When my mother returned to me, the hope which I had entertained of a happy result from her interview with Mrs. Van Brandt was a hope abandoned before she had opened her lips. I saw, in her face, that an obstacle which was beyond my power of removal did indeed stand between me and the dearest wish of my life.
“Tell me the worst,” I said, as we drove away from the house, “and tell it at once.”
“I must tell it to you, George,” my mother answered, sadly, “as she told it to me. She begged me herself to do that. ‘We must disappoint him,’ she said, ‘but pray let it be done as gently as possible.’ Beginning in those words, she confided2 to me the painful story which you know already — the story of her marriage. From that she passed to her meeting with you at Edinburgh, and to the circumstances which have led her to live as she is living now. This latter part of her narrative3 she especially requested me to repeat to you. Do you feel composed enough to hear it now? Or would you rather wait?”
“Let me hear it now, mother; and tell it, as nearly as you can, in her own words.”
“I will repeat what she said to me, my dear, as faithfully as I can. After speaking of her father’s death, she told me that she had only two relatives living. ‘I have a married aunt in Glasgow, and a married aunt in London,’ she said. ‘When I left Edinburgh, I went to my aunt in London. She and my father had not been on good terms together; she considered that my father had neglected her. But his death had softened4 her toward him and toward me. She received me kindly5, and she got me a situation in a shop. I kept my situation for three months, and then I was obliged to leave it.’”
My mother paused. I thought directly of the strange postscript6 which Mrs. Van Brandt had made me add to the letter that I wrote for her at the Edinburgh inn. In that case also she had only contemplated7 remaining in her employment for three months’ time.
“Why was she obliged to leave her situation?” I asked.
“I put that question to her myself,” replied my mother. “She made no direct reply — she changed color, and looked confused. ‘I will tell you afterward8, madam,’ she said. ‘Please let me go on now. My aunt was angry with me for leaving my employment — and she was more angry still, when I told her the reason. She said I had failed in duty toward her in not speaking frankly9 at first. We parted coolly. I had saved a little money from my wages; and I did well enough while my savings10 lasted. When they came to an end, I tried to get employment again, and I failed. My aunt said, and said truly, that her husband’s income was barely enough to support his family: she could do nothing for me, and I could do nothing for myself. I wrote to my aunt at Glasgow, and received no answer. Starvation stared me in the face, when I saw in a newspaper an advertisement addressed to me by Mr. Van Brandt. He implored11 me to write to him; he declared that his life without me was too desolate12 to be endured; he solemnly promised that there should be no interruption to my tranquillity13 if I would return to him. If I had only had myself to think of, I would have begged my bread in the streets rather than return to him —’”
I interrupted the narrative at that point.
“What other person could she have had to think of?” I said.
“Is it possible, George,” my mother rejoined, “that you have no suspicion of what she was alluding14 to when she said those words?”
The question passed by me unheeded: my thoughts were dwelling15 bitterly on Van Brandt and his advertisement. “She answered the advertisement, of course?” I said.
“And she saw Mr. Van Brandt,” my mother went on. “She gave me no detailed16 account of the interview between them. ‘He reminded me,’ she said, ‘of what I knew to be true — that the woman who had entrapped17 him into marrying her was an incurable18 drunkard, and that his ever living with her again was out of the question. Still she was alive, and she had a right to the name at least of his wife. I won’t attempt to excuse my returning to him, knowing the circumstances as I did. I will only say that I could see no other choice before me, in my position at the time. It is needless to trouble you with what I have suffered since, or to speak of what I may suffer still. I am a lost woman. Be under no alarm, madam, about your son. I shall remember proudly to the end of my life that he once offered me the honor and the happiness of becoming his wife; but I know what is due to him and to you. I have seen him for the last time. The one thing that remains19 to be done is to satisfy him that our marriage is impossible. You are a mother; you will understand why I reveal the obstacle which stands between us — not to him, but to you.’ She rose saying those words, and opened the folding-doors which led from the parlor20 into a back room. After an absence of a few moments only, she returned.”
At that crowning point in the narrative, my mother stopped. Was she afraid to go on? or did she think it needless to say more?
“Well?” I said.
“Must I really tell it to you in words, George? Can’t you guess how it ended, even yet?”
There were two difficulties in the way of my understanding her. I had a man’s bluntness of perception, and I was half maddened by suspense21. Incredible as it may appear, I was too dull to guess the truth even now.
“When she returned to me,” my mother resumed, “she was not alone. She had with her a lovely little girl, just old enough to walk with the help of her mother’s hand. She tenderly kissed the child, and then she put it on my lap. ‘There is my only comfort,’ she said, simply; ‘and there is the obstacle to my ever becoming Mr. Germaine’s wife.’”
Van Brandt’s child! Van Brandt’s child!
The postscript which she had made me add to my letter; the incomprehensible withdrawal22 from the employment in which she was prospering23; the disheartening difficulties which had brought her to the brink24 of starvation; the degrading return to the man who had cruelly deceived her — all was explained, all was excused now! With an infant at the breast, how could she obtain a new employment? With famine staring her in the face, what else could the friendless woman do but return to the father of her child? What claim had I on her, by comparison with him? What did it matter, now that the poor creature secretly returned the love that I felt for her? There was the child, an obstacle between us — there was his hold on her, now that he had got her back! What was my hold worth? All social proprieties25 and all social laws answered the question: Nothing!
My head sunk on my breast; I received the blow in silence.
My good mother took my hand. “You understand it now, George?” she said, sorrowfully.
“Yes, mother; I understand it.”
“There was one thing she wished me to say to you, my dear, which I have not mentioned yet. She entreats26 you not to suppose that she had the faintest idea of her situation when she attempted to destroy herself. Her first suspicion that it was possible she might become a mother was conveyed to her at Edinburgh, in a conversation with her aunt. It is impossible, George, not to feel compassionately27 toward this poor woman. Regrettable as her position is, I cannot see that she is to blame for it. She was the innocent victim of a vile28 fraud when that man married her; she has suffered undeservedly since; and she has behaved nobly to you and to me. I only do her justice in saying that she is a woman in a thousand — a woman worthy29, under happier circumstances, to be my daughter and your wife. I feel for you, and feel with you, my dear — I do, with my whole heart.”
So this scene in my life was, to all appearance, a scene closed forever. As it had been with my love, in the days of my boyhood, so it was again now with the love of my riper age!
Later in the day, when I had in some degree recovered my self-possession, I wrote to Mr. Van Brandt — as she had foreseen I should write! — to apologize for breaking my engagement to dine with him.
Could I trust to a letter also, to say the farewell words for me to the woman whom I had loved and lost? No! It was better for her, and better for me, that I should not write. And yet the idea of leaving her in silence was more than my fortitude30 could endure. Her last words at parting (as they were repeated to me by my mother) had expressed the hope that I should not think hardly of her in the future. How could I assure her that I should think of her tenderly to the end of my life? My mother’s delicate tact31 and true sympathy showed me the way. “Send a little present, George,” she said, “to the child. You bear no malice32 to the poor little child?” God knows I was not hard on the child! I went out myself and bought her a toy. I brought it home, and before I sent it away, I pinned a slip of paper to it, bearing this inscription33: “To your little daughter, from George Germaine.” There is nothing very pathetic, I suppose, in those words. And yet I burst out crying when I had written them.
The next morning my mother and I set forth34 for my country-house in Perthshire. London was now unendurable to me. Traveling abroad I had tried already. Nothing was left but to go back to the Highlands, and to try what I could make of my life, with my mother still left to live for.
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1
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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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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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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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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6
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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7
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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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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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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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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16
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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entreats
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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28
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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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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30
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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31
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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32
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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33
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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34
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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