There was no more happiness for Talbot Bulstrode that day. He wandered from room to room till he was as weary of that exercise as the young lady in Monk1 Lewis’s Castle Spectre; he roamed forlornly hither and thither2, hoping to find Aurora3, now in the billiard-room, now in the drawing-room. He loitered in the hall upon the shallow pretence4 of looking at barometers5 and thermometers, in order to listen for the opening and shutting of Aurora’s door. All the doors at Felden Woods were perpetually opening and shutting that afternoon, as it seemed to Talbot Bulstrode. He had no excuse for passing the doors of Miss Floyd’s apartments, for his own rooms lay at the opposite angle of the house; but he lingered on the broad staircase, looking at the furniture-pictures upon the walls, and not seeing one line in these Wardour-street productions. He had hoped that Aurora would appear at luncheon6; but that dismal7 meal had been eaten without her; and the merry laughter and pleasant talk of the family assembly had sounded far away to Talbot’s ears — far away across some wide ocean of doubt and confusion.
He passed the afternoon in this wretched manner, unobserved by any one but Lucy, who watched him furtively8 from her distant seat, as he roamed in and out of the drawing-room. Ah! how many a man is watched by loving eyes whose light he never sees! how many a man is cared for by a tender heart whose secret he never learns! A little after dusk, Talbot Bulstrode went to his room to dress. It was some time before the bell would ring; but he would dress early, he thought, so as to make sure of being in the drawing-room when Aurora came down.
He took no light with him, for there were always wax candles upon the chimney-piece in his room.
It was almost dark in that pleasant chintz chamber9, for the fire had been lately replenished10, and there was no blaze; but he could just distinguish a white patch upon the green cloth cover of the writing-table. The white patch was a letter. He stirred the black mass of coal in the grate, and a bright flame went dancing up the chimney, making the room as light as day. He took the letter in one hand, while he lighted one of the candles on the chimney-piece with the other. The letter was from his mother. Aurora Floyd had told him that he would receive such a letter. What did it all mean? The gay flowers and birds upon the papered walls spun11 round him as he tore open the envelope. I firmly believe that we have a semi-supernatural prescience of the coming of all misfortune; a prophetic instinct, which tells us that such a letter, or such a messenger, carries evil tidings. Talbot Bulstrode had that prescience as he unfolded the paper in his hands. The horrible trouble was before him — a brooding shadow, with a veiled face, ghastly and undefined; but it was there.
“MY DEAR TALBOT— I know the letter I am about to write will distress12 and perplex you; but my duty lies not the less plainly before me. I fear that your heart is much involved in your engagement to Miss Floyd.” The evil tidings concerned Aurora, then; the brooding shadow was slowly lifting its dark veil, and the face of her he loved best on earth appeared behind it. “But I know,” continued that pitiless letter, “that the sense of honor is the strongest part of your nature, and that, however you may have loved this girl” (O God, she spoke13 of his love in the past!) “you will not suffer yourself to be entrapped14 into a false position through any weakness of affection. There is some mystery about the life of Aurora Floyd.”
This sentence was at the bottom of the first page; and, before Talbot Bulstrode’s shaking hand could turn the leaf, every doubt, every fear, every presentiment15 he had ever felt flashed back upon him with preternatural distinctness.
“Constance Trevyllian came here yesterday; and you may imagine that in the course of the evening you were spoken of, and your engagement discussed.”
A curse upon their frivolous16 women’s gossip! Talbot crushed the letter in his hand, and was about to fling it from him; but, no, it must be read. The shadow of doubt must be faced, and wrestled18 with, and vanquished19, or there was no more peace upon this earth for him. He went on reading the letter.
“I told Constance that Miss Floyd had been educated in the Rue20 St. Dominique, and asked if she remembered her. ‘What!’ she said, ‘is it the Miss Floyd whom there was such a fuss about? the Miss Floyd who ran away from school?’ And then she told me, Talbot, that a Miss Floyd was brought to the Demoiselles Lespard by her father last June twelvemonth, and that less than a fortnight after arriving at the school she disappeared; her disappearance21, of course, causing a great sensation and an immense deal of talk among the other pupils, as it was said she had run away. The matter was hushed up as much as possible; but you know that girls will talk, and from what Constance tells me, I imagine that very unpleasant things were said about Miss Floyd. Now you say that the banker’s daughter only returned to Felden Woods in September last. Where was she in the interval22?“
He read no more. One glance told him that the rest of the letter consisted of motherly cautions and admonitions as to how he was to act in this perplexing business.
He thrust the crumpled23 paper into his bosom24, and dropped into a chair by the hearth25.
It was so, then! There was a mystery in the life of this woman. The doubts and suspicious, the undefined fears and perplexities, which had held him back at the first, and caused him to wrestle17 against his love, had not been unfounded. There was good reason for them all, ample reason for them, as there is for every instinct which Providence26 puts into our hearts. A black wall rose up round about him, and shut him for ever from the woman he loved; this woman whom he loved so far from wisely, so fearfully well; this woman, for whom he had thanked God in the church only a few hours before. And she was to have been his wife — the mother of his children perhaps. He clasped his cold hands over his face, and sobbed28 aloud. Do not despise him for those drops of anguish29: they were the virgin30 tears of his manhood. Never since infancy31 had his eyes been wet before. God forbid that such tears as those should be shed more than once in a lifetime. The agony of that moment was not to be lived through twice. The hoarse32 sobs33 rent and tore his breast as if his flesh had been hacked34 by a rusty35 sword; and, when he took his wet hands from his face, he wondered that they were not red, for it seemed to him as if he had been weeping blood. What should he do?
Go to Aurora, and ask her the meaning of that letter? Yes; the course was plain enough. A tumult36 of hope rushed back upon him, and swept away his terror. Why was he so ready to doubt her? What a pitiful coward he was to suspect her — to suspect this girl, whose transparent37 soul had been so freely unveiled to him; whose every accent was truth! For, in his intercourse38 with Aurora, the quality which he had learned most to reverence39 in her nature was its sublime40 candor41. He almost laughed at the recollection of his mother’s solemn letter. It was so like these simple country people, whose lives had been bounded by the narrow limits of a Cornish village — it was so like them to make mountains out of the veriest mole-hills. What was there so wonderful in that which had occurred? The spoiled child, the wilful42 heiress, had grown tired of a foreign school, and had run away. Her father, not wishing the girlish escapade to be known, had placed her somewhere else, and had kept her folly43 a secret. What was there from first to last in the whole affair that was not perfectly44 natural and probable, the exceptional circumstances of the case duly considered?
He could fancy Aurora, with her cheeks in a flame, and her eyes flashing lightning, flinging a page of blotted45 exercises into the face of her French master, and running out of the school-room amid a tumult of ejaculatory babble46. The beautiful, impetuous creature! There is nothing a man can not admire in the woman he loves, and Talbot was half inclined to admire Aurora for having run away from school.
The first dinner-bell had rung during Captain Bulstrode’s agony; so the corridors and rooms were deserted47 when he went to look for Aurora, with his mother’s letter in his breast.
She was not in the billiard-room nor the drawing-room, but he found her at last in a little inner chamber at the end of the house, with a bay-window looking out over the park. The room was dimly lighted by a shaded lamp, and Miss Floyd was seated in the uncurtained window, with her elbow resting on a cushioned ledge48, looking out at the steel-cold wintry sky and the whitened landscape. She was dressed in black, her face, neck, and arms gleaming marble-white against the sombre hue49 of her dress, and her attitude was as still as that of a statue.
She neither stirred nor looked round when Talbot entered the room.
“My dear Aurora,” he said, “I have been looking for you everywhere.”
She shivered at the sound of his voice.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, dearest. I want you to explain something to me. A foolish business enough, no doubt, my darling, and, of course, very easily explained; but, as your future husband, I have a right to ask for an explanation; and I know, I know, Aurora, that you will give it in all candor.”
She did not speak, although Talbot paused for some moments, awaiting her answer. He could only see her profile, dimly lighted by the wintry sky. He could not see the mute pain, the white anguish in that youthful face.
“I have had a letter from my mother, and there is something in that letter which I wish you to explain. Shall I read it to you, dearest?”
His voice faltered50 upon the endearing expression, and he remembered afterward51 that it was the last time he had ever addressed her with a lover’s tenderness. The day came when she had need of his compassion52, and when he gave it freely; but that moment sounded the death-knell of Love. In that moment the gulf53 yawned, and the cliffs were rent asunder54.
“Shall I read you the letter, Aurora?”
“If you please.”
He took the crumpled epistle from his bosom, and, bending over the lamp, read it aloud to Aurora. He fully27 expected at every sentence that she would interrupt him with some eager explanation; but she was silent until he had finished, and even then she did not speak.
“Aurora, Aurora, is this true?”
“Perfectly true.”
“But why did you run away from the Rue St. Dominique?”
“I can not tell you.”
“And where were you between the month of June in the year fifty-six and last September?”
“I can not tell you, Talbot Bulstrode. This is my secret, which I can not tell you.”
“You can not tell me! There is upward of a year missing from your life, and you can not tell me, your betrothed55 husband, what you did with that year?”
“I can not.”
“Then, Aurora Floyd, you can never be my wife.”
He thought that she would turn upon him, sublime in her indignation and fury, and that the explanation he longed for would burst from her lips in a passionate56 torrent57 of angry words; but she rose from her chair, and, tottering58 toward him, fell upon her knees at his feet. No other action could have struck such terror to his heart. It seemed to him a confession59 of guilt60. But what guilt? what guilt? What was the dark secret of this young creature’s brief life?
“Talbot Bulstrode,” she said in a tremulous voice, which cut him to the soul, “Talbot Bulstrode, Heaven knows how often I have foreseen and dreaded61 this hour. Had I not been a coward, I should have anticipated this explanation. But I thought — I thought the occasion might never come, or that, when it did come, you would be generous — and — trust me. If you can trust me, Talbot — if you can believe that this secret is not utterly62 shameful63 —”
“Not utterly shameful!” he cried. “O God, Aurora, that I should ever hear you talk like this! Do you think there are any degrees in these things? There must be no secret between my wife and me; and the day that a secret, or the shadow of one, arises between us, must see us part for ever. Rise from your knees, Aurora; you are killing64 me with this shame and humiliation65. Rise from your knees; and if we are to part this moment, tell me, tell me, for pity’s sake, that I have no need to despise myself for having loved you with an intensity66 which has scarcely been manly67.”
She did not obey him, but sank lower in her half kneeling, half crouching68 attitude, her face buried in her hands, and only the coils of her black hair visible to Captain Bulstrode.
“I was motherless from my cradle, Talbot,” she said, in a half stifled69 voice. “Have pity upon me.”
“Pity!” echoed the captain; ”pity! Why do you not ask me for justice? One question, Aurora Floyd, one more question, perhaps the last I ever may ask of you — Does your father know why you left that school, and where you were during that twelvemonth?”
“He does.”
“Thank God, at least, for that! Tell me, Aurora, then, only tell me this, and I will believe your simple word as I would the oath of another woman — tell me if he approved of your motive70 in leaving that school — if he approved of the manner in which your life was spent during that twelvemonth. If you can say yes, Aurora, there shall be no more questions between us, and I can make you, without fear, my loved and honored wife.”
“I can not,” she answered. “I am only nineteen, but within the two last years of my life I have done enough to break my father’s heart — to break the heart of the dearest father that ever breathed the breath of life.”
“Then all is over between us. God forgive you, Aurora Floyd; but, by your own confession, you are no fit wife for an honorable man. I shut my mind against all foul71 suspicions; but the past life of my wife must be a white, unblemished page, which all the world may be free to read.”
He walked toward the door, and then, returning, assisted the wretched girl to rise, and led her back to her seat by the window, courteously72, as if she had been his partner at a ball. Their hands met with as icy a touch as the hands of two corpses73. Ah! how much there was of death in that touch! How much had died between those two within the last few hours — hope, confidence, security, love, happiness, all that makes life worth the holding.
Talbot Bulstrode paused upon the threshold of the little chamber, and spoke once more.
“I shall have left Felden in half an hour, Miss Floyd,” he said; “it will be better to allow your father to suppose that the disagreement between us has arisen from something of a trifling74 nature, and that my dismissal has come from you. I shall write to Mr. Floyd from London, and, if you please, I will so word my letter as to lead him to think this.”
“You are very good,” she answered. “Yes, I would rather that he should think that. It may spare him pain. Heaven knows I have cause to be grateful for anything that will do that.”
Talbot bowed, and left the room, closing the door behind him. The closing of that door had a dismal sound to his ear. He thought of some frail75 young creature abandoned by her sister-nuns in a living tomb. He thought that he would rather have left Aurora lying rigidly76 beautiful in her coffin77 than as he was leaving her to-day.
The jangling, jarring sound of the second dinner-bell clanged out as he went from the semi-obscurity of the corridor into the glaring gas-light of the billiard-room. He met Lucy Floyd coming toward him in her rustling78 silk dinner-dress, with fringes, and laces, and ribbons, and jewels fluttering and sparkling about her, and he almost hated her for looking so bright and radiant, remembering, as he did, the ghastly face of the stricken creature he had just left. We are apt to be horribly unjust in the hour of supreme79 trouble, and I fear that if any one had had the temerity80 to ask Talbot Bulstrode’s opinion of Lucy Floyd just at that moment, the captain would have declared her to be a mass of frivolity81 and affectation. If you discover the worthlessness of the only woman you love upon earth, you will perhaps be apt to feel maliciously82 disposed toward the many estimable people about you. You are savagely83 inclined when you remember that they for whom you care nothing are so good, while she on whom you set your soul is so wicked. The vessel84 which you freighted with every hope of your heart has gone down, and you are angry at the very sight of those other ships riding so gallantly85 before the breeze. Lucy recoiled86 at the aspect of the young man’s face.
“What is it?” she asked; “what has happened, Captain Bulstrode?”
“Nothing; I have received a letter from Cornwall which obliges me to —”
His hollow voice died away into a hoarse whisper before he could finish the sentence.
“Lady Bulstrode — or Sir John — is ill, perhaps?” hazarded Lucy.
Talbot pointed87 to his white lips and shook his head. The gesture might mean anything. He could not speak. The hall was full of visitors and children going into dinner. The little people were to dine with their seniors that day, as an especial treat and privilege of the season. The door of the dining-room was open, and Talbot saw the gray head of Archibald Floyd dimly visible at the end of a long vista88 of lights, and silver, and glass, and evergreens89. The old man had his nephews and nieces, and their children grouped about him, but the place at his right hand, the place Aurora was meant to fill, was vacant. Captain Bulstrode turned away from that gayly-lighted scene and ran up the staircase to his room, where he found his servant waiting with his master’s clothes laid out, wondering why he had not come to dress.
The man fell back at the sight of Talbot’s face, ghastly in the light of the wax candles on the dressing-table.
“I am going away, Philman,” said the captain, speaking very fast, and in a thick, indistinct voice. “I am going down to Cornwall by the express to-night, if I can get to town in time to catch the train. Pack my clothes and come after me. You can join me at the Paddington Station. I shall walk up to Beckenham, and take the first train for town. Here, give this to the servants for me, will you?”
He took a confused heap of gold and silver from his pocket, and dropped it into the man’s hand.
“Nothing wrong at Bulstrode, I hope, sir?” said the servant. “Is Sir John ill?”
“No, no; I’ve had a letter from my mother — I— you’ll find me at the Great Western.”
He snatched up his hat, and was hurrying from the room; but the man followed him with his great-coat.
“You’ll catch your death, sir, on such a night as this,” the servant said, in a tone of respectful remonstrance90.
The banker was standing91 at the door of the dining-room when Talbot crossed the hall. He was telling a servant to look for his daughter.
“We are all waiting for Miss Floyd,” the old man said; “we can not begin dinner without Miss Floyd.”
Unobserved in the confusion, Talbot opened the great door softly, and let himself out into the cold winter’s night. The long terrace was all ablaze92 with the lights in the high, narrow windows, as upon the night when he had first come to Felden; and before him lay the park, the trees bare and leafless, the ground white with a thin coating of snow, the sky above gray and starless — a cold and desolate93 expanse, in dreary94 contrast with the warmth and brightness behind. All this was typical of the crisis of his life. He was leaving warm love and hope for cold resignation or icy despair. He went down the terrace-steps, across the trim garden-walks, and out into that wide, mysterious park. The long avenue was ghostly in the gray light, the tracery of the interlacing branches above his head making black shadows, that flickered95 to and fro upon the whitened ground beneath his feet. He walked for a quarter of a mile before he looked back at the lighted windows behind him. He did not turn until a wind in the avenue had brought him to a spot from which he could see the dimly-lighted bay-window of the room in which he had left Aurora. He stood for some time looking at this feeble glimmer96, and thinking — thinking of all he had lost, or all he had perhaps escaped — thinking of what his life was to be henceforth without that woman — thinking that he would rather have been the poorest ploughboy in Beckenham parish than the heir of Bulstrode, if he could have taken the girl he loved to his heart, and believed in her truth.
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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barometers
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| 气压计，晴雨表( barometer的名词复数 ) | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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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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entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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presentiment
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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rue
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disappearance
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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crumpled
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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hearth
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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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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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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hacked
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rusty
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tumult
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transparent
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intercourse
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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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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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ledge
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hue
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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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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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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