In the morning Mrs. Parsons was in the hall, arranging flowers, when James passed through to get his hat.
"Are you going to see Mary now?"
"Yes, mother."
"That's a good boy."
She did not notice that her son's usual gravity was intensified1, or that his very lips were pallid2, and his eyes careworn3 and lustreless4.
It was raining. The young fresh leaves, in the colourless day, had lost their verdure, and the massive shapes of the elm trees were obscured in the mist. The sky had so melancholy5 a tone that it seemed a work of man--a lifeless hue6 of infinite sorrow, dreary7 and cheerless.
James arrived at the Clibborns' house.
"Miss Mary is in the drawing-room," he was told by a servant, who smiled on him, the accepted lover, with obtrusive8 friendliness9.
He went in and found her seated at the piano, industriously10 playing scales. She wore the weather-beaten straw hat without which she never seemed comfortable.
"Oh, I'm glad you've come," she said. "I'm alone in the house, and I was taking the opportunity to have a good practice." She turned round on the music-stool, and ran one hand chromatically11 up the piano, smiling the while with pleasure at Jamie's visit. "Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked. "I don't mind the rain a bit."
"I would rather stay here, if you don't mind."
James sat down and began playing with a paper-knife. Still he did not know how to express himself. He was torn asunder12 by rival emotions; he felt absolutely bound to speak, and yet could not bear the thought of the agony he must cause. He was very tender-hearted; he had never in his life consciously given pain to any living creature, and would far rather have inflicted13 hurt upon himself.
"I've been wanting to have a long talk with you alone ever since I came back."
"Have you? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because what I want to say is very difficult, Mary; and I'm afraid it must be very--distressing14 to both of us."
"What do you mean?"
Mary suddenly became grave, James glanced at her, and hesitated; but there was no room for hesitation15 now. Somehow he must get to the end of what he had to say, attempting only to be as gentle as possible. He stood up and leant against the mantelpiece, still toying with the paper-knife; Mary also changed her seat, and took a chair by the table.
"Do you know that we've been engaged for over five years now, Mary?"
"Yes."
She looked at him steadily16, and he dropped his eyes.
"I want to thank you for all you've done for my sake, Mary. I know how good you have been to my people; it was very kind of you. I cannot think how they would have got along without you."
"I love them as I love my own father and mother, Jamie. I tried to act towards them as though I was indeed their daughter."
He was silent for a while.
"We were both very young when we became engaged," he said at last.
He looked up quickly, but she did not answer. She stared with frightened eyes, as if already she understood. It was harder even than he thought. James asked himself desperately17 whether he could not stop there, taking back what he had said. The cup was too bitter! But what was the alternative? He could not go on pretending one thing when he felt another; he could not live a constant, horrible lie. He felt there was only one course open to him. Like a man with an ill that must be fatal unless instantly treated, he was bound to undergo everything, however great the torture.
"And it's a very bad return I'm making you for all your kindness. You have done everything for me, Mary. You've waited for me patiently and lovingly; you've sacrificed yourself in every way; and I'm afraid I must make you very unhappy--Oh, don't think I'm not grateful to you; I can never thank you sufficiently18."
He wished Mary would say something to help him, but she kept silent. She merely dropped her eyes, and now her face seemed quite expressionless.
"I have asked myself day and night what I ought to do, and I can see no way clear before me. I've tried to say this to you before, but I've funked it. You think I'm brave--I'm not; I'm a pitiful coward! Sometimes I can only loathe19 and despise myself. I want to do my duty, but I can't tell what my duty is. If I only knew for sure which way I ought to take, I should have strength to take it; but it is all so uncertain."
James gave Mary a look of supplication20, but she did not see it; her glance was still riveted21 to the ground.
"I think it's better to tell you the whole truth, Mary; I'm afraid I'm speaking awfully22 priggishly. I feel I'm acting23 like a cad, and yet I don't know how else to act. God help me!"
"I've known almost from the beginning that you no longer cared for me," said Mary quietly, her face showing no expression, her voice hushed till it was only a whisper.
"Forgive me, Mary; I've tried to love you. Oh, how humiliating that must sound! I hardly know what I'm saying. Try to understand me. If my words are harsh and ugly, it's because I don't know how to express myself. But I must tell you the whole truth. The chief thing is that I should be honest with you. It's the only return I can make for all you've done for me."
Mary bent24 her head a little lower, and heavy tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Oh, Mary, don't cry!" said James, his voice breaking; and he stepped forward, with outstretched arms, as though to comfort her.
"I'm sorry," she said; "I didn't mean to."
She took out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, trying to smile. Her courageous25 self-command was like a stab in Jamie's heart.
"I am an absolute cad!" he said, hoarsely26.
Mary made no gesture; she sat perfectly27 still, rigid28, not seeking to hide her emotion, but merely to master it. One could see the effort she made.
"I'm awfully sorry, Mary! Please forgive me--I don't ask you to release me. All I want to do is to explain exactly what I feel, and then leave you to decide."
"Are you--are you in love with anyone else?"
"No!"
The smile of Mrs. Wallace flashed scornfully across his mind, but he set his teeth. He hated and despised her; he would not love her.
"Is there anything in me that you don't like which I might be able to correct?"
Her humility29 was more than he could bear.
"No, no, no!" he cried. "I can never make you understand. You must think me simply brutal30. You have all that a man could wish for. I know how kind you are, and how good you are. I think you have every quality which a good woman should have. I respect you entirely31; I can never help feeling for you the most intense gratitude32 and affection."
In his own ears the words he spoke33 rang hollow, awkward, even impertinent. He could say nothing which did not seem hideously34 supercilious35; and yet he wanted to abase36 himself! He knew that Mary's humiliation37 must be very, very bitter.
"I'm afraid that I am distressing you frightfully, and I don't see how I can make things easier."
"Oh, I knew you didn't love me! I felt it. D'you think I could talk to you for five minutes without seeing the constraint38 in your manner? They told me I was foolish and fanciful, but I knew better."
"I must have caused you very great unhappiness?"
Mary did not answer, and James looked at her with pity and remorse39. At last he broke out passionately40:
"I can't command my love! It's not a thing I have at my beck and call. If it were, do you think I should give you this pain? Love is outside all calculation. You think love can be tamed, and led about on a chain like a dog. You think it's a gentle sentiment that one can subject to considerations of propriety41 and decorum, and God knows what. Oh, you don't know! Love is a madness that seizes one and shakes one like a leaf in the wind. I can't counterfeit42 love; I can't pretend to have it. I can't command the nerves of my body."
"Do you think I don't know what love is, James? How little you know me."
James sank on a chair and hid his face.
"We none of us understand one another. We're all alike, and yet so different. I don't even know myself. Don't think I'm a prig when I say that I've tried with all my might to love you. I would have given worlds to feel as I felt five years ago. But I can't. God help me!... Oh, you must hate and despise me, Mary!"
"I, my dear?" she shook her head sadly. "I shall never do that. I want you to speak frankly43. It is much better that we should try to understand one another."
"That is what I felt. I did not think it honest to marry you with a lie in my heart. I don't know whether we can ever be happy; but our only chance is to speak the whole truth."
Mary looked helplessly at him, cowed by her grief.
"I knew it was coming. Every day I dreaded44 it."
The pain in her eyes was more than James could bear; it was cruel to make her suffer so much. He could not do it. He felt an intense pity, and the idea came to him that there might be a middle way, which would lessen45 the difficulty. He hesitated a moment, and then, looking down, spoke in a low voice:
"I am anxious to do my duty, Mary. I have promised to marry you. I do not wish to break my word. I don't ask you to release me. Will you take what I can offer? I will be a good husband to you. I will do all I can to make you happy. I can give you affection and confidence--friendship; but I can't give you love. It is much better that I should tell you than that you should find out painfully by yourself--perhaps when it is too late."
"You came to ask me to release you. Why do you hesitate now? Do you think I shall refuse?"
James was silent.
"You cannot think that I will accept a compromise. Do you suppose that because I am a woman I am not made of flesh and blood? You said you wished to be frank."
"I had not thought of the other way till just now."
"Do you imagine that it softens46 the blow? How could I live with you as your wife, and yet not your wife? What are affection and esteem47 to me without love? You must think me a very poor creature, James, when you want to make me a sort of legal housekeeper48."
"I'm sorry. I didn't think you would look upon it as an impertinence. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. It struck me as a possible way out of the difficulty. You would, at all events, be happier than you are here."
"It is you who despise me now!"
"Mary!"
"I can bear pain. It's not the first humiliation I have suffered. It is very simple, and there's no reason why we should make a fuss about it. You thought you loved me, and you asked me to marry you. I don't know whether you ever really loved me; you certainly don't now, and you wish me to release you. You know that I cannot and will not refuse."
"I see no way out of it, Mary," he said, hoarsely. "I wish to God I did! It's frightfully cruel to you."
"I can bear it. I don't blame you. It's not your fault. God will give me strength." Mary thought of her mother's cruel sympathy. Her parents would have to be told that James had cast her aside like a plaything he was tired of. "God will give me strength."
"I'm so sorry, Mary," cried James, kneeling by her side. "You'll have to suffer dreadfully; and I can't think how to make it any better for you."
"There is no way. We must tell them the whole truth, and let them say what they will."
"Would you like me to go away from Primpton?"
"Why?"
"It might make it easier for you."
"Nothing can make it easier. I can face it out. And I don't want you to run away and hide yourself as if you had done something to be ashamed of. And your people want you. Oh, Jamie, you will be as gentle with them as you can, won't you? I'm afraid it will--disappoint them very much."
"They had set their hearts upon our marriage."
"I'm afraid they'll feel it a good deal. But it can't be helped. Anything is better than a loveless marriage."
James was profoundly touched that at the time of her own bitter grief, Mary could think of the pain of others.
"I wish I had your courage, Mary. I've never seen such strength."
"It's well that I have some qualities. I haven't the power to make you love me, and I deserve something to make up."
"Oh, Mary, don't speak like that! I do love you! There's no one for whom I have a purer, more sincere affection. Why won't you take me with what I can offer? I promise that you will never regret it. You know exactly what I am now--weak, but anxious to do right. Why shouldn't we be married? Perhaps things may change. Who can tell what time may bring about?"
"It's impossible. You ask me to do more than I can. And I know very well that you only make the offer out of charity. Even from you I cannot accept charity."
"My earnest wish is to make you happy."
"And I know you would sacrifice yourself willingly for that; but I can sacrifice myself, too. You think that if we got married love might arise; but it wouldn't. You would feel perpetually that I was a reproach to you; you would hate me."
"I should never do that."
"How can you tell? We are the same age now, but each year I should seem older. At forty I should be an old woman, and you would still be a young man. Only the deepest love can make that difference endurable; but the love would be all on my side--if _I_ had any then. I should probably have grown bitter and ill-humoured. Ah, no, Jamie, you know it is utterly49 impracticable. You know it as well as I do. Let us part altogether. I give you back your word. It is not your fault that you do not love me. I don't blame you. One gets over everything in this world eventually. All I ask you is not to trouble too much about me; I shan't die of it."
She stretched out her hand, and he took it, his eyes all blurred50, unable to speak.
"And I thank you," she continued, "for having come to me frankly and openly, and told me everything. It is still something that you have confidence in me. You need never fear that I shall feel bitter towards you. I can see that you have suffered--perhaps more than you have made me suffer. Good-bye!"
"Is there nothing I can do, Mary?"
"Nothing," she said, trying to smile, "except not to worry."
"Good-bye," he said. "And don't think too ill of me."
She could not trust herself to answer. She stood perfectly quiet till he had gone out of the room; then with a moan sank to the floor and hid her face, bursting into tears. She had restrained herself too long; the composure became intolerable. She could have screamed, as though suffering some physical pain that destroyed all self-control. The heavy sobs51 rent her chest, and she did not attempt to stop them. She was heart-broken.
"Oh, how could he!" she groaned52. "How could he!"
Her vision of happiness was utterly gone. In James she had placed the joy of her life; in him had found strength to bear every displeasure. Mary had no thought in which he did not take part; her whole future was inextricably mingled53 with his. But now the years to come, which had seemed so bright and sunny, turned suddenly grey as the melancholy sky without. She saw her life at Little Primpton, continuing as in the past years, monotonous54 and dull--a dreary round of little duties, of little vexations, of little pleasures.
"Oh, God help me!" she cried.
And lifting herself painfully to her knees, she prayed for strength to bear the woeful burden, for courage to endure it steadfastly55, for resignation to believe that it was God's will.
收听单词发音 |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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industriously
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chromatically
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| adv.上色，套色 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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abase
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| v.降低，贬抑 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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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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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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