I cannot part with thee!
I ne’er have shown, thou ne’er hast known,
How dear thou art to me.’
ANON.
The elements of the dinner-parties which Mrs. Lennox gave, were these; her friends contributed the beauty, Captain Lennox the easy knowledge of the subjects of the day; and Mr. Henry Lennox and the sprinkling of rising men who were received as his friends, brought the wit, the cleverness, the keen and extensive knowledge of which they knew well enough how to avail themselves without seeming pedantic1, or burdening the rapid flow of conversation.
These dinners were delightful2; but even here Margaret’s dissatisfaction found her out. Every talent, every feeling, every acquirement; nay3, even every tendency towards virtue4 was used up as materials for fireworks; the hidden, sacred fire, exhausted5 itself in sparkle and crackle. They talked about art in a merely sensuous7 way, dwelling8 on outside effects, instead of allowing themselves to learn what it has to teach. They lashed9 themselves up into an enthusiasm about high subjects in company, and never thought about them when they were alone; they squandered10 their capabilities11 of appreciation12 into a mere6 flow of appropriate words. One day, after the gentlemen had come up into the drawing-room, Mr. Lennox drew near to Margaret, and addressed her in almost the first voluntary words he had spoken to her since she had returned to live in Harley Street.
‘You did not look pleased at what Shirley was saying at dinner.’
‘Didn’t I? My face must be very expressive,’ replied Margaret.
‘It always was. It has not lost the trick of being eloquent14.’
‘I did not like,’ said Margaret, hastily, ‘his way of advocating what he knew to be wrong — so glaringly wrong — even in jest.’
‘But it was very clever. How every word told! Do you remember the happy epithets15?’
‘Yes.’
‘And despise them, you would like to add. Pray don’t scruple16, though he is my friend.’
‘There! that is the exact tone in you, that —’ she stopped short.
He listened for a moment to see if she would finish her sentence; but she only reddened, and turned away; before she did so, however, she heard him say, in a very low, clear voice —
‘If my tones, or modes of thought, are what you dislike, will you do me the justice to tell me so, and so give me the chance of learning to please you?’
All these weeks there was no intelligence of Mr. Bell’s going to Milton. He had spoken of it at Helstone as of a journey which he might have to take in a very short time from then; but he must have transacted17 his business by writing, Margaret thought, ere now, and she knew that if he could, he would avoid going to a place which he disliked, and moreover would little understand the secret importance which she affixed18 to the explanation that could only be given by word of mouth. She knew that he would feel that it was necessary that it should be done; but whether in summer, autumn, or winter, it would signify very little. It was now August, and there had been no mention of the Spanish journey to which he had alluded19 to Edith, and Margaret tried to reconcile herself to the fading away of this illusion.
But one morning she received a letter, saying that next week he meant to come up to town; he wanted to see her about a plan which he had in his head; and, moreover, he intended to treat himself to a little doctoring, as he had begun to come round to her opinion, that it would be pleasanter to think that his health was more in fault than he, when he found himself irritable20 and cross. There was altogether a tone of forced cheerfulness in the letter, as Margaret noticed afterwards; but at the time her attention was taken up by Edith’s exclamations21.
‘Coming up to town! Oh dear! and I am so worn out by the heat that I don’t believe I have strength enough in me for another dinner. Besides, everybody has left but our dear stupid selves, who can’t settle where to go to. There would be nobody to meet him.’
‘I’m sure he would much rather come and dine with us quite alone than with the most agreeable strangers you could pick up. Besides, if he is not well he won’t wish for invitations. I am glad he has owned it at last. I was sure he was ill from the whole tone of his letters, and yet he would not answer me when I asked him, and I had no third person to whom I could apply for news.’
‘Oh! he is not very ill, or he would not think of Spain.’
‘He never mentions Spain.’
‘No! but his plan that is to be proposed evidently relates to that. But would you really go in such weather as this?’
‘Oh! it will get cooler every day. Yes! Think of it! I am only afraid I have thought and wished too much — in that absorbing wilful22 way which is sure to be disappointed — or else gratified, to the letter, while in the spirit it gives no pleasure.’
‘But that’s superstitious23, I’m sure, Margaret.’
‘No, I don’t think it is. Only it ought to warn me, and check me from giving way to such passionate24 wishes. It is a sort of “Give me children, or else I die.” I’m afraid my cry is, “Let me go to Cadiz, or else I die.”’
‘My dear Margaret! You’ll be persuaded to stay there; and then what shall I do? Oh! I wish I could find somebody for you to marry here, that I could be sure of you!’
‘I shall never marry.’
‘Nonsense, and double nonsense! Why, as Sholto says, you’re such an attraction to the house, that he knows ever so many men who will be glad to Visit here next year for your sake.’
Margaret drew herself up haughtily25. ‘Do you know, Edith, I sometimes think your Corfu life has taught you ——’
‘Well!’
‘Just a shade or two of coarseness.’
Edith began to sob26 so bitterly, and to declare so vehemently27 that Margaret had lost all love for her, and no longer looked upon her as a friend, that Margaret came to think that she had expressed too harsh an opinion for the relief of her own wounded pride, and ended by being Edith’s slave for the rest of the day; while that little lady, overcome by wounded feeling, lay like a victim on the sofa, heaving occasionally a profound sigh, till at last she fell asleep.
Mr. Bell did not make his appearance even on the day to which he had for a second time deferred28 his visit. The next morning there came a letter from Wallis, his servant, stating that his master had not been feeling well for some time, which had been the true reason of his putting off his journey; and that at the very time when he should have set out for London, he had been seized with an apoplectic29 fit; it was, indeed, Wallis added, the opinion of the medical men — that he could not survive the night; and more than probable, that by the time Miss Hale received this letter his poor master would be no more.
Margaret received this letter at breakfast-time, and turned very pale as she read it; then silently putting it into Edith’s hands, she left the room.
Edith was terribly shocked as she read it, and cried in a sobbing30, frightened, childish way, much to her husband’s distress31. Mrs. Shaw was breakfasting in her own room, and upon him devolved the task of reconciling his wife to the near contact into which she seemed to be brought with death, for the first time that she could remember in her life. Here was a man who was to have dined with them today lying dead or dying instead! It was some time before she could think of Margaret. Then she started up, and followed her upstairs into her room. Dixon was packing up a few toilette articles, and Margaret was hastily putting on her bonnet32, shedding tears all the time, and her hands trembling so that she could hardly tie the strings33.
‘Oh, dear Margaret! how shocking! What are you doing? Are you going out? Sholto would telegraph or do anything you like.’
‘I am going to Oxford34. There is a train in half-an-hour. Dixon has offered to go with me, but I could have gone by myself. I must see him again. Besides, he may be better, and want some care. He has been like a father to me. Don’t stop me, Edith.’
‘But I must. Mamma won’t like it at all. Come and ask her about it, Margaret. You don’t know where you’re going. I should not mind if he had a house of his own; but in his Fellow’s rooms! Come to mamma, and do ask her before you go. It will not take a minute.’
Margaret yielded, and lost her train. In the suddenness of the event, Mrs. Shaw became bewildered and hysterical35, and so the precious time slipped by. But there was another train in a couple of hours; and after various discussions on propriety36 and impropriety, it was decided37 that Captain Lennox should accompany Margaret, as the one thing to which she was constant was her resolution to go, alone or otherwise, by the next train, whatever might be said of the propriety or impropriety of the step. Her father’s friend, her own friend, was lying at the point of death; and the thought of this came upon her with such vividness, that she was surprised herself at the firmness with which she asserted something of her right to independence of action; and five minutes before the time for starting, she found herself sitting in a railway-carriage opposite to Captain Lennox.
It was always a comfort to her to think that she had gone, though it was only to hear that he had died in the night. She saw the rooms that he had occupied, and associated them ever after most fondly in her memory with the idea of her father, and his one cherished and faithful friend.
They had promised Edith before starting, that if all had ended as they feared, they would return to dinner; so that long, lingering look around the room in which her father had died, had to be interrupted, and a quiet farewell taken of the kind old face that had so often come out with pleasant words, and merry quips and cranks.
Captain Lennox fell asleep on their journey home; and Margaret could cry at leisure, and bethink her of this fatal year, and all the woes38 it had brought to her. No sooner was she fully39 aware of one loss than another came — not to supersede40 her grief for the one before, but to re-open wounds and feelings scarcely healed. But at the sound of the tender voices of her aunt and Edith, of merry little Sholto’s glee at her arrival, and at the sight of the well-lighted rooms, with their mistress pretty in her paleness and her eager sorrowful interest, Margaret roused herself from her heavy trance of almost superstitious hopelessness, and began to feel that even around her joy and gladness might gather. She had Edith’s place on the sofa; Sholto was taught to carry aunt Margaret’s cup of tea very carefully to her; and by the time she went up to dress, she could thank God for having spared her dear old friend a long or a painful illness.
But when night came — solemn night, and all the house was quiet, Margaret still sate41 watching the beauty of a London sky at such an hour, on such a summer evening; the faint pink reflection of earthly lights on the soft clouds that float tranquilly42 into the white moonlight, out of the warm gloom which lies motionless around the horizon. Margaret’s room had been the day nursery of her childhood, just when it merged43 into girlhood, and when the feelings and conscience had been first awakened44 into full activity. On some such night as this she remembered promising45 to herself to live as brave and noble a life as any heroine she ever read or heard of in romance, a life sans peur et sans reproche; it had seemed to her then that she had only to will, and such a life would be accomplished46. And now she had learnt that not only to will, but also to pray, was a necessary condition in the truly heroic. Trusting to herself, she had fallen. It was a just consequence of her sin, that all excuses for it, all temptation to it, should remain for ever unknown to the person in whose opinion it had sunk her lowest. She stood face to face at last with her sin. She knew it for what it was; Mr. Bell’s kindly47 sophistry48 that nearly all men were guilty of equivocal actions, and that the motive49 ennobled the evil, had never had much real weight with her. Her own first thought of how, if she had known all, she might have fearlessly told the truth, seemed low and poor. Nay, even now, her anxiety to have her character for truth partially50 excused in Mr. Thornton’s eyes, as Mr. Bell had promised to do, was a very small and petty consideration, now that she was afresh taught by death what life should be. If all the world spoke13, acted, or kept silence with intent to deceive — if dearest interests were at stake, and dearest lives in peril51 — if no one should ever know of her truth or her falsehood to measure out their honour or contempt for her by, straight alone where she stood, in the presence of God, she prayed that she might have strength to speak and act the truth for evermore.
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1
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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3
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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4
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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5
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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10
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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13
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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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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16
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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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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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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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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supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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44
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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45
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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47
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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48
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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49
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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50
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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51
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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