For something over three weeks after his walk with the priest Neville saw neither of the two ladies of Ardkill. Letters were frequent between the cottage and the barracks at Ennis, but,—so said Fred himself, military duties detained him with the troop. He explained that he had been absent a great deal, and that now Captain Johnstone was taking his share of ease. He was all alone at the barracks, and could not get away. There was some truth in this, created perhaps by the fact that as he didn’t stir, Johnstone could do so. Johnstone was backwards1 and forwards, fishing at Castle Connel, and Neville was very exact in explaining that for the present he was obliged to give up all the delights of the coast. But the days were days of trial to him.
A short history of the life of Captain O’Hara was absolutely sent to him by the Countess of Scroope. The family lawyer, at the instance of the Earl,—as she said, though probably her own interference had been more energetic than that of the Earl,—had caused enquiries to be made. Captain O’Hara, the husband of the lady who was now living on the coast of County Clare, and who was undoubtedly2 the father of the Miss O’Hara whom Fred knew, had passed at least ten of the latter years of his life at the galleys3 in the south of France. He had been engaged in an extensive swindling transaction at Bordeaux, and had thence been transferred to Toulon, had there been maintained by France,—and was now in London. The Countess in sending this interesting story to her nephew at Ennis, with ample documentary evidence, said that she was sure that he would not degrade his family utterly4 by thinking of allying himself with people who were so thoroughly5 disreputable; but that, after all that was passed, his uncle expected from him a renewed assurance on the matter. He answered this in anger. He did not understand why the history of Captain O’Hara should have been raked up. Captain O’Hara was nothing to him. He supposed it had come from Castle Quin, and anything from Castle Quin he disbelieved. He had given a promise once and he didn’t understand why he should be asked for any further assurance. He thought it very hard that his life should be made a burden to him by foul-mouthed rumours6 from Castle Quin. That was the tenour of his letter to his aunt; but even that letter sufficed to make it almost certain that he could never marry the girl. He acknowledged that he had bound himself not to do so. And then, in spite of all that he said about the mendacity of Castle Quin, he did believe the little history. And it was quite out of the question that he should marry the daughter of a returned galley-slave. He did not think that any jury in England would hold him to be bound by such a promise. Of course he would do whatever he could for his dear Kate; but, even after all that had passed, he could not pollute himself by marriage with the child of so vile7 a father. Poor Kate! Her sufferings would have been occasioned not by him, but by her father.
In the meantime Kate’s letters to him became more and more frequent, more and more sad,—filled ever with still increasing warmth of entreaty8. At last they came by every post, though he knew how difficult it must be for her to find daily messengers into Ennistimon. Would he not come and see her? He must come and see her. She was ill and would die unless he came to her. He did not always answer these letters, but he did write to her perhaps twice a week. He would come very soon,—as soon as Johnstone had come back from his fishing. She was not to fret9 herself. Of course he could not always be at Ardkill. He too had things to trouble him. Then he told her he had received letters from home which caused him very much trouble; and there was a something of sharpness in his words, which brought from her a string of lamentations in which, however, the tears and wailings did not as yet take the form of reproaches. Then there came a short note from Mrs. O’Hara herself. “I must beg that you will come to Ardkill at once. It is absolutely necessary for Kate’s safety that you should do so.”
When he received this he thought that he would go on the morrow. When the morrow came he determined10 to postpone11 the journey another day! The calls of duty are so much less imperious than those of pleasure! On that further day he still meant to go, as he sat about noon unbraced, only. partly dressed in his room at the barracks. His friend Johnstone was back in Ennis, and there was also a Cornet with the troop. He had no excuse whatever on the score of military duty for remaining at home on that day. But he sat idling his time, thinking of things. All the charm of the adventure was gone. He was sick of the canoe and of Barney Morony. He did not care a straw for the seals or wild gulls12. The moaning of the ocean beneath the cliff was no longer pleasurable to him,—and as to the moaning at their summit, to tell the truth, he was afraid of it. The long drive thither13 and back was tedious to him. He thought now more of the respectability of his family than of the beauty of Kate O’Hara.
But still he meant to go,—certainly would go on this very day. He had desired that his gig should be ready, and had sent word to say that he might start at any moment. But still he sat in his dressing-gown at noon, unbraced, with a novel in his hand which he could not read, and a pipe by his side which he could not smoke. Close to him on the table lay that record of the life of Captain O’Hara, which his aunt had sent him, every word of which he had now examined for the third or fourth time. Of course he could not marry the girl. Mrs. O’Hara had deceived him. She could not but have known that her husband was a convict;—and had kept the knowledge back from him in order that she might allure14 him to the marriage. Anything that money could do, he would do. Or, if they would consent, he would take the girl away with him to some sunny distant clime, in which adventures might still be sweet, and would then devote to her—some portion of his time. He had not yet ruined himself, but he would indeed ruin himself were he, the heir to the earldom of Scroope, to marry the daughter of a man who had been at the French galleys! He had just made up his mind that he would be firm in this resolution,—when the door opened and Mrs. O’Hara entered his room. “Mrs. O’Hara.”
She closed the door carefully behind her before she spoke15, excluding the military servant who had wished to bar her entrance. “Yes, sir; as you would not come to us I have been forced to come to you. I know it all. When will you make my child your wife?”
Yes. In the abjectness16 of her misery17 the poor girl had told her mother the story of her disgrace; or, rather, in her weakness had suffered her secret to fall from her lips. That terrible retribution was to come upon her which, when sin has been mutual18, falls with so crushing a weight upon her who of the two sinners has ever been by far the less sinful. She, when she knew her doom19, simply found herself bound by still stronger ties of love to him who had so cruelly injured her. She was his before; but now she was more than ever his. To have him near her, to give her orders that she might obey them, was the consolation20 that she coveted,—the only consolation that could have availed anything to her. To lean against him, and to whisper to him, with face averted21, with half-formed syllables22, some fervent23 words that might convey to him a truth which might be almost a joy to her if he would make it so,—was the one thing that could restore hope to her bosom24. Let him come and be near to her, so that she might hide her face upon his breast. But he came not. He did not come, though, as best she knew how, she had thrown all her heart into her letters. Then her spirit sank within her, and she sickened, and as her mother knelt over her, she allowed her secret to fall from her.
Fred Neville’s sitting-room25 at Ennis was not a chamber26 prepared for the reception of ladies. It was very rough, as are usually barrack rooms in outlying quarters in small towns in the west of Ireland,—and it was also very untidy. The more prudent27 and orderly of mankind might hardly have understood why a young man, with prospects28 and present wealth such as belonged to Neville, should choose to spend a twelvemonth in such a room, contrary to the wishes of all his friends, when London was open to him, and the continent, and scores of the best appointed houses in England, and all the glories of ownership at Scroope. There were guns about, and whips, hardly half a dozen books, and a few papers. There were a couple of swords lying on a table that looked like a dresser. The room was not above half covered with its carpet, and though there were three large easy chairs, even they were torn and soiled. But all this had been compatible with adventures,—and while the adventures were simply romantic and not a bit troublesome, the barracks at Ennis had been to him by far preferable to the gloomy grandeur29 of Scroope.
And now Mrs. O’Hara was there, telling him that she knew of all! Not for a moment did he remain ignorant of the meaning of her communication. And now the arguments to be used against him in reference to the marriage would be stronger than ever. A silly, painful smile came across his handsome face as he attempted to welcome her, and moved a chair for her accommodation. “I am so sorry that you have had the trouble of coming over,” he said.
“That is nothing. When will you make my child your wife?” How was he to answer this? In the midst of his difficulties he had brought himself to one determination. He had resolved that under no pressure would he marry the daughter of O’Hara, the galley-slave. As far as that, he had seen his way. Should he now at once speak of the galley-slave, and, with expressions of regret, decline the alliance on that reason? Having dishonoured31 this woman’s daughter should he shelter himself behind the dishonour30 of her husband? That he meant to do so ultimately is true; but at the present moment such a task would have required a harder heart than his. She rose from her chair and stood close over him as she repeated her demand, “When will you make my child your wife?”
“You do not want me to answer you at this moment?”
“Yes;—at this moment. Why not answer me at once? She has told me all. Mr. Neville, you must think not only of her, but of your child also.”
“I hope not that,” he said.
“I tell you that it is so. Now answer me. When shall my Kate become your wife?”
He still knew that any such consummation as that was quite out of the question. The mother herself as she was now present to him, seemed to be a woman very different from the quiet, handsome, high-spirited, but low-voiced widow whom he had known, or thought that he had known, at Ardkill. Of her as she had there appeared to him he had not been ashamed to think as one who might at some future time be personally related to himself. He had recognized her as a lady whose outward trappings, poor though they might be, were suited to the seclusion32 in which she lived. But now, although it was only to Ennis that she had come from her nest among the rocks, she seemed to be unfitted for even so much intercourse33 with the world as that. And in the demand which she reiterated34 over him she hardly spoke as a lady would speak. Would not all they who were connected with him at home have a right to complain if he were to bring such a woman with him to England as the mother of his wife. “I can’t answer such a question as that on the spur of the moment,” he said.
“You will not dare to tell me that you mean to desert her?”
“Certainly not. I was coming over to Ardkill this very day. The trap is ordered. I hope Kate is well?”
“She is not well. How should she be well?”
“Why not? I didn’t know. If there is anything that she wants that I can get for her, you have only to speak.”
In the utter contempt which Mrs. O’Hara now felt for the man she probably forgot that his immediate35 situation was one in which it was nearly impossible that any man should conduct himself with dignity. Having brought himself to his present pass by misconduct, he could discover no line of good conduct now open to him. Moralists might tell him that let the girl’s parentage be what it might, he ought to marry her; but he was stopped from that, not only by his oath, but by a conviction that his highest duty required him to preserve his family from degradation36. And yet to a mother, with such a demand on her lips as that now made by Mrs. O’Hara,—whose demand was backed by such circumstances,—how was it possible that he should tell the truth and plead the honour of his family? His condition was so cruel that it was no longer possible to him to be dignified37 or even true. The mother again made her demand. “There is one thing that you must do for her before other things can be thought of. When shall she become your wife?”
It was for a moment on his tongue to tell her that it could not be so while his uncle lived;—but to this he at once felt that there were two objections, directly opposed to each other, but each so strong as to make any such reply very dangerous. It would imply a promise, which he certainly did not intend to keep, of marrying the girl when his uncle should be dead; and, although promising38 so much more than he intended to perform, would raise the ungovernable wrath39 of the woman before him. That he should now hesitate,—now, in her Kate’s present condition,—as to redeeming40 those vows41 of marriage which he had made to her in her innocence42, would raise a fury in the mother’s bosom which he feared to encounter. He got up and walked about the room, while she stood with her eyes fixed43 upon him, ever and anon reiterating44 her demand. “No day must now be lost. When will you make my child your wife?”
At last he made a proposition to which she assented45. The tidings which she had brought him had come upon him very suddenly. He was inexpressibly pained. Of course Kate, his dearest Kate, was everything to him. Let him have that afternoon to think about it. On the morrow he would assuredly visit Ardkill. The mother, full of fears, resolving that should he attempt to play her girl false and escape from her she would follow him to the end of the world, but feeling that at the present moment she could not constrain46 him, accepted his repeated promise as to the following day; and at last left him to himself.
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1
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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8
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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10
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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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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abjectness
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| 凄惨； 绝望； 卑鄙； 卑劣 | |
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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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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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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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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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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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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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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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reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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