TO oblige Mr. Tyrold, who had made the arrangement with Sir Hugh, Eugenia consented to dine and spend the day at Etherington, which she quitted at night in a temper of mind perfectly1 composed.
Camilla was deeply penetrated2 by the whole of this affair. The sufferings, so utterly3 unearned by fault or by folly4, of a sister so dear to her, and the affecting fortitude5 which, so quickly upon her wounds, and at so early a period of life, she already began to display, made her blush at the dejection into which she was herself cast by every evil, and resolve to become in future more worthy6 of the father and the sister, who at this moment absorbed all her admiration7.
Too reasonable, in such a frame of mind, to plan forgetting Mandlebert, she now only determined8 to think of him as she had thought before her affections became entangled9; to think of him, in short, as he seemed himself to desire; to seek his friendly offices and advice, but to reject every offered establishment, and to live single for life.
Gratified by indulgent praise, and sustained by exerted virtue10, the revived Eugenia had nearly reached Cleves, on her return, when the carriage was stopt by a gentleman on horseback, who, approaching the coach window, said, in a low voice, as if unwilling11 to be heard by the servants–‘O, Madam! has Fate set aside her cruelty? and does Fortune permit me to live once more?’
She then recollected12 Mr. Bellamy. She had only her maid in the carriage, who was sent for her by Sir Hugh, Miss Margland being otherwise engaged.
All that had so lately passed upon her person and appearance being full upon her mind, she involuntarily shrunk back, hiding her face with her cloak.
Bellamy, by no means conceiving this mark of emotion to be unfavourable, steadied his horse, by leaning one hand on the coach-window, and said, in a yet lower voice–‘O, Madam! is it possible you can hate me so barbarously?-will you not even deign13 to look at me, though I have so long been banished14 from your presence?’
Eugenia, during this speech, called to mind, that though new, in some measure, to herself, she was not so to this gentleman, and ventured to uncover her face; when the grief painted on the fine features of Bellamy, so forcibly touched her, that she softly answered–‘No Sir, indeed I do not hate you: I am incapable15 of such ingratitude16; but I conjure–I beseech17 you to forget me!’
‘Forget you?–O, Madam! you command an impossibility! No, I am constancy itself, and not all the world united shall tear you from my heart!’
Jacob, who caught a word or two, now rode up to the other window, and as Eugenia began–‘Conquer, Sir, I entreat18 you, this ill-fated partiality!–’ told her the horses had been hard-worked, and must go home.
As Jacob was the oracle19 of Sir Hugh about his horses, his will was prescriptive law: Eugenia never disputed it, and only saying ‘Think of me, Sir, no more!’ bid the coachman drive on.
Bellamy, respectfully submitting, continued, with his hat in his hand, as the maid informed her mistress, looking after the carriage till it was out of sight.
A tender sorrow now stole upon the just revived tranquillity20 of the gentle and generous Eugenia. ‘Ah!’ thought she, ‘I have rendered, little as I seem worthy of such power, I have rendered this amiable21 man miserable22, though possibly, and probably, he is the only man in existence whom I could render happy!–Ah! how may I dare expect from Clermont a similar passion?’
Molly Mill, a very young girl, and daughter of a poor tenant23 of Sir Hugh, interrupted these reflections from time to time, with remarks upon their object. ‘Dearee me, Miss,’ she cried, ‘what a fine gentleman that was!-he sighed like to split his heart when you said, don’t think about me no more. He’s some loveyer, like, I’m sure.’
Eugenia returned home so much moved by this incident, that Sir Hugh, believing his brother himself had failed to revived her, was disturbed all anew with acute contrition24 for her disasters, and feeling very unwell, went to bed before supper time.
Eugenia retired25 also; and after spending the evening in soft compassion26 for Bellamy, and unfixed apprehensions27 and distaste for young Lynmere, was preparing to go to bed, when Molly Mill, out of breath with haste, brought her a letter.
She eagerly opened it, whilst enquiring28 whence it came.
‘O, Miss, the fine gentleman-that same fine gentleman brought it himself: and he sent for me out, and I did not know who I was to go to, for Mary only said a boy wanted me; but the boy said, I must come with him to the stile; and when I come there, who should I see but the fine gentleman himself! And he gave me this letter, and he asked me to give it you-and see! look Miss! what I got for my trouble!’
She then exhibited a half-guinea.
‘You have not done right, Molly, in accepting it. Money is bribery29; and you should have known that the letter was improperly30 addressed, if bribery was requisite31 to make it delivered.’
‘Dearee me, Miss, what’s half-a-guinea to such a gentleman as that? I dare say he’s got his pockets full of them!’
‘I shall not read it, certainly,’ cried Eugenia, ‘now I know this circumstance. Give me the wax–I will seal it again.’
She then hesitated whether she ought to return it, or shew it to her uncle, or commit it to the flames.
That to which she was most unwilling, appeared, to the strictness of her principles, to be most proper: she therefore determined that the next morning she would relate her evening’s adventure, and deliver the unread letter to Sir Hugh.
Had this epistle not perplexed32 her, she had meant never to name its writer. Persuaded her last words had finally dismissed him, she thought it a high point of female delicacy33 never to publish an unsuccessful conquest.
This resolution taken, she went to bed, satisfied with herself, but extremely grieved at the sufferings she was preparing for one who so singularly loved her.
The next morning, however, her uncle did not rise to breakfast, and was so low spirited, that fearing to disturb him, she deemed it most prudent34 to defer35 the communication.
But when, after she had taken her lesson from Dr. Orkborne, she returned to her room, she found Molly Mill impatiently waiting for her: ‘O, Miss,’ she cried, ‘here’s another letter for you! and you must read it directly, for the gentleman says if you don’t it will be the death of him.’
‘Why did you receive another letter?’ said Eugenia, displeased36.
‘Dearee me, Miss, how could I help it? if you’d seen the taking he was in, you’d have took it yourself. He was all of a quake, and ready to go down of his two knees. Dearee me, if it did not make my heart go pit-pat to see him! He was like to go out of his mind, he said, and the tears, poor gentleman, were all in his eyes. ’
Eugenia now turned away, strongly affected37 by this description.
‘Do, Miss,’ continued Molly, ‘write him a little scrap38, if it’s never so scratched and bad. He’ll take it kinder than nothing. Do, Miss, do. Don’t be ill-natured. And just read this little letter, do, Miss, do;-it won’t take you much time, you reads so nice and fast.’
‘Why,’ cried Eugenia, ‘did you go to him again? how could you so incautiously entrust39 yourself to the conduct of a strange boy?’
‘A strange boy! dearee me, Miss, don’t you know it was Tommy Hodd? I knows him well enough; I knows all the boys, I warrant me, round about here. Come, Miss, here’s pen and ink; you’ll run it off before one can count five, when you’ve a mind to it. He’ll be in a sad taking till he sees me come back.’
‘Come back? is it possible you have been so imprudent as to have promised to see him again?’
‘Dearee me, yes, Miss! he’d have made away with himself if I had not. He’d been there ever since six in the morning, without nothing to eat or drink, a riding up and down the road, till he could see me coming to the stile. And he says he’ll keep a riding there all day long, and all night too, till I goes to him.’
Eugenia conceived herself now in a situation of unexampled distress40. She forced Molly Mill to leave her, that she might deliberate what course to pursue.
Having read no novels, her imagination had never been awakened41 to scenes of this kind; and what she had gathered upon such subjects in the poetry and history she had studied with Dr. Orkborne, had only impressed her fancy in proportion as love bore the character of heroism42, and the lover that of an hero. Though highly therefore romantic, her romance was not the common adoption43 of a circulating library: it was simply that of elevated sentiments, formed by animated44 credulity playing upon youthful inexperience.
‘Alas!’ cried she, ‘what a conflict is mine! I must refuse a man who adores me to distraction45, in disregard of my unhappy defects, to cast myself under the guidance of one who, perhaps, may estimate beauty so highly as to despise me for its want!’
This idea pleaded so powerfully for Bellamy, that something like a wish to open his letters, obtained pardon to her little maid for having brought them. She suppressed, however, the desire, though she held them alternately to her eyes, conjecturing46 their contents, and bewailing for their impassioned writer the cruel answer they must receive.
Though checked by shame, she had some desire to consult Camilla; but she could not see her in time, Mrs. Arlbery having insisted upon carrying her in the evening to a play, which was to be performed, for one night only, by a company of passing strollers at Northwick.
‘My decision,’ she cried, ‘must be my own, and must be immediate47. Ah! how leave a man such as this, to wander night and day neglected and uncertain of his fate! With tears he sent me his letters!-what must not have been his despair when such was his sensibility? tears in a man!-tears, too, that could not be restrained even till his messenger was out of sight!-how touching48!–’
Her own then fell, in tender commiseration49, and it was with extreme repugnance50 she compelled herself to take such measures as she thought her duty required. She sealed the two letters in an empty cover, and having directed them to Mr. Bellamy, summoned Molly Mill, and told her to convey them to the gentleman, and positively51 acquaint him she must receive no more, and that those which were returned had never been read. She bid her, however, add, that she should always wish for his happiness, and be grateful for his kind partiality; though she earnestly conjured52 him to vanquish53 a regard which she did not deserve, and must never return.
Molly Mill would fain have remonstrated54; but Eugenia, with that firmness which, even in the first youth, accompanies a consciousness of preferring duty to inclination55, silenced, and sent her off.
Relieved for herself, now the struggle was over, she secretly rejoiced that it was not for Melmond she had so hard a part to act: and this idea, while it rendered Bellamy less an object of regret, diminished also something of her pity for his conflict, by reminding her of the success which had attended her own similar exertions56.
But when Molly returned, her distress was renewed: she brought her these words, written with a pencil upon the back of her own cover:
‘I do not dare, cruellest of your sex, to write you another letter; but if you would save me from the abyss of destruction, you will let me hear my final doom57 from your own mouth. I ask nothing more! Ah! walk but one moment in the park, near the pales; deny not your miserable adorer this last single request, and he will fly this fatal climate which has swallowed up his repose58 for ever! But, til then, here he will stay, and neither quit the spot whence he sends you these lines, till you have deigned59 to pronounce verbally his doom, though he should famish for want of food!
ALPHONSO BELLAMY.’
Eugenia read this with horrour and compassion. She imagined he perhaps thought her confined, and would therefore believe no answer that did not issue immediately from her own lips. She sent Molly to him again with the same message; but Molly returned with a yet worse account of his desperation, and a strong assurance, that if she would only utter to him a single word, he would obey, depart, and live upon it the rest of his life.
This completely softened60 her. Rather than imperiously suffer such a pattern of respectful constancy to perish, she consented to speak her own negative. But fearing she might be moved to some sympathy by his grief, she resolved to be accompanied by Camilla, and deferred61, therefore, the interview till the next day.
Molly brought back his humble62 acknowledgments for this concession63, and an account that, at last, slowly and sadly, he had ridden away.
Her feelings were now better satisfied than her understanding. She feared what she had granted was a favour; yet her heart was too tender to reproach a compliance64 made upon such conditions, and to prevent such evils.
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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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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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improperly
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| 不正确地，不适当地 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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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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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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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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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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51
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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52
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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vanquish
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| v.征服，战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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56
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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59
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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61
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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63
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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