“After all that you have told me,” I said, “I will not ask you to admit me any further into your confidence until we meet again. Only let me hear how I can relieve your most pressing anxieties. What are your plans? Can I do anything to help them before you go to rest to-night?”
She thanked me warmly, and hesitated, looking up the street and down the street in evident embarrassment1 what to say next.
“Do you propose staying in Edinburgh?” I asked.
“Oh no! I don’t wish to remain in Scotland. I want to go much further away. I think I should do better in London; at some respectable milliner’s, if I could be properly recommended. I am quick at my needle, and I understand cutting out. Or I could keep accounts, if — if anybody would trust me.”
She stopped, and looked at me doubtingly, as if she felt far from sure, poor soul, of winning my confidence to begin with. I acted on that hint, with the headlong impetuosity of a man who was in love.
“I can give you exactly the recommendation you want,” I said, “whenever you like. Now, if you would prefer it.”
Her charming features brightened with pleasure. “Oh, you are indeed a friend to me!” she said, impulsively2. Her face clouded again — she saw my proposal in a new light. “Have I any right,” she asked, sadly, “to accept what you offer me?”
“Let me give you the letter,” I answered, “and you can decide for yourself whether you will use it or not.”
I put her arm again in mine, and entered the inn.
She shrunk back in alarm. What would the landlady3 think if she saw her lodger4 enter the house at night in company with a stranger, and that stranger a gentleman? The landlady appeared as she made the objection. Reckless what I said or what I did, I introduced myself as her relative, and asked to be shown into a quiet room in which I could write a letter. After one sharp glance at me, the landlady appeared to be satisfied that she was dealing5 with a gentleman. She led the way into a sort of parlor6 behind the “bar,” placed writing materials on the table, looked at my companion as only one woman can look at another under certain circumstances, and left us by ourselves.
It was the first time I had ever been in a room with her alone. The embarrassing sense of her position had heightened her color and brightened her eyes. She stood, leaning one hand on the table, confused and irresolute7, her firm and supple8 figure falling into an attitude of unsought grace which it was literally9 a luxury to look at. I said nothing; my eyes confessed my admiration10; the writing materials lay untouched before me on the table. How long the silence might have lasted I cannot say. She abruptly11 broke it. Her instinct warned her that silence might have its dangers, in our position. She turned to me with an effort; she said, uneasily, “I don’t think you ought to write your letter to-night, sir.”
“Why not?”
“You know nothing of me. Surely you ought not to recommend a person who is a stranger to you? And I am worse than a stranger. I am a miserable12 wretch13 who has tried to commit a great sin — I have tried to destroy myself. Perhaps the misery14 I was in might be some excuse for me, if you knew it. You ought to know it. But it’s so late to-night, and I am so sadly tired — and there are some things, sir, which it is not easy for a woman to speak of in the presence of a man.”
Her head sunk on her bosom15; her delicate lips trembled a little; she said no more. The way to reassure16 and console her lay plainly enough before me, if I chose to take it. Without stopping to think, I took it.
Reminding her that she had herself proposed writing to me when we met that evening, I suggested that she should wait to tell the sad story of her troubles until it was convenient to her to send me the narrative17 in the form of a letter. “In the mean time,” I added, “I have the most perfect confidence in you; and I beg as a favor that you will let me put it to the proof. I can introduce you to a dressmaker in London who is at the head of a large establishment, and I will do it before I leave you to-night.”
I dipped my pen in the ink as I said the words. Let me confess frankly18 the lengths to which my infatuation led me. The dressmaker to whom I had alluded19 had been my mother’s maid in f ormer years, and had been established in business with money lent by my late step-father, Mr. Germaine. I used both their names without scruple20; and I wrote my recommendation in terms which the best of living women and the ablest of existing dressmakers could never have hoped to merit. Will anybody find excuses for me? Those rare persons who have been in love, and who have not completely forgotten it yet, may perhaps find excuses for me. It matters little; I don’t deserve them.
I handed her the open letter to read.
She blushed delightfully21; she cast one tenderly grateful look at me, which I remembered but too well for many and many an after-day. The next moment, to my astonishment22, this changeable creature changed again. Some forgotten consideration seemed to have occurred to her. She turned pale; the soft lines of pleasure in her face hardened, little by little; she regarded me with the saddest look of confusion and distress23. Putting the letter down before me on the table, she said, timidly:
“Would you mind adding a postscript24, sir?”
I suppressed all appearance of surprise as well as I could, and took up the pen again.
“Would you please say,” she went on, “that I am only to be taken on trial, at first? I am not to be engaged for more”— her voice sunk lower and lower, so that I could barely hear the next words —“for more than three months, certain.”
It was not in human nature — perhaps I ought to say it was not in the nature of a man who was in my situation — to refrain from showing some curiosity, on being asked to supplement a letter of recommendation by such a postscript as this.
“Have you some other employment in prospect25?” I asked.
“None,” she answered, with her head down, and her eyes avoiding mine.
An unworthy doubt of her — the mean offspring of jealousy27 — found its way into my mind.
“Have you some absent friend,” I went on, “who is likely to prove a better friend than I am, if you only give him time?”
She lifted her noble head. Her grand, guileless gray eyes rested on me with a look of patient reproach.
“I have not got a friend in the world,” she said. “For God’s sake, ask me no more questions to-night!”
I rose and gave her the letter once more — with the postscript added, in her own words.
We stood together by the table; we looked at each other in a momentary28 silence.
“How can I thank you?” she murmured, softly. “Oh, sir, I will indeed be worthy26 of the confidence that you have shown in me!” Her eyes moistened; her variable color came and went; her dress heaved softly over the lovely outline of her bosom. I don’t believe the man lives who could have resisted her at that moment. I lost all power of restraint; I caught her in my arms; I whispered, “I love you!” I kissed her passionately29. For a moment she lay helpless and trembling on my breast; for a moment her fragrant30 lips softly returned the kiss. In an instant more it was over. She tore herself away with a shudder31 that shook her from head to foot, and threw the letter that I had given to her indignantly at my feet.
“How dare you take advantage of me! How dare you touch me!” she said. “Take your letter back, sir; I refuse to receive it; I will never speak to you again. You don’t know what you have done. You don’t know how deeply you have wounded me. Oh!” she cried, throwing herself in despair on a sofa that stood near her, “shall I ever recover my self-respect? shall I ever forgive myself for what I have done to-night?”
I implored32 her pardon; I assured her of my repentance33 and regret in words which did really come from my heart. The violence of her agitation34 more than distressed35 me — I was really alarmed by it.
She composed herself after a while. She rose to her feet with modest dignity, and silently held out her hand in token that my repentance was accepted.
“You will give me time for atonement?” I pleaded. “You will not lose all confidence in me? Let me see you again, if it is only to show that I am not quite unworthy of your pardon — at your own time; in the presence of another person, if you like.”
“I will write to you,” she said.
“To-morrow?”
“To-morrow.”
I took up the letter of recommendation from the floor.
“Make your goodness to me complete,” I said. “Don’t mortify36 me by refusing to take my letter.”
“I will take your letter,” she answered, quietly. “Thank you for writing it. Leave me now, please. Good-night.”
I left her, pale and sad, with my letter in her hand. I left her, with my mind in a tumult37 of contending emotions, which gradually resolved themselves into two master-feelings as I walked on: Love, that adored her more fervently38 than ever; and Hope, that set the prospect before me of seeing her again on the next day.
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收听单词发音
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1
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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8
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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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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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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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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15
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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21
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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24
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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28
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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29
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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30
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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31
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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32
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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34
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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35
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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36
mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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37
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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