She came to me unexpectedly. I had returned to town that evening, and next morning as I was sitting down in my study to answer some unimportant questions Maxwell Hartington had sent me, my parlormaid appeared. "Can you speak," she asked, "to Lady Mary Justin?"
I stood up to receive my visitor.
She came in, a tall dark figure, and stood facing me in silence until the door had closed behind her. Her face was white and drawn1 and very grave. She stooped a little, I could see she had had no sleep, never before had I seen her face marked by pain. And she hesitated.... "My dear!" I said; "why have you come to me?"
I put a chair for her and she sat down.
For a moment she controlled herself with difficulty. She put her hand over her eyes, she seemed on the verge2 of bitter weeping....
"I came," she said at last.... "I came. I had to come ... to see you."
I sat down in a chair beside her.
"It wasn't wise," I said. "But—never mind. You look so tired, my dear!"
She sat quite still for a little while.
Then she moved her arm as though she felt for me[Pg 350] blindly, and I put my arms about her and drew her head to my shoulder and she wept....
Presently her weeping was over.
"Get me a little cold water, Stephen," she said. "Let me have a little cold water on my face. I've got my courage now again. Just then,—I was down too low. Yes—cold water. Because I want to tell you—things you will be glad to hear."
"You see, Stephen," she said—and now all her self-possession had returned; "there mustn't be a divorce. I've thought it all out. And there needn't be a divorce."
"Needn't be?"
"No."
"What do you mean?"
"I can stop it."
"But how?"
"I can stop it. I can manage—— I can make a bargain.... It's very sweet, dear Stephen, to be here talking to you again."
She stood up.
"Sit at your desk, my dear," she said. "I'm all right now. That water was good. How good cold things can be! Sit down at your desk and let me sit here. And then I will talk to you. I've had such a time, my dear. Ah!"
She paused and stuck her elbows on the desk and looked me in the eyes. And suddenly that sweet, frank smile of hers swept like sunshine across the wintry desolation of her face. "We've both been having a time," she said. "This odd little world,—it's battered4 us with its fists. For such a little. And we were both so ridiculously happy. Do you remember it, the rocks and the sunshine and all those twisted and tangled5 little plants? And how the boat leaked and you baled it out! And the parting, and how you trudged6 up that winding7 path away from me! A grey figure that stopped and waved—a little figure—such a virtuous8 figure! And then, this storm! this awful hullabaloo! Lawyers, curses, threats——. And Stella Summersley Satchel9 like a Fury of denunciation. What hatred10 that woman has hidden from me! It must have accumulated.... It's terrible to think, Stephen, how much I must have tried her.... Oh! how far away those Alps are now, Stephen! Like something in another life.... And here we are!—among the consequences."
"But,—you were saying we could stop the divorce."
"Yes. We can. I can. But I wanted to see you,—before I did. Somehow I don't feel lonely with you. I had to see you.... It's good to see you."
She looked me in the face. Her tired eyes lit with a gleam of her former humor.
"Have you thought," she asked, "of all that will happen if there is a divorce?"
"I mean to fight every bit of it."
"They'll beat you."
"We'll see that."
"But they will. And then?"
"Why should one meet disaster half way?"
"Stephen!" she said; "what will happen to you when I am not here to make you look at things? Because I shan't be here. Not within reach of you.... There are times when I feel like a mother to you. Never more than now...."
And then with rapid touches she began to picture the disaster before me. She pictured the Court and our ineffectual denials, she made me realize the storm of hostility11 that was bound to burst over us. "And think of me," she said. "Stripped I shall be and outcast."
"Not while I live!"
"But what can you do for me? You will have Rachel. How can you stand by me? You can't be cruel to Rachel. You know you can't be cruel to Rachel. Look me in the face, Stephen; tell me. Yes.... Then how can you stand by me?"
"Somehow!" I cried foolishly and stopped.
"They'll use me to break your back with costs and damages. There'll be those children of yours to think of...."
"My God!" I cried aloud. "Why do you torment12 me? Haven't I thought enough of those things?... Haven't I seen the ruin and the shame, the hopeless trap, men's trust in me gone, my work scattered13 and ended again, my children growing up to hear this and that exaggeration of our story. And you——. All the bravery of your life scattered and wasted. The thing will pursue us all, cling to us. It will be all the rest of our lives for us...."
I covered my face with my hands.
When I looked up, her face was white and still, and full of a strange tenderness. "I wouldn't have you, Stephen—I wouldn't have you be cruel to Rachel.... I just wanted to know—something.... But we're wandering. We're talking nonsense. Because as I said, there need be no divorce. There will be no divorce at all. That's what I came to tell you. I shall have to pay—in a way, Stephen.... Not impossibly. Don't think it is anything impossible...."
Then she bit her lips and sat still....
"My dear," I whispered, "if we had taken one another at the beginning...."
But she went on with her own thoughts.
"You love those little children of yours," she said. "And that trusting girl-wife.... Of course you love them. They're yours. Oh! they're so deeply—yours.... Yours...."
"Oh my dear! don't torture me! I do love them. But I love you too."
"No," she said, "not as you do them."
I made a movement of protest.
"No," she said, whitely radiant with a serenity14 I had never seen before in her face. "You love me with your brain. With your soul if you like. I know, my poor bleeding Stephen!—Aren't those tears there? Don't mind my seeing them, Stephen.... Poor dear! Poor dear!.... You love them with your inmost heart. Why should you mind that I see you do?... All my life I've been wrong, Stephen, and now I know too late. It's the things we own we love, the things we buy with our lives.... Always I have been hard, I've been a little hard.... Stephen, my dear, I loved you, always I have loved you, and always I have tried to keep myself.... It's too late.... I don't know why I am talking like this.... But you see I can make a bargain now—it's not an impossible bargain—and save you and save your wife and save your children——"
"But how?" I said, still doubting.
"Never mind how, Stephen. Don't ask me how now. Nothing very difficult. Easy. But I shall write you no more letters—see you—no more. Never. And that's why I had to come, you see, why I was able to come to you, just to see you and say good-bye to you, and take leave of you, dear Love that I threw away and loved too late...."
She bit her lip and faced me there, a sweet flushed living thing, with a tear coursing down her cheek, and her mouth now firm and steady.
"You can stop this divorce?" I said, "But how, Mary?"
"No, don't ask me how. At a price. It's a bargain. No, no! Don't think that,—a bargain with Justin, but not degrading. Don't, my dear, let the thought of it distress15 you. I have to give earnests.... Never, dear, never through all the dusty rest of life again will you and I speak together. Never! Even if we come face to face once more—no word...."
"Mary," I said, "what is it you have to do? You speak as if—— What is it Justin demands?"
"No! do not ask me that.... Tell me—you see we've so much to talk about, Stephen—tell me of all you are going to do. Everything. Because I've got to make a great vow16 of renunciation—of you. Not to think again—not even to think of you again.... No, no. I'm not even to look for you in the papers any more. There's to be no tricks this time. And so you see I want to fill up my mind with you. To store myself with you. Tell me your work is worth it—that it's not like the work of everyone. Tell me, Stephen—that. I want to believe that—tremendously. Don't be modest now. That will be cruel. I want to believe that I am at last to do something that is worth doing, something not fruitless...."
"Are you to go into seclusion," I asked suddenly, "to be a nun——?"
"It is something like that," she said; "very like that. But I have promised—practically—not to tell you that. Tell me your soul, Stephen, now. Give me something I may keep in my mind through—through all those years of waiting...."
"But where?" I cried. "What years of waiting?"
"In a lonely place, my dear—among mountains. High and away. Very beautiful, but lonely. A lake. Great rocks.... Yes,—like that place. So odd.... I shall have so much time to think, and I shall have no papers—no news. I mustn't talk to you of that. Don't let me talk to you of that. I want to hear about this world, this world I am going to leave, and how you think you are going on fighting in the hot and dusty struggle—to make the world cool and kind and reasonable, to train minds better, to broaden ideas ... all those things you believe in. All those things you believe in and stick to—even when they are dull. Now I am leaving it, I begin to see how fine it is—to fight as you want to fight. A tiresome17 inglorious lifelong fight.... You really believe, Stephen?"
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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2
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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3
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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4
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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5
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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6
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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7
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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8
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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9
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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10
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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11
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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12
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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13
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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14
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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15
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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16
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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