When first we practise to deceive!
Charles has written reproachfully to me from Venice, where he is. He says how can he fulfil in the real what he has enacted4 in the counterfeit5, while he still loves me? Yet how, on the other hand, can he leave it unfulfilled? All this time I have not told her, and up to this minute she believes that he has indeed taken her for better, for worse, till death them do part. It is a harassing6 position for me, and all three. In the awful approach of death, one’s judgment7 loses its balance, and we do anything to meet the exigencies8 of the moment, with a single eye to the one who excites our sympathy, and from whom we seem on the brink9 of being separated for ever.
Had he really married her at that time all would be settled now. But he took too much thought; she might have died, and then he had his reason. If indeed it had turned out so, I should now be perhaps a sad woman; but not a tempest-tossed one . . . The possibility of his claiming me after all is what lies at the root of my agitation10. Everything hangs by a thread. Suppose I tell her the marriage was a mockery; suppose she is indignant with me and with him for the deception—and then? Otherwise, suppose she is not indignant but forgives all; he is bound to marry her; and honour constrains11 me to urge him thereto, in spite of what he protests, and to smooth the way to this issue by my method of informing her. I have meant to tell her the last month—ever since she has been strong enough to bear such tidings; but I have been without the power—the moral force. Surely I must write, and get him to come and assist me.
March 14.—She continually wonders why he does not come, the five months of his enforced absence having expired; and still more she wonders why he does not write oftener. His last letter was cold, she says, and she fears he regrets his marriage, which he may only have celebrated12 with her for pity’s sake, thinking she was sure to die. It makes one’s heart bleed to hear her hovering13 thus so near the truth, and yet never discerning its actual shape.
A minor14 trouble besets15 me, too, in the person of the young Scripture16 reader, whose conscience pricks17 him for the part he played. Surely I am punished, if ever woman were, for a too ingenious perversion18 of her better judgment!
April 2.—She is practically well. The faint pink revives in her cheek, though it is not quite so full as heretofore. But she still wonders what she can have done to offend ‘her dear husband,’ and I have been obliged to tell the smallest part of the truth—an unimportant fragment of the whole, in fact, I said that I feared for the moment he might regret the precipitancy of the act, which her illness caused, his affairs not having been quite sufficiently19 advanced for marriage just then, though he will doubtless come to her as soon as he has a home ready. Meanwhile I have written to him, peremptorily20, to come and relieve me in this awful dilemma21. He will find no note of love in that.
April 10.—To my alarm the letter I lately addressed to him at Venice, where he is staying, as well as the last one she sent him, have received no reply. She thinks he is ill. I do not quite think that, but I wish we could hear from him. Perhaps the peremptoriness22 of my words had offended him; it grieves me to think it possible. I offend him! But too much of this. I must tell her the truth, or she may in her ignorance commit herself to some course or other that may be ruinously compromising. She said plaintively23 just now that if he could see her, and know how occupied with him and him alone is her every waking hour, she is sure he would forgive her the wicked presumption24 of becoming his wife. Very sweet all that, and touching25. I could not conceal26 my tears.
April 15.—The house is in confusion; my father is angry and distressed27, and I am distracted. Caroline has disappeared—gone away secretly. I cannot help thinking that I know where she is gone to. How guilty I seem, and how innocent she! O that I had told her before now!
1 o’clock.—No trace of her as yet. We find also that the little waiting-maid we have here in training has disappeared with Caroline, and there is not much doubt that Caroline, fearing to travel alone, has induced this girl to go with her as companion. I am almost sure she has started in desperation to find him, and that Venice is her goal. Why should she run away, if not to join her husband, as she thinks him? Now that I consider, there have been indications of this wish in her for days, as in birds of passage there lurk28 signs of their incipient29 intention; and yet I did not think she would have taken such an extreme step, unaided, and without consulting me. I can only jot down the bare facts—I have no time for reflections. But fancy Caroline travelling across the continent of Europe with a chit of a girl, who will be more of a charge than an assistance! They will be a mark for every marauder who encounters them.
Evening: 8 o’clock.—Yes, it is as I surmised30. She has gone to join him. A note posted by her in Budmouth Regis at daybreak has reached me this afternoon—thanks to the fortunate chance of one of the servants calling for letters in town to-day, or I should not have got it until to-morrow. She merely asserts her determination of going to him, and has started privately32, that nothing may hinder her; stating nothing about her route. That such a gentle thing should suddenly become so calmly resolute33 quite surprises me. Alas34, he may have left Venice—she may not find him for weeks—may not at all.
My father, on learning the facts, bade me at once have everything ready by nine this evening, in time to drive to the train that meets the night steam-boat. This I have done, and there being an hour to spare before we start, I relieve the suspense35 of waiting by taking up my pen. He says overtake her we must, and calls Charles the hardest of names. He believes, of course, that she is merely an infatuated girl rushing off to meet her lover; and how can the wretched I tell him that she is more, and in a sense better than that—yet not sufficiently more and better to make this flight to Charles anything but a still greater danger to her than a mere31 lover’s impulse. We shall go by way of Paris, and we think we may overtake her there. I hear my father walking restlessly up and down the hall, and can write no more.
点击收听单词发音
1 jot | |
n.少量;vi.草草记下;vt.匆匆写下 | |
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2 engrossing | |
adj.使人全神贯注的,引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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3 tangled | |
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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4 enacted | |
制定(法律),通过(法案)( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5 counterfeit | |
vt.伪造,仿造;adj.伪造的,假冒的 | |
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6 harassing | |
v.侵扰,骚扰( harass的现在分词 );不断攻击(敌人) | |
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7 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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8 exigencies | |
n.急切需要 | |
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9 brink | |
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
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10 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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11 constrains | |
强迫( constrain的第三人称单数 ); 强使; 限制; 约束 | |
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12 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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13 hovering | |
鸟( hover的现在分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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14 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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15 besets | |
v.困扰( beset的第三人称单数 );不断围攻;镶;嵌 | |
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16 scripture | |
n.经文,圣书,手稿;Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》,《圣经》中的一段 | |
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17 pricks | |
刺痛( prick的名词复数 ); 刺孔; 刺痕; 植物的刺 | |
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18 perversion | |
n.曲解;堕落;反常 | |
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19 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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20 peremptorily | |
adv.紧急地,不容分说地,专横地 | |
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21 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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22 peremptoriness | |
n.专横,强制,武断 | |
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23 plaintively | |
adv.悲哀地,哀怨地 | |
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24 presumption | |
n.推测,可能性,冒昧,放肆,[法律]推定 | |
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25 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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26 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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27 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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28 lurk | |
n.潜伏,潜行;v.潜藏,潜伏,埋伏 | |
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29 incipient | |
adj.起初的,发端的,初期的 | |
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30 surmised | |
v.臆测,推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 );揣测;猜想 | |
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31 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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32 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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33 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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34 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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35 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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