“I need not go through the form of condoling15, for I know you did not have much intercourse16 with him, poor old gentleman,” one lady said; and another caught Rose by both hands and exclaimed on the good luck of the family in general.
“Blessings, like troubles, never come alone,” she said. “To think you should have a fortune tumbling down upon you on one side, and on the other this chit of a girl carrying off the best match in the country!”
“I hope we are sufficiently17 grateful for all the good things Providence18 sends us,” said Mrs. Damerel, fixing her eyes severely19 upon Rose.
Oh, if she had but had the courage to take up the glove thus thrown down to her! But she was not yet screwed up to that desperate pitch.
Mr. Incledon came later, and in his joy at seeing her was more lover-like than he had yet permitted himself to be.
“Why, I have not seen you since this good news came!” he cried, fondly kissing her in his delight and heartiness20 of congratulation, a thing he had never done before. Rose broke from him and rushed out of the room, white with fright and resentment21.
“Oh, how dared he! how dared he!” she cried, rubbing the spot upon her cheek which his lips had touched with wild exaggeration of dismay.
And how angry Mrs. Damerel was! She went up-stairs after the girl, and spoke22 to her as Rose had never yet been spoken to in all her soft life—upbraiding her with her heartlessness, her disregard of other people’s feelings, her indifference23 to her own honor and pledged word. Once more Rose remained up-stairs, refusing to come down, and the house was aghast at the first quarrel which had ever disturbed its decorum.
Mr. Incledon went away bewildered and unhappy, not knowing whether to believe that this was a mere13 ebullition of temper, such as Rose had never shown before, which would have been a venial24 offence, rather amusing than otherwise to his indulgent fondness; or whether it meant something more, some surging upwards25 of the old reluctance26 to accept him, which he had believed himself to have overcome. This doubt chilled him to the heart, and gave him much to think of as he took his somewhat dreary27 walk home—for failure, after there has been an appearance of success, is more discouraging still than when there has been no opening at all in the clouded skies. And Agatha knocked at Rose’s locked door, and bade her good night through the keyhole with a mixture of horror and respect—horror for the wickedness, yet veneration28 for the courage which could venture thus to beard all constituted authorities. Mrs. Damerel herself said no good night to the rebel. She passed Rose’s door steadily29 without allowing herself to be led away by the impulse which tugged30 at her heart to go in and give the kiss of grace, notwithstanding the impenitent31 condition of the offender32. Had the mother done this, I think all that followed might have been averted33, and that Mrs. Damerel would have{79} been able eventually to carry out her programme and arrange the girl’s life as she wished. But she thought it right to show her displeasure, though her heart almost failed her.
Rose had shut herself up in wild misery34 and passion. She had declared to herself that she wanted to see no one; that she would not open her door, nor subject herself over again to such reproaches as had been poured upon her. But yet when she heard her mother pass without even a word, all the springs of the girl’s being seemed to stand still. She could not believe it. Never before in all her life had such a terrible occurrence taken place. Last night, when she had gone to bed to escape remark, Mrs. Damerel had come in ere she went to her own room and asked after the pretended headache, and kissed her, and bade her keep quite still and be better to-morrow. Rose got up from where she was sitting, expecting her mother’s appeal and intending to resist, and went to the door and put her ear against it and listened. All was quiet. Mrs. Damerel had gone steadily along the corridor, had entered the rooms of the other children, and now shut her own door—sure signal that the day was over. When this inexorable sound met her ears, Rose crept back again to her seat and wept bitterly, with an aching and vacancy35 in her heart which it is beyond words to tell. It seemed to her that she was abandoned, cut off from the family love, thrown aside like a waif and stray, and that things would never be again as they had been. This terrible conclusion always comes in to aggravate36 the miseries37 of girls and boys. Things could never mend, never again be as they had been. She cried till she exhausted38 herself, till her head ached in dire39 reality, and she was sick and faint with misery and the sense of desolation; and then wild schemes and fancies came into her mind. She could not bear it—scarcely for those dark helpless hours of the night could she bear it—but must be still till daylight; then, poor forlorn child, cast off by every one, abandoned even by her mother, with no hope before her but this marriage, which she hated, and no prospect40 but wretchedness—then she made up her mind she would go away. She took out her little purse and found a few shillings in it, sufficient to carry her to the refuge which she had suddenly thought of. I think she would have liked to fly out of sight and ken4 and hide herself forever, or at least until all who had been unkind to her had broken their hearts about her, as she had read in novels of unhappy heroines doing. But she was too timid to take such a daring step, and she had no money, except the ten shillings in her poor little pretty purse, which was not meant to hold much. When she had made up her mind, as she thought, or to speak more truly, when she had been quite taken possession of by this wild purpose, she put a few necessaries into a bag to be ready for her flight, taking her little prayer-book last of all, which she kissed and cried over with a heart wrung41 with many pangs42. Her father had given it her on the day she was nineteen—not a year since. Ah, why was not she with him, who always understood her, or why was not he here? He would never have driven her to such a step as this. He was kind, whatever any one might say of him. If he neglected some things, he was never hard upon any one—at least, never hard upon Rose—and he would have understood her now. With an anguish43 of sudden sorrow, mingled44 with all the previous misery in her heart, she kissed the little book and put it into her bag. Poor child! it was well for her that her imagination had that sad asylum45 at least to take refuge in, and that the rector had not lived long enough to show how hard in worldliness a soft and self-indulgent man can be.
Rose did not go to bed. She had a short, uneasy sleep, against her will, in her chair—dropping into constrained46 and feverish47 slumber48 for an hour or so in the dead of the night. When she woke, the dawn was blue in the window, making the branches of the honeysuckle visible through the narrow panes49. There was no sound in heaven or earth except the birds chirping50, but the world seemed full of that; for all the domestic chat has to be got over in all the nests before men awake and drown the delicious babble51 in harsher commotions53 of their own. Rose got up and bathed her pale face and red eyes, and put on her hat. She was cold, and glad to draw a shawl round her and get some consolation54 and strength from its{80} warmth; and then she took her bag in her hand, and opening her door, noiselessly stole out. There was a very early train which passed the Dingle station, two miles from Dinglefield, at about five o’clock, on its way to London; and Rose hoped, by being in time for that, to escape all pursuit. How strange it was, going out, like a thief into the house, all still and shut up, with its windows closely barred, the shutters55 up, and a still, unnatural56 half-light gleaming in through the crevices57! As she stole down-stairs her very breathing, the sound of her own steps, frightened Rose; and when she looked in at the open door of the drawing-room and saw all the traces of last night’s peaceful occupations, a strange feeling that all the rest were dead and she a fugitive58 stealing guiltily away, came on her so strongly that she could scarcely convince herself it was not true. It was like the half-light that had been in all the rooms when her father lay dead in the house, and made her shiver. Feeling more and more like a thief, she opened the fastenings of the hall door, which were rusty59 and gave her some trouble. It was difficult to open them, still more difficult to close it softly without alarming the house; and this occupied her mind, so that she made the last step almost without thinking what she was doing. When she had succeeded in shutting the door, then it suddenly flashed upon her, rushed upon her like a flood—the consciousness of what she had done. She had left home, and all help and love and protection; and—Heaven help her!—here she was out of doors in the open-eyed day, which looked at her with a severe, pale calm—desolate and alone! She held by the pillars of the porch to support her for one dizzy, bewildered moment; but now was not the time to break down or let her terrors, her feelings overcome her. She had taken the decisive step and must go on now.
Mrs. Damerel, disturbed perhaps by the sound of the closing door, though she did not make out what it was, got up and looked out from the window in the early morning, and, at the end of the road which led to the Green, saw a solitary60 figure walking, which reminded her of Rose. She had half forgotten Rose’s perverseness61, in her sleep, and I think the first thing that came into her mind had been rather the great deliverance sent to her in the shape of uncle Ernest’s fortune, than the naughtiness—though it was almost too serious to be called naughtiness—of her child. And though it struck her for the moment with some surprise to see the slim young figure on the road so early, and a passing notion crossed her mind that something in the walk and outline was like Rose, yet it never occurred to her to connect that unusual appearance with her daughter. She lay down again when she had opened the window, with a little half-wish, half-prayer, that Rose might “come to her senses” speedily. It was too early to get up and though Mrs. Damerel could not sleep, she had plenty to think about and this morning leisure was the best time for it. Rose prevailed largely among her subjects of thoughts, but did not fill her whole mind. She had so many other children, and so much to consider about them all!
Meanwhile Rose went on to the station, like a creature in a dream, feeling the very trees, the very birds watch her, and wondering that no faces peeped at her from the curtained cottage windows. How strange to think that all the people were asleep, while she walked along through the dreamy world, her footsteps filling it with strange echoes! How fast and soundly it slept, that world, though all the things out-of-doors were in full movement, interchanging their opinions, and taking council upon all their affairs! She had never been out, and had not very often been awake, at such an early hour, and the stillness from all human sounds and voices, combined with the wonderful fulness of the language of Nature, gave her a strange bewildered feeling, like that a traveller might have in some strange star or planet peopled with beings different from man. It seemed as if all the human inhabitants had resigned, and given up their places to another species. The fresh air which blew in her face, and the cheerful stir of the birds, recovered her a little from the fright with which she felt herself alone in that changed universe—and the sight of the first wayfarer62 making his way, like herself, towards the station, gave her a thrill of pain, reminding her that she was neither walking in a dream nor in{81}
She took her bag in her hand and noiselessly stole out.
She took her bag in her hand and noiselessly stole out.
another planet, but on the old-fashioned earth, dominated by men, and where she shrank from being seen or recognized. She put her veil down over her face as she stole in, once more feeling like a thief, at the wooden gate. Two or three people only, all of the working class, were kicking their heels on the little platform. Rose took her ticket with much trepidation,{82} and stole into the quietest corner to await the arrival of the train. It came up at last with a great commotion52, the one porter rushing to open the door of a carriage, out of which, Rose perceived quickly, a gentleman jumped, giving directions about some luggage. An arrival was a very rare event at so early an hour in the morning. Rose went forward timidly with her veil over her face to creep into the carriage which this traveller had vacated, and which seemed the only empty one. She had not looked at him, nor had she any curiosity about him. The porter, busy with the luggage, paid no attention to her, for which she was thankful, and she thought she was getting away quite unobserved, which gave her a little comfort. She had her foot on the step, and her hand on the carriage door, to get in.
“Miss Damerel!” cried an astonished voice close by her ear.
Rose’s foot failed on the step. She almost fell with the start she gave. Whose voice was it? a voice she knew—a voice somehow that went to her heart; but in the first shock she did not ask herself any questions about it, but felt only the distress63 and terror of being recognized. Then she decided that it was her best policy to steal into the carriage to escape questions. She did so, trembling with fright; but as she sat down in the corner, turned her face unwittingly towards the person, whoever it was, who had recognized her. He had left his luggage, and was gazing at her with his hand on the door. His face, all flushed with delight, gleamed upon her like sudden sunshine. “Miss Damerel!” he cried again, “you here at this hour?”
“Oh, hush64! hush!” she cried, putting up her hand with instinctive65 warning. “I—don’t want to be seen.”
I am not sure that she knew him at the first glance. Poor child, her heart was too deeply preoccupied66 to do more than flutter feebly at the sight of him, and no secondary thought as to how he had come here, or what unlooked-for circumstance had brought him back, was within the range of her intelligence. Edward Wodehouse made no more than a momentary67 pause ere he decided what to do. He slipped a coin into the porter’s ready hand, and gave him directions about his luggage. “Keep it safe till I return; don’t send it home. I am obliged to go to town for an hour or two,” he said, and sprang again into the carriage he had just left. His heart was beating with no feeble flutter. He had the promptitude of a man who knows that no opportunity ought to be neglected. The door closed upon them with that familiar bang which we all know so well; the engine shrieked68, the wheels jarred, and Rose Damerel and Edward Wodehouse—two people whom even the Imperial Government of England had been moved to separate—moved away into the distance, as if they had eloped with each other, sitting face to face.
Her heart fluttered feebly enough—his heart as strong as the pulsations of the steam-engine, and he thought almost as audible; but the first moment was one of embarrassment69. “I cannot get over the wonder of this meeting,” he said. “Miss Damerel, what happy chance takes you to London this morning of all others? Some fairy must have done it for me?”
“No happy chance at all,” said Rose, shivering with painful emotion, and drawing her shawl closer round her. What could she say to him?—but she began to realize that it was him, which was the strangest, bewildering sensation. As for him, knowing of no mystery and no misery, the tender sympathy in his face grew deeper and deeper. Could it be poverty? could she be going to work like any other poor girl? A great throb70 of love and pity went through the young man’s heart.
“Don’t be angry with me,” he said; “but I cannot see you here, alone and looking sad—and take no interest. Can you tell me what it is? Can you make any use of me? Miss Damerel, don’t you know there is nothing in the world that would make me so happy as to be of service to you?”
“Have you just come home?” she asked.
“This morning; I was on my way from Portsmouth. And you—won’t you tell me something about yourself?”
Rose made a tremendous effort to go back to the ordinary regions of talk; and then she recollected71 all that had happened since he had been away. “You know that papa died,” she said,{83} the tears springing to her eyes with an effort of nature which relieved her brain and heart.
“I heard that: I was very, very sorry.”
“And then for a time we were very poor; but now we are well off again by the death of mamma’s uncle Ernest; that is all, I think,” she said, with an attempt at a smile.
Then there was a pause. How was he to subject her to a cross-examination? and yet Edward felt that, unless something had gone very wrong, the girl would not have been here.
“You are going to town?” he said. “It is very early for you; and alone”—
“I do not mind,” said Rose; and then she added quickly, “when you go back, will you please not say you have seen me? I don’t want any one to know.”
“Miss Damerel, something has happened to make you unhappy?”
“Yes,” she said, “but never mind. It does not matter much to any one but me. Your mother is very well. Did she know that you were coming home?”
“No, it is quite sudden. I am promoted by the help of some kind unknown friend or another, and they could not refuse me a few days’ leave.”
“Mrs. Wodehouse will be very glad,” said Rose. She seemed to rouse out of her preoccupation to speak to him, and then fell back. The young sailor was at his wits’ end. What a strange coming home it was to him! He had dreamt of his first meeting with Rose in a hundred different ways, and rehearsed it, and all that he would say to her; but such a wonderful meeting as this had never occurred to him; and to have her entirely72 to himself, yet not to know what to say!
“There must be changes since I left. It will soon be a year ago,” he said, in sheer despair.
“I do not remember any changes,” said Rose, “except the rectory. We are in the White House now. Nothing else has happened that I know—yet.”
This little word made his blood run cold—yet. Did it mean that something was about to happen? He tried to overcome that impression by a return to the ground he was sure of. “May I speak of last year?” he said. “I went away very wretched—as wretched as any man could be.”
Rose was too far gone to think of the precautions with which such a conversation ought to be conducted. She knew what he meant, and why should she pretend she did not? Not that this reflection passed through her mind, which acted totally upon impulse, without any reflection at all.
“It was not my fault,” she said, simply. “I was alone with papa, and he would not let me go.”
“Ah!” he said, his eyes lighting73 up; “you did not think me presumptuous74, then? you did not mean to crush me? Oh! if you knew how I have thought of it, and questioned myself! It has never been out of my mind for a day—for an hour”—
She put up her hand hastily. “I may be doing wrong,” she said, “but it would be more wrong still to let you speak. They would think it was for this I came away.”
“What is it? what is it?” he said; “something has happened. Why may not I tell you, when I have at last this blessed opportunity? Why is it wrong to let me speak?”
“They will think it was for this I came away,” said Rose. “Oh! Mr. Wodehouse, you should not have come with me. They will say I knew you were to be here. Even mamma, perhaps, will think so, for she does not think well of me, as papa used to do. She thinks I am selfish, and care only for my own pleasure,” said Rose with tears.
“You have come away without her knowledge?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are escaping from some one?” said Wodehouse, his face flushing over.
“Yes! yes.”
“Miss Damerel, come back with me. Nobody, I am sure, will force you to do anything. Your mother is too good to be unkind. Will you come back with me? Ah, you must not—you must not throw yourself upon the world; you do not know what it is,” said the young sailor, taking her hand, in his earnestness. “Rose—dear Rose—let me take you back.”
She drew her hand away from him, and dried the hot tears which scorched75 her eyes. “No, no,” she{84} said. “You do not know, and I want nobody to know. You will not tell your mother, nor any one. Let me go, and let no one think of me any more.”
“As if that were possible!” he cried.
“Oh, yes, it is possible. I loved papa dearly; but I seldom think of him now. If I could die you would all forget me in a year. To be sure I cannot die; and even if I did, people might say that was selfish too. Yes, you don’t know what things mamma says. I have heard her speak as if it were selfish to die,—escaping from one’s duties; and I am escaping from my duties; but it can never, never be a duty to marry when you cannot—What am I saying?” said poor Rose. “My head is quite light, and I think I must be going crazy. You must not mind what I say.”
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1
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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envelops
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的第三人称单数 ) | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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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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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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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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mere
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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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condoling
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的现在分词 ) | |
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intercourse
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sufficiently
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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resentment
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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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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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venial
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upwards
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reluctance
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dreary
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veneration
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steadily
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tugged
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impenitent
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offender
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averted
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misery
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vacancy
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aggravate
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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exhausted
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dire
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prospect
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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50
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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51
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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commotions
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| n.混乱，喧闹，骚动( commotion的名词复数 ) | |
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54
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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55
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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58
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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60
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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61
perverseness
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| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
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62
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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63
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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64
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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65
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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66
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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71
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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73
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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74
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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