Earl Simon and the Barons’ men marched through Kent, and pushed in between the King’s host and the city. The Londoners rang their bells, and came shouting over the bridge to bring the Great Earl in. The burghers had been busy since the rejection1 of King Louis’ award. They had imprisoned2 some of the King’s creatures on whom they had been able to lay their hands, and sacked and devastated3 the royalist lands in Surrey and Kent. The week before Palm Sunday the Jewry had been stormed, its inmates4 massacred, and great treasure taken. London had pledged itself in blood, and De Montfort tarried there, waiting for men to gather to him from the four quarters of the land.
While the roads smoked with these marchings and counter-marchings, and while spears shone on the hill-tops, and steel trickled5 through the green, Denise cheated death in that quiet valley amid the Surrey hills. Marpasse’s knife had turned between the ribs6, missed the heart by the breadth of a finger nail, and let Denise’s blood flow, but not her life. Marpasse’s rough sense had saved her, Marpasse who had saved the body, while Aymery had been busy with the soul. And yet to the nuns7 Denise’s return out of the valley of the shadows had seemed nothing short of a miracle. Ursula, true to her belief, had seized the first glimmer9 of consciousness and sent for the priest who served the convent as confessor. But Denise had put the good man off, pleading that she would not die, and that she was too weak to tell him so long a tale.
The first few days Denise lay in her bed, very white and very silent, taking the wine and food they brought her, and speaking hardly a word. She was like one half awakened10 from sleep, able to feel and think, but with the languor11 of sleep still on her. She felt that it was good to lie there in peace, aloof12 from the world, with the quiet figures gliding13 in and out, and the sunlight moving in a golden beam with the floor of the little room for a dial. The ringing of the convent bells came to her, and the singing of the nuns in the chapel14. Denise lay very still through the long hours in a haze15 of dreamy thought.
How much did she remember? Enough to inspire her with a new desire to live, enough to make her realise how mad had been the impulse that had set Marpasse’s knife a-flashing. They seemed so far away, and yet so near and intimate, those happenings in the April woodland. In moments of deep passion the human heart seizes on what is vital and utterly16 true, even as those who are dying sometimes seem to see beyond the bounds of the material earth. So Denise remembered that which a woman’s heart would choose to cherish. It had been no mere17 golden mist of pity glazing18 the cold truth. She had lain in Aymery’s arms, arms that had held her with something stronger than compassion19.
Thus as Denise lay there abed, a slow, sweet faith revived within her, a belief in things that had seemed dry and dead. Her woman’s pride had been in the dust, and she had given up hope, save the hope of hiding in some far place. It might have been that Aymery’s arms had closed an inward wound, and that the strength of his manhood had given her new life.
What had the “afterwards” been? What had happened after she had lost consciousness, and what had become of Aymery and Marpasse. She longed to ask the nuns these things, and yet a sensitive pride tied her tongue. The women were kind to her, and yet, as Denise’s consciousness became more clear, she could not but feel that the eyes that looked at her were inquisitive20 and watchful21. Now and again came a note of pitying tolerance22 that jarred the rhythm of her more sacred thoughts; and as the woman in her grew more wakeful she became aware of the shadows that stole across her mind.
On the third day the nuns unswathed her body, soaked the clotted23 pad away, and looked at the wound. It was healing miraculously24 with nothing but a blush of redness about its lips. There had been no fever, no inward bleeding. Denise could sit up while they reswathed her in clean linen26.
“There is cause for thankfulness here,” said the elder of the two nuns who had the nursing of her; “you will have many prayers to say, and many candles to burn to Our Lady and the Queen Helena, our Saint.”
The sister licked her lips as she smoothed the linen about Denise’s breast.
“The man and the horse are also to be remembered,” she said, a little tartly29, “you have much to be thankful for; even I can tell you that.”
There was a sharpness in her voice, and a certain insinuating30 and inquisitive look on her face that made Denise colour. The woman was watching her out of the corners of her eyes, as though she were quite ready to listen if she could persuade Denise to talk. Minds that are cooped up in sexless isolation31 are often afflicted32 with morbid33 imaginings, and an unhealthy curiosity with regard to the more human world. The monastic folk were prone34 to a disease that they called “accidia.” The life was very dull, very narrow, and led to introspection. What wonder that a woman should sometimes hanker to dip her spoon into the world’s pot, and smell the stew35, though she was not suffered to taste it.
Denise was thankful, and at peace, but she had no desire to open her heart like a French tale for these women to pore over. The nun won no confession36 from her, and therefore thought the worse of Denise’s soul. People who were silent had much to conceal37, and the religious sometimes prefer a vivid and garrulous38 sinner to one who cherishes a reserve of pride.
The two nuns were but mead39 and water when compared with their Prioress, who was sharp and biting wine. The miraculous25 swiftness with which Denise had been healed flattered St. Helena, and the piety40 of her convent. Ursula the Prioress was an earnest woman, cold, bigoted41, well satisfied with her own spirit of inspiration. She began to see in Denise a brand to be snatched from the eternal fire, a soul to be humbled42 and chastened, and purified of its sin.
On the fifth day of Denise’s sojourn44 there, one of the nuns bent45 over her, and told her in an impressive whisper that the Prioress was coming to sit beside her bed.
“Be very meek46 with her, my dear,” said the nun, “and if she speaks sharply to you, remember that it is for the good of your soul.”
So Ursula came, white wimple about yellow face, severe, admonitory, stooping very stiffly towards the level of this mere woman. She sat down on the stool beside Denise’s bed, and began at once to catechise her as she would have catechised a forward child.
Denise went scarlet47 at the first question. It was flashed upon her without delicacy48 that Ursula knew her secret, and that either Aymery or Marpasse had told her something of what they knew. And Denise’s pride was not so frail49 and weak that she could suffer Ursula to take her heart and handle it.
“Madame,” she said, “I have much to thank you for. Yet I would ask you not to speak of what is past. Being wise in the matter, you will know what my thoughts must be.”
Ursula was not to be repulsed50 in such easy fashion, for she knew a part of Denise’s tale, and had decided51 in her own mind that Aymery had treated the subject with too much chivalry52. Compassion had softened53 the harsher outlines, and Ursula had no doubt that Denise was less innocent than she may have pretended.
“My daughter,” said she, “for the good of your soul, I cannot let such things pass unheeded.”
Denise lay motionless, staring at the timbers of the roof. Ursula talked on.
“Our Mother in Heaven knows that we are frail creatures, and that sin is in the world, but it is the hiding of sin that brings us into perdition. It is meet for your penitence54 that I should speak to you of these infirmities. There is no shame so great that it may not be retrieved55. But you must own your sin, my daughter, and humble43 yourself before Heaven.”
Denise’s hands moved restlessly over the coverlet.
“I have confessed it,” she said, “though it was not of my own seeking. God himself cannot condemn56 that as a lie.”
Ursula’s face grew more austere57 and forbidding. She detected hardness and obstinacy58 in Denise, and overlooked that sensitive pride that may seem reticent59 and cold.
“You speak too boastfully,” she said. “It may be that God wills it that I should bring you to humbleness60 and a sense of shame.”
“It is the truth, that I have suffered,” said Denise.
“Not yet perhaps, have you suffered sufficiently61, for the proper chastening of the spirit. Think, girl, of God’s great goodness, and the compassion of Our Mother, and St. Helena, in snatching you from death, and the flames, you—one who had fallen, a broken vessel62 by the roadside, the companion of low women——”
Again Denise’s face flashed scarlet, but this time there was anger in the colour.
“Madame,” she said, “hard words do not bring us into Heaven. I have never been what you would have me pretend to be. And the woman, Marpasse, stood by me, and was my friend. She has a good heart, and for me, that covers a multitude of sins.”
“What!” and she seemed to smack64 her lips with unction, “you, who have worn the scarlet, speak thus insolently65 to me! It is plain that you have no sense of shame. Hard words indeed are what you need, young woman, the bread of bitterness and the waters of affliction. Pity for your soul moves me to speak the truth.”
The flush had faded from Denise’s face. She lay there very pale and still, as though suffering Ursula’s harsh words to pass over her like the wind.
“How is it, madame,” she said at last, “that you believe so much that is bad of me?”
“Aymery!”
“Sir Aymery, would be more fitting. It was he who besought68 me to take you in, knowing your misery69, and the madness that sin must create in the mind. Pray to God that he may be blessed for snatching you from the devil, and for bringing you here, where, Heaven being willing, we will humble and chasten you.”
Denise lay there as though Ursula had taken Marpasse’s knife and stricken her, this time to the heart. She had nothing to say to the Prioress. The woman’s hard morality had broken and bruised70 her re-born pride and hope.
Ursula rose, and stood beside the bed.
“Let the knowledge of sin and of humiliation71 sink into your heart,” she said.
When Ursula had gone, Denise lay in a kind of stupor73, mute, wondering, like one who has been wounded and knows not why. All her dreams were in the dust. Ursula, the iconoclast74, had broken the frail images of tenderness, mystery, and compassion. Aymery had said this of her? Denise had no strength for the moment to believe it otherwise.
And so she lay there, humiliated75 indeed, very lonely, and without hope. There was no bitterness in her at first, for the shock that had destroyed her vision of a new world, had left her weak and weary. She thought of Aymery with pitiful yearning76 and wounded wonder, and with the wish that he had suffered her to die. Marpasse alone might have comforted Denise in that hour of her defeat.
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1
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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5
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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23
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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26
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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27
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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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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30
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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31
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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32
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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35
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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36
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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37
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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38
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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39
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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40
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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41
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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42
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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43
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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44
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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45
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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46
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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47
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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48
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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49
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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50
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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51
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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52
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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53
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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54
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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55
retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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56
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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57
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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58
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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60
humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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61
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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62
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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63
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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64
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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65
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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66
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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67
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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68
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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69
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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70
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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71
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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72
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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73
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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74
iconoclast
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| n.反对崇拜偶像者 | |
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75
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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76
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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