John Mellish made himself entirely1 at home in the little Leamington circle after this interview with Mr. Floyd. No one could have been more tender in his manner, more respectful, untiring, and devoted2, than was this rough Yorkshireman to the broken old man. Archibald must have been less than human had he not in somewise returned this devotion, and it is therefore scarcely to be wondered that he became very warmly attached to his daughter’s adorer. Had John Mellish been the most designing disciple3 of Machiavelli, instead of the most transparent4 and candid5 of living creatures, I scarcely think he could have adopted a truer means of making for himself a claim upon the gratitude6 of Aurora7 Floyd than by the affection he evinced for her father. And this affection was as genuine as all else in that simple nature. How could he do otherwise than love Aurora’s father? He was her father. He had a sublime8 claim upon the devotion of the man who loved her — who loved her as John loved — unreservedly, undoubtingly, childishly; with such blind, unquestioning love as an infant feels for its mother. There may be better women than that mother, perhaps, but who shall make the child believe so?
John Mellish could not argue with himself upon his passion as Talbot Bulstrode had done. He could not separate himself from his love, and reason with the mild madness. How could he divide himself from that which was himself — more than himself — a diviner self? He asked no questions about the past life of the woman he loved. He never sought to know the secret of Talbot’s departure from Felden. He saw her, beautiful, fascinating, perfect, and he accepted her as a great and wonderful fact, like the moon and the stars shining down on the rustic9 flower-beds and espaliered garden-walks in the balmy June nights.
So the tranquil10 days glided11 slowly and monotonously12 past that quiet circle. Aurora bore her silent burden — bore her trouble with a grand courage, peculiar13 to such rich organizations as her own, and none knew whether the serpent had been rooted from her breast, or had made for himself a permanent home in her heart. The banker’s most watchful14 care could not fathom15 the womanly mystery; but there were times when Archibald Floyd ventured to hope that his daughter was at peace, and Talbot Bulstrode wellnigh forgotten. In any case, it was wise to keep her away from Felden Woods; so Mr. Floyd proposed a tour through Normandy to his daughter and Mrs. Powell. Aurora consented, with a tender smile and gentle pressure of her father’s hand. She divined the old man’s motive16, and recognized the all-watchful love which sought to carry her from the scene of her trouble. John Mellish, who was not invited to join the party, burst forth17 into such raptures19 at the proposal that it would have required considerable hardness of heart to have refused his escort. He knew every inch of Normandy, he said, and promised to be of infinite use to Mr. Floyd and his daughter; which, seeing that his knowledge of Normandy had been acquired in his attendance at the Dieppe steeple-chases, and that his acquaintance with the French language was very limited, seemed rather doubtful. But, for all this, he contrived20 to keep his word. He went up to town and hired an all-accomplished courier, who conducted the little party from town to village, from church to ruin, and who could always find relays of Normandy horses for the banker’s roomy travelling carriage. The little party travelled from place to place until pale gleams of color returned in transient flushes to Aurora’s cheeks. Grief is terribly selfish. I fear that Miss Floyd never took into consideration the havoc21 that might be going on in the great, honest heart of John Mellish. I dare say that if she had ever considered the matter, she would have thought that a broad-shouldered Yorkshireman of six feet two could never suffer seriously from such a passion as love. She grew accustomed to his society; accustomed to have his strong arm handy for her to lean upon when she grew tired; accustomed to his carrying her sketch-book, and shawls, and camp-stools; accustomed to be waited upon by him all day, and served faithfully by him at every turn; taking his homage22 as a thing of course, but making him superlatively and dangerously happy by her tacit acceptance of it.
September was half gone when they bent23 their way homeward, lingering for a few days at Dieppe, where the bathers were splashing about in semi-theatrical costume, and the Etablissement des Bains was all aflame with colored lanterns and noisy with nightly concerts.
The early autumnal days were glorious in their balmy beauty. The best part of a year had gone by since Talbot Bulstrode had bade Aurora that adieu which, in one sense at least, was to be eternal. They two, Aurora and Talbot, might meet again, it is true. They might meet, ay, and even be cordial and friendly together, and do each other good service in some dim time to come; but the two lovers who had parted in the little bay-windowed room at Felden Woods could never meet again. Between them there was death and the grave.
Perhaps some such thoughts as these had their place in the breast of Aurora Floyd as she sat with John Mellish at her side, looking down upon the varied24 landscape from the height upon which the ruined walls of the Chateau25 d’Arques still rear the proud memorials of a day that is dead. I don’t suppose that the banker’s daughter troubled herself much about Henry the Fourth, or any other dead and gone celebrity26 who may have left the impress of his name upon that spot. She felt a tranquil sense of the exquisite27 purity and softness of the air, the deep blue of the cloudless sky, the spreading woods and grassy28 plains, the orchards29, where the trees were rosy30 with their plenteous burden, the tiny streamlets, the white villa-like cottages and struggling gardens, outspread in a fair panorama31 beneath her. Carried out of her sorrow by the sensuous32 rapture18 we derive33 from nature, and for the first time discovering in herself a vague sense of happiness, she began to wonder how it was she had outlived her grief by so many months.
She had never, during those weary months, heard of Talbot Bulstrode. Any change might have come to him without her knowledge. He might have married — might have chosen a prouder and worthier34 bride to share his lofty name. She might meet him on her return to England, with that happier woman leaning upon his arm. Would some good-natured friend tell the bride how Talbot had loved and wooed the banker’s daughter? Aurora found herself pitying this happier woman, who would, after all, win but the second love of that proud heart — the pale reflection of a sun that has set; the feeble glow of expiring embers when the great blaze has died out. They had made her a couch with shawls and carriage-rugs, outspread upon a rustic seat, for she was still far from strong, and she lay in the bright September sunshine, looking down at the fair landscape, and listening to the hum of beetles35 and the chirp36 of grasshoppers37 upon the smooth turf.
Her father had walked to some distance with Mrs. Powell, who explored every crevice38 and cranny of the ruins with the dutiful perseverance39 peculiar to commonplace people; but faithful John Mellish never stirred from her side. He was watching her musing40 face, trying to read its meaning — trying to gather a gleam of hope from some chance expression floating across it. Neither he nor she knew how long he had watched her thus, when, turning to speak to him about the landscape at her feet, she found him on his knees imploring41 her to have pity upon him, and to love him, or to let him love her, which was much the same.
“I don’t expect you to love me, Aurora,” he said, passionately42; “how should you? What is there in a big, clumsy fellow like me to win your love? I don’t ask that. I only ask you to let me love you, to let me worship you, as the people we see kneeling in the churches here worship their saints. You won’t drive me away from you, will you, Aurora, because I presume to forget what you said to me that cruel day at Brighton? You would never have suffered me to stay with you so long, and to be so happy, if you had meant to drive me away at the last! You never could have been so cruel!”
Miss Floyd looked at him with a sudden terror in her face. What was this? What had she done? More wrong, more mischief43! Was her life to be one of perpetual wrong-doing? Was she to be for ever bringing sorrow upon good people? Was this John Mellish to be another sufferer by her folly44?
“Oh, forgive me!” she cried, “forgive me! I never thought —”
“You never thought that every day spent by your side must make the anguish45 of parting from you more cruelly bitter. Oh, Aurora, women should think of these things! Send me away from you, and what shall I be for the rest of my life? a broken man, fit for nothing better than the race-course and the betting-rooms; a reckless man, ready to go to the bad by any road that can take me there — worthless alike to myself and to others. You must have seen such men, Aurora; men whose unblemished youth promised an honorable manhood, but who break up all of a sudden, and go to ruin in a few years of mad dissipation. Nine times out of ten a woman is the cause of that sudden change. I lay my life at your feet, Aurora; I offer you more than my heart — I offer you my destiny. Do with it as you will.”
He rose in his agitation46, and walked a few paces away from her. The grass-grown battlements sloped away from his feet; outer and inner moat lay below him, at the bottom of a steep declivity47. What a convenient place for suicide, if Aurora should refuse to take pity upon him! The reader must allow that he had availed himself of considerable artifice48 in addressing Miss Floyd. His appeal had taken the form of an accusation49 rather than a prayer, and he had duly impressed upon this poor girl the responsibility she would incur50 in refusing him. And this, I take it, is a meanness of which men are often guilty in their dealings with the weaker sex.
Miss Floyd looked up at her lover with a quiet, half-mournful smile.
“Sit down there, Mr. Mellish,” she said, pointing to a camp-stool at her side.
John took the indicated seat, very much with the air of a prisoner in a criminal dock about to answer for his life.
“Shall I tell you a secret?” asked Aurora, looking compassionately51 at his pale face.
“A secret?”
“Yes; the secret of my parting with Talbot Bulstrode. It was not I who dismissed him from Felden; it was he who refused to fulfil his engagement with me.”
She spoke52 slowly, in a low voice, as if it were painful to her to say the words which told of so much humiliation53.
“He did!” cried John Mellish, rising, red and furious, from his seat, eager to run to look for Talbot Bulstrode then and there, in order to inflict54 chastisement55 upon him.
“He did, John Mellish, and he was justified56 in doing so,” answered Aurora, gravely. “You would have done the same.”
“Oh, Aurora, Aurora!”
“You would. You are as good a man as he, and why should your sense of honor be less strong than his? A barrier arose between Talbot Bulstrode and me, and separated us for ever. That barrier was a secret.”
She told him of the missing year in her young life; how Talbot had called upon her for an explanation, and how she had refused to give it. John listened to her with a thoughtful face, which broke out into sunshine as she turned to him and said,
“How would you have acted in such a case, Mr. Mellish?”
“How should I have acted, Aurora? I should have trusted you. But I can give you a better answer to your question, Aurora. I can answer it by a renewal57 of the prayer I made you five minutes ago. Be my wife.”
“In spite of this secret?”
“In spite of a hundred secrets. I could not love you as I do, Aurora, if I did not believe you to be all that is best and purest in woman. I can not believe this one moment, and doubt you the next. I give my life and honor into your hands. I would not confide58 them to the woman whom I could insult by a doubt.”
His handsome Saxon face was radiant with love and trustfulness when he spoke. All his patient devotion, so long unheeded, or accepted as a thing of course, recurred59 to Aurora’s mind. Did he not deserve some reward, some requital60, for all this? But there was one who was nearer and dearer to her, dearer than even Talbot Bulstrode had ever been, and that one was the white-haired old man pottering about among the ruins on the other side of the grassy platform.
“Does my father know of this, Mr. Mellish?” she asked.
“He does, Aurora. He has promised to accept me as his son; and Heaven knows I will try to deserve that name. Do not let me distress61 you, Aurora. The murder is out now. You know that I still love you, still hope. Let time do the rest.”
She held out both her hands to him with a tearful smile. He took those little hands in his own broad palms, and, bending down, kissed them reverently62.
“You are right,” she said; “let time do the rest. You are worthy63 of the love of a better woman than me, John Mellish; but, with the help of Heaven, I will never give you cause to regret having trusted me.”
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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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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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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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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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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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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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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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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requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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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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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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