The stealthy influence of distrust fastens its hold on the mind by slow degrees. Little by little it reaches its fatal end, and disguises delusion1 successfully under the garb2 of truth.
Day after day, the false conviction grew on Sydney’s mind that Herbert Linley was comparing the life he led now with the happier life which he remembered at Mount Morven. Day after day, her unreasoning fear contemplated3 the time when Herbert Linley would leave her friendless, in the world that had no place in it for women like herself. Delusion — fatal delusion that looked like truth! Morally weak as he might be, the man whom she feared to trust had not yet entirely4 lost the sense which birth and breeding had firmly fastened in him — the sense of honor. Acting5 under that influence, he was (if the expression may be permitted) consistent even in inconsistency. With equal sincerity6 of feeling, he reproached himself for his infidelity toward the woman whom he had deserted7, and devoted8 himself to his duty toward the woman whom he had misled. In Sydney’s presence — suffer as he might under the struggle to maintain his resolution when he was alone — he kept his intercourse9 with her studiously gentle in manner, and considerate in language; his conduct offered assurances for the future which she could only see through the falsifying medium of her own distrust.
In the delusion that now possessed10 her she read, over and over again, the letter which Captain Bennydeck had addressed to her father; she saw, more and more clearly, the circumstances which associated her situation with the situation of the poor girl who had closed her wasted life among the nuns11 in a French convent.
Two results followed on this state of things.
When Herbert asked to what part of England they should go, on leaving London, she mentioned Sandyseal as a place that she had heard of, and felt some curiosity to see. The same day — bent12 on pleasing her, careless where he lived now, at home or abroad — he wrote to engage rooms at the hotel.
A time followed, during which they were obliged to wait until rooms were free. In this interval13, brooding over the melancholy14 absence of a friend or relative in whom she could confide15, her morbid16 dread17 of the future decided18 her on completing the parallel between herself and that other lost creature of whom she had read. Sydney opened communication anonymously19 with the Benedictine community at Sandyseal.
She addressed the Mother Superior; telling the truth about herself with but one concealment20, the concealment of names. She revealed her isolated21 position among her fellow-creatures; she declared her fervent22 desire to repent23 of her wickedness, and to lead a religious life; she acknowledged her misfortune in having been brought up by persons careless of religion, and she confessed to having attended a Protestant place of worship, as a mere24 matter of form connected with the duties of a teacher at a school. “The religion of any Christian25 woman who will help me to be more like herself,” she wrote, “is the religion to which I am willing and eager to belong. If I come to you in my distress26, will you receive me?” To that simple appeal, she added a request that an answer might be addressed to “S.W., Post-office, Sandyseal.”
When Captain Bennydeck and Sydney Westerfield passed each other as strangers, in the hall of the hotel, that letter had been posted in London a week since.
The servant showed “Mr. and Mrs. Herbert” into their sitting-room27, and begged that they would be so good as to wait for a few minutes, while the other rooms were being prepared for them.
Sydney seated herself in silence. She was thinking of her letter, and wondering whether a reply was waiting for her at the post-office.
Moving toward the window to look at the view, Herbert paused to examine some prints hanging on the walls, which were superior as works of art to the customary decorations of a room at a hotel. If he had gone straight to the window he might have seen his divorced wife, his child, and his wife’s mother, getting into the carriage which took them to the railway station.
“Come, Sydney,” he said, “and look at the sea.”
She joined him wearily, with a faint smile. It was a calm, sunny day. Bathing machines were on the beach; children were playing here and there; and white sails of pleasure boats were visible in the offing. The dullness of Sandyseal wore a quiet homely28 aspect which was pleasant to the eyes of strangers. Sydney said, absently, “I think I shall like the place.” And Herbert added: “Let us hope that the air will make you feel stronger.” He meant it and said it kindly29 — but, instead of looking at her while he spoke30, he continued to look at the view. A woman sure of her position would not have allowed this trifling31 circumstance, even if she had observed it, to disturb her. Sydney thought of the day in London when he had persisted in looking out at the street, and returned in silence to her chair.
Had he been so unfortunate as to offend her? And in what way? As that doubt occurred to Herbert his mind turned to Catherine. She never took offense32 at trifles; a word of kindness from him, no matter how unimportant it might be, always claimed affectionate acknowledgment in the days when he was living with his wife. In another moment he had dismissed that remembrance, and could trust himself to return to Sydney.
“If you find that Sandyseal confirms your first impression,” he said, “let me know it in time, so that I may make arrangements for a longer stay. I have only taken the rooms here for a fortnight.”
“Thank you, Herbert; I think a fortnight will be long enough.”
“Long enough for you?” he asked.
Her morbid sensitiveness mistook him again; she fancied there was an undernote of irony33 in his tone.
“Long enough for both of us,” she replied.
He drew a chair to her side. “Do you take it for granted,” he said, smiling, “that I shall get tired of the place first?”
She shrank, poor creature, even from his smile. There was, as she thought, something contemptuous in the good-humor of it.
“We have been to many places,” she reminded him, “and we have got tired of them together.”
“Is that my fault?”
“I didn’t say it was.”
He got up and approached the bell. “I think the journey has a little over-tired you,” he resumed. “Would you like to go to your room?”
“I will go to my room, if you wish it.”
He waited a little, and answered her as quietly as ever. “What I really wish,” he said, “is that we had consulted a doctor while we were in London. You seem to be very easily irritated of late. I observe a change in you, which I willingly attribute to the state of your health —”
She interrupted him. “What change do you mean?”
“It’s quite possible I may be mistaken, Sydney. But I have more than once, as I think, seen something in your manner which suggests that you distrust me.”
“I distrust the evil life we are leading,” she burst out, “and I see the end of it coming. Oh, I don’t blame you! You are kind and considerate, you do your best to hide it; but you have lived long enough with me to regret the woman whom you have lost. You begin to feel the sacrifice you have made — and no wonder. Say the word, Herbert, and I release you.”
“I will never say the word!”
She hesitated — first inclined, then afraid, to believe him. “I have grace enough left in me,” she went on, “to feel the bitterest repentance34 for the wrong that I have done to Mrs. Linley. When it ends, as it must end, in our parting, will you ask your wife —?”
Even his patience began to fail him; he refused — firmly, not angrily — to hear more. “She is no longer my wife,” he said.
Sydney’s bitterness and Sydney’s penitence35 were mingled36, as opposite emotions only can be mingled in a woman’s breast. “Will you ask your wife to forgive you?” she persisted.
“After we have been divorced at her petition?” He pointed37 to the window as he said it. “Look at the sea. If I was drowning out yonder, I might as well ask the sea to forgive me.”
He produced no effect on her. She ignored the Divorce; her passionate38 remorse39 asserted itself as obstinately40 as ever. “Mrs. Linley is a good woman,” she insisted; “Mrs. Linley is a Christian woman.”
“I have lost all claim on her — even the claim to remember her virtues,” he answered, sternly. “No more of it, Sydney! I am sorry I have disappointed you; I am sorry if you are weary of me.”
At those last words her manner changed. “Wound me as cruelly as you please,” she said, humbly41. “I will try to bear it.”
“I wouldn’t wound you for the world! Why do you persist in distressing42 me? Why do you feel suspicion of me which I have not deserved?” He stopped, and held out his hand. “Don’t let us quarrel, Sydney. Which will you do? Keep your bad opinion of me, or give me a fair trial?”
She loved him dearly; she was so young — and the young are so ready to hope! Still, she struggled against herself. “Herbert! is it your pity for me that is speaking now?”
He left her in despair. “It’s useless!” he said, sadly. “Nothing will conquer your inveterate43 distrust.”
She followed him. With a faint cry of entreaty44 she made him turn to her, and held him in a trembling embrace, and rested her head on his bosom45. “Forgive me — be patient with me — love me.” That was all she could say.
He attempted to calm her agitation46 by speaking lightly. “At last, Sydney, we are friends again!” he said.
Friends? All the woman in her recoiled47 from that insufficient48 word. “Are we Lovers?” she whispered.
“Yes!”
With that assurance her anxious heart was content. She smiled; she looked out at the sea with a new appreciation49 of the view. “The air of this place will do me good now,” she said. “Are my eyes red, Herbert? Let me go and bathe them, and make myself fit to be seen.”
She rang the bell. The chambermaid answered it, ready to show the other rooms. She turned round at the door.
“Let’s try to make our sitting-room look like home,” she suggested. “How dismal50, how dreadfully like a thing that doesn’t belong to us, that empty table looks! Put some of your books and my keepsakes on it, while I am away. I’ll bring my work with me when I come back.”
He had left his travelers’ bag on a chair, when he first came in. Now that he was alone, and under no restraint, he sighed as he unlocked the bag. “Home?” he repeated; “we have no home. Poor girl! poor unhappy girl! Let me help her to deceive herself.”
He opened the bag. The little fragile presents, which she called her “keepsakes,” had been placed by her own hands in the upper part of the bag, so that the books should not weigh on them, and had been carefully protected by wrappings of cotton wool. Taking them out, one by one, Herbert found a delicate china candlestick (intended to hold a wax taper) broken into two pieces, in spite of the care that had been taken to preserve it. Of no great value in itself, old associations made the candlestick precious to Sydney. It had been broken at the stem and could be easily mended so as to keep the accident concealed51. Consulting the waiter, Herbert discovered that the fracture could be repaired at the nearest town, and that the place would be within reach when he went out for a walk. In fear of another disaster, if he put it back in the bag, he opened a drawer in the table, and laid the two fragments carefully inside, at the further end. In doing this, his hand touched something that had been already placed in the drawer. He drew it out, and found that it was a book — the same book that Mrs. Presty (surely the evil genius of the family again!) had hidden from Randal’s notice, and had forgotten when she left the hotel.
Herbert instantly recognized the gilding52 on the cover, imitated from a design invented by himself. He remembered the inscription53, and yet he read it again:
“To dear Catherine, from Herbert, on the anniversary of our marriage.”
The book dropped from his hand on the table, as if it had been a new discovery, torturing him with a new pain.
His wife (he persisted in thinking of her as his wife) must have occupied the room — might perhaps have been the person whom he had succeeded, as a guest at the hotel. Did she still value his present to her, in remembrance of old times? No! She valued it so little that she had evidently forgotten it. Perhaps her maid might have included it among the small articles of luggage when they left home, or dear little Kitty might have put it into one of her mother’s trunks. In any case, there it was now, abandoned in the drawer of a table at a hotel.
“Oh,” he thought bitterly, “if I could only feel as coldly toward Catherine as she feels toward me!” His resolution had resisted much; but this final trial of his self-control was more than he could sustain. He dropped into a chair — his pride of manhood recoiled from the contemptible54 weakness of crying — he tried to remember that she had divorced him, and taken his child from him. In vain! in vain! He burst into tears.
收听单词发音 |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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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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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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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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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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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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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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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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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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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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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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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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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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