With a less bitter leaven of sure despair,
Than these words—‘I loved once.’ ”
MRS. BROWNING.
SHE did not die, however. Young lives do not end so easily, and young hearts do not so quickly break as their inexperienced owners would imagine. She was very, very ill. For many weeks she lay in a state hardly to be described as either life or death, so faint was the line between the two, so many times we thought we had lost sight of her altogether in the shadows of the strange land that is ever go near us while yet a very far way off. It was at this time I first knew her, who ever after was very dear to me. It happened accidentally. I was visiting some friends at Mallingford just then, and happened to be calling at the Cross House the day the poor child was taken ill—the very day after the ride to Brackley that I have described—and I naturally did what I could in the way of nursing, as no nearer friend appeared to be at hand. Miss Tremlett was at first frightened, then cross; in which state she continued during the whole of Marion’s illness. Low fever, the doctors called it, but that is a vague and convenient name for an illness somewhat difficult to define.
During these weeks Geoffrey Baldwin was very miserable2. He suffered not merely from his overwhelming anxiety, but also from self reproach and remorse3; for, despite all Veronica’s assurances to the contrary, the poor fellow could not rid himself of an utterly4 irrational5 notion that in some way or other the annoyance6 he had caused her had had to do with this sudden and alarming illness. It was not really sudden though. The tension on her nervous system throughout this winter had been great, quite sufficient to account for her present state; the real wonder being that she had held out so long.
When at last she began to get better, Geoffrey’s delight was almost piteous. Marion was greatly touched by it—as indeed no woman but must have been—the first time she saw him again. His pleasure at her recovery was purely7 unselfish, in the ordinary sense at least, for he had altogether renounced8 the hope of ever winning her for his own.
“I only wonder,” he said to Veronica, “that she could forgive my presumption9 as she did. Since her illness it seems to me she has become more beautiful than ever. I feel myself like a great cart-horse when I am beside her. My only thought is, how I can make up to her for all I have caused her. For indeed her coming to this place at all was greatly owing to me. Even if I did not love her as intensely as I do, Veronica, I could not but reproach myself when I think of my selfishness.”
It was useless for his friend to contradict him. It pleased him far more when she set to work to carry out a plan for Marion’s gratification, which at first sight seemed hopeless enough. But between them the two achieved it, and actually obtained Miss Tremlett’s consent to their proposal that, now that she was sufficiently10 recovered to be moved, Marion Clifford could complete her cure by spending some weeks in Miss Temple’s pretty little house.
Miss Tremlett was, in her heart, not sorry to be rid of so troublesome a guest as a bona-fide invalid11; though her consent was, of course, bestowed12 as ungraciously as possible.
The relief to Marion, of quitting for a season the ugly, uncomfortable room in which for five weary weeks she had been immured13, was unspeakable; and once she was established in the pretty little chamber14 so carefully prepared for her, she astonished herself and everyone else by the rapidity of her recovery.
The long dream was over at last. Ralph was hers no longer, but belonged to another. She wished to hear no particulars; she was satisfied to know the bare fact. She had torn him out of her heart and life, and henceforth would seek to forget she had ever known him. God had been good to her, had given her true and kind friends, whose affection she would do her best to repay, and endeavour to turn to better profit the life so lately restored to her; for it seemed to her, in truth, that in her long illness she had, in a sense, died, and been again raised to life.
Thus she spoke16 to herself in the many quiet hours she spent in Veronica’s little drawing-room, and a sort of dreamy peace and subdued17 happiness seemed gradually to descend18 upon her. She was very sweet and winning in those days. To Veronica she grew daily dearer and more precious. And to poor Geoffrey? Ah! it was hard upon him, for all his humility19 and unselfishness! And she, silly little soul, said to herself that she only meant to be gentle and sisterly, to make up to this kind, generous friend, for her former petulance20 and roughness. Partly this, at least. In some measure she began instinctively22 to turn to him, out of a sort of reaction from her former bitter experience. He might not be very clever or original, this Geoffrey Baldwin; he was certainly wanting in that extraordinary, inexpressible something—sympathy, perfect congeniality of heart or mind, or both, which from the first had, as if by magic, drawn23 and attracted her to Ralph; but at least, he was tried and true, honest and devoted24 to the very heart’s core. And, oh! to the poor little heart, smarting yet, under its sore disappointment—what attraction, what soothing25 was there not in the thought that he, at least, loved her! Loved her with a love which she felt she could never give to him; and yet, though no coquette, she no longer felt inclined to discourage him. For, after all, she was a thorough woman. And I am afraid she was, in some respects, incapable26 of such a love of Ralph’s for her; for, through it all, as we have seen, he never doubted, never for an instant mistrusted her.
Whereas she, naturally enough, had come gradually to lose her trust in him, to doubt even, sometimes, if indeed he had ever cared for her as she for him.
And already she was beginning to say to herself, “I loved him once.”
Veronica watched the two, earnestly and anxiously. There was no mystery about Geoffrey. It was only too evident that more than ever he was heart and soul devoted to his ward27; in his eyes more beautiful than ever, from the yet remaining traces of her severe illness; her thin white hands, her pale cheeks, and hair far removed from its former luxuriance.
“Have I not grown ugly, Mr. Baldwin,” she said one day, half in earnest, half in joke, and greatly from a sort of instinctive21 wish to test her power over him. “Look at my hair! It is hardly long enough to twist up at all, and it used to come down below my waist.”
His only answer was to pass his hand softly, nay28, almost reverently29, over the little head, still fair and graceful30, though “the pretty brown hair,” poor Ralph had long ago admired, was sadly decreased in thickness and richness. Marion did not shrink away from Geoffrey’s hand. They happened at the moment to be alone. She looked up in his face, and saw there the words all but uttered on his lips. Though in a sense she had brought it on herself, yet now she shrank from it, felt that as yet, at least, she could not bear it. With some half excuse she turned away quickly, and left the room. But what she had seen in Geoffrey’s face that afternoon decided31 her that something must be done, some resolution arrived at in her own mind, as it was easy to see that the present state of things could not long continue.
It was now the beginning of May. Fully15 two months had elapsed since the ride to Brackley, and the commencement of her long illness. Spring was coming on apace, and the outside world looked very bright and sweet that evening, as Marion sat by Veronica’s couch in the bow-window of the little drawing-room. There was a half-formed resolution in the girl’s mind for once to break through her rule of reserve, and seek the advice of the true and wise friend beside her. For some minutes they had been silent: suddenly Marion spoke.
“Do you know, Miss Veronica, that I have been here nearly three weeks? Soon I must he thinking of the Cross House again.”
Miss Temple laid her hand caressingly32 on. Marion’s. “My poor child!” she said. “But surely there is no hurry. I wish I could keep you here always; but with the prospect33 of my sister’s coming to me for the winter, I cannot do so. I hoped, however, that Harry34 would have had a day or two to spend with you, before you return to Miss Tremlett’s. Is there no chance of it? He must be so anxious to see you since your illness.”
“There is not a chance of his coming till June,” said Marion; “and then it will be a real goodbye! He is sure to go abroad immediately. No, dear Miss Veronica, it is very horrible, but I must be thinking of going. That dreadful life at my aunt’s! So you know, rather than go on with it, I sometimes wish I had died last month.”
Miss Veronica made no reply. Then she said, very softly and timidly:
“My darling Marion, forgive me if I appear officious or intrusive35. But, I am sure that, you know there is another home open to you, whose owner would think himself blessed beyond measure to welcome you to it. He has told me of his disappointment. Are you quite sure, my dear child, that there can never be any hope for him, that you can never bring yourself to think favourably36 of this?”
Marion looked up into her companion’s face (she was sitting on the ground at Veronica’s side), with a slight smile. She appeared perfectly37 composed, her colour did not vary in the least. Miss Temple was far more embarrassed than she.
“I am glad you have spoken of this, Miss Veronica,” said the girl, “for I wish very much to talk to you about it. I am in a great puzzle. The truth of it is, I have already, in a sense, come to think favourably of it; and yet, I fear, not so favourably—not, in short, in the way that it—that he—deserves to be thought of. I like him most thoroughly38, and I like to know that he cares for me. I am weary, very weary of having no home, no nest of my own; and if I yielded to my inclination39, I would run to Geoffrey and ask him to take care of me, and be good to me. And I believe I could be a good wife to him. But, dear Miss Veronica, is this enough? Is it not selfish of me so to take advantage or this good man’s great love for me, when I know, ah, how surely, that never can I give him the same in return? For,”—and here, at last, her pale face flushed and her voice sank,—“for I have known what it is to give the whole love of one’s being, one’s self, utterly and entirely40 to another. And this I could never do again.”
Veronica sighed again.
“My poor child!” was all she said.
But Marion urged her to say more.
“Tell me a little more, in the first place,” was her reply. “This other, whoever he may be, I do not wish to know, but tell me is it altogether and for ever over between you?”
“Altogether and for ever,” answered Marion firmly. “By this time he is the husband of another woman.”
“But you, you care for him still?” persisted Veronica, her own tender heart quivering at the thought of the pain this necessary probing of hers must he inflicting41 on Marion.
The girl for a moment sat perfectly silent, her eyes gazing out on the pretty garden, of which nevertheless they saw nothing. Then she said slowly, but distinctly, and without hesitation—
“No, as I know myself I do not care for him now. He has tried me too cruelly, brought me in sight of the very gates of death, and when there, I tore him, him the husband of that girl, out of my heart, for ever! I forgive him, but I do not love him any more. And Geoffrey is so good and kind, and I am so lonely. Dear Miss Veronica, may I not give myself the only pleasure left me, that of making another person happy? I would, I do love him, in a perfectly different way. More as I love Harry. But it might grow to be a love more worthy42 of his, for I would indeed try to be a good wife to him. And I can’t go back to the Cross House and to my utter loneliness. Oh, do tell me what to do.”
Veronica was sorely troubled.
“I cannot tell you, my dearest. I dare not even advise you,” she said. Suddenly an idea occurred to her, “How would you like the idea of laying it all before the chief person concerned, Geoffrey himself? He is not usually very thoughtful or deliberate, and in the present case it seems too much to expect that he should be so. But he is very honest and conscientious43, and I believe, though the question is one of vital interest for himself, he is capable of looking at it from your side too. However it may be, I see no other course before you. Tell him what you feel you can give him, and leave it to him to decide.”
“Yes,” said Marion, thoughtfully, “I think I will do as you say.”
And then they were silent for a time, and when they talked again it was of perfectly different things.
The next morning was Geoffrey came, as was now his daily habit, to spend an hour in two with his friends, he found Marion alone; Miss Temple being later than usual in taking her place for the day on the invalid couch where her life was spent.
Mr. Baldwin looked round nervously44; he was pleased and yet half alarmed at finding himself alone with his ward; for the first time almost, since the memorable45 February afternoon when he had broken his promise to Veronica.
Marion was sitting working, as calmly as possible. She was in no hurry to hasten the inevitable46 explanation. Now that she had made up her mind what to do, she was perfectly content to leave in Mr. Baldwin’s hands, the when and where of the dénouement. So she stitched away composedly. Geoffrey sat down and looked at her for a few minutes, made, after the manner of people in such circumstances, some particularly stupid remark the weather, and then began to fidget.
“Miss Vere,” he said, “would you mind putting down your work for a few minutes and listening to something I have got to say?” Miss Vere did as she was requested, and Geoffrey continued. “I did not think that day that—that you were angry with me, I did not think then that I could ever bring myself to risk your anger again. But it is no use. It is worse than ever with me—this wretchedness of being near you and yet to know it is all hopeless. What I want to say to you is that I cannot stand it. Your illness was so terrible to me; it showed me even more clearly than before how insane I am about it. I can’t stay near you in this way, Marion. Humbugging about friendship and all that, when I know that twenty million friendships would not express a particle of my utter devotion to you. I can’t, say it, well. I am abominably48 stupid and boorish49. Only I want to tell you that I must go away. I shall look after your interests to very best of my power; only have some mercy on me, and don’t try me in this terrible way by asking me to stay near you.”
He rose in his earnestness and came nearer her. His tall, strong figure shaken with emotion, his handsome face quivering with the strength of his conflicting feelings. Marion was far too tender of heart to tantalize50 or try him unnecessarily. She too rose and stood beside him. What a slight, fragile creature she seemed, and yet probably the stronger of the two in much that constitutes real strength of nature!
She spoke very quietly and calmly.
“Dear Mr. Baldwin,” she said, “I am more grieved, more deeply pained than I can possibly put in words, to know that I have caused you suffering. I was rough and hasty that day, but I have changed since then. I will not ask you to stay near me if it is painful to you. But you must decide for yourself after hearing what I want to tell you.”
Then in a few simple words, she sketched51 for him the history of her life and its great disappointment. She entered into no particulars. At the end of her narration52 Geoffrey was perfectly ignorant as to when and where all this had happened. Nor did he in the least care to know. He was conscious only of the one great central fact. Marion, his Marion, for whom he would have died, had loved some one else as he loved her. It was a great blow to him, for it was altogether unexpected. The words in which she had before repulsed53 him, had not to him, as to Veronica’s quicker perception, told of anything of this sort. In his simplicity54 he had understood them only as referring, with the exaggeration of youth, to her father’s death and the many troubles consequent upon it. He had intended no special allusion55 when he said something about at the probability of her before long choosing another guardian56. He had perfectly understood that she did not care for him in any but a friendly way; but it had never struck him that already her affections had been elsewhere bestowed. She was so young! And Harry had all but told him how cordially he approved of the idea, and had tacitly encouraged him in his suit.
For some minutes Geoffrey made no reply. He stood leaning on the chair from which Marion had lately risen, thinking deeply, doing his honest best to see light through this matter. Then the same question rose to his lips as had occurred to Miss Veronica.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but tell me one thing. This man whom you have spoken of to me—do you still love him, Marion? I do not ask or expect you to say you could ever care for me as you have done for him. That, I understand would be impossible. Only to some extent I must know my own chance. So tell me, my poor darling, do you still love him?”
And Marion the second time made the answer, “As I know myself I do not love him now.”
Then said Geoffrey—
“If so, my darling, I am not afraid. If the whole devotion of my being can win you to love me, if ever so little, I shall be well repaid. And at least I can make your life a degree less lonely; in time even this sorrow of the past may, to some measure, fade away? Your brave truthfulness57 has only made me love you more. And at least, my Marion, you do not dislike me?
And the girl looked up at him through the tears that were fast filling her sweet eyes, and answered softly, “Dislike you, Geoffrey? The gentlest, truest friend that ever a woman had? Heaven help me to be worthy of you.”
Geoffrey took her in his arms and kissed her fervently58, on brow and eyes and mouth. Then as he let her go, he asked her if she were angry with him for being so bold. He need not have done so. She was perfectly at ease and as little unembarrassed as if her lover had been Harry.
“Angry?” she said, “oh no. Why should you think so?” Yet she was timid and sensitive enough. Though now her heart beat as steadily59 and softly as usual, though there was no gush60 on her cheek, no quiver on her lips, it had not always been thus with her. Ralph Severn, who had never kissed her, hardly ever ventured to press her hand, had yet had strange power to affect her. His step on the stair, the slightest touch of his hand, his very presence in the room had brought light to her eyes, colour to her cheeks, glad throbbing61 to her heart. But Geoffrey’s embrace she took with gentle calmness, perfect absence of emotion of any kind.
Was it indeed true that, as she had said her haste, her heart was, in a sense, dead?
She thought so. Therein lay her excuse.
And thus it came to pass that Marion Vere, a woman of strong affections, dear perceptions, and earnest in her endeavour to choose the right and reject the wrong, committed the grievous error, to call it by no harsher name, of marrying a man whom she knew, and owned to knowing—that she did not love.
END OF VOL. II.
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1
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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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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subdued
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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instinctively
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drawn
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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tantalize
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| vt.使干着急，逗弄 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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58
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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59
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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60
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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61
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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