After that I read everything of Paul Lessingham’s which I came across. And the more I read the more I was impressed. But it was some time before we met. Considering what papa’s opinions were, it was not likely that he would go out of his way to facilitate a meeting. To him, the mere7 mention of the name was like a red rag to a bull. But at last we did meet. And then I knew that he was stronger, greater, better even than his words. It is so often the other way; one finds that men, and women too, are so apt to put their best, as it were, into their shop windows, that the discovery was as novel as it was delightful8.
When the ice was once broken, we often met. I do not know how it was. We did not plan our meetings,—at first, at any rate. Yet we seemed always meeting. Seldom a day passed on which we did not meet,—sometimes twice or thrice. It was odd how we were always coming across each other in the most unlikely places. I believe we did not notice it at the time, but looking back I can see that we must have managed our engagements so that somewhere, somehow, we should be certain to have an opportunity of exchanging half a dozen words. Those constant encounters could not have all been chance ones.
But I never supposed he loved me,—never. I am not even sure that, for some time, I was aware that I loved him. We were great on friendship, both of us.—I was quite aware that I was his friend,—that he regarded me as his friend; he told me so more than once.
‘I tell you this,’ he would say, referring to this, that, or the other, ‘because I know that, in speaking to you, I am speaking to a friend.’
With him those were not empty words. All kinds of people talk to one like that,—especially men; it is a kind of formula which they use with every woman who shows herself disposed to listen. But Paul is not like that. He is chary9 of speech; not by any means a woman’s man. I tell him that is his weakest point. If legend does not lie more even than is common, few politicians have achieved prosperity without the aid of women. He replies that he is not a politician; that he never means to be a politician. He simply wishes to work for his country; if his country does not need his services—well, let it be. Papa’s political friends have always so many axes of their own to grind, that, at first, to hear a member of Parliament talk like that was almost disquieting10. I had dreamed of men like that; but I never encountered one till I met Paul Lessingham.
Our friendship was a pleasant one. It became pleasanter and pleasanter. Until there came a time when he told me everything; the dreams he dreamed; the plans which he had planned; the great purposes which, if health and strength were given him, he intended to carry to a great fulfilment. And, at last, he told me something else.
It was after a meeting at a Working Women’s Club in Westminster. He had spoken, and I had spoken too. I don’t know what papa would have said, if he had known, but I had. A formal resolution had been proposed, and I had seconded it,—in perhaps a couple of hundred words; but that would have been quite enough for papa to have regarded me as an Abandoned Wretch,—papa always puts those sort of words into capitals. Papa regards a speechifying woman as a thing of horror,—I have known him look askance at a Primrose12 Dame13.
The night was fine. Paul proposed that I should walk with him down the Westminster Bridge Road, until we reached the House, and then he would see me into a cab. I did as he suggested. It was still early, not yet ten, and the streets were alive with people. Our conversation, as we went, was entirely14 political. The Agricultural Amendment15 Act was then before the Commons, and Paul felt very strongly that it was one of those measures which give with one hand, while taking with the other. The committee stage was at hand, and already several amendments16 were threatened, the effect of which would be to strengthen the landlord at the expense of the tenant17. More than one of these, and they not the most moderate, were to be proposed by papa. Paul was pointing out how it would be his duty to oppose these tooth and nail, when, all at once, he stopped.
‘I sometimes wonder how you really feel upon this matter.’
‘What matter?’
‘On the difference of opinion, in political matters, which exists between your father and myself. I am conscious that Mr Lindon regards my action as a personal question, and resents it so keenly, that I am sometimes moved to wonder if at least a portion of his resentment18 is not shared by you.’
‘I have explained; I consider papa the politician as one person, and papa the father as quite another.’
‘You are his daughter.’
‘Certainly I am;—but would you, on that account, wish me to share his political opinions, even though I believe them to be wrong?’
‘You love him.’
‘Of course I do,—he is the best of fathers.’
‘Your defection will be a grievous disappointment.’
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I wondered what was passing through his mind. The subject of my relations with papa was one which, without saying anything at all about it, we had consented to taboo19.
‘Miss Lindon!—I fancy that I can adduce proof to the contrary.’
‘I believe that if papa were to marry again, say, a Home Ruler, within three weeks his wife’s politics would be his own.’
‘I suppose that men sometimes do change their coats to please their wives,—even their political ones.’
‘Papa’s opinions are the opinions of those with whom he mixes. The reason why he consorts21 with Tories of the crusted school is because he fears that if he associated with anybody else—with Radicals22, say,—before he knew it, he would be a Radical23 too. With him, association is synonymous with logic24.’
Paul laughed outright25. By this time we had reached Westminster Bridge. Standing26, we looked down upon the river. A long line of lanterns was gliding27 mysteriously over the waters; it was a tug28 towing a string of barges29. For some moments neither spoke. Then Paul recurred30 to what I had just been saying.
‘And you,—do you think marriage would colour your convictions?’
‘Would it yours?’
‘That depends.’ He was silent. Then he said, in that tone which I had learned to look for when he was most in earnest, ‘It depends on whether you would marry me.’
I was still. His words were so unexpected that they took my breath away. I knew not what to make of them. My head was in a whirl. Then he addressed to me a monosyllabic interrogation.
‘Well?’
‘I found my voice,—or a part of it.
‘Well?—to what?’
He came a little closer.
‘Will you be my wife?’
The part of my voice which I had found, was lost again. Tears came into my eyes. I shivered. I had not thought that I could be so absurd. Just then the moon came from behind a cloud; the rippling31 waters were tipped with silver. He spoke again, so gently that his words just reached my ears.
‘You know that I love you.’
Then I knew that I loved him too. That what I had fancied was a feeling of friendship was something very different. It was as if somebody, in tearing a veil from before my eyes, had revealed a spectacle which dazzled me. I was speechless. He misconstrued my silence.
‘Have I offended you?’
‘No.’
I fancy that he noted32 the tremor33 which was in my voice, and read it rightly. For he too was still. Presently his hand stole along the parapet, and fastened upon mine, and held it tight.
And that was how it came about. Other things were said; but they were hardly of the first importance. Though I believe we took some time in saying them. Of myself I can say with truth, that my heart was too full for copious34 speech; I was dumb with a great happiness. And, I believe, I can say the same of Paul. He told me as much when we were parting.
It seemed that we had only just come there when Paul started. Turning, he stared up at Big Ben.
‘Midnight!—The House up!—Impossible!’
But it was more than possible, it was fact. We had actually been on the Bridge two hours, and it had not seemed ten minutes. Never had I supposed that the flight of time could have been so entirely unnoticed. Paul was considerably35 taken aback. His legislative36 conscience pricked37 him. He excused himself—in his own fashion.
‘Fortunately, for once in a way, my business in the House was not so important as my business out of it.’
He had his arm through mine. We were standing face to face.
‘So you call this business!’
He laughed.
He not only saw me into a cab, but he saw me home in it. And in the cab he kissed me. I fancy I was a little out of sorts that night. My nervous system was, perhaps, demoralised. Because, when he kissed me, I did a thing which I never do,—I have my own standard of behaviour, and that sort of thing is quite outside of it; I behaved like a sentimental38 chit. I cried. And it took him all the way to my father’s door to comfort me.
I can only hope that, perceiving the singularity of the occasion, he consented to excuse me.
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1
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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3
spouter
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| 喷油井；捕鲸船；说话滔滔不绝的人；照管流出槽的工人 | |
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agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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6
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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7
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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8
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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9
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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10
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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11
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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12
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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14
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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15
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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amendments
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| （法律、文件的）改动( amendment的名词复数 )； 修正案； 修改； （美国宪法的）修正案 | |
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17
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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18
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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19
taboo
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| n.禁忌，禁止接近，禁止使用；adj.禁忌的；v.禁忌，禁制，禁止 | |
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permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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consorts
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| n.配偶( consort的名词复数 )；（演奏古典音乐的）一组乐师；一组古典乐器；一起v.结伴( consort的第三人称单数 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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28
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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29
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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30
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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legislative
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| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
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37
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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38
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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