‘The great question in life is the suffering we cause; and the utmost ingenuity1 of metaphysics cannot justify2 the man who has pierced the heart that loved him.’ — BENJAMlN CONSTANT.
WHEN Denner had gone up to her mistress’s room to dress her for dinner, she had found her seated just as Harold had found her, only with eyelids3 drooping4 and trembling over slowly-rolling tears — nay5, with a face in which every sensitive feature, every muscle, seemed to be quivering with a silent endurance of some agony.
Denner went and stood by the chair a minute without speaking, only laying her hand gently on Mrs Transome’s. At last she said, beseechingly6, ‘Pray speak, madam. What has happened?’
‘The worst, Denner — the worst.’
‘You are ill. Let me undress you, and put you to bed.’
‘No, I am not ill, I am not going to die! I shall live — I shall live!’
‘What may I do?’
‘Go and say I shall not dine. Then you may come back, if you will.’
The patient waiting-woman came back and sat by her mistress in motionless silence. Mrs Transome would not let her dress be touched, and waved away all proffers7 with a slight movement of her hand. Denner dared not even light a candle without being told. At last, when the evening was far gone, Mrs Transome said —
‘Go down, Denner, and find out where Harold is, and come back and tell me.’
‘Shall I ask him to come to you, madam?’
‘No; don’t dare to do it, if you love me. Come back.’
Denner brought word that Mr Harold was in his study, and that Miss Lyon was with him. He had not dined, but had sent later to ask Miss Lyon to go into his study. ‘Light the candles and leave me.’ ‘Mayn’t I come again?’ ‘No. It may be that my son will come to me.’ ‘Mayn’t I sleep on the little bed in your bedroom?’ ‘No, good Denner; I am not ill. You can’t help me.’ ‘That’s the hardest word of all, madam.’ ‘The time will come — but not now. Kiss me. Now go.’
The small quiet old woman obeyed, as she had always done. She shrank from seeming to claim an equal’s share in her mistress’s sorrow.
For two hours Mrs Transome’s mind hung on what was hardly a hope — hardly more than the listening for a bare possibility. She began to create the sounds that her anguish8 craved9 to hear — began to imagine a footfall, and a hand upon the door. Then, checked by continual disappointment, she tried to rouse a truer consciousness by rising from her seat and walking to her window, where she saw streaks10 of light moving and disappearing on the grass, and the sound of bolts and closing doors. She hurried away and threw herself into her seat again, and buried her head in the deafening11 down of the cushions. There was no sound of comfort for her.
Then her heart cried out within her against the cruelty of this son. When he turned from her in the first moment, he had not had time to feel anything but the blow that had fallen on himself. But afterwards — was it possible that he should not be touched with a son’s pity — was it possible that he should not have been visited by some thought of the long years through which she had suffered? The memory of those years came back to her now with a protest against the cruelty that had all fallen on her. She started up with a new restlessness from this spirit of resistance. She was not penitent12. She had borne too hard a punishment. Always the edge of calamity13 had fallen on her. Who had felt for her? She was desolate14. God had no pity, else her son would not have been so hard. What dreary15 future was there after this dreary past? She, too, looked out into the dim night; but the black boundary of trees and the long line of the river seemed only part of the loneliness and monotony of her life.
Suddenly she saw a light on the stone balustrades of the balcony that projected in front of Esther’s window, and the flash of a moving candle falling on a shrub16 below. Esther was still awake and up. What had Harold told her — what had passed between them? Harold was fond of this young creature, who had been always sweet and reverential to her. There was mercy in her young heart; she might be a daughter who had no impulse to punish and to strike her whom fate had stricken. On the dim loneliness before her she seemed to see Esther’s gentle look; it was possible still that the misery17 of this night might be broken by some comfort. The proud woman yearned18 for the caressing19 pity that must dwell in that young bosom20. She opened her door gently, but when she had reached Esther’s she hesitated. She had never yet in her life asked for compassion21 — had never thrown herself in faith on an unproffered love. And she might have gone on pacing the corridor like an uneasy spirit without a goal, if Esther’s thought, leaping towards her, had not saved her from the need to ask admission.
Mrs Transome was walking towards the door when it opened. As Esther saw that image of restless misery, it blent itself by a rapid flash with all that Harold had said in the evening. She divined that the son’s new trouble must be one with the mother’s long sadness. But there was no waiting. In an instant Mrs Transome felt Esther’s arm round her neck, and a voice saying softly —
‘O why didn’t you call me before?’
They turned hand in hand into the room, and sat down together on a sofa at the foot of the bed. The disordered grey hair — the haggard face — the reddened eyelids under which the tears seemed to be coming again with pain, pierced Esther to the heart. A passionate22 desire to soothe23 this suffering woman came over her. She clung round her again, and kissed her poor quivering lips and eyelids, and laid her young cheek against the pale and haggard one. Words could not be quick or strong enough to utter her yearning24. As Mrs Transome felt that soft clinging, she said — ‘God has some pity on me.’
‘Rest on my bed,’ said Esther. ‘You are so tired. I will cover you up warmly, and then you will sleep.’
‘No — tell me, dear — tell me what Harold said.’
‘That he has had some new trouble.’
‘He said nothing hard about me?’
‘No — nothing. He did not mention you.’
‘I have been an unhappy woman, dear.’
‘I feared it,’ said Esther, pressing her gently.
‘Men are selfish. They are selfish and cruel. What they care for is their own pleasure and their own pride.’
‘Not all,’ said Esther, on whom these words fell with a painful jar.
‘All I have ever loved,’ said Mrs Transome. She paused a moment or two, and then said, ‘For more than twenty years I have not had an hour’s happiness. Harold knows it, and yet he is hard to me.’
‘He will not be. To-morrow he will not be. I am sure he will be good,’ said Esther, pleadingly. ‘Remember — he said to me his trouble was new — he has not had time.’
‘It is too hard to bear, dear,’ Mrs Transome said, a new sob25 rising as she clung fast to Esther in return. ‘I am old, and expect so little now — a very little thing would seem great. Why should I be punished any more?’
Esther found it difficult to speak. The dimly-suggested tragedy of this woman’s life, the dreary waste of years empty of sweet trust and affection, afflicted26 her even to horror. It seemed to have come as a last vision to urge her towards the life where the draughts27 of joy sprang from the unchanging fountains of reverence28 and devout29 love.
But all the more she longed to still the pain of this heart that beat against hers.
‘Do let me go to your own room with you, and let me undress you, and let me tend upon you,’ she said, with a woman’s gentle instinct. ‘It will be a very great thing to me. I shall seem to have a mother again. Do let me.’
Mrs Transome yielded at last, and let Esther soothe her with a daughter’s tendance. She was undressed and went to bed; and at last dozed30 fitfully, with frequent starts. But Esther watched by her till the chills of morning came, and then she only wrapped more warmth around her, and slept fast in the chair till Denner’s movement in the room roused her. She started out of a dream in which she was telling Felix what had happened to her that night.
Mrs Transome was now in the sounder morning sleep which sometimes comes after a long night of misery. Esther beckoned31 Denner into the dressing-room, and said —
‘It is late, Mrs Hickes. Do you think Mr Harold is out of his room?’
‘Yes, a long while; he was out earlier than usual.’
‘Will you ask him to come up here? Say I begged you.’
When Harold entered, Esther was leaning against the back of the empty chair where yesterday he had seen his mother sitting. He was in a state of wonder and suspense32, and when Esther approached him and gave him her hand, he said, in a startled way —
‘Good God! how ill you look! Have you been sitting up with my mother?’
‘Yes. She is asleep now,’ said Esther. They had merely pressed hands by way of greeting, and now stood apart looking at each other solemnly.
‘Has she told you anything?’ said Harold.
‘No — only that she is wretched. O, I think I would bear a great deal of unhappiness to save her from having any more.’
A painful thrill passed through Harold, and showed itself in his face with that pale rapid flash which can never be painted. Esther pressed her hands together, and said, timidly, though it was from an urgent prompting —
‘There is nothing in all this place — nothing since ever I came here — I could care for so much as that you should sit down by her now, and that she should see you when she wakes.’
Then with delicate instinct, she added, just laying her hand on his sleeve, ‘I know you would have come. I know you meant it. But she is asleep now. Go gently before she wakes.’
Harold just laid his right hand for an instant on the back of Esther’s as it rested on his sleeve, and then stepped softly to his mother’s bedside.
An hour afterwards, when Harold had laid his mother’s pillow afresh, and sat down again by her, she said —
‘If that dear thing will marry you, Harold, it will make up to you for a great deal.’
But before the day closed Harold knew that this was not to be. That young presence, which had flitted like a white new-winged dove over all the saddening relics33 and new finery of Transome Court, could not find its home there. Harold heard from Esther’s lips that she loved some one else, and that she resigned all claim to the Transome estates.
She wished to go back to her father.
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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proffers
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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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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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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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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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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