In an instant Pauline saw what had happened, one glance at the patient's face was sufficient for her practised eye.
'You must not move, dear,' she whispered, leaning forward, 'you must not attempt to speak until we have given you something to sustain you. You have been very ill, my poor child, and even now must on no account be subjected to any excitement. Lie still for yet a few minutes, and then I will tell you anything you want to know.'
Alice did as she was bid, falling back on to the pillow from the sitting position in which she had endeavoured to raise herself, and closing her eyes, as though wearied with even that small attempt at motion. Meanwhile Pauline rang the bell, gave the servant orders to bring some jelly and other invalid5 food, which had been in preparation, and cast her eyes round the room to see that it was in exactly the same order as it had been when Alice was carried up to it. Everything just the same, the old desk replaced under the toilet-cover of the table, the books and papers through which Pauline had searched restored to their former position, no difference noticeable anywhere. Then Pauline seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the jelly from the servant, fed Alice with it as though she had been a child, proceeding6 afterwards to bathe her face and hands, to comb her dark hair from off her forehead, to shake and smooth the pillows, doing all quietly and with the gentlest touch imaginable.
'You are better now, dear,' she said, when she had finished her task, and was again seated. 'Your eyes are bright, and there is some sign of colour in your cheeks. You may speak now, dear, as I know you are anxious to do. You deserve some reward for your obedience7.'
Then Alice raised herself on her elbow, and said in a low tone, quite different from her usual clear voice,
'I feel strange yet, though, and not quite able to make out what has happened. Tell me,' she said, 'is it true about John Claxton, is he dead?'
'Yes, dear,' said Pauline, 'it is true.'
'Ah, you were to take me to him,' cried the girl, raising her voice. 'I recollect3 it all now. Why am I here in bed? Why do we not start at once?'
'We do not start because it would be useless,' said Pauline. 'You do not know what has happened, my poor child. On the evening when you were to have gone to London with me, just as we were on the point of setting out, you, who had fought so well against the excitement, gave way at last, and fell into a fainting fit.'
'How long ago is that?' said Alice, putting her hand to her head.
'That is nearly three days ago,' said Pauline, 'and you have remained in a state of unconsciousness ever since, and--'
'And now I am too late to see him,' cried Alice wildly. 'I know it by your manner, by your averted8 face. They cannot have buried him without my having seen him. It is not so? O, tell me at once.'
'It would be worse than cruel to deceive you, my poor girl,' said Pauline softly. 'It is so.'
Then the little strength which remained to Alice Claxton gave way, and she burst into a fit of grief, burying her face in the pillow, over which her long dark hair lay streaming, clutching at the coverlet with her hands, and sobbing9 forth10 broken ejaculations of misery11 and despair. Pauline did not attempt to interfere12 with her while she was in this state, but stood by the bedside calmly compassionate13, waiting until the proxysm should be over, and the violence of Alice's grief should subside1. It subsided after a time. Her head was raised from the pillow, the spasmodic action of the hands ceased, and although the tears still continued to flow, the ejaculations softened14 down into one oft-repeated wail15, 'What will become of me? What will become of me?'
Then Pauline gently touched her outstretched hand, and said, 'What will become of you, my poor child, do you ask? While you have been lying here unconscious, there are others who have occupied themselves with your future.'
'My future?' cried Alice. 'Why should they occupy themselves with that? How can they give me back my husband?'
'They cannot indeed give you back your husband,' said Pauline quietly, 'but they can see that your life altogether is less dreary16 and more hopeful than it otherwise would be; and it is well for you, Alice,' she said, calling her for the first time by her Christian17 name, that you have found such friends. You have seen one of them already, the gentleman who came here to tell you of your loss--Mr. Gurwood.'
'Ah,' said Alice, 'I remember him, the clergyman?'
'Yes, the clergyman; he is a kind and a good man.'
'Yes,' said Alice reflectively, 'he was very kind and thoughtful, I recollect that. But why did they send him; he does not belong to this parish. Why didn't Mr. Tomlinson come? Is Mr. Gurwood a friend of his?'
'Not that I know of,' said Pauline, who had not the least idea who Mr. Tomlinson might be. 'Mr. Gurwood was--is Mr. Calverley's step-son.'
'Mr. Calverley!' cried Alice, 'my poor dear John's partner? Ah, then, it was quite natural he should be sent to me.'
'Quite natural,' said Pauline, much relieved by finding her take the explanation so easily. 'Mr. Gurwood is, as I have said before, a very kind and a very good man. He will come and see you to-morrow or the next day, and tell you what he proposes you should do.'
'I suppose I shall have to leave this house?' said Alice, looking round her with a sigh.
'I should think so, Alice,' said Pauline. 'I should think it would be better for many reasons that you should, but I know nothing positively18; Mr. Gurwood will talk to you about that when he comes. And now, dear, I must leave you for a while. I have to go to London to make some arrangements in my own affairs, but I will return as speedily as I can. I may see Mr. Gurwood, and I shall be glad to tell him that you are almost yourself again.'
'Almost myself,' said Alice. 'Ah, no, never myself again! never myself again!'
Meanwhile the mistress of the house in Great Walpole-street had been in anything but an enviable frame of mind. It has been observed of Mrs. Calverley, that even when she was Miss Lorraine, and during the lives of both her husbands, her favourite position was standing19 upon her dignity, a position which, with some persons, is remarkably20 difficult to maintain.
Mrs. Calverley was of opinion that by the conduct both of her companion and of her son, her dignity had been knocked from under her, and she had been morally upset, and that, too, at a time when she had calculated on receiving increased homage21: on taking her place as acknowledged head of the household. That Madame Du Tertre should ask to be relieved from her attendance at a time when of all others she might have known that her presence would be necessary to console her friend in her affliction, And to aid her in devising schemes for the future, was in itself a scandal and a shame. But that her son Martin, who, as a clergyman of the Church o England, ought to be a pattern of filial obedience and all other virtues22, should neglect his mother in the way that he did, going away to keep what he called business appointments day after day; above all, that he should omit to give her any definite answer to the generous proposition which she had made him, was more scandalous and more shameful23.
So Mrs. Calverley remained swelling24 with spite and indignation, all the more fierce and bitter because she had to keep them to herself. And these were the first days of her triumph--days which she had thought to spend very differently, in receiving the delicate flattery and veiled homage which she had been accustomed to from Pauline, in listening to the protestations of gratitude25 which she had expected from her son. Now both of these persons were absent--for Martin was so little at Great Walpole-street that his mother had small opportunity of conversation with him--and she was left in her grim solitude26; but she knew sooner or later they would return, and when she did get the opportunity she was perfectly27 prepared to make it as uncomfortable for each of them as possible.
It was late in the afternoon, and Mrs. Calverley, who had so far given in to the fashion of the time, as to take her five-o'clock tea--which was served, not with the elegant appliances now common, but in a steaming breakfast-cup on an enormous silver salver--had settled herself to the consumption of what might be called her meal, when Pauline entered the room. She came forward rapidly, and taking her patroness's hand, bent28 over it and raised it to her lips. Mrs. Calverley gave her hand, or rather let it be taken, with sufficiently29 bad grace. She sat poker-like in her stiffness, with her lips tightly compressed. It was not her business to commence the conversation, and the delay gave her longer time to reflect upon the bitter things she fully30 intended to say.
'So at last I am able to once more reach my dear friend's side,' said Pauline, seating herself in close proximity31. She saw at once the kind of reception in store for her, and though the course on which she had determined32 rendered her independent of Mrs. Calverley's feelings towards her, she was too good a diplomatist to provoke where provocation33 was unnecessary.
'You certainly have not hurried yourself to get there,' said Mrs. Calverley, clipping the words out from between her lips. 'I have now been left entirely34 to myself for--'
'Do not render me more wretched by going into the details of the time of my absence,' said Pauline; 'it has impressed itself upon me with sufficient distinctness already.'
'I should have thought, madame,' said Mrs. Calverley unrelentingly, 'that strictly35 brought up as you have .always represented yourself to be, you would have understood, however pleasantly your time may have been occupied, that your duty required you to be in this house.'
'However pleasantly my time may have been occupied!' cried Pauline. 'Each word that you utter is an additional stab. It is duty and duty alone which has called me away from your side. It is duty which imposes a farther task upon me, cruel, heart-rending task, which I have yet to declare to you! And you, who have been a life-long martyr36 to the discharge of your own duty, ought to have some pity for me in the discharge of mine.'
These last words were excellently chosen for her purpose. That she was a martyr, and an unrecognised martyr, was the one text on which Mrs. Calverley preached: to acknowledge her in that capacity was to pay her the greatest possible compliment. So, considerably37 mollified, she replied, 'If I felt annoyed at your absence, Palmyre, it was for your sake more than for my own. The loss of your society is a deprivation38 to me, but I am accustomed to deprivations39 and to crosses of all kinds. I devoted40 myself to my husband--and had he listened to the counsel I gave him, he would be here at this moment--and I am prepared to devote myself to my son.'
'Ah,' said Pauline with earnestness, Monsieur Martin!'
'Yes, Palmyre,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'Monsieur Martin, as you speak of him in your foreign way, the Reverend Martin Gurwood, as he is generally called. I am prepared to devote myself to him. I have told him that I will remove him from that desolate41 country parish, and establish him here in London in a church of his own, that he shall live with me in this house, share my wealth, and dispense42 my charities.'
'Martin in London,' thought Pauline to herself. Then it is in London that Alice and I must take up our abode43.' Then she said aloud, ''And what does Monsieur Martin say to this grand, this generous proposition, madame?'
'Ay, exactly--what does he say!' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'You may well ask that! You and every one else would have thought that he would have jumped at such an offer, wouldn't you? And so he would, doubtless, if it had come from any one else, but it is my lot to suffer!'
'He has not refused it, madame?'
'No, he has not refused; he has given me no definite answer any way.'
'Ah, he will not refuse you, I am. sure,' said Pauline, clasping her hands; 'the prospect44 of such a life with such a mother must overcome even his strict notions of self-denial. Ah, madame, if you could only know what a thrill of joy your words have sent through my heart, how what you have said. has tended to disperse45 the black clouds which were gathering46 over me!'
'Dear me, Palmyre,' cried Mrs. Calverley, in her blank unimaginative way, 'black clouds! What on earth are you talking about?'
'I told you just now that I had a yet farther sacrifice to make to duty. It is a sacrifice so great, so painful to me, that I hardly dared to hint at it; but what you have said just now robs it somewhat of its sting. What a comfort it would be to me to know that you had some one to look after and cherish you, as you ought to be cherished, when I am gone.'
'What's that you said, Palmyre?' cried Mrs. Calverley, sharply indeed, but nothing like so viciously as Pauline had expected. 'You are gone! What do you mean by that?'
'When I am gone,' repeated Pauline, in obedience to duty which calls upon me. Ah, dear friend, why are you wealthy, and in high position, surrounded by comforts and luxury? If you were poor and needy47, sick and struggling, I could reconcile it with my duty to remain here with you; as it is, I am called upon to leave you, and to devote myself to those to whom my poor services can be useful.'
'You must be more explicit48, Palmyre,' said Mrs. Calverley, still without any trace of anger. Bold and haughty49 as she was, she had been somewhat disturbed at the idea of having to break to her companion the news of her dismissal, and now she thought the difficulty seemed materially lightened.
'It is a sad story,' said Pauline, 'but it will be interesting to you who have a benevolent50 heart.'
'It is about your cousin, I suppose?' said Mrs. Calverley.
'My cousin?' cried Pauline.
'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley; your cousin, who was lying ill at the poor lodging51, she who knew no one in London but yourself, could not speak our language, and was utterly52 helpless; she is worse, I suppose? Perhaps she is dead!'
'Tiens,' said Pauline to herself; 'it is lucky she reminded me about the cousin; in all the confusion and plotting I had almost forgotten what I had said. 'No, my dear friend,' she said aloud, 'my poor cousin still lives, and is, indeed, considerably easier and better than when I first went to her. A relation of hers, a brother-in-law, has found her out, and is being kind to her, as the poor are always kind to one another; not, indeed, that this brother-in-law can be called poor, except in comparison with persons of wealth like yours. He is an old friend of mine; he knew my father, the artillery53 officer at Lyons, and used often to come to my husband's house when we were in business there.'
'He admired you then, and he has made an offer now, and you are going to be married to him?' said Mrs. Calverley, with an icy smile. 'Is that it, Palmyre; is that the sacrifice you feel yourself called upon to make?'
'Ah, my friend,' cried Pauline, 'there is no question of anything of that sort for me; my heart is buried in grief. No, this worthy54 man, who has known me so long, knows that I am what you call in your language, but for which we have no word in French, respectable. He knows that I can be trusted, and he offers to me a place of trust; he asks me to undertake a sacred charge.'
'Dear me,' again ejaculated Mrs. Calverley; 'what might that be?'
'This old friend of mine finds himself left as guardian55 and trustee for the widow and orphan56 of his former ward4, a wretched young man--he must have been born under an evil star, for nothing seemed to prosper57 with him--and who has just died of consumption at Nice. The widow is, as I understand, a weak creature, very young, very pretty, and utterly inexperienced. Her husband during his lifetime never allowed her to do anything, and the consequence is that she is quite ignorant of the ways of the world, and would be easily snapped up by any one who might choose to take advantage of her. Being, as I have said, very pretty, and having a small competence58 of her own, I need scarcely tell you that there would be plenty of wretches59 on the look-out for her.'
'Wretches, indeed!' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'One of the few curses of wealth is that it renders one liable to be so beset60.'
'My old friend,' then pursued Pauline, 'a warm-hearted man, who preserves a grateful recollection of the manner in which at the outset of his life he was befriended by his dead ward's father, and desirous of shielding the widow and orphans61 to the best of his power, offered me a modest salary to take up my abode with this young woman, and to become her protector and look after her generally.'
'I refused altogether. I told him that I was already living with one whom fortune had cruelly treated in depriving her of her only protector, and who from her resignation and goodness commanded my deepest sympathy. But my old friend refused to accept this explanation, and after questioning me closely about you and your position, pointed63 out that if I were doing a good action in living with you, who were wealthy and powerful, how much more rigorously should I be discharging my duty in giving myself up to those who, while equally afflicted64 with you in the loss of those they loved, were not endowed with your circumstances, worse than all, were not endowed with your patience and Christian resignation.'
A faint flush of pleasure glowed on Mrs. Calverley's pale cheeks. 'There is something in that,' she said; 'it was a sensible remark. My trouble has been lifelong, I have been schooled in it from my youth; but this poor person is only just beginning to know the miseries65 of the world. Well, Palmyre, what did you say then?'
'I felt, dear friend, that, as you say, the argument was strong, the appeal almost irresistible66; but I said that I could give no definite reply; that, however strongly my duty might call me elsewhere, my heart was with you; that I would lay the case before you, exactly as it stood, and unless I had your free consent I should not separate myself from you.'
Outwardly calm and composed, Mrs. Calverley was inwardly in a state of great delight. Not merely did she see her way to getting rid of her companion without any trouble, but she would receive the greatest credit for her magnanimity and self-denial in giving Pauline up to those whose need was greater than her own. It was, however, necessary that she should be cautious and reticent67 to the last, so before pledging herself to anything definite Mrs. Calverley said:
'You, Palmyre, who know my character so well, must be perfectly aware that the circumstances which you have narrated68 to me are such as would command my warmest sympathies, but before I give you any definite answer, I should like to ask you one or two questions. The little household over which you are called upon to preside will be established in France, I presume?'
'No,' said Pauline, 'In England. The poor widow is an Englishwoman, and declines to go away with her little child, a charming little creature, from the land of her birth.'
'In England?' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'And whereabouts in England?'
'Nothing is yet settled,' said Pauline, 'but I have no doubt that I should have some hand in deciding that, and all my influence would be used to remain in the neighbourhood of London.'
Mrs. Calverley was overjoyed at this announcement; she thought she saw her way to making use of her quondam ally without the necessity of recompensing her.
She was silent for a few minutes. Then she said, in a tone which she tried to modulate69 as much as possible, but which was unmistakably triumphant70, I have reflected, Palmyre, and I find it is again my duty to exercise that power of self-denial with which I have fortunately been imbued71. These poor creatures have greater need of you than I, and however much I may suffer by the abnegation, I waive72 my claim upon you--I give you up to them.'
'You are an angel,' said Pauline, bending down to kiss her friend's hand. Her face was necessarily hidden, but if any one could have caught a glimpse of it they would have seen on it an expression of intense amusement.
'I shall see you again, I suppose?' said Mrs. Calverley.
'O, certainly,' said Pauline; 'I shall let you know as soon as anything is settled, and I sincerely trust that my duties will not be so constant and so binding73 as to prevent my frequently coming to visit my best and dearest friend.'
'Does she take me for a fool, this woman?' said Pauline when she had gained the solitude of her bedroom, 'or is she so blinded by her own folly74 as to believe that other people are so weak as she? However, the difficulty, such as it was, has been easily arranged, and all is now clear for me to commence my new manner of life.'
END OF VOL. II.
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subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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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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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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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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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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sobbing
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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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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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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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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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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homage
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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swelling
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gratitude
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solitude
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perfectly
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bent
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sufficiently
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fully
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proximity
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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entirely
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strictly
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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considerably
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deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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deprivations
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| 剥夺( deprivation的名词复数 )； 被夺去； 缺乏； 匮乏 | |
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devoted
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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abode
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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51
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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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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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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59
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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61
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
modulate
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| v.调整，调节(音的强弱)；变调 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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72
waive
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| vt.放弃，不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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