He spoke3 of himself to-day, of his youth and marriage. Lady Diana was not named, but her knife under the cloak was implied. Sadly, yet without complaint, he related the ossifying4 of all his generous hopes. “This,” he said, “was long ago, but the dead cannot all at once be hidden under the turf. I have been ten years long at a burying, and now have done. What remain to me of years, I know not truly; but they will be the more precious if they are to be few. I believe that I am very capable of happiness—perhaps even of bestowing5 it. My affairs are in good order; I have been fortunate, as you know, in worldly respects. A childless widower6, I pick up my life again at fifty where I left it at five-and-twenty. And I tell myself—I have told myself but newly—that I may not be too late.”
To this sort of soliloquy, to the grave voice that rehearsed it, she had nothing to say. He found that he must import her bodily into his conversation.
“For one thing,” he continued, after a pause of exploration, “I now have leisure, as you have seen, to interest myself in my neighbours, and have derived7 so much pleasure from it that I am deeply grateful to those who have indulged me. You are one. I think that you must have remarked what happiness your society and your confidence have been to me.” Her shamefastness, which tied her tongue, compelled him to probe. “Have you not seen that?”
She murmured that he had been very kind, that she was grateful. “Not so, my dear,” said he, “but the persons must be transposed. The kindness is yours, the obligation upon me. Come! Can you not tell me that you have understood me? Can you not let me be satisfied that you realize your own benevolence9? If you cannot, I must withhold10 what I was about to say to you. I should want for courage. I must ask for your assurance. You will not refuse it?”
Exciting, mystifying talk! She dared not look up—but she asked him, What it was that she was to tell him?
He luxuriated in her bashfulness. “Why, my dearest child,” he said, very near to her, “I want to know whether you believe me happy in your company?”
She would not look at him, but she said “I hope that you like me—I do hope that.”
Then he took her hand and held it in both of his own. He gazed tenderly down upon her hanging head—not one meek11 beauty of her escaped him, neither of burning cheek, curved lashes12, of heavy eyelids13, rising breast. “Then, dear child, I will tell you plainly that I love you most sincerely; that you have my heart, such as it is, in your little hands—just as certainly as one of those hands is here in mine. I have told you the truth about myself—what I hoped to be, what I was, what I am become. And now, if you can repay that confidence with a confidence, I shall be satisfied indeed. But I must ask you again, Can you value the love of a man twice your age? Remember, I shall not be hurt if you tell me that you cannot. I shall respect your confidence, whatever it may be; and shall never trouble you again. . . . What do you tell me now, Mary?”
She had started visibly at the word “love,” and had been revealed to him for a flash, which gave him the value of her wide eyes, and of the flying colour, which now left her very pale, then lapped her in flame again, and showed her like a red rose. A flash only; for immediately after she had bowed her head so deeply that her chin nearly touched her bosom14, and she could have smelt15 the knot of carnations16 fastened there. Her hand was still his prisoner but she would have freed it if she could; for now she was startled indeed. Though she had been forewarned, her armour17 was not on. This word was a dart18, and stabbed her deep. The incredible thing had come to pass.
She had been prepared for unbounded sentiment, for tenderness, for the captured hand; she had foreseen a breathless moment or so, a stoop, and a kiss. Such a string of episodes—just that string of them—would not have been strange to her by any means, and would have satisfied her anticipations19 perfectly20. She would have been elated, would have made much of it in her mind, might possibly, after some interval21, in some tender hour, have confided22 it to a bosom friend. On many dull days it would have shone like a lamp, assuring her of substantial things, of honour done, of a positive achievement of hers—to have won such condescension23 from a great gentleman. Here had been—you may say—a creditable triumph for the Middlehams. But a declaration in so many words—love offered and asked again; what could this mean but one astounding24 thing? She was frightened, and that’s a fact; frightened out of her wits. The averting25 of her head, which so enchanted26 Mr. Germain, was of a piece with ostrich27 strategy. If she could have run and hidden underground she would have done it. For what can that word love from such a man mean but marriage? I beg the lady’s pardon for leaving her hand in so embarrassing a case, her head so downcast, her breath so troublesome—but her difficulties must be faced.
Marriage, as she had been taught this world’s economy, is the be-all and end-all for women here. It is almost a disgrace, and quite a disaster for a girl to slip into womanhood and not be wedded28. The enormous seriousness, then, of the affair! All men talk to women of love, and a girl had need be quick to discern which kind is the staple29, which kind is aimed at lip-service, which at life-service. There will be both to reckon with; the two rarely coincide. Many a young man will seek the flower of a girl’s lips, sup of it at ease, and content himself—ah, and content her, too; whereas your serious wooer, with his eye upon comfort, a foothold, a mother for his children and a stay for himself, may well have other things to think of—a promotion30, a partnership31, a chance abroad, a legacy32, a desirable corner house. Care will tighten33 his lips too hard for kissing. The future will be all that he reads after in your eyes. If he kisses, it will be by custom as likely as not; don’t I say that he will have other things to think of? Now, Mr. Germain had not kissed Mary, though, to be sure, he had spoken of his love. And yet—and yet—yes, he wanted to marry her. Frightened? Yes, she was frightened; but she was full of thought, too.
She knew very well that her ways were not those of the world above her, the world of the upper air, where Honourable34 Mrs. Germains, Cantacutes, Duplessis, and the like talked familiarly together of parties and public affairs. There, as she saw the heights the women were so obviously desirable that there was nothing for them to do but pick up their happiness as they chose, and as their due. There could surely be no anxiety there, no whispered debates over what he meant, or had looked, or was thinking. Their lives were full to brimming point from girlhood up; everything fell into their laps, or could be had for money. Nothing surprised her more in the lives of her betters than the frequency with which they bought—except the case of the transaction. One even paid for work, if one happened to be in the mood to work—as when Miss de Speyne, desiring to paint, hired an artist to go about with her, open a white umbrella here and there, and paint beside her. Grey, grey and hard seemed her outlook beside theirs, when (as now) she was driven to compare them. And here—O wonderful fate!—was this brimming, crowded life opening to her; to her, Mary Middleham, who had worked for pence a year, and fended35 for herself, and had adventures from her seventeenth to this her twenty-fifth summer. Terrible, wonderful thing! She had neither a word to say, nor a connected thought. She wanted to hide her burning cheeks, felt that she must never look up again—and all this while Mr. Germain held her cold hand. It felt dead to her: and what must he be thinking of her?
He was very patient. “Well, my dear, well!” was the note he harped36 upon, and (how he could read you!) “Poor child! So I have terrified you.” This idea seemed in some way to please him, for he expressed it several times; and, as he held her hand in one of his, patted it with the other—hoping, it would seem, to make her as comfortable as he was himself.
“Am I to be answered, Mary? Have you nothing to say to me?” She had not, for her life; she must have time. This she forced herself to explain.
“I don’t know what to say to you—I don’t, indeed.” But he seemed to find this quite as it should be.
He leaned a little towards her. “Shall I leave you?” he asked. “Would you wish to think it over? I will do all I can to make it easy for you.”
“Yes, please—no, I mustn’t trouble you. I mean—Oh, Mr. Germain, what ought I to say?” The russet wonder of her eyes was upon him, filled his being. He saw her quivering lip, wet from biting.
“Dearest child,” he urged her, “dearest child, consult your heart. If you think that you can be content with me—if you can believe what I tell you——”
She looked at him now as though he had hurt her. “I mustn’t believe you—I ought not—I know I ought not. I am not fit for you—not good enough—” She stammered37, reproached him with her great eyes for a beating second—and then the storm broke and swept away her little defences.
She cried in his arms, for he took her there; he tasted her tears, for he began to kiss them away. At first she tried to disengage herself, but soon gave over the struggle, not daring to prolong a losing game. And it was a comfort, too, you see, to have strife38 done with. She hid her face, however, in his arm. He kissed her hair.
When she was quieted he talked to her—if you can call that talk which a man might use to a pretty dog, a leveret, or (if he were with it alone) to a baby; foolish, affectionate, happy nonsense, it was, charged full with pity for a creature so young and so simple. He soothed39 and touched her both; never had she dreamed of such kindness as this, nor of the comfort of it. So presently she lay still, looking wistfully out upon the green curves of the park, the dark masses of the summer trees, the tall deep bracken, and, afar a herd40 of deer feeding, twinkling their scuts as they moved slowly across the sunlit turf. Above her head she heard the murmur8 of his kind voice, hardly distinguished41 the words he used, but judged them generally to be all love and gentleness. What misgivings42 she may have had fell from her, as this peace claimed its rights. She thought that she could have stayed like this for ever; she thought that thus indeed it was to be. This, this was love, this how gentlemen loved. What a life was to be hers!
She sighed and snuggled more deeply into her luxury; his heart beat to feel the pressure of her. To doubt himself—whether he would fail of utter love and devotion for a confidence so exquisite43 as this—would have been a blasphemy44. “My darling girl, my darling love, my Mary—” and, as she looked timidly up and shyly smiled her trust into his face, he bent45 over her transported, met and kissed her lips. She thrilled responsive and, smiling still, closed her eyes. “God helping46 me,” he said with a sob47, “you shall never regret this day. . . .”
For their loitered progress homewards he put her hand into his arm, and it lay there so long as they were safe within the park. She hardly spoke, and only looked at him for seconds at a time. Her responses, when he called her by fond names or breathed some assurance of his love and happiness, were little pressures of the arm, flutterings of the eyelids, ghosts of smiles scarcely to be seen; but he was perfectly satisfied, the good man, sailing along upon his clouds, which were rosy48 and golden at the edges. He took her stoutly49 to her own door and left her there—would not venture himself within the sacred threshold. “I shall see you again before I go, my dearest. To-morrow I will come—ah, but you have given me wonderful to-morrows! You have made me happier than I ever dared hope to be. I will write to you, of course, from London—and do you write me again. Write me fully—confide in me—have no anxieties which I may not share. I call upon your parents in the course of the week. Dearest, will you not love me?”
She was now much moved; he might have seen her struggle to express herself—her bosom heaved in tumult50 and distress—a cry escaped her, “Oh, you are good, you are good! How can I help liking—how can I like you enough?” Love, she dared not say.
Respect for her held him in check; he must content himself with her hand, which, bare-headed, he kissed. “I am more than happy—I am exalted51. Adieu, my love, adieu! Thank God, your days of servitude are over. Bid me good-bye now, and I will go.”
She hung her head, bashful again. He had to invite her once more, to draw her nearer, to stoop and to whisper her name. Blushing and glowing she swayed, caught by the hand, and then, as a sudden surge of gratitude52 swept over her, she put her hand upon his shoulder and leaned to him, looking up.
“I shall try to be good. I am sure that I love you—” she faltered53; and he, swept out of propriety54 by her emotion and his own in confluence55, took her in his arms and kissed her. At first she clung to him, and gave him kiss for kiss; but suddenly she stiffened56 and tried violently to get free. He felt that and released her at once, instantly himself again. In a flash she vanished. He kept his hat in his hand until he was beyond the wicket-gate, then walked back slowly to the Rectory luncheon57. He had had no eyes for the passing of a tall, loosely clad young man, whose black, straight hair was uncovered, and his black eyes sideways upon everything, like a faun’s. He had had other things to do with his eyes—besides, he was near-sighted. But Mary had noticed, indeed, and was now standing58 in her little dark parlour, in a stare, her finger at her lip, her heart in full and open riot. He had seen her, he must have seen her—kissing, being kissed! Whatever happened, he must hear her explanation.
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1
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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2
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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3
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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4
ossifying
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| adj.骨化的v.骨化，硬化，使僵化( ossify的现在分词 ) | |
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5
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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7
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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8
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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9
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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10
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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11
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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12
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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13
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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14
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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15
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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16
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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17
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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18
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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19
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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20
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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21
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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22
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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23
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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24
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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25
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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26
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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27
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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28
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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30
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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31
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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32
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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33
tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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34
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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35
fended
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的过去式和过去分词 )；挡开，避开 | |
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36
harped
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| vi.弹竖琴（harp的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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37
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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39
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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40
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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41
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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42
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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43
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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44
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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45
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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46
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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47
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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48
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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49
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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50
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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51
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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52
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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53
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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54
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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55
confluence
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| n.汇合，聚集 | |
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56
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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57
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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58
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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