THERE was not a sound in the room. Romayne stood, looking at the priest
“Did you hear what I said?” Father Benwell asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you understand that I really mean what I said?”
He made no reply — he waited, like a man expecting to hear more.
Father Benwell was alive to the vast importance, at such a moment, of not shrinking from the responsibility which he had assumed. “I see how I distress1 you,” he said; “but, for your sake, I am bound to speak out. Romayne! the woman whom you have married is the wife of another man. Don’t ask me how I know it — I do know it. You shall have positive proof, as soon as you have recovered. Come! rest a little in the easy-chair.”
He took Romayne’s arm, and led him to the chair, and made him drink some wine. They waited a while. Romayne lifted his head, with a heavy sigh.
“The woman whom I have married is the wife of another man.” He slowly repeated the words to himself — and then looked at Father Benwell.
“Who is the man?” he asked.
“I introduced you to him, when I was as ignorant of the circumstances as you are,” the priest answered. “The man is Mr. Bernard Winterfield.”
Romayne half raised himself from the chair. A momentary2 anger glittered in his eyes, and faded out again, extinguished by the nobler emotions of grief and shame. He remembered Winterfield’s introduction to Stella.
“Her husband!” he said, speaking again to himself. “And she let me introduce him to her. And she received him like a stranger.” He paused, and thought of it. “The proofs, if you please, sir,” he resumed, with sudden humility3. “I don’t want to hear any particulars. It will be enough for me if I know beyond all doubt that I have been deceived and disgraced.”
Father Benwell unlocked his desk and placed two papers before Romayne. He did his duty with a grave indifference4 to all minor5 considerations. The time had not yet come for expressions of sympathy and regret.
“The first paper,” he said, “is a certified6 copy of the register of the marriage of Miss Eyrecourt to Mr. Winterfield, celebrated7 (as you will see) by the English chaplain at Brussels, and witnessed by three persons. Look at the names.”
The bride’s mother was the first witness. The two names that followed were the names of Lord and Lady Loring. “They, too, in the conspiracy8 to deceive me!” Romayne said, as he laid the paper back on the table.
“I obtained that piece of written evidence,” Father Benwell proceeded, “by the help of a reverend colleague of mine, residing at Brussels. I will give you his name and address, if you wish to make further inquiries9.”
“Quite needless. What is this other paper?”
“This other paper is an extract from the short-hand writer’s notes (suppressed in the reports of the public journals) of proceedings11 in an English court of law, obtained at my request by my lawyer in London.”
“What have I to do with it?”
He put the question in a tone of passive endurance — resigned to the severest moral martyrdom that could be inflicted12 on him.
“I will answer you in two words,” said Father Benwell. “In justice to Miss Eyrecourt, I am bound to produce her excuse for marrying you.”
Romayne looked at him in stern amazement13.
“Excuse!” he repeated.
“Yes — excuse. The proceedings to which I have alluded14 declare Miss Eyrecourt’s marriage to Mr. Winterfield to be null and void — by the English law — in consequence of his having been married at the time to another woman. Try to follow me. I will put it as briefly15 as possible. In justice to yourself, and to your future career, you must understand this revolting case thoroughly16, from beginning to end.”
With those prefatory words, he told the story of Winterfield’s first marriage; altering nothing; concealing18 nothing; doing the fullest justice to Winterfield’s innocence19 of all evil motive20, from first to last. When the plain truth served his purpose, as it most assuredly did in this case, the man has never yet been found who could match Father Benwell at stripping himself of every vestige21 of reserve, and exhibiting his naked heart to the moral admiration22 of mankind.
“You were mortified23, and I was surprised,” he went on, “when Mr. Winterfield dropped his acquaintance with you. We now know that he acted like an honorable man.”
He waited to see what effect he had produced. Romayne was in no state of mind to do justice to Winterfield or to any one. His pride was mortally wounded; his high sense of honor and delicacy24 writhed25 under the outrage26 inflicted on it.
“And mind this,” Father Benwell persisted, “poor human nature has its right to all that can be justly conceded in the way of excuse and allowance. Miss Eyrecourt would naturally be advised by her friends, would naturally be eager, on her own part, to keep hidden from you what happened at Brussels. A sensitive woman, placed in a position so horribly false and degrading, must not be too severely27 judged, even when she does wrong. I am bound to say this — and more. Speaking from my own knowledge of all the parties, I have no doubt that Miss Eyrecourt and Mr. Winterfield did really part at the church door.”
Romayne answered by a look — so disdainfully expressive28 of the most immovable unbelief that it absolutely justified29 the fatal advice by which Stella’s worldly-wise friends had encouraged her to conceal17 the truth. Father Benwell prudently30 closed his lips. He had put the case with perfect fairness — his bitterest enemy could not have denied that.
Romayne took up the second paper, looked at it, and threw it back again on the table with an expression of disgust.
“You told me just now,” he said, “that I was married to the wife of another man. And there is the judge’s decision, releasing Miss Eyrecourt from her marriage to Mr. Winterfield. May I ask you to explain yourself?”
“Certainly. Let me first remind you that you owe religious allegiance to the principles which the Church has asserted, for centuries past, with all the authority of its divine institution. You admit that?”
“I admit it.”
“Now, listen! In our church, Romayne, marriage is even more than a religious institution — it is a sacrament. We acknowledge no human laws which profane31 that sacrament. Take two examples of what I say. When the great Napoleon was at the height of his power, Pius the Seventh refused to acknowledge the validity of the Emperor’s second marriage to Maria Louisa — while Josephine was living, divorced by the French Senate. Again, in the face of the Royal Marriage Act, the Church sanctioned the marriage of Mrs. Fitzherbert to George the Fourth, and still declares, in justice to her memory, that she was the king’s lawful32 wife. In one word, marriage, to be marriage at all, must be the object of a purely33 religious celebration — and, this condition complied with, marriage is only to be dissolved by death. You remember what I told you of Mr. Winterfield?”
“Yes. His first marriage took place before the registrar34.”
“In plain English, Romayne, Mr. Winterfield and the woman-rider in the circus pronounced a formula of words before a layman35 in an office. That is not only no marriage, it is a blasphemous36 profanation37 of a holy rite10. Acts of Parliament which sanction such proceedings are acts of infidelity. The Church declares it, in defense38 of religion.”
“I understand you,” said Romayne. “Mr. Winterfield’s marriage at Brussels —”
“Which the English law,” Father Benwell interposed, “declares to be annulled39 by the marriage before the registrar, stands good, nevertheless, by the higher law of the Church. Mr. Winterfield is Miss Eyrecourt’s husband, as long as they both live. An ordained40 priest performed the ceremony in a consecrated41 building — and Protestant marriages, so celebrated, are marriages acknowledged by the Catholic Church. Under those circumstances, the ceremony which afterward42 united you to Miss Eyrecourt — though neither you nor the clergyman were to blame — was a mere43 mockery. Need I to say any more? Shall I leave you for a while by yourself?”
“No! I don’t know what I may think, I don’t know what I may do, if you leave me by myself.”
Father Benwell took a chair by Romayne’s side. “It has been my hard duty to grieve and humiliate44 you,” he said. “Do you bear me no ill will?” He held out his hand.
Romayne took it — as an act of justice, if not as an act of gratitude45.
“Can I be of any use in advising you?” Father Benwell asked.
“Who can advise a man in my position?” Romayne bitterly rejoined.
“I can at least suggest that you should take time to think over your position.”
“Time? take time? You talk as if my situation was endurable.”
“Everything is endurable, Romayne!”
“It may be so to you, Father Benwell. Did you part with your humanity when you put on the black robe of the priest?”
“I parted, my son, with those weaknesses of our humanity on which women practice. You talk of your position. I will put it before you at its worst.”
“For what purpose?”
“To show you exactly what you have now to decide. Judged by the law of England, Mrs. Romayne is your wife. Judged by the principles held sacred among the religious community to which you belong, she is not Mrs. Romayne — she is Mrs. Winterfield, living with you in adultery. If you regret your conversion46 —”
“I don’t regret it, Father Benwell.”
“If you renounce47 the holy aspirations48 which you have yourself acknowledged to me, return to your domestic life. But don’t ask us, while you are living with that lady, to respect you as a member of our communion.”
Romayne was silent. The more violent emotions aroused in him had, with time, subsided49 into calm. Tenderness, mercy, past affection, found their opportunity, and pleaded with him. The priest’s bold language had missed the object at which it aimed. It had revived in Romayne’s memory the image of Stella in the days when he had first seen her. How gently her influence had wrought50 on him for good! how tenderly, how truly, she had loved him. “Give me some more wine!” he cried. “I feel faint and giddy. Don’t despise me, Father Benwell — I was once so fond of her!”
The priest poured out the wine. “I feel for you,” he said. “Indeed, indeed, I feel for you.”
It was not all a lie — there were grains of truth in that outburst of sympathy. Father Benwell was not wholly merciless. His far-seeing intellect, his daring duplicity, carried him straight on to his end in view. But, that end once gained — and, let it be remembered, not gained, in this case, wholly for himself — there were compassionate51 impulses left in him which sometimes forced their way to the surface. A man of high intelligence — however he may misuse52 it, however unworthy he may be of it — has a gift from Heaven. When you want to see unredeemed wickedness, look for it in a fool.
“Let me mention one circumstance,” Father Benwell proceeded, “which may help to relieve you for the moment. In your present state of mind, you cannot return to The Retreat.”
“Impossible!”
“I have had a room prepared for you in this house. Here, free from any disturbing influence, you can shape the future course of your life. If you wish to communicate with your residence at Highgate —”
“Don’t speak of it!”
Father Benwell sighed. “Ah, I understand!” he said, sadly. “The house associated with Mr. Winterfield’s visit —”
Romayne again interrupted him — this time by gesture only. The hand that had made the sign clinched53 itself when it rested afterward on the table. His eyes looked downward, under frowning brows. At the name of Winterfield, remembrances that poisoned every better influence in him rose venomously in his mind. Once more he loathed54 the deceit that had been practiced on him. Once more the detestable doubt of that asserted parting at the church door renewed its stealthy torment55, and reasoned with him as if in words: She has deceived you in one thing; why not in another?
“Can I see my lawyer here?” he asked, suddenly.
“My dear Romayne, you can see any one whom you like to invite.”
“I shall not trouble you by staying very long, Father Benwell.”
“Do nothing in a hurry, my son. Pray do nothing in a hurry!”
Romayne paid no attention to this entreaty56. Shrinking from the momentous57 decision that awaited him, his mind instinctively58 took refuge in the prospect59 of change of scene. “I shall leave England,” he said, impatiently.
“Not alone!” Father Benwell remonstrated60.
“Who will be my companion?”
“I will,” the priest answered.
Romayne’s weary eyes brightened faintly. In his desolate61 position, Father Benwell was the one friend on whom he could rely. Penrose was far away; the Lorings had helped to keep him deceived; Major Hynd had openly pitied and despised him as a victim to priestcraft.
“Can you go with me at any time?” he asked. “Have you no duties that keep you in England?”
“My duties, Romayne, are already confided62 to other hands.”
“Then you have foreseen this?”
“I have thought it possible. Your journey may be long, or it may be short — you shall not go away alone.”
“I can think of nothing yet; my mind is a blank,” Romayne confessed sadly. “I don’t know where I shall go.”
“I know where you ought to go — and where you will go,” said Father Benwell, emphatically.
“Where?”
“To Rome.”
Romayne understood the true meaning of that brief reply. A vague sense of dismay began to rise in his mind. While he was still tortured by doubt, it seemed as if Father Benwell had, by some inscrutable process of prevision, planned out his future beforehand. Had the priest foreseen events?
No — he had only foreseen possibilities, on the day when it first occurred to him that Romayne’s marriage was assailable63, before the court of Romayne’s conscience, from the Roman Catholic point of view. By this means, the misfortune of Romayne’s marriage having preceded his conversion might be averted64; and the one certain obstacle in the way of any change of purpose on his part — the obstacle of the priesthood — might still be set up, by the voluntary separation of the husband from the wife. Thus far the Jesuit had modestly described himself to his reverend colleagues, as regarding his position toward Romayne in a new light. His next letter might boldly explain to them what he had really meant. The triumph was won. Not a word more passed between his guest and himself that morning.
Before post-time, on the same day, Father Benwell wrote his last report to the Secretary of the Society of Jesus, in these lines:
“Romayne is free from the domestic ties that bound him. He leaves it to me to restore Vange Abbey to the Church; and he acknowledges a vocation65 for the priesthood. Expect us at Rome in a fortnight’s time.”
收听单词发音 |
1
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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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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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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annulled
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| v.宣告无效( annul的过去式和过去分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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40
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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48
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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49
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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50
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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51
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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52
misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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53
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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54
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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55
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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56
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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57
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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58
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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60
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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61
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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62
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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assailable
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| adj.可攻击的，易攻击的 | |
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64
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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