There were few figures better known to the local crossing-sweeper than Mr. Millborne’s, in his daily comings and goings along a familiar and quiet London street, where he lived inside the door marked eleven, though not as householder. In age he was fifty at least, and his habits were as regular as those of a person can be who has no occupation but the study of how to keep himself employed. He turned almost always to the right on getting to the end of his street, then he went onward6 down Bond Street to his club, whence he returned by precisely7 the same course about six o’clock, on foot; or, if he went to dine, later on in a cab. He was known to be a man of some means, though apparently8 not wealthy. Being a bachelor he seemed to prefer his present mode of living as a lodger9 in Mrs. Towney’s best rooms, with the use of furniture which he had bought ten times over in rent during his tenancy, to having a house of his own.
None among his acquaintance tried to know him well, for his manner and moods did not excite curiosity or deep friendship. He was not a man who seemed to have anything on his mind, anything to conceal10, anything to impart. From his casual remarks it was generally understood that he was country-born, a native of some place in Wessex; that he had come to London as a young man in a banking-house, and had risen to a post of responsibility; when, by the death of his father, who had been fortunate in his investments, the son succeeded to an income which led him to retire from a business life somewhat early.
One evening, when he had been unwell for several days, Doctor Bindon came in, after dinner, from the adjoining medical quarter, and smoked with him over the fire. The patient’s ailment11 was not such as to require much thought, and they talked together on indifferent subjects.
‘I am a lonely man, Bindon—a lonely man,’ Millborne took occasion to say, shaking his head gloomily. ‘You don’t know such loneliness as mine . . . And the older I get the more I am dissatisfied with myself. And to-day I have been, through an accident, more than usually haunted by what, above all other events of my life, causes that dissatisfaction—the recollection of an unfulfilled promise made twenty years ago. In ordinary affairs I have always been considered a man of my word and perhaps it is on that account that a particular vow12 I once made, and did not keep, comes back to me with a magnitude out of all proportion (I daresay) to its real gravity, especially at this time of day. You know the discomfort13 caused at night by the half-sleeping sense that a door or window has been left unfastened, or in the day by the remembrance of unanswered letters. So does that promise haunt me from time to time, and has done to-day particularly.’
There was a pause, and they smoked on. Millborne’s eyes, though fixed14 on the fire, were really regarding attentively15 a town in the West of England.
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I have never quite forgotten it, though during the busy years of my life it was shelved and buried under the pressure of my pursuits. And, as I say, to-day in particular, an incident in the law-report of a somewhat similar kind has brought it back again vividly16. However, what it was I can tell you in a few words, though no doubt you, as a man of the world, will smile at the thinness of my skin when you hear it . . . I came up to town at one-and-twenty, from Toneborough, in Outer Wessex, where I was born, and where, before I left, I had won the heart of a young woman of my own age. I promised her marriage, took advantage of my promise, and—am a bachelor.’
‘The old story.’
The other nodded.
‘I left the place, and thought at the time I had done a very clever thing in getting so easily out of an entanglement17. But I have lived long enough for that promise to return to bother me—to be honest, not altogether as a pricking18 of the conscience, but as a dissatisfaction with myself as a specimen19 of the heap of flesh called humanity. If I were to ask you to lend me fifty pounds, which I would repay you next midsummer, and I did not repay you, I should consider myself a shabby sort of fellow, especially if you wanted the money badly. Yet I promised that girl just as distinctly; and then coolly broke my word, as if doing so were rather smart conduct than a mean action, for which the poor victim herself, encumbered20 with a child, and not I, had really to pay the penalty, in spite of certain pecuniary21 aid that was given. There, that’s the retrospective trouble that I am always unearthing22; and you may hardly believe that though so many years have elapsed, and it is all gone by and done with, and she must be getting on for an old woman now, as I am for an old man, it really often destroys my sense of self-respect still.’
‘O, I can understand it. All depends upon the temperament23. Thousands of men would have forgotten all about it; so would you, perhaps, if you had married and had a family. Did she ever marry?’
‘I don’t think so. O no—she never did. She left Toneborough, and later on appeared under another name at Exonbury, in the next county, where she was not known. It is very seldom that I go down into that part of the country, but in passing through Exonbury, on one occasion, I learnt that she was quite a settled resident there, as a teacher of music, or something of the kind. That much I casually24 heard when I was there two or three years ago. But I have never set eyes on her since our original acquaintance, and should not know her if I met her.’
‘Did the child live?’ asked the doctor.
‘For several years, certainly,’ replied his friend. ‘I cannot say if she is living now. It was a little girl. She might be married by this time as far as years go.’
‘O yes; a sensible, quiet girl, neither attractive nor unattractive to the ordinary observer; simply commonplace. Her position at the time of our acquaintance was not so good as mine. My father was a solicitor26, as I think I have told you. She was a young girl in a music-shop; and it was represented to me that it would be beneath my position to marry her. Hence the result.’
‘Well, all I can say is that after twenty years it is probably too late to think of mending such a matter. It has doubtless by this time mended itself. You had better dismiss it from your mind as an evil past your control. Of course, if mother and daughter are alive, or either, you might settle something upon them, if you were inclined, and had it to spare.’
‘Well, I haven’t much to spare; and I have relations in narrow circumstances—perhaps narrower than theirs. But that is not the point. Were I ever so rich I feel I could not rectify27 the past by money. I did not promise to enrich her. On the contrary, I told her it would probably be dire28 poverty for both of us. But I did promise to make her my wife.’
‘Then find her and do it,’ said the doctor jocularly as he rose to leave.
‘Ah, Bindon. That, of course, is the obvious jest. But I haven’t the slightest desire for marriage; I am quite content to live as I have lived. I am a bachelor by nature, and instinct, and habit, and everything. Besides, though I respect her still (for she was not an atom to blame), I haven’t any shadow of love for her. In my mind she exists as one of those women you think well of, but find uninteresting. It would be purely29 with the idea of putting wrong right that I should hunt her up, and propose to do it off-hand.’
‘You don’t think of it seriously?’ said his surprised friend.
‘I sometimes think that I would, if it were practicable; simply, as I say, to recover my sense of being a man of honour.’
‘I wish you luck in the enterprise,’ said Doctor Bindon. ‘You’ll soon be out of that chair, and then you can put your impulse to the test. But—after twenty years of silence—I should say, don’t!’
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1 utilitarian | |
adj.实用的,功利的 | |
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2 gratuitousness | |
n.gratuitous(免费的,无偿的,无报酬的,不收酬劳的)的变形 | |
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3 exhortation | |
n.劝告,规劝 | |
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4 undone | |
a.未做完的,未完成的 | |
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5 illustrated | |
adj. 有插图的,列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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6 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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7 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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8 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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9 lodger | |
n.寄宿人,房客 | |
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10 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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11 ailment | |
n.疾病,小病 | |
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12 vow | |
n.誓(言),誓约;v.起誓,立誓 | |
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13 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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14 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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15 attentively | |
adv.聚精会神地;周到地;谛;凝神 | |
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16 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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17 entanglement | |
n.纠缠,牵累 | |
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18 pricking | |
刺,刺痕,刺痛感 | |
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19 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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20 encumbered | |
v.妨碍,阻碍,拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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22 unearthing | |
发掘或挖出某物( unearth的现在分词 ); 搜寻到某事物,发现并披露 | |
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23 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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24 casually | |
adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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25 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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26 solicitor | |
n.初级律师,事务律师 | |
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27 rectify | |
v.订正,矫正,改正 | |
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28 dire | |
adj.可怕的,悲惨的,阴惨的,极端的 | |
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29 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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