That evening, determined4 to put into effect at once this new resolution and conveying some hint of it to Christine, he went to Mrs. Murray’s. He rang the bell and entered the house with a strong sense of self-possession, which was only a very little disturbed when the maid again ushered5 him into the little drawing-room where he found Christine alone.
He could see that his coming was utterly6 unexpected. The lamp, by which she usually sat at work, was not lighted, and the gas in the hall cast only a dim light upon her here, but the fire lent its aid in lighting7 up the figure. She was lying on the lounge before the fire as he came in, but she rose to her feet at once, saying, in a voice whose slight ring of agitation8 disturbed a little farther yet his self-poised calm:
“Mrs. Murray has gone to see a neighbor whose daughter is very ill. They have just moved to the house and have no friends near, and she went to see what she could do. She will be back very soon. She did not think you would come to-night.”
Noel heard the little strained sound in her voice, and fancied he saw also about her eyes a faint trace of recent tears; but the light was turned low and she stood with her back to it, as if to screen herself from his gaze. A great wave of tenderness possessed9 his heart. He felt sure he could trust himself to be tender and no more, as he said gently:
“Christine, have you been crying—here all alone in the darkness, with no one to comfort and help you to bear? The thought of it wrings10 my heart.”
“Oh, it is nothing,” she said, her voice, in spite of her, choking up. “I sometimes get nervous—I am not used to being alone. It is over now. I will get the lamp—”
But he stopped her. He made one step toward her and took both her hands in his.
“Wait,” he said, in a controlled and quiet tone. In the silence that followed the word they could hear the little clock on the mantel ticking monotonously11. Noel was trying hard, as they stood thus alone in the stillness and half-darkness, to gather up his suddenly-weakened forces, so that he might tell her, in the hope of giving her comfort, of the resolute12 purpose he had entered into. But in the moment which he gave himself to make this rally a sudden influence came over him from the contact of the cold hands he held in his. At first it was a subtle, faint, indefinite sensation, as of something strange and wonderful and far away, but coming nearer. The very breath of his soul seemed suspended, to listen and look as he waited. The clock ticked on, and they stood there motionless as statues. Suddenly a short, low sigh escaped Christine, and he felt her cold hands tremble. The swift consciousness that ran through Noel was like living ecstasy13 injected in his veins14. He drew her two hands upward and crushed them against his breast.
“Christine,” he said, “you love me.”
“Yes,” she said distinctly, “I love you,” but with the exertion17 of all her power she shook herself free from his grasp, and sprang away from him to the farthest limit of the little room.
“Stop,” she said, waving him back with her hand. “I have owned the truth, but I must speak to you—”
As well might Christine have tried to parley18 with a coming storm of wind. The chained spirit within Noel had been set free by the words, “Yes, I love you,” that Christine had spoken, and his passionate20 love must have its way. He followed her across the room, and with a gentle force, against which she was as helpless as a child, he compelled her to come into his arms, to put down her head against his shoulder and to rest on his her bounding heart. He held her so in a close, restrictive pressure, against which she soon ceased to struggle, but lay there still and unresisting.
“Now,” he said gently, speaking the low word softly and clearly in her ear, “now, speak, and I will listen.”
“I love you,” she said brokenly.
“That is enough.”
“It is all—the utmost,” she went on. “I can never marry you. When you loose me from your arms to-night it will be forever. Hold me close a little longer while I tell you.”
Her voice was faint and uncertain; her frame was trembling; he could feel the whole weight of her body upon him, as he held her against his exultant22 heart, while the power that had come into him gave him a strength so mighty23 that he supported the sweet burden as if its weight were nothing.
“Go on,” he murmured gently, in a secure and quiet tone, “I am listening.”
“I only want to tell you, if I can, how much I love you. I want you to know it all, that the torment24 of having it unsaid may leave me.”
Of her own will she raised her arms and put them about his neck, laying down her face on one of them, so that her lips were close against his ear.
“At the first,” she said, “I liked and admired you because I saw you were good and noble. Then I trusted you, and made your truth my anchor in the awful seas of trouble I was tossed in. Then I came to reverence25 and almost worship you for the highness that is in you, and then, oh, then after my baby died and my other dreadful sorrow came, against my will, in spite of hard fighting and struggling and trying, I went a step higher yet and loved you, with a love that takes in all the rest—that is admiration26, and trust, and reverence, and love in one. Oh,” she said with a great sigh, “but it is all in vain! I cannot tell you—I cannot! I say the utmost, and it seems pale and poor and miserably27 weak. You do not understand the love you have called into being in my poor, broken heart. I thought I should have the comfort of feeling I had told you. I feel only that I have failed! Oh, before we part, I want you to know how I love you—how the stress of it is bursting my heart—how the mightiness28 of it seems to expand my soul until it touches Heaven. Oh, if I could only ease my heart of its great weight of love by finding words to tell you.”
He put his lips close to her ear.
“One kiss,” he said softly, and then turned them to meet hers.
Christine gave him the kiss, and it was as he had said. The stress upon her heart was loosened. She felt that she had told him all.
“You are mine,” he said, in a calm, low voice of controlled exultation29, although, even as he said it, he loosed her from his arms and suffered her to move away from him and sink into a chair. He came and sat down opposite her, repeating the words he had spoken.
“No,” she said, “I am my own! I am the stronger to be so, now that the whole truth is known to you. Mr. Noel, I have only to tell you good-by. To-night must be the very last of it.”
“Mr. Noel!” he threw the words back to her, with a little scornful laugh. “You can never call me that again, without feeling it the hollowest pretence30! I tell you you are mine!”
The assured, determined calm of his tones and looks began to frighten her. She saw the struggle before her assuming proportions that made her fear for herself—not for the strength of her resolve, but for her power to carry it out. She could only repeat, as if to fortify31 herself:
“I will never marry you.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because—ah, because I love you too much. Be merciful, and let that thought plead for me.”
“It is for the same reason that I will never give you up. It is no use to oppose me now, Christine. You are mine and I am yours.”
“But if you know that you make me suffer—”
“I know, too, that I can comfort you. I know I can make you happy, beyond your highest dreams. I know I can take you away from every association of sadness, far off to beautiful foreign countries where no one will know us for anything but what we are—what alone we shall be henceforth, a man and woman who love each other and who have been united in the holy bond of marriage, which God has blessed—just a husband and wife, Christine—get used to the dear names and thought—with whose right to love each other no one will have anything to do. If the idea of the past disturbs you we will get rid of it by going where we have no past, where no one will ever have heard of us before. As for ourselves, Christine, I can give you my honor that there is nothing in the past of either of us that disturbs me for one pulse-beat, and I’ll engage to make you forget all that it pains you to remember. Why, it is a simple thing to do. We send for a clergyman, and here in this room, with Mrs. Murray and Eliza and Harriet for witnesses, we are married to-morrow morning! In the afternoon we sail for Europe, to begin our long life of happiness together. You know whether I could make you happy or not, Christine. You know whether your heart longs to go with me—just as surely as I know that my one possible chance of happiness is in getting your consent to be my wife.”
“I cannot!” she said, “I cannot! We must think of others beside ourselves. If you are willing to sacrifice yourself, think of your mother and sisters!”
“Sacrifice myself! I sacrifice myself only if I give you up. You must feel the falseness of such a use of the word. As for my mother and sisters, I ask you to test that matter. Agree to marry me and I promise that they will come to our wedding, and my mother will call you daughter, and my sisters will call you sister, and they will open their hearts to you and love you.”
“Because your will is all-powerful with them,” she said.
“Yes, partly because they trust and believe in me, and will sanction what I do; and also because—in spite of a good deal of surface conventionality and worldliness—they are right-minded, true-hearted, good women, who will only need to know your whole history, as I know it, and to realize my love for you, as I can make them realize it, to feel that our marriage is the right and true and only issue of it all.”
Christine felt herself terribly shaken. She did not dare to look at Noel lest her eyes might betray her, and she would not for anything have him to know how she was weakened in her resolve by what he had said of his mother and sisters. The conviction with which he spoke19 had carried its own force to her mind, and she suddenly found the strongest weapon with which she had fought her fight shattered in her hands. He saw that she was weakening, but he would not take advantage of it. She was so white and tremulous; her breath came forth2 so quick and short; the drawn32 lines about her mouth were so piteous that he felt she must be spared.
“I will not press you now, Christine,” he said; “take time to think about it. Let me come again to-morrow morning. I will leave you now and you must try to rest. Talk freely to Mrs. Murray. Ask her what you must do. Remember that I consent to wait, only because I am so determined. Listen to me one moment. I swear before Heaven I will never give you up. You gave yourself to me in that kiss, and you are mine.”
“Yes,” she said, as if that struggle were over with her now, “I am yours. I know it. Even if we part forever I am always yours. I will tell you what I will do. Your mother shall know everything and she shall decide.”
He was at once afraid and glad, and Christine saw it.
“I must see your mother,” she began.
“I will see her for you. I will tell her everything and you shall see she will be for us. But if she should not, I warn you, Christine, I will not give you up for any one alive.”
“Listen to me,” said Christine calmly. “This is what you must do. You must go to your mother and tell her there is some one that you love. Tell her as fully33 and freely as you choose. Convince her of the truth and strength of it as thoroughly34 as you can, and tell her that woman loves you in return, but has refused to marry you, for reasons which, if she would like to hear them, that woman herself will lay before her. I cannot let you do it for me,” she went on earnestly. “I know you would wish to spare me this, but only a woman’s tongue could tell that story of misery35, and only a woman’s heart could understand it. You think she will love me for my misfortunes, as you have done in your great, generous heart. I do not dare to think it, but I will put it to the test. You must promise me to tell her nothing except just what I have told you. Do you promise this?”
“I promise it, upon my honor; but remember, if my mother should decide against me, I do not give you up.”
“No, but I will give you up.”
“Christine!” he cried. “And yet you say you love me!”
“Oh, yes, I say I love you—and you know whether it is true.”
She stood in front of him and looked him firmly in the face, but the look of her clear eyes was so full of crowding, overwhelming sorrow that love, for a while, seemed to have taken flight.
In vain he tried to put his hopeful spirit into her. She only shook her head and showed him a face of deep, unhoping sorrow.
“If your mother consents to see me, appoint an hour to-morrow morning and let me know. I will take a carriage and go alone—”
“I will come for you. I will bring my mother’s carriage—”
“No, I must go alone, and I prefer to go in a hired carriage. You must see that no one else is present—neither of your sisters. It is to your mother only that I can say what I have to say.”
“Everything shall be as you wish. But, Christine, don’t be hurt if you find my mother’s manner difficult, at first. She has had a great deal of trouble, and it has made her manner a little hard—”
“Ah,” she said, “I can understand that.”
“But it is only her manner,” Noel went on, “her heart is kind and true.”
“Don’t try to encourage me. I am not afraid. If she has known the face of sorrow that is the best passport between us. Perhaps she will understand me.”
“Promise me this, Christine—that whatever happens, you will see me to-morrow evening—and see me alone.”
“I promise, but it may be to say good-by.”
“Good-night, Christine,” he said.
“Good-night,” she answered. Her eyes seemed to look at him through a great cloud of sorrow, and her voice was like the speaking of a woman in a dream. There was a great and availing force in the mood that held her. Noel knew she wished to be alone and that she had need of the repose37 of solitude38. So he only clasped her hand an instant, in a strong, assuring pressure, and was gone.
Exhausted39, worn out, spent with sorrow, Christine retired40 at once to her room, and went wearily to bed, wondering what the next day would bring. She soon fell into a deep sleep, and slept heavily till morning, waking with a confused mingling41 of memory and expectancy42 in which joy and pain were inseparably united.
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1
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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2
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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3
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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5
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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7
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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8
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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9
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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10
wrings
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| 绞( wring的第三人称单数 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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11
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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12
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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13
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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14
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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15
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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16
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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17
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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19
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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20
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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21
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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22
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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23
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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24
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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25
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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26
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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27
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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28
mightiness
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| n.强大 | |
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29
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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30
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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31
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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32
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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33
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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34
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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35
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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36
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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37
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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38
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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39
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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40
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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41
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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42
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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