With a heart lightened by reconciliation1 (not the first reconciliation unhappily), with hopes revived, and sweet content restored, Sydney’s serenity2 of mind was not quite unruffled. Her thoughts were not dwelling3 on the evil life which she had honestly deplored4, or on the wronged wife to whom she had been eager to make atonement. Where is the woman whose sorrows are not thrown into the shade by the bright renewal5 of love? The one anxiety that troubled Sydney was caused by remembrance of the letter which she had sent to the convent at Sandyseal.
As her better mind now viewed it, she had doubly injured Herbert — first in distrusting him; then by appealing from him to the compassion6 of strangers.
If the reply for which she had rashly asked was waiting for her at that moment — if the mercy of the Mother Superior was ready to comfort and guide her — what return could she make? how could she excuse herself from accepting what was offered in kindly7 reply to her own petition? She had placed herself, for all she knew to the contrary, between two alternatives of ingratitude8 equally unendurable, equally degrading. To feel this was to feel the suspense10 which, to persons of excitable temperament11, is of all trials the hardest to bear. The chambermaid was still in her room — Sydney asked if the post-office was near to the hotel.
The woman smiled. “Everything is near us, ma’am, in this little place. Can we send to the post-office for you?”
Sydney wrote her initials. “Ask, if you please, for a letter addressed in that way.” She handed the memorandum12 to the chambermaid. “Corresponding with her lover under her husband’s nose!” That was how the chambermaid explained it below stairs, when the porter remarked that initials looked mysterious.
The Mother Superior had replied. Sydney trembled as she opened the letter. It began kindly.
“I believe you, my child, and I am anxious to help you. But I cannot correspond with an unknown person. If you decide to reveal yourself, it is only right to add that I have shown your letter to the Reverend Father who, in temporal as in spiritual things, is our counselor13 and guide. To him I must refer you, in the first instance. His wisdom will decide the serious question of receiving you into our Holy Church, and will discover, in due time, if you have a true vocation14 to a religious life. With the Father’s sanction, you may be sure of my affectionate desire to serve you.”
Sydney put the letter back in the envelope, feeling gratefully toward the Mother Superior, but determined15 by the conditions imposed on her to make no further advance toward the Benedictine community.
Even if her motive16 in writing to the convent had remained unchallenged, the allusions17 to the priest would still have decided18 her on taking this step. The bare idea of opening her inmost heart, and telling her saddest secrets, to a man, and that man a stranger, was too repellent to be entertained for a moment. In a few lines of reply, gratefully and respectfully written, she thanked the Mother Superior, and withdrew from the correspondence.
The letter having been closed, and posted in the hotel box, she returned to the sitting-room19 free from the one doubt that had troubled her; eager to show Herbert how truly she believed in him, how hopefully she looked to the future.
With a happy smile on her lips she opened the door. She was on the point of asking him playfully if he had felt surprised at her long absence — when the sight that met her eyes turned her cold with terror in an instant.
His arms were stretched out on the table; his head was laid on them, despair confessed itself in his attitude; grief spoke20 in the deep sobbing21 breaths that shook him. Love and compassion restored Sydney’s courage; she advanced to raise him in her arms — and stopped once more. The book on the table caught her eye. He was still unconscious of her presence; she ventured to open it. She read the inscription22 — looked at him — looked back at the writing — and knew the truth at last.
The rigor23 of the torture that she suffered paralyzed all outward expression of pain. Quietly she put the book back on the table. Quietly she touched him, and called him by his name.
He started and looked up; he made an attempt to speak to her in his customary tone. “I didn’t hear you come in,” he said.
She pointed24 to the book, without the slightest change in her face or her manner.
“I have read the inscription to your wife,” she answered; “I have seen you while you thought you were alone; the mercy which has so long kept the truth from me is mercy wasted now. Your bonds are broken, Herbert. You are a free man.”
He affected25 not to have understood her. She let him try to persuade her of it, and made no reply. He declared, honestly declared, that what she had said distressed26 him. She listened in submissive silence. He took her hand, and kissed it. She let him kiss it, and let him drop it at her side. She frightened him; he began to fear for her reason. There was silence — long, horrid27, hopeless silence.
She had left the door of the room open. One of the servants of the hotel appeared outside in the passage. He spoke to some person behind him. “Perhaps the book has been left in here,” he suggested. A gentle voice answered: “I hope the lady and gentleman will excuse me, if I ask leave to look for my book.” She stepped into the room to make her apologies.
Herbert Linley and Sydney Westerfield looked at the woman whom they had outraged28. The woman whom they had outraged paused, and looked back at them.
The hotel servant was surprised at their not speaking to each other. He was a stupid man; he thought the gentlefolks were strangely unlike gentlefolks in general; they seemed not to know what to say. Herbert happened to be standing29 nearest to him; he felt that it would be civil to the gentleman to offer a word of explanation.
“The lady had these rooms, sir. She has come back from the station to look for a book that has been left behind.”
Herbert signed to him to go. As the man turned to obey, he drew back. Sydney had moved to the door before him, to leave the room. Herbert refused to permit it. “Stay here,” he said to her gently; “this room is yours.”
Sydney hesitated. Herbert addressed her again. He pointed to his divorced wife. “You see how that lady is looking at you,” he said; “I beg that you will not submit to insult from anybody.”
Sydney obeyed him: she returned to the room.
Catherine’s voice was heard for the first time. She addressed herself to Sydney with a quiet dignity — far removed from anger, further removed still from contempt.
“You were about to leave the room,” she said. “I notice — as an act of justice to you— that my presence arouses some sense of shame.”
Herbert turned to Sydney; trying to recover herself, she stood near the table. “Give me the book,” he said; “the sooner this comes to an end the better for her, the better for us.” Sydney gave him the book. With a visible effort, he matched Catherine’s self-control; after all, she had remembered his gift! He offered the book to her.
She still kept her eyes fixed30 on Sydney — still spoke to Sydney.
“Tell him,” she said, “that I refuse to receive the book.”
Sydney attempted to obey. At the first words she uttered, Herbert checked her once more.
“I have begged you already not to submit to insult.” He turned to Catherine. “The book is yours, madam. Why do you refuse to take it?”
She looked at him for the first time. A proud sense of wrong flashed at him its keenly felt indignation in her first glance. “Your hands and her hands have touched it,” she answered. “I leave it to you and to her.”
Those words stung him. “Contempt,” he said, “is bitter indeed on your lips.”
“Do you presume to resent my contempt?”
“I forbid you to insult Miss Westerfield.” With that reply, he turned to Sydney. “You shall not suffer while I can prevent it,” he said tenderly, and approached to put his arm round her. She looked at Catherine, and drew back from his embrace, gently repelling31 him by a gesture.
Catherine felt and respected the true delicacy32, the true penitence33, expressed in that action. She advanced to Sydney. “Miss Westerfield,” she said, “I will take the book — from you.”
Sydney gave back the book without a word; in her position silence was the truest gratitude9. Quietly and firmly Catherine removed the blank leaf on which Herbert had written, and laid it before him on the table. “I return your inscription. It means nothing now.” Those words were steadily34 pronounced; not the slightest appearance of temper accompanied them. She moved slowly to the door and looked back at Sydney. “Make some allowance for what I have suffered,” she said gently. “If I have wounded you, I regret it.” The faint sound of her dress on the carpet was heard in the perfect stillness, and lost again. They saw her no more.
Herbert approached Sydney. It was a moment when he was bound to assure her of his sympathy. He felt for her. In his inmost heart he felt for her. As he drew nearer, he saw tears in her eyes; but they seemed to have risen without her knowledge. Hardly conscious of his presence, she stood before him — lost in thought.
He endeavored to rouse her. “Did I protect you from insult?” he asked.
She said absently: “Yes!”
“Will you do as I do, dear? Will you try to forget?”
She said: “I will try to atone,” and moved toward the door of her room. The reply surprised him; but it was no time then to ask for an explanation.
“Would you like to lie down, Sydney, and rest?”
“Yes.”
She took his arm. He led her to the door of her room. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.
“Nothing, thank you.”
She closed the door — and abruptly35 opened it again. “One thing more,” she said. “Kiss me.”
He kissed her tenderly. Returning to the sitting-room, he looked back across the passage. Her door was shut.
His head was heavy; his mind felt confused. He threw himself on the sofa — utterly36 exhausted37 by the ordeal38 through which he had passed. In grief, in fear, in pain, the time still comes when Nature claims her rights. The wretched worn-out man fell into a restless sleep. He was awakened39 by the waiter, laying the cloth for dinner. “It’s just ready, sir,” the servant announced; “shall I knock at the lady’s door?”
Herbert got up and went to her room.
He entered softly, fearing to disturb her if she too had slept. No sign of her was to be seen. She had evidently not rested on her bed. A morsel40 of paper lay on the smooth coverlet. There was only a line written on it: “You may yet be happy — and it may perhaps be my doing.”
He stood, looking at that last line of her writing, in the empty room. His despair and his submission41 spoke in the only words that escaped him:
“I have deserved it!”
收听单词发音 |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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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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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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counselor
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| n.顾问，法律顾问 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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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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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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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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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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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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rigor
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| n.严酷，严格，严厉 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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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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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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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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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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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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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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