The Miss Alans were found in their beloved temperance hotel near Bloomsbury--a clean, airless establishment much patronized by provincial1 England. They always perched there before crossing the great seas, and for a week or two would fidget gently over clothes, guide-books, mackintosh squares, digestive bread, and other Continental2 necessaries. That there are shops abroad, even in Athens, never occurred to them, for they regarded travel as a species of warfare3, only to be undertaken by those who have been fully4 armed at the Haymarket Stores. Miss Honeychurch, they trusted, would take care to equip herself duly. Quinine could now be obtained in tabloids5; paper soap was a great help towards freshening up one's face in the train. Lucy promised, a little depressed6.
"But, of course, you know all about these things, and you have Mr. Vyse to help you. A gentleman is such a stand-by."
Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to town with her daughter, began to drum nervously7 upon her card-case.
"We think it so good of Mr. Vyse to spare you," Miss Catharine continued. "It is not every young man who would be so unselfish. But perhaps he will come out and join you later on."
"Or does his work keep him in London?" said Miss Teresa, the more acute and less kindly8 of the two sisters.
"However, we shall see him when he sees you off. I do so long to see him."
"No one will see Lucy off," interposed Mrs. Honeychurch. "She doesn't like it."
"No, I hate seeings-off," said Lucy.
"Really? How funny! I should have thought that in this case--"
"Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, you aren't going? It is such a pleasure to have met you!"
They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: "That's all right. We just got through that time."
But her mother was annoyed. "I should be told, dear, that I am unsympathetic. But I cannot see why you didn't tell your friends about Cecil and be done with it. There all the time we had to sit fencing, and almost telling lies, and be seen through, too, I dare say, which is most unpleasant."
Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described the Miss Alans' character: they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news would be everywhere in no time.
"But why shouldn't it be everywhere in no time?"
"Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. I shall tell them then. It's much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let's turn in here."
"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they must take shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on the tack9 of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical10 dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods.
"Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let's go to Mudie's. I'll buy a guide-book."
"You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. Beebe all tell me I'm so stupid, so I suppose I am, but I shall never understand this hole-and-corner work. You've got rid of Cecil--well and good, and I'm thankful he's gone, though I did feel angry for the minute. But why not announce it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?"
"It's only for a few days."
"But why at all?"
Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from her mother. It was quite easy to say, "Because George Emerson has been bothering me, and if he hears I've given up Cecil may begin again"--quite easy, and it had the incidental advantage of being true. But she could not say it. She disliked confidences, for they might lead to self-knowledge and to that king of terrors--Light. Ever since that last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise to reveal her soul.
Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was thinking, "My daughter won't answer me; she would rather be with those inquisitive12 old maids than with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bobtail apparently13 does if she can leave her home." And as in her case thoughts never remained unspoken long, she burst out with: "You're tired of Windy Corner."
This was perfectly15 true. Lucy had hoped to return to Windy Corner when she escaped from Cecil, but she discovered that her home existed no longer. It might exist for Freddy, who still lived and thought straight, but not for one who had deliberately16 warped18 the brain. She did not acknowledge that her brain was warped, for the brain itself must assist in that acknowledgment, and she was disordering the very instruments of life. She only felt, "I do not love George; I broke off my engagement because I did not love George; I must go to Greece because I do not love George; it is more important that I should look up gods in the dictionary than that I should help my mother; every one else is behaving very badly." She only felt irritable19 and petulant20, and anxious to do what she was not expected to do, and in this spirit she proceeded with the conversation.
"Oh, mother, what rubbish you talk! Of course I'm not tired of Windy Corner."
"Then why not say so at once, instead of considering half an hour?"
She laughed faintly, "Half a minute would be nearer."
"Perhaps you would like to stay away from your home altogether?"
"Hush11, mother! People will hear you"; for they had entered Mudie's. She bought Baedeker, and then continued: "Of course I want to live at home; but as we are talking about it, I may as well say that I shall want to be away in the future more than I have been. You see, I come into my money next year."
Tears came into her mother's eyes.
Driven by nameless bewilderment, by what is in older people termed "eccentricity," Lucy determined21 to make this point clear. "I've seen the world so little--I felt so out of things in Italy. I have seen so little of life; one ought to come up to London more--not a cheap ticket like to-day, but to stop. I might even share a flat for a little with some other girl."
"And mess with typewriters and latch-keys," exploded Mrs. Honeychurch. "And agitate22 and scream, and be carried off kicking by the police. And call it a Mission--when no one wants you! And call it Duty--when it means that you can't stand your own home! And call it Work--when thousands of men are starving with the competition as it is! And then to prepare yourself, find two doddering old ladies, and go abroad with them."
"I want more independence," said Lucy lamely23; she knew that she wanted something, and independence is a useful cry; we can always say that we have not got it. She tried to remember her emotions in Florence: those had been sincere and passionate24, and had suggested beauty rather than short skirts and latch-keys. But independence was certainly her cue.
"Very well. Take your independence and be gone. Rush up and down and round the world, and come back as thin as a lath with the bad food. Despise the house that your father built and the garden that he planted, and our dear view--and then share a flat with another girl."
Lucy screwed up her mouth and said: "Perhaps I spoke14 hastily."
"Oh, goodness!" her mother flashed. "How you do remind me of Charlotte Bartlett!"
"Charlotte!" flashed Lucy in her turn, pierced at last by a vivid pain.
"More every moment."
"I don't know what you mean, mother; Charlotte and I are not the very least alike."
"Well, I see the likeness25. The same eternal worrying, the same taking back of words. You and Charlotte trying to divide two apples among three people last night might be sisters."
"What rubbish! And if you dislike Charlotte so, it's rather a pity you asked her to stop. I warned you about her; I begged you, implored26 you not to, but of course it was not listened to."
"There you go."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Charlotte again, my dear; that's all; her very words."
Lucy clenched27 her teeth. "My point is that you oughtn't to have asked Charlotte to stop. I wish you would keep to the point." And the conversation died off into a wrangle28.
She and her mother shopped in silence, spoke little in the train, little again in the carriage, which met them at Dorking Station. It had poured all day and as they ascended29 through the deep Surrey lanes showers of water fell from the over-hanging beech-trees and rattled30 on the hood31. Lucy complained that the hood was stuffy32. Leaning forward, she looked out into the steaming dusk, and watched the carriage-lamp pass like a search-light over mud and leaves, and reveal nothing beautiful. "The crush when Charlotte gets in will be abominable33," she remarked. For they were to pick up Miss Bartlett at Summer Street, where she had been dropped as the carriage went down, to pay a call on Mr. Beebe's old mother. "We shall have to sit three a side, because the trees drop, and yet it isn't raining. Oh, for a little air!" Then she listened to the horse's hoofs--"He has not told--he has not told." That melody was blurred34 by the soft road. "CAN'T we have the hood down?" she demanded, and her mother, with sudden tenderness, said: "Very well, old lady, stop the horse." And the horse was stopped, and Lucy and Powell wrestled35 with the hood, and squirted water down Mrs. Honeychurch's neck. But now that the hood was down, she did see something that she would have missed--there were no lights in the windows of Cissie Villa36, and round the garden gate she fancied she saw a padlock.
"Is that house to let again, Powell?" she called.
"Yes, miss," he replied.
"Have they gone?"
"It is too far out of town for the young gentleman, and his father's rheumatism37 has come on, so he can't stop on alone, so they are trying to let furnished," was the answer.
"They have gone, then?"
"Yes, miss, they have gone."
Lucy sank back. The carriage stopped at the Rectory. She got out to call for Miss Bartlett. So the Emersons had gone, and all this bother about Greece had been unnecessary. Waste! That word seemed to sum up the whole of life. Wasted plans, wasted money, wasted love, and she had wounded her mother. Was it possible that she had muddled38 things away? Quite possible. Other people had. When the maid opened the door, she was unable to speak, and stared stupidly into the hall.
Miss Bartlett at once came forward, and after a long preamble40 asked a great favour: might she go to church? Mr. Beebe and his mother had already gone, but she had refused to start until she obtained her hostess's full sanction, for it would mean keeping the horse waiting a good ten minutes more.
"Certainly," said the hostess wearily. "I forgot it was Friday. Let's all go. Powell can go round to the stables."
"Lucy dearest--"
"No church for me, thank you."
A sigh, and they departed. The church was invisible, but up in the darkness to the left there was a hint of colour. This was a stained window, through which some feeble light was shining, and when the door opened Lucy heard Mr. Beebe's voice running through the litany to a minute congregation. Even their church, built upon the slope of the hill so artfully, with its beautiful raised transept and its spire41 of silvery shingle--even their church had lost its charm; and the thing one never talked about--religion-- was fading like all the other things.
She followed the maid into the Rectory.
Would she object to sitting in Mr. Beebe's study? There was only that one fire.
She would not object.
Some one was there already, for Lucy heard the words: "A lady to wait, sir."
Old Mr. Emerson was sitting by the fire, with his foot upon a gout-stool.
"Oh, Miss Honeychurch, that you should come!" he quavered; and Lucy saw an alteration42 in him since last Sunday.
Not a word would come to her lips. George she had faced, and could have faced again, but she had forgotten how to treat his father.
"Miss Honeychurch, dear, we are so sorry! George is so sorry! He thought he had a right to try. I cannot blame my boy, and yet I wish he had told me first. He ought not to have tried. I knew nothing about it at all."
If only she could remember how to behave!
He held up his hand. "But you must not scold him."
Lucy turned her back, and began to look at Mr. Beebe's books.
"I taught him," he quavered, "to trust in love. I said: 'When love comes, that is reality.' I said: 'Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity43, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will ever really understand.'" He sighed: "True, everlastingly44 true, though my day is over, and though there is the result. Poor boy! He is so sorry! He said he knew it was madness when you brought your cousin in; that whatever you felt you did not mean. Yet"--his voice gathered strength: he spoke out to make certain--"Miss Honeychurch, do you remember Italy?"
Lucy selected a book--a volume of Old Testament45 commentaries. Holding it up to her eyes, she said: "I have no wish to discuss Italy or any subject connected with your son."
"But you do remember it?"
"He has misbehaved himself from the first."
"I only was told that he loved you last Sunday. I never could judge behaviour. I--I--suppose he has."
Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back and turned round to him. His face was drooping46 and swollen47, but his eyes, though they were sunken deep, gleamed with a child's courage.
"Why, he has behaved abominably," she said. "I am glad he is sorry. Do you know what he did?"
"Not 'abominably,'" was the gentle correction. "He only tried when he should not have tried. You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you are going to marry the man you love. Do not go out of George's life saying he is abominable."
"No, of course," said Lucy, ashamed at the reference to Cecil. "'Abominable' is much too strong. I am sorry I used it about your son. I think I will go to church, after all. My mother and my cousin have gone. I shall not be so very late--"
"Especially as he has gone under," he said quietly.
"What was that?"
"Gone under naturally." He beat his palms together in silence; his head fell on his chest.
"I don't understand."
"As his mother did."
"But, Mr. Emerson--MR. EMERSON--what are you talking about?"
"When I wouldn't have George baptized," said he.
Lucy was frightened.
"And she agreed that baptism was nothing, but he caught that fever when he was twelve and she turned round. She thought it a judgment48." He shuddered49. "Oh, horrible, when we had given up that sort of thing and broken away from her parents. Oh, horrible-- worst of all--worse than death, when you have made a little clearing in the wilderness50, planted your little garden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep in again! A judgment! And our boy had typhoid because no clergyman had dropped water on him in church! Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall we slip back into the darkness for ever?"
"I don't know," gasped51 Lucy. "I don't understand this sort of thing. I was not meant to understand it."
"But Mr. Eager--he came when I was out, and acted according to his principles. I don't blame him or any one... but by the time George was well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and she went under thinking about it."
It was thus that Mr. Emerson had murdered his wife in the sight of God.
"Oh, how terrible!" said Lucy, forgetting her own affairs at last.
"He was not baptized," said the old man. "I did hold firm." And he looked with unwavering eyes at the rows of books, as if--at what cost!--he had won a victory over them. "My boy shall go back to the earth untouched."
She asked whether young Mr. Emerson was ill.
"Oh--last Sunday." He started into the present. "George last Sunday--no, not ill: just gone under. He is never ill. But he is his mother's son. Her eyes were his, and she had that forehead that I think so beautiful, and he will not think it worth while to live. It was always touch and go. He will live; but he will not think it worth while to live. He will never think anything worth while. You remember that church at Florence?"
Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested that George should collect postage stamps.
"After you left Florence--horrible. Then we took the house here, and he goes bathing with your brother, and became better. You saw him bathing?"
"I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing this affair. I am deeply sorry about it."
"Then there came something about a novel. I didn't follow it at all; I had to hear so much, and he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah, well, one must have failures. George comes down to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can't bear to be about here, and I must be where he is."
"Mr. Emerson," cried the girl, "don't leave at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece. Don't leave your comfortable house."
It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. "How good every one is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me--came over this morning and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire."
"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's absurd."
"I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he can't. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you--I am not justifying52 him: I am only saying what has happened."
"Oh, Mr. Emerson"--she took hold of his hand-- "you mustn't. I've been bother enough to the world by now. I can't have you moving out of your house when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it--all on my account. You must stop! I am just going to Greece."
"All the way to Greece?"
Her manner altered.
"To Greece?"
"So you must stop. You won't talk about this business, I know. I can trust you both."
"Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen."
"I shouldn't want--"
"I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we deserve sorrow."
She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid53 theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty54 of a clergyman.
More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair.
"No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage."
"Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired."
"Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips.
"But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?"
She was silent.
"Greece"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over-- "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought."
"Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point?
"I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?"
"No."
"I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse."
"Thank you."
At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?"
"I think so; I'll see."
"No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?"
"Very well, thank you."
"Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?"
"I--I did."
"Don't you think it very plucky55 of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous56 number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables.
"He is not going," she said hoarsely57. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England."
Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified58 in his approach to the gulf59, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry60--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?"
"I--I had to."
"Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?"
Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me"--dreamily; she was not alarmed--"that you are in a muddle39."
She shook her head.
"Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles62 that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' wrote a friend of mine, 'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.' I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea.
"But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake."
"How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man."
"But you are."
She summoned physical disgust.
"You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly to Greece, and never see him again, or forget his very name, George will work in your thoughts till you die. It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute63 love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal."
Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her anger passed away soon, her tears remained.
"I only wish poets would say this, too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the body. Ah! the misery64 that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate17 the soul! Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all the cant65 with which superstition66 has wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot say how they came nor whither they go, but we have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot bear it. It is again the darkness creeping in; it is hell." Then he checked himself. "What nonsense I have talked--how abstract and remote! And I have made you cry! Dear girl, forgive my prosiness; marry my boy. When I think what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love--Marry him; it is one of the moments for which the world was made."
She could not understand him; the words were indeed remote. Yet as he spoke the darkness was withdrawn67, veil after veil, and she saw to the bottom of her soul.
"Then, Lucy--"
"You've frightened me," she moaned. "Cecil--Mr. Beebe--the ticket's bought--everything." She fell sobbing68 into the chair. "I'm caught in the tangle69. I must suffer and grow old away from him. I cannot break the whole of life for his sake. They trusted me."
A carriage drew up at the front-door.
"Give George my love--once only. Tell him 'muddle.'" Then she arranged her veil, while the tears poured over her cheeks inside.
"Lucy--"
"No--they are in the hall--oh, please not, Mr. Emerson--they trust me--"
"But why should they, when you have deceived them?"
Mr. Beebe opened the door, saying: "Here's my mother."
"You're not worthy70 of their trust."
"What's that?" said Mr. Beebe sharply.
"I was saying, why should you trust her when she deceived you?"
"One minute, mother." He came in and shut the door.
"I don't follow you, Mr. Emerson. To whom do you refer? Trust whom?"
"I mean she has pretended to you that she did not love George. They have loved one another all along."
Mr. Beebe looked at the sobbing girl. He was very quiet, and his white face, with its ruddy whiskers, seemed suddenly inhuman71. A long black column, he stood and awaited her reply.
"I shall never marry him," quavered Lucy.
A look of contempt came over him, and he said, "Why not?"
"Mr. Beebe--I have misled you--I have misled myself--"
"Oh, rubbish, Miss Honeychurch!"
"It is not rubbish!" said the old man hotly. "It's the part of people that you don't understand."
Mr. Beebe laid his hand on the old man's shoulder pleasantly.
"Lucy! Lucy!" called voices from the carriage.
"Mr. Beebe, could you help me?"
He looked amazed at the request, and said in a low, stern voice: "I am more grieved than I can possibly express. It is lamentable72, lamentable--incredible."
"What's wrong with the boy?" fired up the other again.
"Nothing, Mr. Emerson, except that he no longer interests me. Marry George, Miss Honeychurch. He will do admirably."
He walked out and left them. They heard him guiding his mother up-stairs.
"Lucy!" the voices called.
She turned to Mr. Emerson in despair. But his face revived her. It was the face of a saint who understood.
"Now it is all dark. Now Beauty and Passion seem never to have existed. I know. But remember the mountains over Florence and the view. Ah, dear, if I were George, and gave you one kiss, it would make you brave. You have to go cold into a battle that needs warmth, out into the muddle that you have made yourself; and your mother and all your friends will despise you, oh, my darling, and rightly, if it is ever right to despise. George still dark, all the tussle73 and the misery without a word from him. Am I justified74?" Into his own eyes tears came. "Yes, for we fight for more than Love or Pleasure; there is Truth. Truth counts, Truth does count."
"You kiss me," said the girl. "You kiss me. I will try."
He gave her a sense of deities75 reconciled, a feeling that, in gaining the man she loved, she would gain something for the whole world. Throughout the squalor of her homeward drive--she spoke at once--his salutation remained. He had robbed the body of its taint61, the world's taunts76 of their sting; he had shown her the holiness of direct desire. She "never exactly understood," she would say in after years, "how he managed to strengthen her. It was as if he had made her see the whole of everything at once."
两位艾伦小姐正在布卢姆斯伯里附近一家她们所喜爱的不出售酒的旅店里——那是家干净、不通风、英国乡村人士所常常光顾的旅店。她们在漂洋过海之前总来这里停歇，花上一两个星期，耐心地操心置备衣服、旅行手册、防潮胶布、助消化面包以及其他去欧洲大陆旅行的必需品。她们从没想到过海外，甚至希腊，也有的是商店，原来她们把旅行看作一种出征，只有那些在干草市场（译注：干草市场，伦敦一著名购物市场）商店里进行充分装备的人士才能胜任。她们相信霍尼彻奇小姐也会精心做好充分准备的。现在奎宁片剂可以买到了；在火车上梳洗脸部，肥皂纸非常有用。露西答应去做准备，但神情有点抑郁。
“不过这些事情你当然全都知道，还有维斯先生来帮助你。要知道男士是多么可靠的后盾啊！”
霍尼彻奇太太是和女儿一块儿进城的，她开始神经紧张地用手指敲打着她的名片盒。
“维斯先生舍得放你一个人走，真是太好了，”凯瑟琳小姐继续说。“并不是每一个年轻人都能这样无私的。不过也许他以后会赶来和你相会吧。”
“还是他在伦敦的工作使他走不开？”特莉莎小姐说，她是两姐妹中比较尖刻而不大客气的一位。
“不管怎么样，他来送你时，我们会看到他的。我真巴不得见见他。”
“没有人来送露西，”霍尼彻奇太太插进来说。“她不喜欢送行。”
“是的，我讨厌送行，”露西说。
“真的吗？真有意思！我还以为在这种情况下——”
“嗨，霍尼彻奇太太，你不准备去吗？这次看到你非常高兴！”
她们终于逃脱了，露西松了一口气说：“没问题了。我们已经过了难关啦。”
可是她母亲却感到生气。“亲爱的，人家会说我缺乏同情心的。可是我不明白你为什么不对朋友们讲明你和塞西尔分手了，从而把这事了结掉。而是在整个时间里，我们不得不坐在那里，躲躲闪闪，几乎要撒谎，并且被人识破，我敢说这是最最不愉快的事情了。”
露西有很多话可以用来回答。她描述了两位艾伦小姐的性格：她们喜欢讲人闲话，要是告诉了她们，消息马上会到处传播。
“为什么消息不应该马上到处传播呢？”
“因为我和塞西尔商定在我离开英国以后才宣布这个消息。那时我将告诉她们。这样事情会愉快得多。雨下得多大啊！找们从这里拐进去吧。”
“这里”指的是不列颠博物馆。霍尼彻奇太太拒绝了。如果她们要避雨，还是到店里去吧。露西瞧不起这样的打算，她正计划钻研一下希腊雕刻，已经从毕比先生那里借来了一本神话词典，以便充实关于那些男神女神的名字的知识。
“好吧，那么就到店里去吧。我们到穆迪（译注：指伦敦新牛津街上的穆迪图书馆（附有书店），是查尔斯·爱德华·穆迪于1842年创办的，在维多利亚时代很兴旺发达）去。我要买一本旅游手册。”
“露西，你知道，你、夏绿蒂还有毕比先生都说我非常蠢，因此我想我大概是很蠢，不过我怎么也不明白这种偷偷摸摸的举动。你摆脱了塞西尔——这很好嘛，对他的离去我感到很欣慰，虽然我当时确实很生气。可是你为什么不宣布呢？为什么要这样守口如瓶、鬼鬼祟祟呢？”
“这样也只不过几天罢了。”
“可是为什么要这样呢？”
露西沉默不言。她的思绪正从她母亲身边游离开去。说一声“因为乔治·艾默森一直给我添麻烦，要是他听说我已抛弃了塞西尔，他很可能又要来纠缠不清”是很容易的——非常容易，而且也是很有利的，因为碰巧这正是事实。但是她不能说出口来。她不喜欢交心，因为体己话会引导一个人认识自己，会导致最可怕的事情发生——大曝光。自从佛罗伦萨最后那个夜晚以来，她一直认为对人表露心迹是不明智的事。
霍尼彻奇太太也沉默不语。她在想，“我女儿不愿回答我的问题；她宁愿同那些喜欢打听别人私事的老处女在一起，而不愿同我和弗雷迪在一起。她只要能离开家，显然什么乌七八糟的人都可以。”她这个人心里有话藏不住，于是一下子就“蹦”了出来：“你是对风角感到厌倦了。”
这是千真万确的。露西从塞西尔那里脱身后，曾希望回到风角去，但是她发现她的家已不再存在了。对弗雷迪这个生活和思想仍然很正常的人来说，可能这个家仍然存在，不过对一个故意扭曲自己的头脑的人来说，这个家已不复存在。她不承认她的头脑已被扭曲，因为要承认扭曲也必须由头脑来起协助作用，而她却使这生命中最重要的器官处于混乱状态。她只感到：“我并不爱乔治；我解除婚约正是因为我并不爱乔治；我必须到希腊去正是因为我并不爱乔治；我翻阅词典查找众神的名字比帮助妈妈干活更重要；所有的其他人的举止都很糟糕。”她只不过感到烦躁，想发脾气，急于做别人指望她不会做的事，于是怀着这种心态，继续与她母亲谈话。
“啊，妈妈，你在胡诌些什么呀！我当然不是对风角感到厌倦嘛。”
“那你为什么不马上直说而要先考虑半个小时呢？”
她淡淡地笑道，“说半分钟还差不多。”
“或许你想干脆离开你的家？”
“轻一点，妈妈！人家会听见的。”因为她们已进入了穆迪，她买了一本导游手册，继续说，“我当然想住在家里；不过我们既然谈到了这个问题，我还是说出来的好。今后我想比过去出去得更多一些。你知道，明年我就可以有自己的收入了。”
她的母亲两眼泪汪汪的。
露西此时有一种难以形容的纷乱心情，这在年纪大的人身J二可称之为“怪癖”，就在这种情绪的驱使下，她决意要把话讲清楚。“我见过的世面太少了——在意大利我感到很不适应。对生活我的见识也太少；应该多到伦敦来逛逛——不是像今天这样买一张廉价车票，而是住上一段时间。我甚至可以和另一位姑娘出一些钱合住一套公寓。”
“然后忙于和打字机及弹簧锁钥匙打交道，”霍尼彻奇太太发作了。“并且搞鼓动工作，大叫大嚷（译注：指参加当时由潘克赫斯特夫人领导的激进的争取妇女参政权的运动），最后双脚乱蹬，让警察带了上路。你叫它慈善活动吧——可没有人需要你！你叫它责任吧——可实在意味着你连自己的家都不能容忍！你叫它工作吧——可现在竞争这样激烈，成千上万的男人还找不到工作呢！然后为了做准备，你找到了两个颤巍巍的老太太，和她们一起到外国去。”
“我希望有更多的独立性，”露西软弱无力地说；她明知道她需要某种东西，而独立性正是一种有用的时髦口号；任何时候我们都可以说我们没有获得独立性。她试图回忆她在佛罗伦萨时的情绪：那是真诚热烈的情绪，给人的启示是美而不是什么短裙和弹簧锁钥匙。不过独立性确实是触发她的思绪的启示。
“很好。带着你的独立性离开吧。远走高飞，周游世界，回来的时候由于营养不良而骨瘦如柴。你看不起你爸爸建造的房子和他栽培的花园，还有我们心爱的风景—却要去和另外一位姑娘合住一套房间。”
露西噘起了嘴说：“也许我说得太急了。”
“天哪！”她的母亲突然发作了。“你真使我想起夏绿蒂·巴特利特来了！”
“夏绿蒂？”这一下露西也发作了，很明显她终于被刺痛了。
“你使我愈来愈想起她来。”
“我不懂你的意思，妈妈；夏绿蒂和我一点儿也不像啊。”
“嗯，我看很像。同样老是忧心忡忡，同样说了话要收回。昨天晚上你和夏绿蒂想把两只苹果分给三个人吃，真是一对姐妹。”
“你在胡诌些什么呀！再说，如果你那么不喜欢夏绿蒂，可你还是请她来住下，真是太遗憾了。关于她我警告过你；我求过你，请你不要让她来，可是当然你是不会听从我的。”
“你又来了。”
“请再说一遍。”
“又活脱是夏绿蒂，亲爱的；就这么回事；她用的就是这些词句。”
露西咬了咬牙。“我要说的是你不该请夏绿蒂来住下。我希望你不要岔开去。”于是谈话在争吵中结束了。
她和她母亲买东西时没有讲话，在火车里也很少讲话，到了多金车站，马车来接她们，在马车里也很少讲话。整整下了一天大雨，马车爬坡穿过萨里郡的那些深巷时，一阵阵雨水从悬垂的山毛榉树枝上哗啦啦地落在车篷上。露西抱怨说车篷里太闷热了。她俯身向前，眺望车外，只见冒着水汽的暮色中，马车灯像探照灯那样在泥泞和树叶上闪过，没有显露出一点美来。“夏绿蒂上车后将挤得够呛，”她说。因为她们将到夏街去接巴特利特小姐，先前马车去车站时曾让她在夏街下车去探望毕比先生的老母亲。“我们三个人只好都坐在一边，因为雨水会从树上掉下来，虽然这时不在下雨。唉，能透一些空气就好了！”接下来她仔细听着马蹄快跑的声音——好像在说“他没有讲——他没有讲”。这音调因道路泥泞而变得模糊了。“我们不能把车篷拉下来吗？”她责问道，她的妈妈突然充满了柔情说，“很好，老姑娘，叫车停下吧。”于是马车停了下来，露西和鲍威尔使劲把车篷拉下来时，雨水喷射在霍尼彻奇太太的头颈上。不过等车篷拉下后，她确实看到了一些她本来不会看到的东西——希西别墅的窗子里没有一点灯光，在花园门上她自以为看到有一把挂锁。
“鲍威尔，那所房子又要出租了，是不是？”她大声说。
“是的，小姐，”他回答。
“他们离开了吗？”
回答是：“对那位年轻的先生来说，这里离城市太远了，加上他父亲的风湿病发作了，他不能一个人住下去，所以他们就想带家具出租。”
“那么他们已离开了？”
“是的，小姐，他们已离开了。”
露西倒身靠在车座上。马车在教区长的住宅门前停下来。她下车去叫巴特利特小姐。原来艾默森父子已离开了，这一来有关希腊之行的一切麻烦就都是多余的了。完全是白费！白费这个词儿似乎总结了全部的生活。计划白费了，钱白花了，爱也白白浪费了，而且她还伤害了她的母亲。难道是她把一切都搅混了，这可能吗？很可能是这样。别人也曾搅混过。女仆开门时，她话都说不出来，只顾两眼呆呆地往门厅里面看。
巴特利特小姐立刻迎了出来，讲了一大段开场白后，提出了一个重大的请求：她可以上教堂去吗？毕比先生和他的母亲已先走了，但她拒绝和他们一起走，要取得她的女主人的完全同意才行，而这意味着要马车等候足足十分钟。
“当然可以，”女主人疲乏地说。“我忘了今天是星期五（译注：当时教堂往往每星期五晚上有较盛大的祈祷集会）。我们大家都去吧。鲍威尔可以到马厩去弯一弯。”
“露西最亲爱的——”
“谢谢你，我不去教堂。”
一声叹息，她们就出发了。还看不见教堂，可是前方黑暗中的左边似乎有点色彩。这是一扇彩色玻璃窗，透过窗子可以看到暗淡的灯光。等大门打开了，露西听到毕比先生正对着为数不多的教徒在念连祷文的声音。他们这十字形教堂非常巧妙地建造在山坡上，漂亮的耳堂高出于其他部分，尖顶上覆着银光闪闪的木瓦——即使他们这教堂也失去了它的魅力；还有大家从来不去谈论的话题——宗教——也像所有其他东西一样渐渐消失了。
她跟着女仆走进教区长的住宅。
她反不反对在毕比先生的书房中小坐？只有那间屋子里有火。
她不反对。
已经有人坐在那里了，因为露西听见女仆说：“先生，一位小姐也要在这里等候。”
老艾默森先生正坐在炉火边，一只脚搁在为痛风者提供的小凳子上。
“哎呀，霍尼彻奇小姐，你竟然来了！”他声音颤抖地说；露西看到了从上星期日以来他身上起了的变化。
她一句话也说不上来。她曾经和乔治面对面说过，再来一次也经受得了，不过她忘了该怎样来对待他的父亲了。
“霍尼彻奇小姐，亲爱的，我们非常抱歉！乔治非常难过！他认为他有试一试的权利。我不能责怪我的孩子，不过他要是先告诉我就好了。他a应该去试。这件事我当初一点儿也不知道。”
但愿她能记得应该怎样做才好！
他举起一只手。“不过你一定不要责备他。”
露西转过身去，开始察看毕比先生的那些藏书。
“我教导过他要相信爱情，”他声音颤动地说。“我说：‘爱情来临时，这就是现实。’我说：‘热烈的爱情不是盲目的。是的。热烈的爱情是健康的，而你爱的那个女人，她才是你终究能真正理解的唯一的人。…他叹了一口气说：“那是真实的，永远是真实的，尽管我的时代已经过去，尽管结果是那样。可怜的孩子！他真难过啊！他说你把表姐带来，他就知道事情弄糟了；不管你的感觉怎样，你不会是有意的。然而”——他的声音变得有力起来；他讲出来是想弄个明白——“霍尼彻奇小姐，你还记得意大利吗？”
露西挑了一本书——一本《旧约》的评注集。她把书举到眼睛前面，说：“我不想讨论意大利或任何和你儿子有关的话题。”
“可你是记得意大利的？”
“他一开始行为就不妥当。”
“直到上星期天他才告诉我他爱你。我从来不会评判一个人的行为。我——我——想他是不够妥当。”
露西感到自己比较镇定了，便把书放好，转过身来朝着他。他的脸部下垂，有些肿，但他的眼睛，虽然深深凹陷进去，却闪耀着孩子所具有的勇气。
“嘿，他的行为十分无礼，”她说。“我很高兴他感到难过。你知道他干了什么吗？”
“不能说‘十分无礼’吧，”他温和地纠正她。“他只是在他不应该尝试的时候尝试了。霍尼彻奇小姐，你想要的你都有了：你将同你所爱的人结婚。你退出乔治的生活时请不要说他十分无礼。”
“是啊，当然不能说，”露西说，对方提到了塞西尔，她感到羞愧。…十分无礼’这个词儿太重了。我很抱歉，对你的儿子用了这个词儿。我想我毕竟还是到教堂去吧。我妈妈和我表姐都已经去了。我不该到得太迟——”
“尤其是他已经垮下来了，”他平静地说。
“你说什么？”
“很自然地垮下来了。”他默默地用手掌拍着手掌；他的头垂到了胸前。
“我不明白。”
“像他母亲当年那样。”
“可是，艾默森先生——艾默森先生——你在说些什么呀？”
“当时我不让乔治受洗礼，”他说。
露西感到害怕。
“而她当时同意受洗礼是无关紧要的，可是他十二岁时感染了那次高烧，她就改变了看法。她认为这是报应。”他浑身战栗起来。“唉，太可怕了，当时我们已经抛弃了那些观念，和她的父母断绝了来往。唉，太可怕了——当你在荒野里开垦了一小块土地，种上了花草树木，让阳光进入这个花园，可后来野草又偷偷地重新蔓延开来！这是最可怕的事情——比死还要可怕啊！是报应啊！我们的孩子得了伤寒，就是因为没有牧师在教堂里往他的身上撒过一些水！霍尼彻奇小姐，这可能吗？难道我们要永远返回黑暗中去吗？”
“我不知道，”露西喘着气说。“我弄不懂这种事情。我足注定弄不懂这种事情的。”
“可是伊格先生——他在我不在家的时候来了，按照他的原则行事。我不怪他，我什么人也不怪……可是等乔治的病好rr，她倒生柄'f。他启发她思考罪孽的问题，她思考来思考去就垮下来了。”
就这样在上帝的眼里艾默森先生谋害了他的妻子。
“哎呀，太可怕了！”露西说，终于忘记了自己的那些事情。
“他没有受洗礼，”老人说。“我当时很坚决。”他用毫不动摇的目光望着那一排排书，似乎他——付出了多么高昂的代价啊！——才战胜了它们。“我的孩子将原原本本地返回大地。”
她问他是不是小艾默森先生病了。
“噢——上星期天。”他开始回到了现在。“上星期天，乔治——不，不是生病；只是垮下来了。他是从来不生病的。但是他毕竟是他母亲的儿子。他的眼睛和她的一样，她有一个我认为分外好看的前额，而他认为再活下去没有什么意思。情况总是这样，无法预料。他会活下去的；只是他觉得活下去没有意思了。他会永远觉得什么都没有意思。你还记得佛罗伦萨的那座教堂吗？”
露西记得很清楚，她当时还提出乔治可以收集邮票。
“你离开佛罗伦萨后——太可怕了。后来我们就租下了这里的房子，他和你弟弟一起去游水，有所好转。你看到他游水了？”
“我很难过，不过讨论这件事没有什么好处。我对这件事确实很难过。”
“后来又出现了一本什么小说。我一点也不明白；我只能听到那么一点儿，可他很介意，不愿告诉我；他觉得我太老了。啊，好了，人总是有缺点的嘛。乔治明天要来，将带我到他的伦敦住所去。住在这里他受不了，而他到哪里去，我也必须到哪里去。”
“艾默森先生，”姑娘说，“不要走——至少不要为了我离开这里。我将要到希腊去。不要离开你这个舒适的家。”
她的声音第一次这样亲切，他不禁微微一笑。“大家都那么好啊！你看毕比先生——他早晨到我家来，听说我要离开——愿意收留我！你看我在这里，身边有火，多舒服呀！”
“是啊，可是你不会回伦敦去吧。这太荒唐了。”
“我必须和乔治在∑起；我必须设法使他想要活下去，而在这里他不可能这样做。他说一想到看到你或听到有关你的事——我不是在替他辩护；我只是说说发生过的事情罢了。”
“啊，艾默森先生，”——她抓住他的一只手—一“你一定不能离开。迄今为止，我给这个世界所添的麻烦已够多的了。我绝对不能让你为了我的缘故搬离你喜欢的房屋，也许因而蒙受经济损失。你一定不能这样做！我正要到希腊去。”
“路远迢迢地赶到希腊去？”
她的态度有所变化。
“到希腊去？”
“所以你一定不要走。我知道你不会把这件事讲出去的。我能够信赖你们俩。”
“你当然能够信赖我们。我们要么把你纳入我们的生活，要么就让你去过你已选择好的生活。”
“我不该希望——”
“我想维斯先生一定很生乔治的气吧？是的，乔治不该尝试．是做错了。我们把自己的信念推行得过了头。我想我们的悲哀是咎由自取。”
她又朝着那些书看——黑色的、棕色的以及那种刺目的蓝色神学书。那些书把两位客人团团围住；桌子上都是一叠一叠的书，还有些一直堆到天花板。艾默森先生也是个非常虔诚的人，他和毕比先生主要的区别在于他承认人的热情，可是露西看不到这一点——她认为要这老人在感到悲哀时潜入这样一个书斋，依靠一位神职人员的恩赐，真是太可怕了。
艾默森先生这时非常肯定她很累了，便要把自己的椅子让给她坐。
“不，请坐着别动。我想我可以坐到马车里去。”
“霍尼彻奇小姐，你听起来确实很累了。”
“一点也不累，”露西说，嘴唇在颤抖。
“不过你是累了，而且你带有乔治的那种神情。关于出国旅行，你刚才怎么说的？”
她沉默不语。
“希腊”——她看出他正在思考这个词儿——“希腊；可是我原以为你打算在今年结婚的。”
“不，不是这样，要等到一月份，”露西说，双手十指交叉。到了关键时刻，她真的会说谎吗？
“我想维斯先生将和你同行吧。我希望——并不是因为乔治开了口你们俩才要一起去的？”
“不。”
“我希望你和维斯先生将在希腊过得愉快。”
“谢谢你。”
这时毕比先生从教堂回来了。他那身黑色法衣被雨淋湿了。“没关系，”他和蔼地说。“我料到你们俩能相互做伴的。雨又下得大了。所有听布道的教徒，包括你表姐、你妈妈，还有我的妈妈，都站在教堂里等候马车去接。鲍威尔来了没有？”
“我想已来了；我去看看。”
“不——当然让我去看看。两位艾伦小姐好吗？”
“很好，谢谢你。”
“你对艾默森先生讲了希腊之行没有？”
“我——我讲了。”
“艾默森先生，她要承担保护两位艾伦小姐的重任，难道你不觉得她勇气可嘉吗？好了，霍尼彻奇小姐，回去吧——要保暖。三人出游，我觉得这‘三’是个勇敢的数字。”说罢，他急急忙忙到马厩去了。
“他不打算去，”她用嘶哑的嗓音说。“我刚才讲错了。维斯先生留在英国不去。”不知怎的，要欺骗这位老人是不可能做到的。要是换了乔治或塞西尔，她会再说一次谎的；可是老人似乎已接近事实的真相，他对存在的鸿沟谈了一种看法，他的谈话方式充满了尊严，而那些把他团团围住的书籍阐明了另一种看法；他对自己的坎坷经历已趋于心平气和，这一切唤醒了她内心的真正的崇高品性——这不是陈旧的对异性的殷勤，而是所有青年人尊敬所有长者的真正的高尚品性——于是，她不顾一切风险，对老人讲了陪同她去希腊的伴侣不是塞西尔。她是一本正经地说的，因此风险在所难免，于是他抬眼望着她说：“你要离开他？你要离开你心爱的人？”
“我——我不得不这样做。”
“为什么，霍尼彻奇小姐，为什么？”
一阵恐怖感兜上她的心头，她又一次说谎了，她说了那番她曾经对毕比先生说过的话，那番话相当长，也相当有说服力；她打算以后宣布婚约无效时再说一遍。他默默地听她说完，然后说：“亲爱的．我为你担心。据我看，”——他的声音很柔和，像在梦境中；她并没有感到惊慌——“你的思想一片混乱。”
她摇摇头。
“听一个上了年纪的人的话吧：世界上最糟糕的事情莫过于思想混乱了。面临死亡、厄运以及那些听起来非常可怕的事情还是容易的。我现在回想我曾有过的思想混乱——那些本来可以避免的事情，仍然不寒而栗。我们能给予彼此的帮助十分有限。我过去以为自己能指导年轻人如何过好一生，但现在比以前明白得多了，而我给乔治的全部教育可归纳为一句话：小心，不要思想混乱。你还记得那次在教堂里你装作生我的气，可事实上你并没有生气吗？你还记得再早一些你不愿接受那间看得见风景的房间吗？那都是思想混乱啊——是小事情，可是兆头不妙——我怕你现在又思想混乱起来了。”她没有说话。“请相信我，霍尼彻奇小姐。生活虽然是十分美好的，但却是艰辛的。”她仍然没有说话。“我的一个朋友曾经写道，‘生活就像公开演奏小提琴，你必须通过不断拉琴，才能掌握这种乐器。’①（译注：引自英国作家塞缪尔·巴特勒的《如何使生活过得最好》一文。和原文略有出入。本书作者对巴特勒的作品推崇备至，在此处特借艾默森先生之口引用这句警语）我认为他说得很对。人必须通过人生途径才能学会运用自己的各种功能——尤其是爱的功能。”接着他兴奋地叫喊道：“这就是了；我想说的就是这个。你爱乔治！”紧接着他那篇冗长的开场白，这四个字就像公海上的汹涌波涛猛烈地冲击着露西。
“可你的确爱他，”他继续说，不等她有机会反驳。“你是明明白白、直截了当、全身心地爱他，就像他爱你那样，其他任何词儿都不足以表达。正是为了他，你不愿和那个人结婚。”
“你竟然敢胡说！”露西气吁吁地说，耳朵里尽是汹涌的波涛声。“嘿，真是男人的口气！——我意思是说总是以为女人老是在想男人。”
“可你是在想嘛。”
她努力表现出厌恶的样子。
“你感到震惊了，可我就是要使你震惊。有时候，这是唯一的希望。我没有其他办法来触动你。你一定得结婚，不然你的生命就浪费了。你已经走得很远，不可能再走回头路。我现在没有时间同你讲温情、友情和诗情，以及其他的确重要的事情，而你想结婚就是为了这些。我知道你和乔治在一起就能得到这一切，而你是爱他的。那就做他的妻子吧。他已经成为你的一部分啦。即使你飞到希腊去，永远不再见到他，甚至忘记了他的名字，但他在你的思想中将继续活动着，直到你死去。爱情是剪不断、斩不绝的。你会希望能把它剪断斩绝。你可以使它起变化，忽视它，把它搞乱，但是你永远也不可能把它从心中挖掉。经验告诉我诗人们说得对：爱情是永恒的。”
露西愤怒得哭起来，虽然她的怒气很快就消失，眼泪可仍然留在眼里。
“但愿诗人也这样说：爱情是属于肉体的；它不就是肉体，而是属于肉体的。唉，如果我们承认这一点，我们就能免去多少痛苦呀！唉，就差那么一点坦率，便能使灵魂获得自由！你的灵魂，亲爱的露西！我现在讨厌这个字眼了，因为迷信思想就利用那些时髦的词语把它包装起来。然而我们是有灵魂的。我说不清灵魂怎么来、怎么去的，可是我们都有灵魂，而我看到你正在摧毁自己的灵魂。我受不了。黑暗又偷偷地溜进来了；这是地狱呀！”接着他突然住口不讲下去了。“我乱七八糟讲了一些什么呀——多么抽象、多么渺茫啊！而且我把你弄哭了！亲爱的姑娘，原谅我讲得这样乏味；嫁给我的孩子吧！当我想起生命的意义以及用爱情回报爱情是多么难能可贵的时候——嫁给他吧；世界足为重要的时刻缔造的，现在就是一个重要的时刻。”
她听不懂他的话；他的话实在太难以捉摸r。然而就在他讲话的时候，黑暗一层一层地退去，她看见了自己灵魂的最深处。
“那么，露西——”
“你使我感到害怕，”她痛苦地呻吟道。“塞西尔——毕比先生——票也买好了——一切都定下来了。”她倒在椅子里啜泣。“我陷进了一团糟的麻烦事中。我必须离开他，忍受痛苦，成为老妇人。我不能为了他而打破整个生活。他们都信赖我。”
一辆马车在大门口停下来。
“请向乔治转达我的问候——就只这一次。告诉他这是‘一笔糊涂账’。”接着她整理一下面纱，眼泪在面纱里正像雨水一样淌在脸颊上。
“露西——”
“不——他们就在过道里——噢，请不要说了，艾默森先生——他们信赖我——”
“可是你欺骗了他们，他们为什么要信赖你呢？”
毕比先生把门打开说：“我妈妈来了。”
“你不值得他们信赖。”
“这是什么意思？”毕比先生尖锐地说。
“我刚才在说，她欺骗了你们，你们为什么要信赖她呢？”
“稍等一下，妈妈。”他走进房间，把门关上。
“艾默森先生，我不明白你的意思。你在说谁呀？信赖谁呀？”
“我说的是，她曾对你假装说并不爱乔治。可事实上他们一直相爱着。”
毕比先生看着正在啜泣的姑娘。他非常镇静，那张苍白的脸，映着发红的络腮胡子，一下子显得很少人情味了。他像一根长长的黑色柱子，站在那里，等待她回答。
“我永远不会嫁给他，”露西声音发颤地说。
他露出轻蔑的神色，说，“为什么？”
“毕比先生啊——我曾使你误以为——我曾使自己误以为——”
“一派胡扯，霍尼彻奇小姐！”
“不是胡扯！”老人激动地说。“这正是你无法理解的关于人的某一方面。”
毕比先生高兴地把手放在老人的肩上。
“露西！露西！”马车里有几个人在叫唤。
“毕比先生，你能帮助我吗？”
他对这一请求感到十分诧异，便严峻地低声说：“我感到说不出的悲哀。这太可悲了，太可悲了——简直不可思议。”
“那个小伙子有什么不好？”对方又一次激动起来。
“没什么不好，艾默森先生，只是他不再使我感兴趣而已。霍尼彻奇小姐，嫁给乔治吧！他会是顶不错的。”
他走出房间，只留下他们俩。他们听见他把他母亲领上楼去。
“露西！”马车里的那些声音又在叫唤。
她失望地转向艾默森先生。他的脸色使她感到振奋。这是一位理解人的圣徒的脸容。
“现在天已经全黑了。现在看来美和热情好像从来也没有存在过。我知道是这样。不过请记住俯瞰佛罗伦萨的重重山峦．还有那片风景，哦，亲爱的，要是我是乔治，能吻你一下，就一定会使你变得勇敢的。你不得不冷冰冰地去参加一场需要热情的战斗，不得不走出去，陷入一片你自己制造的混乱之中；你的母亲和你所有的朋友将会看不起你，唉，亲爱的，如果看不起人是正确的话，那么他们是做得对的。乔治仍然在黑暗中苦苦挣扎，十分凄惨，他一句话也不讲。我这样说是不是有道理？”他的眼睛里也涌出了泪水。“是啊，因为我们为之战斗的不止是爱情或欢乐；还有真理呢。重要的是真理，真理才是重要的。”
“吻我一下，”姑娘说。“吻我一下。我将努力去做。”
他给她一种感觉：众神已经谅解她；还有，她在得到她所爱的人的同时，也将为整个世界争取到一些东西。归家途中，马车在泥泞的道
收听单词发音 |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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tabloids
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| n.小报，通俗小报（版面通常比大报小一半，文章短，图片多，经常报道名人佚事）( tabloid的名词复数 )；药片 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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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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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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liberate
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| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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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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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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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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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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muddles
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| v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的第三人称单数 )；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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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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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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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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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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