Moral frost at such a season was like a severe night in the late spring. Denise’s need was to lie in the sun, and to be smiled upon by kind eyes. It was the warm humanism of life that she needed, sympathy, and a clasp of the hand. The utter injustice7 of the humiliation8 that they thrust upon her began to awake in her a spirit of revolt. Had she not suffered because of her innocence9, and borne what these women had never had to bear?
Why should she fall at Ursula’s feet, and pretend to a penitence that she did not feel? And Aymery, too, was she to believe that he had spoken as Ursula had said? If that was the truth, and why should Ursula lie, she, Denise, would pray that she should never be driven to look upon his face again.
Yet her bodily strength increased despite her spiritual unhappiness. The wound in the breast had healed, and she had been able to leave her bed, and move slowly round the room, steadying herself against the wall. And as her strength increased the instinct of revolt grew in her till she began to understand the mocking spirit of Marpasse. To be reviled10, humiliated, made to crawl in the dust, to regain12 a little grudging13 respect by cringing14 to her sister women, and by pretending to emotions that she did not feel! These good souls seemed set upon making the re-ascent to cleanliness hard and unlovely. And Denise, like Marpasse, felt a passionate15 impatience16 carrying her away.
Meanwhile Ursula, magnanimous lady, had taken pains to spread Denise’s story through the convent, and the two nuns who had nursed her had been women enough to know that Denise had borne a child. Ursula had issued her commands; the contumacious17 devil was to be driven out of Denise; she was to be humbled18, and taught to pray for penitence and grace. The nuns who served Denise now opened their mouths once more, and became oracles19 whose inspiration had been caught from Ursula’s lips.
One would enter with the water-jar, set it under the window, and retreat without so much as glancing at Denise. She would pause at the door, and let fall some pious20 platitude21 that might act like yeast22 upon the perverse23 one’s apathy24.
“While the vile11 flesh lives, the soul is in peril26. Mortify27 the body therefore, that the soul may be saved.”
Such exhortations30 spaced out Denise’s day, but her obstinacy31 and her bitterness of heart increased till she was nauseated32 by their piety33, and filled with a gradual scorn. Twice Ursula visited her, to depart with the impatience of one whose words were wasted. Had Ursula suffered but once in life, it might have been so humanly simple for her to understand Denise. On the contrary, she found the victim less ductile34 than at first. Nearly three weeks had passed, and Ursula decided35 that the woman was well in body, but utterly36 diseased in heart. The Prioress began to bethink herself of sharper measures. Ursula believed that she had the devil in arms against her, and that the battle was for Denise’s soul.
It was the night of May-day, the day of green boughs37 and garlands, and Denise had stood at her window and watched the sun go down, thinking of the May a year ago, and of her cell in the beech38 wood above Goldspur manor39. The sun had set about an hour when Denise heard footsteps in the gallery, and saw the light of a lamp shining under the door. Ursula came in to the dusk of the room, shielding the lamp from the draught40 with the hollow of her hand. Her austere41 face was hard and white, and from one wrist hung a scourge42 set with burs of wire.
Ursula had brought two of her strongest nuns with her. She set the lamp on a sconce, and was as abrupt43 and practical as any pedagogue44. She bade the women close the door, and commanded Denise to strip and stand naked for a scourging45.
“Since words will not move the evil spirit in you,” she said, “we must try sharper measures.”
Denise put her back against the wall.
“Have a care how you touch me. I am not a dog to be whipped.”
Ursula told the two nuns to take her by force, and to strip her of her clothes. But Denise was no longer the patient saint bowing her head before her destiny. She did what Marpasse would have done in such a storm, and taking the water-jar that stood by her, held Ursula and the nuns at bay.
“Off!” she said, “I have some pride left in me. I have eaten your bread, but I will not bear your blows.”
She was so tall and fierce, and untamable, that Ursula was the more convinced that Denise had a devil in her, and a devil that was not to be treated with disrespect. She called the nuns off, not relishing46 an unseemly scuffle, and having some reverence47 for a stone water-pot that was not to be softened48 by formulæ. It would be easier to catch Denise asleep, tie her wrists, and scourge her till she showed some penitence.
“Woman,” she said, “the evil spirit is very strong in you. But God and my Saint helping49 me, I will subdue it in due season.”
But Ursula, whose piety was given to stumbling rather ridiculously over the hem50 of her own gown, had no second chance of scourging the devil out of Denise. For Denise had suffered St. Helena’s hospitality sufficiently51, and she made her escape that night after losing herself in dark passage-ways and listening at doors which she hardly dared to open. She made her way into the court at last, and found the old portress sleeping in her cell beside the gate. The key hung on a nail behind the door, and Denise, who had brought a lighted taper52 that she had found burning in the chapel53, took the key and let herself out into the night.
Denise had made her escape not long before dawn, choosing the time when she knew that the nuns would be in their cells between the chapel services. She waited for the grey dusk of the coming day, sitting under an oak tree on the hill above the convent. And when the birds awoke and set the woodlands thrilling, Denise sat counting the last of the money Abbot Reginald had thrown down at her that winter night, and which Marpasse had sewn up for her in her tunic54. Denise thought of Marpasse as she broke the threads and counted out the money into her lap, for Marpasse seemed the one human thing in the wide world that morning.
Life stirred everywhere when Denise started on her way with half a loaf, some beggarly coins, and her old clothes for worldly gear. Brown things darted55 and rustled56 in the underwood and grass. A herd57 of deer went by in the dimness of the dawn, and melted like magic shapes into the woodland as the great globe of fire came topping the eastern hills. The light fell on a dewy world, a world of well-woven tapestry58 dyed with diverse and rich colours. And Denise saw bluebells59 in the woods, and thought again of Marpasse and her blue gown. Marpasse would understand. She tried not to think of Aymery that morning.
Denise struck a track that came from nowhere, and led nowhere so far as she was concerned. She went on aimlessly till noon, meeting a few peasant folk who took her for a pilgrim or a beggar. And by noon her body that had lain so many days in bed, cried loudly for a truce60 under the May sun, and Denise, finding a pool by the roadside, knelt down there and drank water from her palms. The sun had dried the grass, and lying at full length she was soon asleep, with the brown bread held in one white hand.
The bank hid Denise from anyone who passed along the road, and a knight61 on a black horse came by as she slept. The sound of his horse’s hoofs62 woke Denise. She raised herself upon one elbow, looked over the bank to see who passed, and then sank down again out of sight. The clatter63 of hoofs died in the distance, but Denise lay there and stared at the clouds in the sky. It was Aymery who had ridden past to hear from Ursula of Denise’s life or death. But Denise let him go, hardening her heart against the thought of any man’s pity. She would not be beholden to Aymery after the words that Ursula had spoken.
So the Knight of the Hawk’s Claw came to the convent that day in May, hardening himself against all possible hope, and prepared to hear nothing but the tale of Denise’s death. Ursula received him in her parlour, Ursula who had set her final condemnation64 upon Denise because of the perversity65 and ingratitude66 she had shown in escaping like a thief in the night. And Ursula cursed Denise before Aymery’s face, pouring out her indignation against the woman, as though Aymery would sympathise with her over Denise’s “contumacy and corruption68.”
Ursula had no eyes to see the change that had come over the face of the man before her. She was so busy with her denunciations that she did not mark the wrath69 rising like a cloud on the horizon. Aymery’s silence may have deceived her, for he heard her to the end.
“So you thought that she needed scourging!”
“The scourge is an excellent weapon, messire,” she babbled73, “my own back has borne it often, and to the betterment of my soul. But this girl had no gratitude67, and no sense of shame. She was obstinately74 blind, and would not see. I sought to move her by forcing your compassion75 upon her, and showing her that it was your desire that she should mend her life.”
Aymery looked at Ursula as though tempted76 to strangle the consequential77 voice in that thin, austere throat.
“You told her that, madame!”
“I held her shame before her eyes, for the tale of her innocence was not to be believed. Her whole character contradicted it.”
“And she has fled from you.”
“With ingratitude, and cunning.”
“Before God, I do not blame her.”
He stood motionless a moment, looking down on Ursula with such fierce contempt, that, like many stupid people, she wondered how the offence had risen. Her eyes dilated78 when Aymery drew his sword. Her mouth opened to call the nuns who waited in the passage, but his laugh reassured79 her, the laugh that a man bestows80 on a thing beneath his strength.
“Madame,” he said, “you have nothing to fear from me but the truth. You see this sword of mine”—and he held the hilt towards her, grasping it by the blade.
Ursula stared at him as a timid gentlewoman might stare at a rat.
“That hilt is in the form of a cross, madame; I would beg you to look at it. You may have heard that the Cross has some significance for Christians81.”
Ursula began to recover her dignity. It was borne in upon her suddenly that this man had stern eyes, and an ironical82, mocking mouth. And Ursula began to dislike those eyes of his.
“Your words are beyond me, messire,” and her normal frostiness struggled to pervade83 the atmosphere.
“Madame,” he said quietly, “if you have slain85 a soul, God forgive you; there are so many fools in the world, and so many of them are godly. There was no sin in Denise that called for the sponge full of vinegar, the scourge, and the spear.”
Ursula opened her mouth, but no sound came. Aymery put up his sword, and turned towards the door.
“I would rather have left her,” he said, “in the hands of the woman you have called an harlot. Nor need your zeal86 have put lies into my mouth. Suffer me, madame, to recommend you a saint. St. Magdalene might give you the religion that you lack.”
Yet Aymery’s wrath was a greater and nobler wrath than Ursula’s as he mounted his horse and rode out into the world, that world for which Christ had bled upon the cross. Bitterly plain to him was Denise’s spirit of revolt, and her passionate discontent with Ursula’s morality. What was more, this woman had put her taunts88 and her homilies into his mouth, and made him harangue89 and edify90 Denise! Aymery cursed Ursula for a meddlesome91, cold, and self-righteous fool. He would rather have left Denise in Marpasse’s hands, for Marpasse had a heart, and no belief in her own great godliness.
And Denise, what would befall her now that they had driven her like an outcast into the world? He was gloomy and troubled because of her, feeling that she had been wounded the more deeply than she had ever been wounded by Marpasse’s knife. He remembered too how Denise had sought death in the woods that day. The impulse now might be more powerful, seeing that she had suffered more, and had no friend.
Ride after her into the blind chance of the unknown he could not yet, for Aymery was pledged to Earl Simon and his brethren-in-arms. The Barons’ host had gathered at London; they were on the eve of marching southwards into Sussex, for the King was threatening the Cinque Port towns which were loyal to Earl Simon. Aymery had seized these two days to ride and discover the truth about Denise. His knighthood was pledged to the man who had knighted him, nor could he break the pledge to chase a wandering shadow.
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收听单词发音
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1
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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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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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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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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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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10
reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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contumacious
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| adj.拒不服从的，违抗的 | |
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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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oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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platitude
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| n.老生常谈，陈词滥调 | |
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yeast
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| n.酵母；酵母片；泡沫；v.发酵；起泡沫 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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nauseated
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| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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ductile
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| adj.易延展的，柔软的 | |
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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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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scourging
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| 鞭打( scourge的现在分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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46
relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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47
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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48
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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49
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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50
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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51
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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52
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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53
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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54
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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55
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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56
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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bluebells
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| n.圆叶风铃草( bluebell的名词复数 ) | |
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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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64
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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71
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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74
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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76
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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consequential
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| adj.作为结果的，间接的；重要的 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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80
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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82
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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83
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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84
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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85
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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86
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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87
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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88
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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89
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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90
edify
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| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
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91
meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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