spoken to me can never be unsaid. They are words I never ought to have heard--and--" In a moment her firmness deserted191 her, her voice failed; she sank into a chair, and burst into passionate tears.
"You would not have them unsaid!" he cried; "tell me that you would not! Tell me that the coldness and the calm which those streaming tears deny are not true, are not real! Tell me that I am something in your life,--that I might have been more! Dearest, I reverence192 as much as I love you; but give me that one gleam of comfort. It cannot make your heavenly rectitude and purity poorer, while to me it will be boundless193 riches. Tell me that you could love me if you would; tell me that the sacred barrier of your conscience is the only one between us! I swear I will submit to that! I will not try to shake or to remove it. Nay194, more, I will leave you,--if indeed you persist in commanding my absence,--if only you will tell me that under other circumstances you would have loved me. Tell me this! I ask a great, a priceless boon195; but I do ask it. Dearest, will you not answer me?" Her agitation, her tears, had reassured196 him, had broken the spell which her calmness had imposed. The hope that had come to him once or twice during their interview came again now, and stayed.
There was no sound for a while but that of her low rapid sobs197. The clocks upon the mantelpieces in the suite198 of rooms ticked loudly, and their irritating metallic199 voices mingled strangely with the rushing pulses of Alsager's frame, as he leant over her,--one arm round the back of her chair, the other hand upon its velvet arm. His face was bent above her drooping200 head; his thick moustache almost touched the waved ridges201 of her scented202 hair. He implored203 her to speak to him; he poured out protestation and entreaty204 with all the ardour of his strong and fiery205 nature, with all the eloquence206 which slumbered207 in him, unsuspected even by himself. Little by little she ceased to weep, and at length she allowed him to see her face. Again he renewed his entreaties208, and she answered him.
"You try me too far, and I am weak. Yes, I would love you, if I might!"
"Then you do love me!" he exclaimed. "You and I are no dreaming boy and girl, no Knight209 and Dame210 of old romance, but man and woman; and we know that these shades of difference are merest imagination. We love each other, and we know it. We love each other, and the acknowledgment makes the truth no truer. I am ungenerous, you would say; I am breaking the promise I have just made. Yes, I am; but I love you--and you love me!" He had dropped on one knee beside her chair now, and as he spoke he caught her hand in his. Without any sign of anger or prudery, she withdrew her hand quietly, but resolutely, and signed to him to rise and be seated. He obeyed her; but exultation211 shone out from every line and feature of his face.
"You are ungenerous," she said,--"very ungenerous, and very cruel; but I will not the less be true in these the last words I shall say to you. If I have dreamed of a life other than mine, of love well bestowed212 and faithfully returned, it was only in the most passing, transient visions. My lot is cast; my mind is made up; my heart is fixed. I linger here for a few moments longer because they are the last I shall ever pass alone with you. Do not interrupt me, or I terminate this interview on the instant. This subject must never be renewed,--indeed it never can be; for you know my resolution, and I know you will respect it. The past remains with us; but the future has no common history for you and me. When I have ceased speaking, and that door has closed behind you, you must remember me, if you do not see me, and regard me if you do, as a woman wholly devoted124 to her wifely duty, of whom to think otherwise is to do a deadly wrong."
He stood before her as pale as she had been; something wrathful and something reverential contended in his expression. She waved her hand with a slight gesture, and went on "Now I have done with myself; there is no more question of me. But of you, Sir Laurence, there is much and serious question. Your life is aimless and unreal. Give it an object and an aim; invest it with truth, occupy it with duty. I am speaking with you face to face for the last time, and I go back to the old relation which you have destroyed for a few minutes. In that relation I speak to you of your father's death-bed request. Fulfil it; and by doing so, end this vain and sinful strife,--quell this demon which deludes213 you."
"You mean that I should marry my father's ex-ward, I presume?" said Alsager, coldly.
"I do."
"Thank you, Lady Mitford. Your proposition is full of wisdom, however it may lack feeling. But there are sundry214 objections to my carrying it into effect. The lady does not love me, nor do I love the lady."
"You hardly know her," Lady Mitford said with a timid smile; "you have not given yourself any opportunity of testing your power of obedience to your father's dying wish. You cannot judge of how she would be disposed towards you." Once more she smiled timidly and sadly. "You would have little cause to fear ill-success, I should think."
"Except that in this case, Lady Mitford, the lady's affections are pre?ngaged, and she is doubtless a miracle of constancy."
"You speak bitterly, Sir Laurence, but your bitterness will pass, and your better nature will assert itself."
"Is this all you intend to say to me, Lady Mitford?"
"This is all. My words will supplement themselves in silence and reflection, and you will acknowledge that I have spoken the truth--that I am as true as you believe me."
"And are we to part thus?" he asked in a slightly softened tone.
A quick spasm215 crossed her face, but she answered him at once, and looked at him as she spoke, "Yes!"
He bowed profoundly. She held out her hand, On the third finger was a heavy-looking seal-ring, which she constantly were. As he coldly took the hand in his, his eyes fell upon this ring. She marked the look, and when he released her hand, she drew off the ring and offered it to him.
"You are angry with me now," she said; "but your anger will pass away. When no shade of it remains, wear this for my sake, and make its motto, which is mine, yours."
He took the ring, and without looking at it, dropped it into his waistcoat-pocket. Then he stood quite still as she passed him with her usual graceful step, and watched the sweep of her soft black robe as she walked down the long room, and disappeared through a door which opened into her boudoir.
Late that night Alsager, angry still, dark and wrathful, tossed the ring with a contemptuous frown into a jewel-case; but he first took an impression of it in wax, and read, the motto thus: "Fortiter--Fideliter--Feliciter."
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1
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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3
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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21
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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25
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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28
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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29
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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31
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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32
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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33
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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34
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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35
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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36
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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38
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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39
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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40
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
dissented
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| 不同意，持异议( dissent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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43
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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44
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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45
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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46
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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47
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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48
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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49
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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50
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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51
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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52
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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53
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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54
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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55
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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56
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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57
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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58
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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59
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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60
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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61
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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62
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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63
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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64
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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65
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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66
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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67
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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68
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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70
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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71
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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72
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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73
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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74
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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75
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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76
tussles
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| n.扭打，争斗( tussle的名词复数 ) | |
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77
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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78
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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79
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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80
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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81
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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82
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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83
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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84
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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85
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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87
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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88
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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89
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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90
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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91
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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92
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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93
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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94
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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95
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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96
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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97
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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98
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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99
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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100
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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101
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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102
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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103
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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104
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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105
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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106
restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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107
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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108
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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110
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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111
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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112
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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113
extenuate
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| v.减轻，使人原谅 | |
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114
suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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115
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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116
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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117
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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118
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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119
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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120
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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121
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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122
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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123
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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124
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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125
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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126
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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127
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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128
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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129
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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130
stringent
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| adj.严厉的；令人信服的；银根紧的 | |
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131
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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133
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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134
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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135
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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136
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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137
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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138
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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139
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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140
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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141
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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142
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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143
enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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144
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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145
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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146
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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147
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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148
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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149
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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150
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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151
wondrous
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| 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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152
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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153
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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154
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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155
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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156
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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157
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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158
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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159
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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160
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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161
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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162
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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163
entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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164
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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165
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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166
absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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167
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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168
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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169
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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170
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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171
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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172
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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173
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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174
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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175
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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176
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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177
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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178
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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179
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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180
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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181
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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182
compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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183
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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184
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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185
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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186
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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187
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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188
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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189
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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190
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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192
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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193
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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194
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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195
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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196
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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197
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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198
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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199
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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200
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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201
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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202
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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203
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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205
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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206
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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207
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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208
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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209
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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210
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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211
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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212
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213
deludes
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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214
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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215
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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