“Does the portrait please you, Miss Dunross?”
“May I speak as plainly as usual?”
“Certainly!”
“Well, then, plainly, I don’t like your Mrs. Van Brandt.”
Ten days had passed; and thus far Miss Dunross had made her way into my confidence already!
By what means had she induced me to trust her with those secret and sacred sorrows of my life which I had hitherto kept for my mother’s ear alone? I can easily recall the rapid and subtle manner in which her sympathies twined themselves round mine; but I fail entirely1 to trace the infinite gradations of approach by which she surprised and conquered my habitual2 reserve. The strongest influence of all, the influence of the eye, was not hers. When the light was admitted into the room she was shrouded3 in her veil. At all other times the curtains were drawn4, the screen was before the fire — I could see dimly the outline of her face, and I could see no more. The secret of her influence was perhaps partly attributable to the simple and sisterly manner in which she spoke5 to me, and partly to the indescribable interest which associated itself with her mere6 presence in the room. Her father had told me that she “carried the air of heaven with her.” In my experience, I can only say that she carried something with her which softly and inscrutably possessed7 itself of my will, and made me as unconsciously obedient to her wishes as if I had been her dog. The love-story of my boyhood, in all its particulars, down even to the gift of the green flag; the mystic predictions of Dame8 Dermody; the loss of every trace of my little Mary of former days; the rescue of Mrs. Van Brandt from the river; the apparition9 of her in the summer-house; the after-meetings with her in Edinburgh and in London; the final parting which had left its mark of sorrow on my face — all these events, all these sufferings, I confided10 to her as unreservedly as I have confided them to these pages. And the result, as she sat by me in the darkened room, was summed up, with a woman’s headlong impetuosity of judgment11, in the words that I have just written —“I don’t like your Mrs. Van Brandt!”
“Why not?” I asked.
She answered instantly, “Because you ought to love nobody but Mary.”
“But Mary has been lost to me since I was a boy of thirteen.”
“Be patient, and you will find her again. Mary is patient — Mary is waiting for you. When you meet her, you will be ashamed to remember that you ever loved Mrs. Van Brandt — you will look on your separation from that woman as the happiest event of your life. I may not live to hear of it — but you will live to own that I was right.”
Her perfectly12 baseless conviction that time would yet bring about my meeting with Mary, partly irritated, partly amused me.
“You seem to agree with Dame Dermody,” I said. “You believe that our two destinies are one. No matter what time may elapse, or what may happen in the time, you believe my marriage with Mary is still a marriage delayed, and nothing more?”
“I firmly believe it.”
“Without knowing why — except that you dislike the idea of my marrying Mrs. Van Brandt?”
She knew that this view of her motive13 was not far from being the right one — and, womanlike, she shifted the discussion to new ground.
“Why do you call her Mrs. Van Brandt?” she asked. “Mrs. Van Brandt is the namesake of your first love. If you are so fond of her, why don’t you call her Mary?”
I was ashamed to give the true reason — it seemed so utterly14 unworthy of a man of any sense or spirit. Noticing my hesitation15, she insisted on my answering her; she forced me to make my humiliating confession16.
“The man who has parted us,” I said, “called her Mary. I hate him with such a jealous hatred17 that he has even disgusted me with the name! It lost all its charm for me when it passed his lips.”
I had anticipated that she would laugh at me. No! She suddenly raised her head as if she were looking at me intently in the dark.
“How fond you must be of that woman!” she said. “Do you dream of her now?”
“I never dream of her now.”
“Do you expect to see the apparition of her again?”
“It may be so — if a time comes when she is in sore need of help, and when she has no friend to look to but me.”
“Did you ever see the apparition of your little Mary?”
“Never!”
“But you used once to see her — as Dame Dermody predicted — in dreams?”
“Yes — when I was a lad.”
“And, in the after-time, it was not Mary, but Mrs. Van Brandt who came to you in dreams — who appeared to you in the spirit, when she was far away from you in the body? Poor old Dame Dermody. She little thought, in her life-time, that her prediction would be fullfilled by the wrong woman!”
To that result her inquiries18 had inscrutably conducted her! If she had only pressed them a little further — if she had not unconsciously led me astray again by the very next question that fell from her lips — she must have communicated to my mind the idea obscurely germinating19 in hers — the idea of a possible identity between the Mary of my first love and Mrs. Van Brandt!
“Tell me,” she went on. “If you met with your little Mary now, what would she be like? What sort of woman would you expect to see?”
I could hardly help laughing. “How can I tell,” I rejoined, “at this distance of time?”
“Try!” she said.
Reasoning my way from the known personality to the unknown, I searched my memory for the image of the frail20 and delicate child of my remembrance: and I drew the picture of a frail and delicate woman — the most absolute contrast imaginable to Mrs. Van Brandt!
The half-realized idea of identity in the mind of Miss Dunross dropped out of it instantly, expelled by the substantial conclusion which the contrast implied. Alike ignorant of the aftergrowth of health, strength, and beauty which time and circumstances had developed in the Mary of my youthful days, we had alike completely and unconsciously misled one another. Once more, I had missed the discovery of the truth, and missed it by a hair-breadth!
“I infinitely21 prefer your portrait of Mary,” said Miss Dunross, “to your portrait of Mrs. Van Brandt. Mary realizes my idea of what a really attractive woman ought to be. How you can have felt any sorrow for the loss of that other person (I detest22 buxom23 women!) passes my understanding. I can’t tell you how interested I am in Mary! I want to know more about her. Where is that pretty present of needle-work which the poor little thing embroidered24 for you so industriously25? Do let me see the green flag!”
She evidently supposed that I carried the green flag about me! I felt a little confused as I answered her.
“I am sorry to disappoint you. The green flag is somewhere in my house in Perthshire.”
“You have not got it with you?” she exclaimed. “You leave her keepsake lying about anywhere? Oh, Mr. Germaine, you have indeed forgotten Mary! A woman, in your place, would have parted with her life rather than part with the one memorial left of the time when she first loved!”
She spoke with such extraordinary earnestness — with such agitation26, I might almost say — that she quite startled me.
“Dear Miss Dunross,” I remonstrated27, “the flag is not lost.”
“I should hope not!” she interposed, quickly. “If you lose the green flag, you lose the last relic28 of Mary — and more than that, if my belief is right.”
“What do you believe?”
“You will laugh at me if I tell you. I am afraid my first reading of your face was wrong — I am afraid you are a hard man.”
“Indeed you do me an injustice29. I entreat30 you to answer me as frankly31 as usual. What do I lose in losing the last relic of Mary?”
“You lose the one hope I have for you,” she answered, gravely —“the hope of your meeting and your marriage with Mary in the time to come. I was sleepless32 last night, and I was thinking of your pretty love story by the banks of the bright English lake. The longer I thought, the more firmly I felt the conviction that the poor child’s green flag is destined33 to have its innocent influence in forming your future life. Your happiness is waiting for you in that artless little keepsake! I can’t explain or justify34 this belief of mine. It is one of my eccentricities35, I suppose — like training my cats to perform to the music of my harp36. But, if I were your old friend, instead of being only your friend of a few days, I would leave you no peace — I would beg and entreat and persist, as only a woman can persist — until I had made Mary’s gift as close a companion of yours, as your mother’s portrait in the locket there at your watch-chain. While the flag is with you, Mary’s influence is with you; Mary’s love is still binding37 you by the dear old tie; and Mary and you, after years of separation, will meet again!”
The fancy was in itself pretty and poetical38; the earnestness which had given expression to it would have had its influence over a man of a far harder nature than mine. I confess she had made me ashamed, if she had done nothing more, of my neglect of the green flag.
“I will look for it the moment I am at home again,” I said; “and I will take care that it is carefully preserved for the future.”
“I want more than that,” she rejoined. “If you can’t wear the flag about you, I want it always to be with you — to go wherever you go. When they brought your luggage here from the vessel39 at Lerwick, you were particularly anxious about the safety of your traveling writing-desk — the desk there on the table. Is there anything very valuable in it?”
“It contains my money, and other things that I prize far more highly — my mother’s letters, and some family relics40 which I should be very sorry to lose. Besides, the desk itself has its own familiar interest as my constant traveling companion of many years past.”
Miss Dunross rose, and came close to the chair in which I was sitting.
“Let Mary’s flag be your constant traveling companion,” she said. “You have spoken far too gratefully of my services here as your nurse. Reward me beyond my deserts. Make allowances, Mr. Germaine, for the superstitious41 fancies of a lonely, dreamy woman. Promise me that the green flag shall take its place among the other little treasures in your desk!”
It is needless to say that I made the allowances and gave the promise — gave it, resolving seriously to abide42 by it. For the first time since I had known her, she put her poor, wasted hand in mine, and pressed it for a moment. Acting43 heedlessly under my first grateful impulse, I lifted her hand to my lips before I released it. She started — trembled — and suddenly and silently passed out of the room.
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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2
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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3
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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5
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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6
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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9
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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10
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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11
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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12
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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13
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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14
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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15
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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16
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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17
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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18
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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19
germinating
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| n.& adj.发芽（的）v.（使）发芽( germinate的现在分词 ) | |
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20
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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21
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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22
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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24
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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industriously
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26
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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27
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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29
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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32
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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33
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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34
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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35
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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36
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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37
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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38
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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39
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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40
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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41
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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42
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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43
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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