“我必须回头了。对于刚来这些地方的人来说，这是沉闷的一天！”

说着，赫尔贝克先生一动不动地站着，双手撑在粗大的手杖上，目光缓缓地扫视着前方笔直的白色道路和两侧的风景。

在他面前，是弗伦特河谷的沼泽地，这是一片宽阔的冲积平原，由弗伦特河和格瑞特河在流入河口和大海的过程中冲积而成。从他所站的稍微隆起的地面上，他可以看到河口周围巨大的泥炭苔藓，到处都是一排排饱经风霜的树木，或者是居民的眼睛知道的更坚固的黑色点。是泥炭堆。苔藓之外是灰白色的水平线，蜿蜒的河流在那里汇入大海——在潮湿的三月下午的这个特定时刻，这条线比天空更明亮，因为有一些原本看不见的光辉，在数英里之外，似乎是照在水面上，从雨云后面滑落到水面上。

不远的地方，从东到西切割山谷的大路两侧，都是黑色而忧郁的田野，一半是从泥炭苔藓中开垦出来的，田野里的水在犁沟里，或者是犁深深地向左犁过，显示出严重浸水的土地的性质，以及农民对处理它的绝望，直到干燥的风来临。然而，其中一些早已被开垦为牧场，因此，到处都是湿透的绿色条带，与长长的紫黑色分开。在牧场所在的大堤坝或排水沟里，可以看到因最近的降雨而膨胀的水正急速汇入河流和海洋。头顶上的云彩像堤坝和溪流一样急促。一支永不停歇的队伍从西北方向从海上席卷内陆，从上方山谷的黑暗深处倾泻而下，遮盖了其头顶周围的群山。

荒凉的景象，在这狂野的三月天；但即使就苔藓地而言，也充满了某种美丽。当艾伦·赫尔贝克的目光沿着山脊向右移动时，他看到它逐渐从斜坡、伤痕和树木繁茂的丘陵中的沼泽中升起，可爱的线条、牧场和灌木丛、依山而建的村庄的混合体，每个它的教堂塔楼和白色蔓延的农场——一种温馨的魅力和舒适感，轻轻地界定了它下面的沼泽，并被西北沸腾的云层与它所攀登的山脉隔开。当他转身回家，身后是长满青苔的乡村时，山丘在他周围起伏起伏，树木越来越丰富，而他身边则翻滚着问候语，用洪亮的声音咆哮——这是一种对他来说更加亲切和熟悉的声音。艾伦·赫尔贝克也许在他生命的这个时刻比任何人的声音都重要。

他肩膀向后仰，走得很快，身材高大，有着深色的脑袋和花白的短胡子。他把自己挺得笔直，就像一个士兵那样。但他从来没有当过兵。

进入快速航线后，他停下来看看手表，然后一边思考一边快步前行。

“她规定，永远不要指望她来祈祷。”他半笑着自言自语道。 “我想她认为自己代表了她父亲——在天主教徒的巢穴中。显然奥古斯蒂娜和她没有机会——她已经习惯了统治！好吧，我们就让她‘跟着她的步态走’。”

他的嘴巴饱满而紧闭，带着轻微的轻蔑表情。当他翻过一座桥，然后进入另一边自己的大门时，他经过了一位正在刮路上泥土的老工人。

“鲁本，你最近有看到过马车吗？”

“诺亚——”那人说道。 “过去一个小时已经没有了——nobbut 手推车，t'Whinthrupp 公共汽车。”

赫尔贝克的脚步放慢了。他一整天都很孤独，甚至连老扫路工的陪伴也很受欢迎。

“如果我们不能很快得到一些干燥的日子，这对我们所有人都不好，不是吗，鲁本？”

“是啊，这有点不合时宜。”那人冷漠地说，停下来往手上吐了口唾沫，然后又继续干活。

这个温和的形容词让赫尔贝克黝黑的脸上又露出一丝微笑。事实上，一个陌生人看着它可能会想知道它是否能完全或自发地微笑。

“但你不认为抱怨有什么好处——是这样吗？”

“诺亚——我想我们从那扇门上得不到任何好处，”老人说着，再次把他的刮刀放到了泥地上。

“嗯，祝你晚安。今晚我正在等我的妹妹，你知道，我的妹妹方丹夫人，还有她的继女。”

“呃？”鲁本缓缓说道。 “那么你就成为hevin cumpany，fer shure。
好啦，赫尔贝克先生。”

但他的语气中并没有多大的热情，他漫不经心地碰了碰帽子，没有任何涂油的意思。这个男人的举止表现出对长期习惯的熟悉，但除此之外就没有什么其他的了。

赫尔贝克拐进了他自己的公园。通往房子的道路沿着河蜿蜒而行，河岸突然变成了崎岖的荒野。所有关于沼泽地的记忆都被抛在了脑后。溪流两岸的地面一直延伸到山顶，在拥挤的树木后面，远处的线条依稀可见。而在道路的某些转弯处，当迎宾路线成为视线的通道时，人们可能会远远地看到河口头周围同样混合着云和疤痕的黑色。显然，群山就在不远处。这是他们的城墙和海洋之间的边境国家。

三月傍晚的阳光正在消逝，在暴风雨般的灰色之中消逝，预示着明天会有更多的降雨。然而空气却是柔和的，春天的气息扑面而来。在一些靠水遮蔽的地方，人们可能已经看到一闪一闪的花蕾；无人照管的荒野公园的草地上，水仙花正在绽放。赫尔贝克意识到了这一切。他的眼睛和耳朵留意着生长的迹象，留意着河里出没的鸟儿、石头上的北斗七星、溜到岸边新巢的灰鹡鸰、金冠鹪鹩或黑鹩莺。背脊爬山虎在荆棘丛中移动。他喜欢这样的事情；尽管带着一种沉默而嫉妒的爱，这似乎暗示着他对生活中其他事物和力量的怨恨。

走着走着，老农民的举止在他的记忆中有些刺痛。因为这即使不是不尊重，至少也意味着完全没有法国人所说的“体贴”。

“奇怪的是，最近我在这个地方感到比以前更加孤独，”赫尔贝克最后这样说道。 “我想是自从我卖掉了 Leasowes 的土地之后。又或许——”

他陷入了沉思，表情皱着眉头，嘴巴严厉地抿着。但渐渐地，当他摇晃着前行时，他开始忘记喃喃自语，他的手伸向口袋里的一本书。——”尘埃啊，向我学习服从吧！大地和泥土啊，向我学习，谦卑自己，为了爱我而将自己拜在所有人的脚下。——当他低声说出这句话时，声音很快就听不见了，他的神情变得清晰起来，他的眼睛再次抬起来看着风景，并再次意识到它的生长和生命。

不久，他来到了马路对面的一扇大门前，一只大牧羊犬向他扑来，又跳又叫。大门外矗立着一堆低矮的建筑物，围绕着院子的三边矗立着。它们曾经是大厅的马厩。现在它们被投入农场使用，透过以前是马车房的门，可以看到一个女人在挤奶。赫尔贝克看着她。

“还没有马车经过吗，泰森夫人？”

“诺亚，先生，”女人说道。 “但我会打开门，因为现在是启动时间。”她放下了水桶。

“别动！”赫尔贝克急忙说道。 “我自己来吧。”

那个女人一边挤奶，一边看着他用一块石头支撑着破败的大门。她的表情始终友好而专注。他自己的人民，尤其是女性，总是以某种方式给予他这种关注。

赫尔贝克在一条道路上匆匆向前走，这条道路曾经很庄严，但现在却破旧不堪、破损不堪。那些树木，大多是长年生长的橡树，从公园入口处就伴随着他，周围密密麻麻的树林，直到他突然从它们中出现，在那里，在广阔的空间中，矗立着一座灰色山墙的房子，尖锐的靠在山坡上，雨夜的灯光照耀着它。

这是一座饱经风霜的老房子，具有独特的个性和尊严。但不大。它是用灰色石头建造的，上面覆盖着粗糙的铸件，随着时间的推移，石头的颜色和表面都得到了锻炼，以至于它掉落的许多补丁几乎没有产生任何毁容的效果。坚固的“贝利”塔是所有其他塔的起源和来源，现在与都铎庄园的山墙和突出部分、宽大的平开窗和深门道组合在一起。但整个结构似乎仍然靠在塔上，并朝着塔的方向延伸。正是这座塔楼强调了一种朴素的普遍表达，这也许取决于所有通道和房子附近的朴素简单。因为它的前面既没有鲜花，也没有灌木，只有大片的平原草皮和砾石。而在它的后面，越过一些稀疏的树木，矗立着一块灰色的石灰岩，房子似乎缩进了其中，就像缩进了岩石中，“它是从那里被凿出来的”。

旧窗户里有一些灯光，厚重的外门开着。赫尔贝克登上台阶，站在台阶的顶端，手里拿着手表，俯视着他刚刚走过的大道。很快，尽管河水咆哮，他的耳朵还是听出了他正在聆听的车轮声。当他们走近时，他无法保持静止，而是在小石台上不安地走来走去。他已经孤独了很多年，也很享受孤独。

“他们只是在咕咕叫，先生，”他的老管家的声音说道，她打开了他身后的一扇内门，让火光和蜡烛流进了暮色。与此同时，赫尔贝克在驶近的马车车窗上瞥见了一张女孩苍白的脸——一张急切地向前探出的脸，凝视着贝利塔。

马停了下来，女孩跳了出来。

“等一下——让我帮你，奥古斯蒂娜。赫尔贝克先生，你好吗？
请别碰我的狗——它不喜欢男人。弗里卡，安静点！”

因为她用链子拴着的那只小黑狐狸一看到赫尔贝克就开始狂怒地狂吠，老管家显然很生气，当她走上前去拿一些袋子和地毯时，她酸溜溜地看着这只狗。她的主人。与此同时，赫尔贝克和年轻女孩帮助另一位女士下了车。她像病人一样小心翼翼地慢慢走了出来，赫尔贝克伸出了手臂。

走到台阶顶端时，她转过身来环顾四周。

“哦，艾伦！”她说：“这么长——”

她的嘴唇颤抖着，头也奇怪地摇晃着。她是个矮个子女人，一张瘦削而哀怨的脸，在激动的时候总是会紧张地摇头。当赫尔贝克注意到这一点时，他感觉很久以前的时光又回到了他的身上。他把手放在她的手上，试图说点什么；但她没有开口。但他的害羞压抑着他。当他领着她走进宽敞的大厅，里面有火光和粉刷的屋顶时，她转过身来，脸上带着同样困惑的表情——

“你看到劳拉了吗？你以前从来没有见过她！”

“哦是的;我们握手了，奥古斯蒂娜，”一个年轻的声音说道。 “先生会吗？
赫尔贝克请帮我处理这些事情吗？”

她满载着披肩和包裹，赫尔贝克赶紧去帮助她。当他自己还是个两岁二十岁的小伙子时，他把他的妹妹带回她十五年前离开的老房子，在激动的心情中，他忘记了她的继女。

但芳坦小姐并不打算被遗忘。她让他减轻了她的所有负担，然后与飞行员争论多收的费用。最后，当所有的行李都搬进来，苍蝇飞走了时，她故意走上台阶，一直看着四周，但主要是看着房子。女管家和赫尔贝克先生一起站在门口等她，她的目光同样不赞成地打量着狗和女主人。

但黄昏很快就变成了黑暗，直到女孩走进明亮的大厅，她的继母已经疲倦地坐在篝火旁的长凳上，赫尔贝克才清楚地看到了她。

她身材娇小，身材瘦小，她的头发在橡木镶板的映衬下，呈现出淡淡的金色。赫尔贝克注意到她的手臂纤细，白皙的小脖子很漂亮，然后她走到老妇人面前，动作敏捷，带着某种专横的态度开始解开她的斗篷。

“奥古斯蒂娜应该直接上床睡觉，”她看着赫尔贝克说道。
“这趟旅程让她疲惫不堪。”

“太太。 “喷泉的房间已经准备好了。”女管家僵硬地站在主人身后说道。她是一位中年妇女，粉红色的脸庞，夹着两层灰色短卷发。

劳拉的目光扫过她。

“完全 不喜欢我们来！”她对自己说。然后到赫尔贝克——

“我可以立刻带她上去吗？我会打开行李，让她舒服一些。那她应该吃点东西。她今天除了在兰开斯特喝了点茶之外什么也没吃。”

方丹太太抬头看着女孩，带着微弱的默许，仿佛完全依赖她。赫尔贝克有些困惑地看了看他苍白的妹妹，又看了看管家。

“你要什么？”他紧张地对芳汀小姐说道。 “我想，晚餐时间应该是八点一刻。”

“那是我接到命令的时候，先生，”丹顿夫人说。

“就不能早点吗？”女孩急切地问道。

丹顿夫人没有回答，但她的肩膀明显变得僵硬。

“为我们尽力吧，丹顿。”她的主人急忙说道，然后她就走了。赫尔贝克友善地向他的妹妹弯下腰。

“你知道我们的机构有多么小，奥古斯蒂娜。丹顿夫人、一个粗鲁的女孩和一个男孩——仅此而已。我相信他们能让你感到舒服。”

“哦，等我把行李打开后，让我下来帮忙做饭。”小姐说道。
喷泉明亮。 “我可以做任何类似的事情。”

赫尔贝克第一次笑了。 “恐怕丹顿夫人不会接受。她在这个老地方统治着我们所有人。”

“我敢说。”女孩轻声说道。 “当然是鱼了？”她补充道，低头看着她的继母，用沉思的声音说道。

“这是周五的晚餐，”赫尔贝克说，突然脸红了，看着他的妹妹，“除了芳坦小姐。我认为 - ”

方廷夫人有些激动地站了起来，可怜兮兮地看了他一眼。

“你当然知道了，艾伦——你当然知道了。但是福克斯通的医生——他是一名天主教徒——我非常关心这一点！——告诉我不能禁食。劳拉总是让我担心。但事实上我并不想被释放！——还不是！”

劳拉什么也没说。赫尔贝克也没有。两人的表情都有些尴尬，似乎方丹夫人话里的意思比看上去的还要多。然后女孩挺直身子，相当挑衅地拉着继母的手臂，转向赫尔贝克。

“你能告诉我们上去的路吗？”

赫尔贝克拿着一盏小手灯在前面带路，嘱咐新来的人要小心旧的抛光木板太滑了。方廷夫人紧紧地抱着她的继女，小心翼翼地走着。在楼梯脚下，她停了下来，向上望去。

“艾伦，我没看到什么变化！”

他转过身来，灯光照在他那张精致、冷酷的脸和花白的头发上。

“你不是吗？但情况已经发生了很大的变化，奥古斯蒂娜。我们已经关闭了一半。”

方廷夫人深深地叹了口气，继续前行。劳拉走上楼梯时，回头看了一眼古老的大厅，奶油色灰泥的天花板，镶着镶板的墙壁，下面是光亮的橡木光秃秃的地板，上面几乎没有任何家具——一条旧地毯，一块厚重的地毯。橡木桌子，几把破旧的椅子靠在镶板上，间隔很长。但炉边堆起的大火堆却让一切都充满了欢快的光芒，在她淡然的态度下，女孩的感官暗自兴奋起来。她听说过很多“可怜的艾伦”的贫穷。贫困！就他的房子而言，无论如何，在她看来，这是一个非常可以忍受的类型。

几分钟后，赫尔贝克再次下楼，心不在焉地站在炉火前。过了一会儿，他在它旁边他习惯的椅子上坐下来——一把黑威斯特摩兰橡木雕花椅子——开始读他出门时口袋里揣着的那本书。由于近视，他读书时总是低着头看书页。一般来说，阅读使他全神贯注，以至于在阅读期间他对任何外部事物都没有意识到。然而，今晚，他好几次抬起头来听听头顶上的声音，这所房子里不寻常的声音，在他看来，几个世纪以来的安静已经在这些声音中沉淀下来，就像细小的灰尘或沉积物一样，消声匿迹。它所有的脚步声和声音。但他时不时地听到头顶上的声音，透过敞开的门，热切地、充满活力地逃入寂静。或者在狗偶尔尖锐的吠声中。

“可恶的小坏蛋！”赫尔贝克想。 “丹顿会讨厌它。
奥古斯蒂娜真的应该警告我。如果她和我们该怎么办
丹顿不上路吗？如果她试图干涉它，它永远不会回答
厨房——我必须告诉她。”

然而，不久之后，他内心的焦虑越来越强烈，以至于他的书掉在了膝盖上，他迷失在许多小小的顾虑和折磨中，这些顾虑和折磨困扰着所有独居的人。难道他现在的日子就变得艰难了，因为他遵循了自己的良心，邀请他守寡的妹妹来和他一起生活吗？

“奥古斯蒂娜和我本可以做得足够好。但是这个女孩——好吧，我们必须忍受——我们必须忍受，布鲁诺！”

当他说话时，他把手放在一只刚刚懒洋洋地走进大厅的牧羊犬的脖子上，然后把它的鼻子放在他主人的膝盖上。突然，头顶传来一阵吠叫声，狗吓了一跳，竖起了耳朵。

“过来，布鲁诺——安静点。你要以适当的蔑视态度对待那个小畜生——听到了吗？听听楼上所有的扭打和谈话——这就是新来的年轻女人和老丹顿的关系。好吧，这不会对丹顿造成任何伤害。我们有时也会被欺负，不是吗？”

他抚摸着那只狗，他傲慢的脸上充满了半苦涩半幽默的表情。

就在这时，大厅里的旧钟敲响了七点一刻。
赫尔贝克跳了起来。

“我要穿衣服吗？”他有些困惑地对自己说道。

他考虑了一两分钟，看着自己破旧的哔叽西装，然后毅然坐了下来。

“不！她必须过我们的生活。而且，我不知道丹顿会怎么想。”

他靠在椅子上，有些好笑地回忆起他的管家对他的一位年轻的天主教朋友的批评，他的一个年轻的天主教朋友——罕见的事件——在秋天和他一起度过了一个钓鱼周，并用他经常更换衣服。 “这是早餐的 yan set o' cloas，钓鱼的 anudther，骑马的 anudther，当他进来时的 yan，晚餐的一套精美西装 - anudther fer smoakin -A 应该认为他一定经常赤身裸体或不穿衣服！”丹顿在她那冷酷的威斯特摩兰语中这样说道，赫尔贝克常常因为这句话而咯咯地笑。

一个小时后，比平常时间晚了半小时，赫尔贝克已除去泥泞行走的所有痕迹，穿着他晚上总是穿的旧黑外套和黑领带，穿着一丝不苟的整洁，坐在芳坦小姐对面。晚餐。

“我希望你得到了奥古斯蒂娜想要的一切吗？”当他们坐下时，他害羞地对她说道。他在餐厅里等她，以避免带她进去的尴尬。已经有好几年没有女人住在他的屋檐下了，或者说，自从他和女人同住一屋做客以来，已经有好几年了。

“哦是的！”方廷小姐说。但她狡猾地迅速瞥了丹顿夫人一眼，她正端着咖啡走进房间，然后抿紧嘴唇，端详着她的盘子。赫尔贝克察觉到了这一目光，也看到丹顿夫人粉红的脸涨得通红，态度也很不安。

“咖啡不好吃，”她放下咖啡时突然说道。 “我无法坚持下去。”

“不，我担心我们打扰了丹顿太太，”芳坦小姐耸了耸肩说道。 “我们让她向奥古斯蒂娜提出各种各样的事情。她太累了——我以为她会晕倒。在我们离开之前，医生责备了我，不让她吃东西。赫尔贝克先生，我要给你一些鱼吗？

因为，令她惊讶的是，鱼甚至——很小的一部分——被放在她面前，旁边还放着几片冷鸡肉片。她徒劳地寻找第二个盘子。

当她扫视桌子另一边时，她在赫尔贝克的脸上看到了一丝尴尬。

“不，谢谢你，”他说。 “我被提供了。”

他的食物似乎是咖啡、面包和黄油。她不由自主地扬起眉毛，但什么也没说，丹顿夫人离开房间后，他立即忙着给她送蔬菜和酒。

“我相信你会做一顿美餐。”他一边侍候着她，一边严肃地说。 “你度过了漫长的一天。”

“哦是的！” ”芳坦小姐急躁地说，“请不要在周五对我造成任何影响。吃什么对我来说根本不重要。”

赫尔贝克没有回答。他们之间的谈话确实不太顺利。他们谈论了一些从伦敦出发的旅程；劳拉问了一些关于房子的问题。事实上，她一直在研究他们所坐的房间以及她的主人本人。 “他可能是个圣人，”她想，“但我相信他一直都知道，这样一个古老的家族里，圣人很少！他的头非常漂亮——又黑又精致——灰黑色的头发呈波浪状——还有修长的五官和尖下巴。他也非常高——至少六英尺二英寸——比父亲高。他看起来很严厉而且偏执。我想大多数人都会害怕他——我不会！”

仿佛是为了向自己证明她不是，她不断地问着问题。这座塔有多少年历史了？他们所坐的房间有多少年历史了？她用无知的少女般的眼睛环顾四周。

他指给她看壁炉架上雕刻的日期——1583 年。

“这对我们来说是一个非常重要的日子，”他开始说道，然后又停了下来。

“为什么？”

他似乎觉得说下去有些困难，但最后还是说道：

“同年晚些时候，安装烟囱的人在曼彻斯特被绞死。”

“为什么？——为什么？”

当她的手停在盘子边缘时，他突然注意到她纤细的手腕的精致，还有她那双明亮的眼睛——大而灰绿色，虹膜周围有一条明显的黑线。这种感觉或许让他的回答变得更加冷酷和谨慎。

“在伊丽莎白统治下，他是一名天主教徒。他曾庇护过一位牧师，
他和神父以及一个朋友为此一起在
曼彻斯特。然后他们的头被固定在外面
曼彻斯特教区教堂。”

“太可怕了！”方廷小姐皱着眉头说道。 “你对他还有更多了解吗？”

“是的，我们有信——”

但他没有再多说什么，话题就结束了。为了不让谈话结束，他指着房间一侧覆盖着一些旧镀金皮革，而另外三堵墙从天花板到地板都铺着橡木镶板。

“现在非常昏暗和肮脏，”赫尔贝克说。 “但当它新鲜的时候，这就是这个地方的奇迹。这个房间因此得名“天堂”。旧书信中多次提到过这一点。”

“是谁贴出来的？”

“烈士的兄弟——二十年后。”

“烈士！”她半带着轻蔑地想。 “毫无疑问，他和他的二十代人一样为此感到自豪！”

他告诉了她一些关于这个房间及其建造者的更多古董事实，与此同时，她有些困惑地看着天花板上丰富的浮雕，上面有都铎玫瑰和王冠，从庄严的壁炉架和带天篷的门，到几块破旧的家具。现代家具毁了房间的面貌，六张藤椅，丑陋的寄宿地毯和餐具柜。旧家具怎么样了？他们怎么会消失得这么彻底？

然而，赫尔贝克并没有启发她。他说话确实没有自由，只是为了打发时间。

她完全意识到他和她在一起并不自在，尽管她非常饥饿，但她还是赶紧吃饭，以便让他自由。然而，当她最后一次放下咖啡杯时，她突然说道：

“这里的空气非常好，不是吗，赫尔贝克先生？”

“我相信是这样，”他有些惊讶地回答道。 “这里是大海和山脉的混合体。这里的每个人——大多数是穷人——都活得很长寿。”

“没关系！那么奥古斯蒂娜很快就会在这里变得强大起来。她还离不开我——但是你当然知道——我已经决定了——关于我自己？”

不知何故，当她望向主人时，穿着朴素白色连衣裙、系着黑色丝带的娇小身影，流露出一种奇怪的紧张感。 “她想让我明白，”赫尔贝克想，“如果她作为我的客人来到这里，只是为了照顾我的妹妹。”

他大声说：

“奥古斯蒂娜告诉我，她不能指望长期留住你。”

“不！”女孩尖锐地说。 “不！我必须从事一项职业。你知道，我从爸爸那里得到了一点钱。我将去剑桥，或者去伦敦，也许去和朋友住在一起。哦！你亲爱的！——你 宠儿”

赫尔贝克惊讶地睁大眼睛。芳坦小姐从座位上跳了起来，跪在他的老牧羊犬布鲁诺身边。她的双臂搂住狗的脖子，脸颊贴在他棕色的鼻子上。也许她看到了主人惊讶的表情，因为她立刻站了起来，因为她试图压抑某种感觉，仍然把狗的头靠在她的衣服上说道：

“我不知道你有这样的狗。这很像我们的——你看——就像爸爸的。当我们离开福克斯通时，我不得不放弃我们的。你亲爱的，亲爱的！”——（女孩年轻声音中的爱抚强度让赫尔贝克退缩并转过身去）——“现在你不会杀了我的弗里卡，是吗？她像一个美味的黑球一样蜷缩在我的床上；你不能——你不能有这个心！我会带你上去介绍你的——我会把一切都做好！”

狗抬头看着她，眼神温柔而安静，仿佛在衡量她的恳求。

“就在那里，”她得意洋洋地说。 “没关系——他眨了眨眼睛。来吧，亲爱的，让我们结交真正的朋友。”

她牵着狗走进大厅，赫尔贝克隆重地为她开门。

她坐在大厅火炉旁的橡木长凳上，有几分钟的时间，她完全专注于那只狗，对他说一种婴儿语言，让赫尔贝克完全哑口无言。当她抬起头时，她像飞镖一样向主人抛出了另一个问题。

“赫尔贝克先生，你有很多邻居吗？”

她的声音使他的目光从她身上移开。

“不多，”他犹豫着说道。 “而我对这些人知之甚少。”

“的确！你不喜欢——社会吗？

他笑得有些尴尬。 “我不太明白，”他简单地说。

“你不是吗？多么遗憾啊！——不是吗，布鲁诺？我非常喜欢社交——舞蹈、戏剧、聚会——各种各样的东西。或者我也这么做过——一次。”

她停了下来，盯着赫尔贝克。然而他没有说话。她坐直身子，把狗从身上推开。 “顺便说一句，”她尖声说道，“还有我的表兄弟，共济会成员。他们有多远？

“大约七英里。”

“在山上，不是吗？”

赫尔贝克同意了。

“哦！我马上就去，明天就去。”女孩把小下巴轻轻抵在狗头上，目光——充满敌意的目光——定定地看着主人，语重心长。

赫尔贝克没有回答。他去拿另一根木头来生火。

“他为什么不说一些关于他们的事？”她愤怒地想。 “他为什么不说一些关于爸爸的事？——关于他的病？——问我任何问题吗？他或许恨他，但这也只是体面的事。我想，他是一个非常伟大、威严的人，有着忧郁的神情和他的家人。爸爸抵得上他一百个！哦！十点过一刻？是时候走了，让他自己祈祷吧。奥古斯蒂娜告诉我十个。”

她跳了起来，僵硬地伸出了手。

“晚安，赫尔贝克先生。我应该去奥古斯丁那儿安顿她过夜。明天我想告诉你医生对她的评价；她一点也不坚强。你几点吃早餐？”

“八点半。但是当然 - ”

“不好了！奥古斯蒂娜当然不会下来！我会亲自把她抬上托盘。晚安。”

赫尔贝克碰了碰她的手。但当她转过身去时，他犹豫不决地跟着她走了几步，然后说道：“方丹小姐，”她惊讶地环顾四周，“我希望你明白，在这座破房子里，我可以做的一切都是为了我。”姐姐的安慰，还有你的安慰，我都希望如此。我的资源不多，但我的意志很好。”

他抬起眼睑，她第一次看到下面的眼睛，饱满的——眼睛像她自己的一样灰色，但更深邃得多。她感到一阵心颤，或许是出于内疚。然后她谢过他就走了。

当她让继母舒服地过夜后，劳拉·芳汀回到自己的房间，艰难地挡住蜡烛，抵御似乎沿着老房子黑暗通道撕扯的阵风。三月的寒冷让她浑身发抖，当她停在自家门外时，她畏缩地看着面前的阴暗。那里，在通道的尽头，矗立着一座古老的塔楼。丹顿夫人是这么告诉她的。一想到里面所有锁着的空房间——黑暗、寒冷的空间——也许被奇怪的声音和过去的存在所困扰，似乎立刻让她感到一阵恐惧的旋风。她匆匆走进自己的房间，刚放下蜡烛，转身锁门，远处的大厅里传来了声音。

赫尔贝克先生和两名女仆一起念诵祈祷词，声音低沉、单调，每隔一段时间就会起起落落，而她们是家里唯一的服务对象。

劳拉把手放在门上徘徊。寂静的古屋里，声音里有一种动人的东西，一种感染力。但这种呼吁在女孩心里立刻就变成了反应。她锁上门，转身走开，呼吸急促，似乎有些兴奋。

长久以来压抑着的泪水正在涌出，房间里燃着熊熊的柴火——木材是班尼斯代尔唯一有充足的供给——在她看来突然变得令人窒息。她走到平开窗前，把它打开。一阵微风吹过，随之而来的是汹涌的河水的咆哮。

女孩向前倾身，让她滚烫的脸沐浴在狂野的空气中。她下面有一片漆黑的树木迷雾，树木被风吹得摇摇欲坠。然后，远处，一缕月光洒在水面上；远处，是一片阴暗的地方，在云彩扫过的天空下，片刻清晰；最后，也是最高的，在云层之中，有一道暗淡的光芒，时断时续，却又稳定，就像月光下的雪的光芒。

广阔的景色中弥漫着一种奇异的高贵和自由的气息；从她下方的深处；从宽阔的河道上看去，山峦半显半隐，云气腾腾，风吹拂清新。北方向她和山脉说话。就像某种充满激情和紧张的东西冲过她少女般的感觉，强化了已经存在的一切。这种渴求、这种渴望、这种在白天和黑夜的所有停顿中重新出现在她身上的怜悯所带来的肉体痛苦是什么？

她失去父亲已经九个月了，但他最后几天的所有场景对她来说仍然那么清晰，以至于她常常觉得难以置信，房间、床、无助的身影、呼吸的声音，药镜的叮当声、医生的脚步声、病人气喘吁吁的话语，全都是过去的碎片和幻影——房子空了，床被卖了，病人走了。哦！那只瘦弱的手紧握着她自己的手，痛苦的可怜——失败！可怜的、可怜的爸爸！——即使是为了安慰她，他也不会说他们会再次见面。他不相信，她也一定不相信。

不，她不会！她猛地抬起头，擦干眼泪。只是，为什么她会在这里，在一个已经十三年没有和她的父亲——他的妹夫——说过话的男人家里了？谁让他的妹妹觉得她的婚姻是一种耻辱？毫无疑问，当她，她父亲的女儿，坐在他对面的时候，他那个骄傲的黑色脑袋里，总是怀着这样的想法吗？

“这几个月我怎么能忍受呢？”她问自己。

但劳拉·芳汀来到班尼斯代尔的原因非常简单。这一切都是以最自然、不可避免的方式发生的。

当劳拉八岁的时候——也就是这个日期之前将近十三年——她的父亲，当时是一个有一个孩子的鳏夫，与艾伦·赫尔贝克的妹妹坠入爱河并结婚了。第一次见到这位天主教小老处女时，史蒂芬·方丹和他的孩子正在坎伯兰海岸的一个村庄度过剑桥假期的一部分，那里空气清新，住宿条件便宜。方廷本人来自北国。他的祖父是兰开夏郡的一名小自耕农，斯蒂芬·方丹对家乡的山地、农舍，甚至雨水有着与生俱来的喜爱。在下海之前，他和他的孩子与他的表弟詹姆斯·梅森一起在山间孤独的石屋里度过了几天，这座房子自革命以来一直属于这个家庭。然而，他很高兴地离开了，因为农场生活对他来说似乎比他记忆中的更加艰苦和肮脏，而且他不喜欢詹姆斯·梅森的妻子。出发那天，当他和劳拉走在连接农场和主干道的长而崎岖的小道上时，史蒂芬·方丹吹得那么大声、那么快乐，以至于他旁边蹦蹦跳跳的孩子惊讶地看着他。

毫无疑问，这是他感谢上天赐予他这个幸运机会的方式，让他的父亲在纽卡斯尔的当地政府担任一个小职务，而他本人也被送到了一所有大学空缺的文法学校。但总的来说，他认为自己绝不是一个成功的人。他在剑桥大学担任讲师，主讲一门鲜为人知的科学学科。他以他的方式既博学又勤奋。但他的学生很少，而且从来不喜欢收学生。他们干扰了他自己的研究，而他对受欢迎程度则抱有强烈的蔑视，这种蔑视在那些对群众没有影响力的人身上自然而然地生长起来。他的宗教观点，或者更确切地说，他选择表达这些观点的方式，使他与许多好人区分开来。他很穷，他讨厌自己的贫穷。一段相当不谨慎的婚姻，结果既不是特别好，也不是特别坏。然而，他的妻子有一些美貌，所以几乎没有时间幻灭。当劳拉还是个摇摇欲坠的婴儿时，她就去世了，史蒂芬有一段时间非常想念她。自从她去世后，他变得非常孤独，默默地对自己不满，对邻居也尖酸刻薄地批评。尽管如此，他还是感谢上帝，因为他不是他的表弟詹姆斯。

波特海滩作为一个海水浴场既不美丽也不有趣。劳拉在那里很高兴，但这并不能说明什么。在她的整个童年时期，她都拥有最令人惊讶的幸福天赋。从早到晚，她都生活在美味的事物中。史蒂芬·方丹除非仔细观察她，否则他一辈子都无法知道她整天在忙什么。但他发现她对某件事没完没了；她的小手和小腿从来没有休息过；她挖洞、洗澡、嬉戏、赛跑、亲吻、吃饭、睡觉，一切都在快乐地忙碌着，除了她面色红润、一动不动地躺在床上的时候，这种忙碌从未放松过。即便如此，那张漂亮的嘴仍然急切地张开，仿佛睡意刚刚在它的喋喋不休中呼吸了几个迷人的时刻，而“内心的喜悦”已经从魔咒中挣脱出来。

史蒂芬·方丹很崇拜她，但他的感情永远不够。尽管孩子精神饱满，但他自己却发现波特海滩一片荒凉，更重要的是，由于医生的命令和他自己的常识，他一度与书本隔绝了。突然，当他每天和劳拉一起在沙滩上散步时，他开始注意到一位身着黑衣的瘦弱女士，独自坐在海蓟丛下，通常正在挣扎着撑起一把为自己和她的孩子遮风挡雨的雨伞。书来自盛行而喧闹的风。有时，当他在小街上经过她时，他会瞥见她胆怯的眼神，或者看到并怜悯她的头和肩膀不由自主地轻微抽动，这似乎诉说着神经质的脆弱。不久他们就成了朋友，他发现她像他一样孤独和不满。他发现她是天主教徒。但她的天主教信仰并不是皈依者的信仰，而是一种古老的遗传类型，很容易建立在轻松的本性上。然后，令他惊讶的是，她似乎和一个兄弟住在北兰开夏郡的一所老房子里——这是一座众所周知的，甚至在某种程度上来说是著名的房子——距离他祖父的小财产不到七英里，并且有他对他来说非常熟悉，甚至小时候就见过。当他还是个住在布劳海德农场的小伙子时，他曾有一两次找到通往格瑞特的路，并沿着它的路线误入了班尼斯代尔公园。甚至有一次，当他在一个特定的池塘钓鱼时，那里的鳟鱼正在以一种引诱大天使的方式上升，他被一个老人抓住，并在他的肩膀上折断了他的原始鱼竿，他相信这个老人是店主是赫尔贝克先生本人，他是一位身材魁梧的白发人，关于他的故事在乡村流传甚广。

这么说来，这个又小又破旧的老处女就是班尼斯代尔的赫尔贝克！当方丹看着她时，他不禁暗暗觉得好笑，想到这个名字曾经在他孩子气的耳朵里所带来的令人敬畏的威望。三十年前，自耕农的孙子和格瑞特河上那座严肃而古老的房子的崇高主人之间似乎存在着多么巨大的鸿沟啊！现在，老赫尔贝克的女儿能和他和他的孩子坐在一起或一起散步是多么高兴啊！——随着时间的流逝，事情变得多么明显，如果他，斯蒂芬·方丹，愿意的话，她会毫不费力地做这件事。更长久的陪伴！方丹认为自己是最有说服力的民主人士，他有合理的权利表达自己的激进观点，而普通民众必须拒绝这种观点。尽管如此，他的骄傲却因这小小的幸运而增强，当他漫不经心地称呼他的新朋友时，她的名字让他感到高兴。

可怜的女士，她似乎除此之外就一无所有了。即使在他年轻的时候，方丹也记得据说赫尔贝克一家陷入了困境，在维持房屋和庄园方面已经遇到了很大困难。但显然事情现在已经落到了一个低得多的深度。赫尔贝克小姐的衣着、言谈、住处，无一不体现出贫穷，非常贫穷。他自己从来不知道拥有多余的十磅是什么意思；但是，赫尔贝克一家的这种处境所带来的狂热压力，却在他心中唤起了一种新的、尖锐的怜悯。他对这个饱受折磨的小动物感到非常难过。在他看来，女人的肉体匮乏一直是一种怪物。

这位兄弟是做什么的？——从各方面来看，他都是一个非常坚强的人，当然有能力为家族的财富做点什么。喷泉本能地认为他对妹妹的疲劳和脆弱负责。他们刚刚失去了母亲，奥古斯蒂娜来到波特海滩从长达数月的哺乳中恢复过来。不久，芳汀发现，阻碍她和健康的与其说是过去，不如说是未来。

“你不喜欢回家的想法，”有一次他们变得亲密后，他突然对她说道。她脸红了，犹豫起来。然后她的眼睛里充满了泪水。

渐渐地，他让她自己解释。弟弟似乎比她小十二岁，先是在斯托尼赫斯特长大，后来又在鲁汶长大，一直与家里的其他成员分开。他和他的家从来没有太多共同点，因为在斯托尼赫斯特，他受到了一位耶稣会老师的影响，用老赫尔贝克的话来说，这位老师把他变成了“一个喜欢的人”，挤满了人。这些想法只会让家庭更加颓废。

“我们已经成为天主教徒二十代了，”奥古斯蒂娜用颤抖的声音说道。 “但是我们的方式——父亲的方式——对艾伦来说还不够好。我们以为他决心成为一名耶稣会士，而父亲对此很生气，因为他是老地方。后来父亲去世了，艾伦回家了。他和我母亲相处得最好。哦！他对她很好。但他和我并不是以同样的方式长大的。你会认为他已经受到规则的约束。我不——不知道——我想这对我来说太高了——”

她抓起一把沙子，愤怒地从她瘦弱的手指上扔了出去，然而，她又继续赶路，仿佛卸除负担一旦开始，就必须有它的进程。

“总是被你在摇篮里养育的人拉起来并纠正过来是很困难的。哦！我并不是说他说什么了；他和我一生中从未说过话。但这就是他做事的方式——他所做的改变。你能感觉到他有多不赞成你；他不喜欢我的朋友——我们的老朋友；自从他来了之后，房子就像一片沙漠。还有他送的钱！牧师们只是把我们吸干——而他却无能为力。哦！我知道我这一切都很邪恶；但当我想到回到他身边——只有我们两个人，你知道，在那座老房子里——以及所有关于钱的麻烦——”

她的声音让她失望了。

“好吧，别回去了，”方丹把手放在她的手臂上说道。

二十四小时后，他仍然对自己和她感到满意。毫无疑问，她很愚蠢，可怜的奥古斯蒂娜，而且比他想象的一个人还要无知。她唯一接受的教育似乎是在圣奥梅尔的“英国女士学院”的两年，她从中学到的只是一小部分法语习语，其中大部分她都忘记了如何使用。 ，尽管她确实经常使用它们，但带着某种胆怯的假装。对于这个习惯，挑剔的方特认为他应该打破她。但对于其他的，她的宗教信仰，她的贫穷——好吧，她每年有一百美元，这样他和劳拉收留她就不会变得更糟，当然，孩子的前途也不应该受到半分钱的影响。 。至于天主教，方丹自嘲一笑。毫无疑问，有某种遗传的感觉。但即使她继续装腔作势，他也看不出这会对他或劳拉造成任何伤害。至于其他方面，她很适合他。她不知何故潜入了他的孤独并适应了它。他已经太老了，无法走得更远，而且他的情况可能会更糟。尽管她很爱说话，但她并不是一个糟糕的倾听者。长期的经验表明，她的性格确实像她看上去那样温柔。她有一种奇怪的虚荣心，这表现在她对哥哥的感情上。但芳汀并不觉得这令人不快。他甚至乐于奉承它。就像一个人喂养或抚摸某种半饥饿的流浪动物一样，部分是出于怜悯，部分是为了让人类的意志感受到它的力量。

“不知道那个年轻人会闹出多大的事？”方丹问自己，什么时候终于有必要写信给班尼斯代尔了。

然而，奥古斯蒂娜已经三十五岁了，她手里的钱一点点都没有，除了她自己之外，没有人可以咨询。芳登很喜欢这封信的写作，这封信虽然不生硬，但也很简短。

艾伦·赫尔贝克 (Alan Helbeck) 一小时后就出现在波特海滩 (Potter's Beach)。方丹之前就觉得自己很愿意像导师对待本科生一样对待这个比他小十六岁的高个子黑人青年。然而奇怪的是，当两个人面对面站在一起时，方丹再次尴尬地意识到姐姐从未向他回忆起的那种旧有的社交距离感。它的刺痛使他比他预想的更加粗暴。否则的话，这个年轻人那件破旧的外套，他那绝美的相貌，以及彬彬有礼的矜持态度，差一点就能让这个脾气暴躁的书生放下心来。

事实上，赫尔贝克很快发现方丹无意让奥古斯丁申请任何婚姻豁免，他不会承诺天主教抚养，假设有孩子，他的想法是结婚登记处。

“我是那些不为另一个世界的事务操心的人之一，”方丹站在旅馆的窗户前，用温和的声音说道，他留着胡须，肩膀宽阔，双手随意地伸着。放进他不合身的轻便西装的宽松口袋里。 “我不会让你姐姐担心，而且我想不会有孩子。但如果有的话，我真的不能保证让他们成为天主教徒。至于我自己，我不会把事情看得太简单，因为这是现在的时尚。我无法在教堂里展示自己，即使是为了奥古斯蒂娜。”

赫尔贝克眼睛盯着地面，沉默地坐了几分钟。然后他站了起来。

“你问的是天主教徒不应该给予的，”他慢慢地说。 “但这你当然知道。这样的婚姻我不能插手，我的职责自然就是尽最大努力劝阻姐姐。”

喷泉弯了腰。

“她在等你，”他说。 “我当然等待她的决定。”

他的语气并不严肃。然而，当赫尔贝克和奥古斯蒂娜一起在沙滩上踱步时，芳汀感到了很多不安。人们永远不知道血液中的这种该死的毒素会如何或在哪里再次爆发。那个年轻的狂热分子，从他的外表看来已经是耶稣会士了，当然会在她身上尝试他们继承的所有Mumbo Jumbo。又有哪个女人在本质上不只是最后一位发言者的猎物呢？

然而，当一切都结束了，他被允许在晚上见到他的奥古斯蒂娜时，他发现她确实无助地哭泣，但她却像地球上的温顺者一样顽固。她已经与她的兄弟和班尼斯代尔彻底决裂了。方丹推测，在赫尔贝克进行了所有的争论和恳求之后，他们之间出现了一场风暴，当时世代相传的激烈的“赫尔贝克脾气”已经打破了苦行僧的自制力，奥古斯丁一定需要已经颤抖了。然而，她就在那里，既害怕又痛苦，但仍然坚定不移。她的恐惧更多地是担心是否有可能重返艾伦和他严格的信条，而不是其他任何事情。喷泉发现自己在想，她是否真的有足够的想象力来控制那些毫无疑问对她构成威胁的精神恐惧。然而，正如我们将看到的，他在这一点上错误地判断了她。

与此同时，他派人去找了他妻子的一位年长的福音派表弟，他习惯于对他的孩子和他自己表现出友好的兴趣。她在新教教徒的欢呼声中，匆忙地赶来了，几乎是在世俗婚姻的邪恶计划一提出时就差点离开了。然而，在多方劝说下，她还是留下来，哀叹不已。奥古斯蒂娜派人去班尼斯代尔领取她为数不多的财产，这个简陋的仪式很快就结束了。

与此同时，劳拉却发现，在整个事件中，波特海滩已经拥有的许多乐趣和兴奋又增添了一种乐趣和兴奋。那个跳舞的小精灵——她对自己的母亲没有记忆——一开始就把小老处女置于她庇护之下。她慷慨地允许奥古斯蒂娜绕一圈，以获取她在一个气喘吁吁的早晨可能积累的所有咸水宝藏。每当那个入侵的怪物大海摧毁了她的城堡时，她都会第一时间提供信息。当她的爸爸喜欢奥古斯蒂娜并且对她有用时，八岁的劳拉立即接受了她作为家庭圈子的一部分，没有任何感情或反对。她和父亲手牵着手，快活地走向圣比斯的登记处。那颗隐藏着嫉妒、风雨飘摇的小心很清楚，它没有什么可害怕的。

随后在剑桥度过了许多平静的岁月。奥古斯蒂娜不再谈论她的哥哥，显然也放弃了她的旧信条。她完全按照她丈夫的方式行事，在学术生活的洪流中，一根无色的线，在外面很少受到尊重，通常沉默寡言，但在家里却是一个温柔、愚蠢、常常健谈的人，很容易被某些人逗乐。小小的善意和一些物质享受。

与此同时，劳拉也长大了，但没有人确切知道她是如何长大的。她的教育是支离破碎的，自始至终都是由她自己管理，从一开始就表现出她自己的强烈意志或任性。她把自己送进了学校——只是走读学校；当她厌倦了之后，她就自己离开了。她疯狂地投入到舞蹈或滑冰等体育锻炼中。凭借某种狂野的优雅、一种不驯服的精神和意志力量，他在大多数方面都表现出色。然而她长大后却又小又苍白；直到十八岁左右，她才突然绽放出美丽的光芒。

“卡罗蒂娜——怎么了，你怎么了？”有一天，她父亲对她说。

她惊讶地转过身来，把一些书整理整齐地放在他的书架上。然后她脸色有些愤怒。

“我想我必须把头发盘起来，”她怨恨地说。她父亲突然提出的问题，就像他审视她时用新的亲密和锐利的目光一样，让她很恼火。

“出色地！你已经成为一个年轻的女士了。我敢说我以后不许再叫你外号了！”

“我不介意，”她冷漠地说，继续干她的工作，而他则看着她盘绕在小脑袋上的金红色团块，带着一种奇怪的半受欢迎的变化感，一种突然的预知。未来。

然后她又转过身来。

“如果——如果你做出任何荒谬的改变，”她皱着眉头说道，“我——我会把它全部砍掉！”

“你最好不要这样做；会有骚乱，”他笑着说。 “在你二十一岁之前，它不是你的。”

他对自己说：“天哪！我没有讨价还价要一个漂亮的女儿。我该拿她做什么呢？奥古斯蒂娜永远不会让她结婚。”

当然，在她年轻的时候，劳拉并没有表现出要结婚的迹象。她显然不知道一个年轻人什么时候在附近；她那明亮而激烈的举止，她尖刻的言语，依然如故。她既不颤抖也不激动。当她喋喋不休时，她几乎对任何靠近她的人都漠不关心。她总体上很快乐，总体上精神饱满。她的女同伴们都清楚，没有人如此保守，而且她内心深处的自我，如果存在的话，也远离她们的任何视野。她时不时会勃然大怒，爆发脾气，这与她平时的冷漠性格形成了鲜明的对比。但很难找到他们的线索。

总而言之，即使在一个以聪明为衡量标准的大学城里，她也被认为是一个聪明的女孩。但事实上，除了两点之外，她所受的教育是最差的。父亲安排给她的任何机械苦役，她都毫无怨言地完成。或者更确切地说，她嫉妒地宣称这一点，带着一种沉默的激情。但是，她以一种同样沉默的固执，反对苦差事，而这份苦差事本来可以使她成为他的智力伴侣。

他那一排排的技术书籍，他工作中的学术性和费力的细节，让她产生了无以复加的反感。他并没有试图说服她。对于女人和她们的主张，他是守旧的、轻蔑的。如果他有一个博学的女儿，他会感到非常尴尬。她应该为他复印和整理；她应该在他房间的角落里蜷缩着坐几个小时，看一本书或一件作品；她应该给他拿烟斗，在适当的时候打断他的工作，用专横的声音“爸爸，出来！”——这些事情对他来说是令人愉快的，不，是必要的。但除此之外，他没有任何梦想；他从来没有从整体上考虑过她、她的教育或她的性格。这不是他的方式。此外，女孩们抓住了机会。当然，对于一个男孩来说，人们会计划并展望未来。但劳拉会有 200_l_。不管发生了什么，她母亲已经离开了一年，而且在他去世时，还有更多的事情。何必为难自己呢？

毫无疑问，他间接地为她的成长做出了很大的贡献。看到他的作品和他的方法；她偶尔听到他和他的科学同志之间的谈话；他周围的气氛中充满讽刺和否认的语气；他的对抗、他的苦毒，强烈地影响了她仍然可塑的本性。而且她打心底里觉得他是不成功的；他本应得到一些任命，但却未能获得，而阻碍他的是宗教团体，即集会的“神职人员”。从她的童年起，她就很自然地讨厌那些相信荒谬事物的偏执之人。他们站在她父亲和他的沙漠之间。可以说，在她的地平线上，隐约出现了某种朦胧而雄伟的东西，它被称为科学。她的父亲对此提出了要求，而她则紧贴着他。而他们周围却是一群黑压压的人群，他们轻蔑地从人群中挤过去。

事实上，从某一方面来说，方汀承认了她的存在。和密尔一样，他在诗歌中找到了生命的休息和慰藉。他带着劳拉一起来了。他们互相读书给对方听，互相激励对方背诵。他什么也没瞒着她。雪莱对自己充满热情。它变成了她的。她自学了德语，以便可以和他一起阅读海涅和歌德。一天晚上，当她刚满十六岁的时候，他催促她读完《浮士德》的第一部分，结果她在如此激动的情感中彻夜难眠，似乎暂时改变了。她的整个存在。有时，他惊讶地发现她不仅具有诗歌的感觉，而且还具有诗歌的感官愉悦的能力。线条——声音——困扰了她好几天，它们的美丽会让她惊恐和颤抖。

然而，她竭尽全力向他隐藏自己本性的这一面。这并不困难。她在很多事情上仍然孩子气地不成熟和落后。她是一个有个性的人；这很清楚；人们很难说她有某种性格。她是一个让人又爱又恨的人；一种力量，而不是一个有机体；她的父亲也常常像其他人一样对她感到困惑。

音乐也许是唯一能战胜她懒惰的学科。一位曾在剑桥定居过一段时间的著名音乐家偶然发现了她的天赋并注意到了它。为了取悦他，她勤奋工作，甚至顽强不屈。勃拉姆斯、肖邦、瓦格纳——这些伟大的浪漫主义者在音乐中迷住了她，就像雪莱或罗塞蒂在诗歌中迷住了她一样。 “你这个小恶魔，劳拉！你怎么来这么玩啊？”一位女朋友——她唯一的知心朋友——曾经绝望地对她说道。 “就是这个表情。你从哪里得到它？我练习，而你不练习；这不公平。”

“表达！” ”劳拉恼怒地说，“那有什么关系呢？这就是业余爱好者。当然，我就是这样打球，因为我不能做得更好了。如果我能 演奏音符”——她握紧小手，带着一种好奇的、几乎是猛烈的能量——“如果我有什么技巧——或者曾经可能有什么，我应该用什么表情来表达？任何猫都可以给你表达！昨晚我的窗户下有一个——你应该听到的！”

女朋友莫莉·弗里德兰耸了耸肩。她和劳拉一样温柔、一样平常、一样有自制力，而劳拉则任性、易怒。但他们之间却有着非常真挚的感情。

几年过去了。不知不觉中，奥古斯蒂娜的健康状况开始恶化。随之而来的是她中年生活的新的快乐。然后方丹本人突然病倒了，病情危重。几天后，他们共同生活中所有平静的习惯和小乐趣都崩溃了，可以说，陷入了悲惨的混乱。奥古斯蒂娜困惑地站着。然后，一场她和其他人一样没有预料到的心灵抽搐席卷了她。一些隐晦的、遗传的、半死不活的本能又复活了。她生活在恐惧之中；她睡着了，哭着；在一个旧抽屉的后面，她发现了一串儿时的念珠，她的手指日日夜夜地握着它。

与此同时，方丹也甘愿死了。在他最后的日子里，他昏暗的感官没有意识到他的妻子发生了什么事。但他却为她操心不少。

“照顾她，劳拉，”他有一次说道，“直到她变得坚强。照顾她。——但你不能牺牲自己的生命。——这可能是基督教的，”他低声补充道，“但这没有意义。”

意识逐渐丧失。奥古斯蒂娜似乎失去了理智。最后，只有劳拉坐在她父亲身边，脸色苍白，表情凶狠，阻止她的继母将一位神父带到他临终前的床边。 “你不会 给！”女孩用她低沉而颤抖的声音说道；奥古斯蒂娜只能绞着双手。

丈夫去世后的第二天，方丹夫人又恢复了她的天主教职责。当她忏悔回来后，她尽可能悄无声息地溜进黑暗的房子。楼上的门打开了，劳拉从她父亲的房间里出来。

“你做到了吗？”她说着，她的继母因激动和疲倦而浑身发抖，向她走来。 “你已经回到他们身边了吗？”

“哦，劳拉！我必须听从良心的召唤——劳拉！哦！你可怜的父亲！”

寡妇放声大哭，伸出双手。

劳拉一动不动，双手垂了下来。

“我父亲什么都不想要，”她说。

她的口音中难以形容的骄傲和热情吓坏了奥古斯蒂娜，她走开了，默默地哭泣。女孩回到了死者身边，痛苦地坐在他身边，没有再流泪，直到他被从她身边带走。

赫尔贝克先生善意地写信给他的妹妹，回复了她告知他她丈夫去世以及她自己与教会和解的信。他问他是否应该立即过来帮助他们处理葬礼事宜，并结束他们的剑桥生活。当劳拉看到这封信时，她说：“求求他别走开。” “这里人很多。”

事实上，剑桥大学在斯蒂芬生前很少关注喷泉，在他去世后甚至对他的遗孀和孩子表现得非常友善。善待处于困境中的劳拉总是很困难，但人们对她充满了真正的怜悯，并对她与天主教继母的关系充满了好奇。然而，只有来自弗里德兰的她才会接受，或者允许她的继母接受任何真正的帮助。弗里兰德博士是一位中年男子，退休后拥有中等财富，在剑桥图书馆的帮助下致力于历史工作。他被史蒂芬·方丹深深吸引，方丹也被他吸引。这是一段不久前的短暂友谊，但弗里德兰博士这边有一些东西——尊重和诚恳，慷慨和理解，为此劳拉爱这位体弱多病、白发苍苍的学者，并将永远爱他。与弗里德兰一家告别后，她流下了暴风雨般的泪水，否则她就满怀喜悦地离开了剑桥。

在他们离开剑桥的前一天，奥古斯蒂娜收到了她哥哥寄来的一包书。大多数情况下，他们对劳拉是隐藏的。但到了晚上，当女孩在继母的房间收拾行李时，她发现一本正面摊开的小书。她拿起它，看到上面写着《天主教信仰大纲》，其中一页还沾着泪水。一种愤怒的好奇心让她看着站在那里的东西：“一个上帝的信徒，虽然没有故意的过错，对三位一体的神圣奥秘一无所知，但许多天主教神学家认为他有能力获得救赎。还有异教徒的“无敌无知”。除了神圣的仁慈之外，我们谁也不知道还有什么可能。我们在这些事情上的职责是服从，而不是猜测。”

空白处用淡淡的铅笔写着：“我的斯蒂芬 可以 不信。玛丽——祈祷——”

这本书包含班尼斯代尔书牌和名字“艾伦·赫尔贝克”。劳拉把它扔了下来。但她的脸因轻蔑而颤抖，她以一种盲目的激情完成了她正在做的事情。就好像她把父亲垂死的躯体抱在怀里，保护他免受在他生前伤害过他的同样的干涉和暴虐力量的伤害，而现在他死了，她仍在对他大喊大叫。

为了奥古斯蒂娜的健康，她和奥古斯蒂娜去了海边——福克斯通。在这里，方丹夫人开始定期与她的兄弟通信，很快就发现她的心渴望他，也渴望她在班尼斯代尔的老家。但她仍然痛苦地依赖劳拉。劳拉是她的女仆和保姆；劳拉管理着她的所有生意。终于有一天，她做出了祈祷。劳拉会和她一起去班尼斯代尔（Bannisdale）一段时间吗？艾伦希望如此——艾伦邀请了他们俩。 “他会对你很好，劳拉——我确信这会让我陷害。”

劳拉倒吸了一口冷气。她把小下巴放在手上思考着。嗯——为什么不呢？这对她来说会是可恨的——先生。赫尔贝克和他的房子在一起。她很清楚，或者说猜到了他和她父亲的关系。但是，如果奥古斯丁娜能够变得坚强起来，如果她能完全留在她哥哥身边，和他一起生活，那又怎么样呢？——在他的一两封信中，他也提出了同样的建议。哎呀，这将结束劳拉的责任，无论如何，她唯一的责任。

她想到了莫莉·弗里德兰——想到了他们少女般的计划——旅行、音乐。

“好吧，”她说着，跳了起来。 “我们会去的，奥古斯蒂娜。我想，在一段时间内，赫尔贝克先生和我可以保持平静。你必须告诉他别打扰我。”

她停顿了一下，然后突然激烈地说，就像一个坚持她立场的人一样——“请告诉他，奥古斯蒂娜——说得很清楚——我永远不会参加祈祷。”

当劳拉醒来时，阳光已经照进她的房间。她静静地躺了一会儿，环顾四周。

她的房间是都铎王朝房屋的十八世纪扩建部分，镶板简陋，镶着污迹斑斑的饰板，除了壁炉墙上，壁炉两侧的灰泥都覆盖着挂毯。挂毯的主题是戴安娜狩猎。黛安娜，白皙高挑，带着弓和箭袋，女王般地穿过一片绿色的森林。两只灰狗在她身边排列，在树林里昏暗的远处，她的侍女们跟在后面。右边一座古老的城堡，有希腊神庙般的柱子，庄严地矗立在蓝色的大海边上，但有点弯曲；大海已经褪色很多，橱柜的木把手粗鲁地伸进大海。两个四肢修长、脸上打着补丁的女士站在城堡的台阶上。前面是一艘船，上面有一个等待的战士和一张膨胀的帆；在他身下，蓝色的波浪已经磨损得非常破旧，确实被那个侵入的把手羞愧了，但仍然足够蓝，仍然有足够的风来承载爱和飞行的想法。

劳拉仍然处于半睡半醒的状态，双手放在脸颊上，躺在床上，带着一种模糊的愉悦感盯着城堡和森林。 “迷人的窗扉”——“危险的海洋”——“荒凉的仙境”。在她的记忆中，这些台词睡眼惺忪地流淌着，有点混乱。

但渐渐地，早晨的气息和新鲜感开始发挥作用。她的灵魂从半梦半醒中醒来，开始在她体内跳舞。当她跳起来把窗户打开时，下面是波光粼粼的河流，水仙花在娇嫩的威斯特摩兰草地上摇曳着苍白的头，高高的白云仍在风中飞舞。发现自己置身于这片荒凉而洁净的国家是多么美妙啊！——经历了游行队伍和宿舍的丑陋肮脏，经历了三月尘土飞扬的肮脏的弓形窗户街道。

她靠在宽阔的窗台上，双手撑着下巴，全神贯注地吸收着阳光。东方的阳光斜斜地照过来，沐浴在她蓬乱的金发、洁白的小身躯和踮起脚尖的赤脚上。

突然她退缩了。她看到河对岸有一个男人穿过公园，少女的本能驱使她离开了窗户。尽管那个男人大约在四分之一英里之外，而且如果他一直在寻找她，也只能在旧墙上找到一个苍白的斑点。

“先生。赫尔贝克，”——她想——“看他的身高。早上七点之前他要去哪里？我讨厌一个不能像其他人一样保持理性工作时间的人！弗里卡，过来！”

因为她的小狗追着它的女主人从床上跳了起来，现在在她身后伸了个懒腰，眨着眼睛。听到劳拉的声音，它跳了起来，试图舔她的脸。劳拉把它抱在怀里，坐在床上，仍然抱着它。

“不，弗里卡，我不喜欢他——我不，我不，我 别！ 但你和我必须表现得好。如果你惹恼了楼下那只大狗，他会扭断你的脖子——他会的，弗里卡。至于我，”——她耸了耸她的小肩膀，——“好吧，赫尔贝克先生不能崩溃。 my 脖子，所以我非常害怕我会惹恼他——非常非常害怕！但我会尽量不这么做。你看，我们要做的只是让奥古斯蒂娜康复——拿着扫帚站在她身边，把滋补品倒进她的喉咙里。然后，弗里卡，我们就各走各的路，享受一些乐趣。现在看看我们！——”

她稍微动了动，梳妆台上的碎玻璃映出了她的头和肩膀，狗靠在她的脖子上。

“你知道我们长得一点也不难看，弗里卡——我们俩都不是。我见过更糟糕的。 （哦，弗里卡！我已经告诉过你很多次我可以洗脸了——没有你——谢谢你！）如果我们把自己挡在它们的路上，可能会发生各种各样的美好事情。哦！我确实想要一些乐趣——我确实想要！——至少有时候！”

但声音又突然减弱了。绿色的大眼睛里瞬间充满了泪水，劳拉坐在那儿盯着阳光，泪水落在她白色的睡衣上。

与此同时，被掐住一半的弗里卡用力挣脱了。劳拉也跳了起来，擦掉泪水，好像她很生气，然后开始四处寻找穿衣的方法。房间里的一切都是最简陋和最简陋的——带有陶器的小屋盥洗台、光秃秃的梳妆台和破旧的玻璃。

“洗澡！——我的王国，洗澡！”我不介意挨饿，但必须洗漱。让我们给那个头发粗的女孩弗里卡打电话，试着绕过她。天哪！——没有铃声吗？”

然而，经过长时间的寻找，她发现角落里挂着一块破烂的挂毯，她用力拉了拉。然而费了好大劲，外面的通道里才传来了脚步声。劳拉赶紧穿上蓝色晨衣，满怀期待地站在那里。

门被毫不客气地打开，一个女孩的脑袋被塞了进去。劳拉是在前一天晚上认识她的。她是管家的下属和侄女。

“太太。丹顿说我不会停下来。她没有时间应门铃。等水壶烧开，你就会有热水了。”

门刚关上，劳拉就扑向说话者，抓住了她的手臂。

“亲爱的，”她说着把女孩拉了进去，“那根本不行。现在看这里”——她举起她白皙的小手，用力摇晃着食指——“我不想——不想——给——带来任何麻烦，丹顿夫人可以给她留热水。但我必须洗澡——还有一个大罐子——而且必须有人告诉我去哪里取水——然后——然后，亲爱的——如果你让自己变得和蔼可亲，我会——好吧，我会教你如何在周日做头发——以一种让你惊讶的方式！

女孩突然惊讶地看着她，漆黑的双眸颤抖着。她有一张圆圆的农家脸，倒也不失美丽，一头乌黑的头发毫无光泽。劳拉笑了。

“我会的，”她点点头说。 “你会看到的。我会给你一些关于你最好的连衣裙的想法。我会成为你的普通姐姐——如果你愿意为我和方丹夫人做一些事情的话。你叫什么名字——艾伦？——没关系。对了，家里有洗澡的地方吗？”

女孩不情愿地回答说，在通道尽头的大房间里有一个。

“给我看看，”劳拉说，然后带着她离开了那里。粗鲁的人沿着镶板通道带路，打开了一扇门。

然后轮到劳拉凝视了。

在里面，她看到了一个宽敞的房间，墙壁镶着精美的镶板，天花板装饰精美。阳光从没有拉窗帘的窗户倾泻到房间里仅有的两件东西上：一张华丽的床，雕花镀金，上面挂着失去光泽的锦缎窗帘，还有一个普通老式的圆形锡浴缸，靠在床边。墙。橡木板完全光秃秃的。床和浴缸对视着。

“所有的家具都怎么样了？”劳拉惊讶地环顾四周说道。

“上个月，这位来自爱丁堡的绅士拥有了一切。”女孩仍然闷闷不乐地说。 “他现在已经铺好床了。”

“哦！——他经常来这里吗？”

这个女孩犹豫了。

“嗯，我来的时候他家里有很多东西。”

“他有吗？”劳拉说。 “那么，现在——伸出援手吧。”

他们两人一起带走了浴缸；然后劳拉告诉自己哪里可以喝水，早餐什么时候准备好。

“乡绅已经滚蛋了，”埃伦说道，她仍然从一对又黑又尖的眉毛下注视着这个新来者。 “丹顿夫人说她想你会想要一个托盘给方丹夫人。”

“乡绅不吃早餐吗？”

“诺亚。他要去弥撒——早上，他用早餐吃早餐
鲍尔斯神父。”

少女的眼神变得更加充满敌意。

“哦，是吗？”劳拉用沉思的语气说道。 “那么，看这里。把另一个杯子和盘子放在芳坦太太的托盘上，我就和她一起吃我的。要不要我去厨房拿一下？”

“诺亚，”女孩急忙说道。 “太太。丹顿不喜欢在厨房里乱动。”

就在这时，外面的过道上传来了丹顿夫人最愤怒的呼唤声。劳拉笑着把女孩推出了房间。

一小时后，芳坦小姐就在这栋房子里最舒适的卧室里照顾她的继母。家具确实是一个混合体。它似乎是从许多其他房间收集而来的。但无论如何，它还是很丰富的。地板上铺着一块很破旧但仍然有用的地毯。艾伦没有被叫去就点起了火。劳拉意识到，赫尔贝克先生一定就他妹妹的问题发出了一些明确的命令。

然而可怜的方廷夫人并不高兴。她坐在床上，裹着一件不合时宜的法兰绒夹克——奥古斯蒂娜对衣服没有品味——带着一种奇怪的反感看着劳拉摆在她面前的还过得去的早餐。劳拉不太知道该怎么看待她。过去，她一直认为她的继母是一个随和、相当自我放纵的人，她喜欢美味的食物和填充椅子，并且可以通过关注她对沙发垫子或茶的品味来最好地管理或安抚她——蛋糕。

毫无疑问，自从方丹夫人与她父亲的教会和解以来，她有时表现出一种焦急的性格，要实行好天主教徒通常的苦行。但由于她身体虚弱，医生和主任都无法在这方面纵容她。总的来说，她已经很乐意地默许了。

但劳拉发现她现在变了并且焦躁不安。

“哦！劳拉，我吃不了那么多！”

“你必须这么做，”劳拉坚定地说。 “真的，奥古斯蒂娜，你 必须设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

“艾伦出去了，”奥古斯蒂娜说道，语气中充满了渴望，她眯起眼睛，仿佛要透过对面窗户的菱形玻璃窗，看着公园和在公园里行走的人们。

“是的。他似乎每天早上都会去惠索普做弥撒。艾伦说他和牧师一起吃早餐。

奥古斯蒂娜叹了口气，坐立不安。但当她吃到一半时，劳拉站在她身边，她突然用颤抖的手放在了劳拉的手臂上。

“劳拉！——艾伦是个圣人！——很久以前——当我如此盲目和邪恶时，他总是如此。但现在——哦！丹顿夫人告诉我的事情！”

“她有吗？”劳拉冷冷地说。 “好吧，你下定决心吧，奥古斯蒂娜”——她摇摇头——“无论如何，你不能成为和他一样的圣人。”

方坦太太迅速收回了手，表示很生气。

“劳拉，如果你能不轻率地谈论这些事情，我会很高兴。当我想到这些年来我是多么无法理解我亲爱的兄弟——”

“不——你看你和爸爸住在一起，”劳拉慢慢地说。

她离开了继母身边，背对着一个旧柜子站着，胳膊肘撑在上面。她的眉头皱在一起，可怜的方丹太太看了她一眼，显得更加痛苦了。

“你可怜的爸爸！”她咕哝了一声，然后，好像是为了安抚劳拉，她把早餐拿回身边，又想吃。尽管她们都身材娇小，但她和继女之间的对比却十分鲜明。劳拉的五官都精致而清晰，没有什么比眼睛和头发的颜色，或者她皮肤的白度——美丽而健康的白度——更明确、更明亮的了。然而关于方丹夫人的一切都是不确定的；向左轻微扭曲的特征；肤色曾经白皙，现在因岁月和健康不佳而变红；头发呈黄灰色；头部和肩膀神经衰弱。只有眼睛的颜色还有些纯净。尽管他们胆怯或犹豫不决，但他们仍然是忧郁而甜蜜的。也许只有他们才能解释为什么很多人——包括她的继女——都喜欢奥古斯蒂娜。

“丹顿夫人告诉了你关于赫尔贝克先生的什么事情？”劳拉停顿了一下，语气有些唐突地问道。

“你不会有任何同情心的，劳拉，”方丹太太有些激动地说。 “你看，你不理解我们的天主教原则。我希望你这么做！——哦！我希望你这么做！但你没有。所以也许我最好不要谈论它。”

“我可能有兴趣了解事实，”劳拉声音有点强硬地说。 “在我看来，我很可能会成为赫尔贝克先生的客人一段时间。”

“但你不会喜欢的，劳拉！”芳坦太太喊道——“你会误解艾伦的。”你可怜的亲爱的父亲总是误解他。” （劳拉不安地动了动。）“这并不是因为我们认为可以用这些东西来拯救我们的灵魂——当然不是！——你们新教徒就是这么说的——”

“我不是新教徒！”劳拉激动地说。芳坦太太没有在意。

“但这就是教会所说的‘屈辱’，”她说，赶紧继续说。 “它把尸体隐藏起来——就像圣保罗所做的那样。这就是造就圣人的原因——而且确实造就了圣人——无论人们怎么说。你可怜的父亲当然不同意。但他不知道！——哦！亲爱的，亲爱的斯蒂芬！——他不知道。艾伦并没有生气，这也不会损害他的健康——真的不会。”

“他做什么的？”劳拉问道，试图抓住要点。

但可怜的奥古斯蒂娜心情复杂，无法解释。

“你看，劳拉，有一种严格的方式来庆祝四旬斋，而且——嗯——只是常见的方式——尽可能少做。当然，过去要严格得多。”

“在黑暗时代？”劳拉建议道。奥古斯蒂娜没有注意到。

“书本上现在告诉你的，比任何人所做的都要严格得多。——我确信我不知道为什么。但艾伦严格要求——他想回到过去的方式。哦！我希望我能解释一下——”

方廷夫人困惑地停了下来。她确信她曾经听说过，在早期的教会里，人们直到晚上才吃东西，甚至连饮料也不喝。但艾伦不打算这么做吗？

劳拉把弗里卡抱在膝盖上，正在整理狗脖子上的丝带。

“他吃吗 什么？”她抬起头，漫不经心地问道。 “如果它是 没什么——那会很有趣。”

“劳拉！如果你愿意尝试并理解就好了！——当然，艾伦不会为自己解决这样的事情——没有人会为我们解决这样的问题。那只是在英国教堂里。”

奥古斯蒂娜挺直了身子，带着一种无意识的傲慢。劳拉微笑着看着她。

“那谁来解决呢？”

“当然是他的导演。他一定是请假了。但他们已经给他放假了。他为自己选择了一条规则”——奥古斯丁明显地咽了一口口水——“四旬斋前，他把丹顿夫人叫到了跟前，告诉了她这件事。当然，他会尽可能地隐藏它。天主教徒决不能是单一的——决不能！但如果我们和他住在一起，他就无法隐藏这一点。整个四旬期，他只在周日吃肉，其他日子——他写下了一份清单——嗯，就像圣徒一样——仅此而已！——我只是为此哭泣！”

方丹太太对劳拉说出这样的话，激动得浑身发抖，但她的蓝眼睛却在燃烧。

“什么！鱼和蛋？——那种东西？”劳拉说。 “好像这里面有什么困难啊！”

“劳拉！你怎么可以这么不友善？——我必须把这一切都保密。——我不会告诉你任何事！”奥古斯蒂娜愤怒地叫道。

劳拉走到窗前，站在那里，望着窗外三月的梧桐树上的花蕾在河面上闪闪发光。

“他也让仆人禁食吗？”过了一会儿，她把头转过肩膀问道。

“不，不，”继母急切地说。 “他从不对他们严厉——只对他自己。教会对像他们这样用手勤劳的人的期望除了“禁欲”之外别无其他，你明白，不是真正的禁食。但是——我真的相信——他们所做的与他非常相似。丹顿夫人似乎一无所有。哦！而且，劳拉——我真的不能总是拥有多余的东西！”

方坦太太把早餐从她身边推开。

“请记住，在你们的教会里，没有人可以为自己解决任何问题，”劳拉说。 “你知道那位医生——那位天主教医生——在福克斯通对你说了什么。”

方廷夫人叹了口气。

“至于丹顿夫人，我明白了——这就解释了礼仪。没有任何改善——直到四旬斋结束？”

“劳拉！”

但她的继女又站在窗边向外张望，没有理睬，过了一会儿，奥古斯蒂娜胆怯地轻声说道：

“劳拉，你不吃早餐吗？你知道它就在这里——在我的托盘上。”

劳拉转过身来，让奥古斯蒂娜感到无比欣慰的是，她看到的不是皱眉，而是一张容光焕发的脸。

“我一直在河对岸田野里观察羊羔。多么荒唐迷人的事情啊！——这样的跳跃——和矫揉造作。这条河是天堂般的——以及所有一般的 感觉 的！我真的不知道，奥古斯蒂娜，当你出生在这个国家时，你是如何离开这个国家的。”

方坦太太推开托盘，悲伤地摇摇头，什么也没说。

“那是什么？——那是谁？”劳拉惊讶地站在班尼斯代尔客厅的一幅画前喊道。

在她面前的镶板墙上，挂着一幅令人眼花缭乱的白衣少女肖像，轻盈如风中的花朵；眼神昂扬而热切，仿佛在迎接爱人；金色的头发像头巾一样裹着白色的面纱；漂亮的手在玩书。它从棕色的墙壁上闪闪发光，对它下面和周围的一切有一种自然的主权，这幅画是如此辉煌，这个女人是如此美丽。

奥古斯蒂娜忧郁地抬起头。她缩成一团坐在一张大椅子上，陷入了自己的思考中。

“那是我们的照片——那张著名的照片，”她慢慢地解释道。

“你的罗姆尼？”劳拉说，隐约想起她继母早些时候的一些谈话。

奥古斯蒂娜点点头。她带着一种好奇的激动盯着这幅画，仿佛她第一次看到它长久以来熟悉的荣耀。劳拉对她感到很困惑。

“嗯，但是太棒了！”女孩喊道。 “一个人不需要知道太多就能知道这一点。赫尔贝克先生拥有这样的东西，怎么能说自己是穷人呢？

奥古斯蒂娜开始了。

“价值数千。”她急忙说道。 “我们知道。几年前，有一个伦敦人来过一次。但爸爸把他赶了出来——他永远不会卖掉他的东西。她是我们的曾祖母。”

劳拉脑海中闪过一个念头。

“你的意思不是说赫尔贝克先生要卖掉她吗？”劳拉急躁地说。 “那就太可惜了！”

“艾伦可以为所欲为，”奥古斯蒂娜很快就不满地说。 “他非常想要为他的一所孤儿院筹集资金——其中一些孤儿院必须重建。哦！那些孤儿院——它们对他来说一定是多么沉重——可怜的艾伦！——可怜的亲爱的艾伦！——这么多年！”

方廷夫人双手合十，叹了口气。

“是他们一点点把房子吃掉了吗？——可怜的房子！——可怜的亲爱的房子！”劳拉重复道。

她愤怒地盯着这张照片。它甜蜜而自信的气息——就像一个在爱情的摇篮里，在亲人的敬意和老房子的庇护下世世代代幸福的人——代表了信条和偏执者总是践踏的所有自然的人类事物。

然而方廷夫人只是摇了摇头。

“我认为艾伦还没有解决任何问题。只是丹顿夫人害怕了——前几天有人来看过——”

“他当然不应该卖掉它，”劳拉强调道。 “他必须考虑后来的人。他们会照顾孤儿院什么？他只是信任这张照片。”

“不会有人追捕的，”奥古斯蒂娜缓缓说道。 “他当然永远不会结婚。”

“他是一位伟大的圣人吗？”劳拉喊道。 “那么我只能说，
奥古斯蒂娜，这——这——会给他带来很多好处。”

她不耐烦地用小脚敲打着地面，指着上面的字。

“你对他一无所知，劳拉，”方丹夫人竭力鼓起勇气说道。然后她责备地补充道：“我确信他想对你友善。”

“他认为我是个小异端蟾蜍，谢谢你！” “劳拉说，在光秃秃的木板上转了一圈，并向罗姆尼行了屈膝礼。 “不过没关系，奥古斯蒂娜——我们会相处得很好的。现在，不是还有很多房间可以看吗？”

奥古斯蒂娜不确定地站了起来。 “当然，还有教堂，”她说，“还有艾伦的书房——”

“哦！ “我们不需要去那里。”劳拉急忙说道。 “但是带我看看教堂吧。”

赫尔贝克先生仍然缺席，他们一直在探索班尼斯代尔。他们在这座房子里取得的进展令人忧伤，当奥古斯丁离开时，这座房子曾经堆满了几代人的围板和宝藏，现在空了，被掠夺了。

显然，为了迎接妹妹的欢迎，赫尔贝克先生来到了客厅，就像来到楼上她的卧室一样，他仍然拥有最好的东西。椅子、桌子、直线沙发，有些是某个日期的，有些是另一个日期的，都是从老房子的阁楼和偏僻的角落里收集来的，上面覆盖着各种最奇怪的褪色的东西，都被丹顿夫人僵硬地摆好了。在一张旧的土耳其地毯上，地毯上的裂缝和补丁都被尽可能地隐藏起来。这里至少有某种宇宙般的东西——某种秩序和舒适的东西。

大厅和餐厅尽管陈设简陋，但仍然很人性化，适合居住。但劳拉和芳坦夫人搜查的大部分房间都和劳拉第一次到访的房间一样，只是木材和荒凉的房屋。百叶窗已拉上；杂散的光柱穿过阴暗的旧墙壁和地板，灰尘微粒在其中翩翩起舞。到处都有精美家具的残留碎片；但总的来说，荒芜、贫穷和空虚——没有什么比这更可怜的了，或者，在芳汀夫人的记忆中，没有什么比这更令人惊讶的了。在她离开班尼斯代尔之前的几年里，她的父亲不知道到哪里去找一英镑现钱。然而，当她逃离时，房子和里面的财宝仍然完好无损。

解释当然很简单。艾伦·赫尔贝克一直靠他的房子生活，就像在其他首都一样。或者更确切地说，他一直在施舍。房子破烂不堪，光秃秃的，天主教孤儿可能会被送到学校——是这样吗？当他们穿过大厅时，劳拉几乎没有听见奥古斯蒂娜哀怨的喋喋不休。当然，这一切都是关于艾伦的——艾伦的美德，艾伦的慈善事业。至于孤儿，女孩一想到他们就讨厌。抓小坏蛋！她可以看到他们都道貌岸然地排成一排，眼睛向上看，而他们丑陋的小手里拿着念珠——就像奥古斯蒂娜总是试图向她藏起来的念珠一样。

他们拐过一条通向教堂的长石道。当他们快到教堂门口时，身后的大厅里传来说话的声音。

“是艾伦，”奥古斯蒂娜凝视着说道，“还有鲍尔斯神父！”

她匆匆回来迎接他们，裙子和帽带飞扬。劳拉站着不动。

但在与他的妹妹说了几句话之后，赫尔贝克向他的客人伸出了手。

“我希望我们没有让你等晚饭。我可以介绍一下父亲吗
鲍尔斯给你吗？

劳拉用年轻的背脊所能表现出的僵硬的姿势鞠了一躬。她看到一位白发苍苍的老神父，圆圆的脸，一双胖乎乎的手，时常交叉或握在胸前。他长长的、不规则的嘴似乎在他那小而孩子气的下巴上方的嘴角处折叠起来。嘴角和淡蓝色的眼睛里流露出一种颇为装腔作势的温柔。他身材矮小，虽然因岁月而有些弯曲，但依然精神抖擞，步态敏捷而忙碌。

他用一种口齿不清、相当谄媚的礼貌向芳坦小姐说话，问了很多关于她的旅程和抵达的不必要的问题。

劳拉冷冷地回答。但当他传给方丹夫人时，奥古斯蒂娜却满腔热情。

“当我想到自从我上次来这里以来我们所获得的一切时！”当他们继续前行时，她对神父说道，——她紧握着双手，脸红了。

“亲爱的主教为此煞费苦心，”他低声说道。 “这并不容易——但教会喜欢让她的孩子们满意。”

劳拉不自觉地看了赫尔贝克一眼。

“我姐姐提到我们已获得在教堂保留圣体的许可，”他严肃地说。 “这是我们直到去年才享受到的特权。”

劳拉没有回答。

“我要溜走吗？”她一边想，一边环顾四周。

但就在这时，赫尔贝克先生打开了教堂门上沉重的门闩。她年轻时的好奇心对她来说太强烈了。她跟着其他人。

赫尔贝克先生为她开门。

“你也许会想看看那些壁画，”当她匆匆从他身边走过时，他对她说。她点点头，然后独自快步向左边走去。然后她转过身来环顾四周。

这是她第一次进入天主教堂，每一个细节对她来说都是陌生的。她看着另外三个人在圣水上签名，然后单膝跪在祭坛前。这就是祭坛。她用一种轻蔑、厌恶的目光盯着它。然而她的脉搏加快了，仿佛看到的一切让她兴奋不已。它上方的那个建筑物是什么，周围覆盖着红色丝绸的面纱——为什么那盏灯在它前面燃烧？

她想起赫尔贝克先生的话——“允许保留圣礼。”然后，在一瞬间，一百个模糊的记忆，道听途说的知识的沉淀，启发了她。她所知道和记得的东西比任何普通女孩都少得多。但总的来说，她还是猜到了正在发生的事情。那当然是圣礼，赫尔贝克先生和其他人跪在圣礼前！——因为她本能地感觉到，向那些沉默的人物表达敬意的并不是空荡荡的神殿。

她回想起奥古斯蒂娜在福克斯通演讲的片段。有一次，她无意中听到继母和一位天主教朋友半低声的谈话，从中她隐约了解到“圣礼”是保存在天主教堂里的，一直在那里，信徒们“参观”过它——这些“拜访”确实是特别推荐的，作为圣洁的一种手段。她还记得，当他们每天步行到海滩回家时，芳坦太太会从她的身边消失，穿过与他们住处同一条街上的一座天主教堂的阴暗门——她会如何半个小时回家。一个小时后，他又被新的热情和新的悔恨所震撼。

但是，在一个私人教堂里——在一个真正属于私人住宅一部分的房间里——这样的事情怎么可能被允许、可能呢？上帝——加略山的基督——在那个镀金的盒子里，在那个祭坛上！

少女的双臂突然僵硬地垂在身侧。一股最强烈的厌恶感席卷了她全身。多么恶心、多么令人难以忍受的迷信啊！——除了它之外，她该如何忍受呢？下一瞬间，她的手就好像握住了父亲的手——骄傲地紧握着他，对抗这个陌生的世界。她为什么要感到孤独？——那个小异教徒，独自站在她遥远的角落里。让她庆幸自己是父亲的女儿吧！

她挺直身子，冷静地环顾四周。礼拜者们已经起立；劳拉觉得时间很长，但他们跪下的时间只有两三分钟。她看到奥古斯蒂娜正急切地和她哥哥说话，时而指着墙壁，时而指着祭坛。

奥古斯蒂娜似乎对教堂的宏伟感到惊讶不亚于她的继女。壁画、大理石和黄金的祭坛、在左侧小祭坛上方闪闪发光的圣母白色雕像，都是新的吗？它有一种新奇和昂贵的气氛，这种气氛更加引人注目，因为它与怀有教堂的大房子的贫穷、饥饿形成鲜明对比。

然而，当劳拉仍在对丰富美丽的总体印象、祭坛的四旬斋紫色、烛台和香水感到好奇时，靠近她的墙上的某些人物和颜色抓住了她，把其余的推到一边。祭坛两侧的墙壁上，从入口一直到圣所，都画满了看起来是新画的画——事实上，那幅画还在创作中。两边都是长排的真人大小的圣徒，男人和女人，将他们崇拜的脸转向从圣幕上方的十字架上俯视他们的基督。北墙上，大约一半的墙尚未完工；面孔、光环、帷幔，都用红色勾勒出强烈的轮廓，仍在等待艺术家的完成。其余的都闪烁着色彩——色彩是最奇特、最大胆的。康乃馨和玫瑰色，金色和紫色，蓝色和紫丁香和绿色——在整个色调的协调中，尽管其表面一般简单，但有一些东西既令人着迷又令人不安，某种东西仿佛在诉说着来自激情归激情。

劳拉的本性立刻感受到了它的刺激，就像她感受到阳光照亮她房间的挂毯时的刺激一样。

“为什么不那么粗鲁和丑陋呢？”她惊奇地问自己。 “但事实并非如此。人们从来没有见过这样的蓝色——除了在海里——或者这样的绿色——还有玫瑰色！还有中间的天使！——还有他们脚下的花朵！——天堂！多么可爱！谁干的？”

“你欣赏这些壁画吗？”她身后有一个小声音说道。

她急忙转过身来，看到鲍尔斯神父对她微笑，他那双肥硕白皙的双手像往常一样紧握在身前。这种态度似乎让最简单的话语听起来都亲密而具有占有欲。劳拉很快就恼怒地退缩了。

“它们非常奇怪，而且——而且令人震惊，”她僵硬地说，尽可能远离灰发牧师。 “谁画的？”

“先生。赫尔贝克首先设计了它们。但它们曾经是由一位伟大天才的年轻人完成的。”鲍尔斯神父轻声细语地讲述着“ge-nius，”好像他喜欢它一样。 “他曾经是来自这些地区的小伙子，但现在已经成为一名耶稣会士。于是工作就停止了。”

“真可惜！”劳拉急躁地说。 “他应该成为一名画家。”

神父微笑着，向她做了一个奇怪的小鞠躬。然后，他不再谈论这位艺术家，而是喋喋不休地谈论壁画和教堂，仿佛他身边有最富有同情心的听众。他所说的一切都不是最无趣或最引人注目的。劳拉始终怀着一种无声的厌恶，坚定地朝门口走去。

外面的过道里，芳坦太太独自徘徊。当劳拉出现时，她抓住了她的继女，并在牧师去世时拘留了她。劳拉惊讶地看着她，芳坦太太非常激动，在女孩耳边低声说道：

“哦，劳拉——一定要记住，亲爱的！——不要问艾伦关于年轻威廉姆斯的那些画——那些壁画。我可以告诉你一些时间——你可能会说一些伤害他的话——可怜的艾伦！”

劳拉把自己拉开。

“我为什么要说伤害他的话？到底有何玄机？”

“我现在不能告诉你”——夫人。喷泉焦急地看向大厅。 “人们对艾伦太严厉了——so 对此不友善！这是一场经常性的迫害。而你不会理解——不会同情——”

“我真的不想知道，奥古斯蒂娜！我好饿——快饿死了！看，赫尔贝克先生在向我们签名。快乐！——这就是晚餐。”

劳拉带着好奇期待着午餐。但她没有看到任何紧缩的迹象。赫尔贝克先生把烤鸡放在鲍尔斯神父身上，煞费苦心地想让他喝一瓶比平常更好的酒，至于他自己，吃喝确实很节制，但和其他人一样。劳拉只能想象它似乎无法胜过你的牧师。

当然，这顿饭是以最简单的方式提供的，所有的等待都是由赫尔贝克先生完成的，他不允许任何人帮助他完成这项任务。

谈话一拖再拖。劳拉和她的主人谈论了一些关于这个国家和天气的事情。鲍尔斯神父和奥古斯丁娜试图拾起十三年来遗落的线索。芳坦太太时而热衷于听惠索普的八卦，时而因某些过去的记忆而突然陷入不愉快的沉默。

突然，鲍尔斯神父从椅子上站起来，手里拿着餐巾，穿过房间跑到窗前，急切地扑向窗玻璃上嗡嗡作响的一只苍蝇。然后他小心地打开窗户，把死东西从窗台上弹下来。

“请您原谅，”当他回到座位上时，他谦虚地对方丹夫人说道。 “这是一只讨厌的苍蝇。我无法忍受他们。我总是想起别西卜，他是苍蝇王子。”

劳拉的嘴角因笑而抽搐。她答应自己要对鲍尔斯神父进行研究。

事实上，他以自己的小方式也是一个人物。他是一位老式的牧师，没有知识或礼仪。无论他走到哪里，他都是一位温顺而乐于助人的客人，因为他的记忆可以追溯到以前，当牧师来到私人住宅做弥撒时，他很可能不在食品储藏室里吃饭。他生性温和、顺从——尽管相当狡猾。

但他有几个诡计，既奇怪又持久。即使他的主教在场，他也无法饶恕一只蓝蝇。另一方面，他对蜡的气味有着一种特殊的热情。他会在弥撒结束前吹灭祭坛上的蜡烛，以便他可以享受它的气味。如果真相知道的话，他不喜欢耶稣会士，也不喜欢宗教人士。只有孤儿院的修女除外，她们知道他的弱点并对她们很友善。他不喜欢现代的创新，也不喜欢现代的奉献。他身上隐藏着一种高卢血统。他坚信，在天主教解放之前和牛津运动之前，教会的皈依者比现在还多。

午餐快结束时，劳拉询问赫尔贝克先生村里是否有交通工具。

“我想今天下午去布劳海德农场，”她简短地说。

“当然，”赫尔贝克说。 “当然。我会帮您找到一些东西。”

但他的声音毫无亲切感，劳拉立刻认为他没有礼貌。

“噢，请别给自己添麻烦，”她红着脸说道，“我可以步行去村子。”

赫尔贝克停了下来。

“如果你能等到明天，”过了一会儿他说道，“我可以答应你那匹小马。不幸的是他今天下午很忙。”

“噢，等等，劳拉！”奥古斯蒂娜喊道。 “还有很多事情要做。”

“好吧。”女孩不情愿地说。

当她转过身去时，赫尔贝克的目光也跟着她。她一身黑色哔叽连衣裙，将精致的少女身形衬托得简约完美，颈部和手腕处以最朴素的白色领口和袖口进行了舒缓。不过，她的头发显得那么光彩夺目，头部的姿态又那么像小鹿一样，在赫尔贝克看来，她显得十分优雅。如果让他描述她，他会说她在 大香水。尽管他很少和她说话，但他发现自己永远都在关注着她。她对新环境的明显——幼稚的明显——不喜欢让他一半感到好笑，一半感到尴尬。他不知道该和她聊什么话题；或许，很快他就很难维持和平了！这一切都是非常荒唐的。

午餐后，他们在大厅里聚集了一会儿，鲍尔斯神父热切地与赫尔贝克和奥古斯丁谈论“孤儿”和“新建筑”。劳拉站了一会儿，然后去拿帽子。

当她穿着步行装再次出现时——弗里卡跟在她的脚后跟——赫尔贝克为她打开了沉重的外门。

“布鲁诺可以给我吗？”她说。

赫尔贝克转身吹了一声口哨。

“你不害怕吗？”他微笑着看着弗里卡说道。

“哦，天哪，不！今天早上我花了一个小时来介绍他们。”

就在这时，布鲁诺跳了过来。他看看他的主人，又看看戴帽子的劳拉，似乎有些犹豫。然后，当她走下台阶时，他追了上去。劳拉开始奔跑。两只狗在她身边跳来跳去。她轻柔的声音，或检查或爱抚，随着春风回到赫尔贝克。只要她和她的同伴在视线范围内，他就注视着他们——树林中金色的头发，女孩舞动的脚步，狗儿嬉闹的回应。

然后他又转向他的妹妹，严肃的嘴角抽搐着。

“她能摆脱我们真是太感激了！”

他笑了出来。神父也笑了，笑得更轻了。

“我想，这是芳汀小姐第一次进入天主教堂吧？”他对奥古斯蒂娜说道。

奥古斯蒂娜脸红了。

“当然是第一次。哦！艾伦，你想象不到这对她来说有多么奇怪。”

她用一种可怜兮兮的眼神看着自己的弟弟。

“我是这么认为的，”他说。 “你告诉了我一些事情，但我没有意识到——”

“你看，艾伦——”奥古斯蒂娜看着她哥哥的脸喊道，“她母亲费了很大的劲才让斯蒂芬同意她接受洗礼。他长期以来一直反对这一做法。”

鲍尔斯神父低声嘀咕了一句什么。

赫尔贝克停顿了一下，然后说道：

“她的母亲是什么样的人？”

“剑桥的每个人过去都说她是‘一个可爱的女人’——但是——但是斯蒂芬，——好吧，你知道，艾伦，斯蒂芬总是有他的方式！我一直想知道她能说服他接受洗礼。”

说话的时候，她的脸色变得更深了，她的神经衰弱也变得更加明显。唉!史蒂芬不仅在与第一任妻子的关系中如愿以偿！她自己的婚姻开始对她来说只是一种罪恶的联系。可怜的灵魂——可怜的奥古斯蒂娜！

她哥哥一定猜出了她心里的想法，因为他用一种特殊的温柔俯视着她。

“人们可能更愿意谈论这一责任，而不是承担责任，”他和蔼地说。 “但是，奥古斯蒂娜，——”他的声音变了，——“她多漂亮啊！——你几乎没有让我做好准备——”

鲍尔斯神父谦虚地垂下了眼睛。这些不是他关心的问题。但赫尔贝克继续说道，目光坚定，看着他的妹妹：

“我承认——她的巨大吸引力让我对与共济会的联系感到有点焦虑。你见过他们中的任何一个吗，奥古斯蒂娜？”

没有——奥古斯蒂娜没有看到他们中的任何一个。她相信斯蒂芬特别不喜欢他的母亲，她是他表弟的遗孀，她现在和她的儿子共同拥有这个农场。

“嗯，不，”赫尔贝克干巴巴地说，“我认为他和她不会有太多共同点。”

“她不是一个可怕的新教徒吗——艾伦？”

“哦，她只是普通英国人疯狂崇拜圣经的一个典型，”他漫不经心地说。 “她是一个奇怪的女人，在这里非常有名。还有一个愚蠢的牧师住在他们附近的山上，这让她变得更糟。但我想的是儿子。”

“为什么，艾伦——他不是很受人尊敬吗？”

“不是特别。他是一个出色的运动小伙子——恐怕他正在尽最大努力让自己成为一个恶棍。我碰巧见过他一两次。他不是芳汀小姐理想的表弟——这一点我可以保证！不幸的是，”他微笑着，“芳坦小姐不会听到关于布劳海德农场这所房子的任何好消息。”

就连奥古斯蒂娜也自豪地挺起身子。

“亲爱的艾伦，这种人的想法有什么关系呢？”

他摇了摇头。

“这是一件奇怪的事情。他们和年轻的威廉姆斯混在一起了。”

奥古斯蒂娜开始了。

“太太。梅森是他去世的母亲的好朋友。他们恨我如毒药。然而 - ”

神父插话道。

“太太。梅森是一个非常暴力、最不体面的女人，”他用装腔作势的声音说道。 “而父亲——那位老人——现在已经去世了，他与桥附近的骚乱有关——”

“艾伦什么时候被击中的？丹顿夫人告诉我的！如何 可恶”

奥古斯蒂娜举起双手，语气中夹杂着责备和痛苦。

赫尔贝克看上去很生气。

“一文钱都没关系，”他有些匆忙地说。 “那次鲍尔斯神父受到的待遇比我糟糕得多。但你看，整件事都很不幸——很难给方丹小姐提供人们想要给她的暗示。”

他倒在妹妹身边，低声和她说话。
鲍尔斯神父创办了当地报纸。

不久，奥古斯蒂娜爆发了——双手再次绞痛。

“别把它放在我身上，我亲爱的艾伦！我告诉你——劳拉从小就一直做她喜欢做的事。”

赫尔贝克先生站了起来。他的脸色和神态已经透露出一定的傲气，听到姐姐的话，他的肩膀明显绷紧了。

“我不想让休伯特·梅森在房子里闲逛，”他把手插进口袋，轻声说道。

“当然不是！——但她没想到会这样，”奥古斯蒂娜沮丧地喊道。 “让她远离他们，这就是困难所在。她非常想念她的表兄弟艾伦。他们是她父亲唯一的亲戚。我知道她一半的时间都想和他们在一起！”

“因为爱他们——还是不喜欢我们？哦！我敢说一切都会好起来的。”他突然补充道。 “鲍尔斯神父，我可以开车送你半程吗？小马直接就圆了。”

那是一个周日的早晨——阳光明媚，风和日丽。方坦小姐正骑着一匹破旧的小马穿过班尼斯代尔公园——开得匆忙而快乐，小车在路上旋转着。

她计算了六个小时，直到她需要再次见到班尼斯代尔。她的表兄弟会请她吃饭和喝茶。奥古斯蒂娜和赫尔贝克先生周日的所有滑稽动作可能都是他们自己做的。当天下午，有几位牧师来参加午餐会，并在教堂举行了一场活动。劳拉想到这里，猛烈地弹了一下小马。她和它之间有七英里？喜悦！

然而，她并没有像她希望的那样轻易地摆脱掉老房子和它的暗示。公园和河流蜿蜒曲折。灰色的山墙体一次又一次地引起她的注意，每次都违背她的意愿，回忆起它主人的脸。

高高的眉毛——太阳穴凹陷，脸颊凹陷——淡蓝​​色的眼睛——短而尖的胡须，像头发一样呈灰黑色——紧密的胡须在皮肤上也是黑色的——给人一种苍白、黝黑的印象线条、强烈的阴影、忧郁的力量——

她突然大笑起来。

一个姿势！——世界上除了一个姿势什么也没有。餐厅里有一张查理一世的可怜照片——她猜想是在某个著名人物之后涂抹的——全都是眼睛和头发、长脸和蕾丝领子。赫尔贝克先生对此“已做好准备”——她确信这一点。他发现了相似之处，并加以改进。哦！如果有人能给他完整的衣领和蓝丝带就好了！

「——砍下他的头，了结了！」她大声说道，一边鞭打小马，一边嘲笑自己的任性。

谁能住在这样的房子、这样的氛围里？

一路上，她的心都在抗议。前一天她带着狗散步回来时，发现教堂里正在进行一场仪式，由鲍尔斯神父主持，还有一些身穿黑色长袍、头戴白翼头巾的人物在协助。她已经逃到了自己的房间，但当她再次下来时，黑衣“姐妹”们还在那里，她也被介绍给了她们。啊!多么有礼貌啊！如果一个人是天主教徒，就必须总是给人一种令人厌烦、虚伪的印象吗？ “他们三个吻了我，”她愤怒地提醒自己。

她们显然是孤儿院的姐妹，或者是孤儿院之一，人们一直在无休止地谈论新建筑和金钱，而她，劳拉，默默地坐在角落里，看着房子的旧照片。赫尔贝克确实没说太多话。当黑人妇女们与奥古斯蒂娜和鲍尔斯神父闲聊时，他站在他曾祖母的照片下，几乎一言不发，只是时不时地打破沉思，提出或回答问题。他是在考虑出售曾祖母，还是他只是知道他的沉默和冷漠如画，它们吸引了其他人的注意力，使他比更平常的举止更有效地成为事情的中心？回忆起他时，女孩有一种不耐烦的感觉，有一种命令的感觉。此外，她还受到某种东西的监视。 “一开始人们会认为他害羞，或者尴尬——不是这样的！他和路西法一样骄傲。很快人们就会发现他在一切事情上都只追求自己的方式。

“还有脾气！——”

姐妹俩离开后，一位年轻的建筑师出现在晚宴上。他和赫尔贝克先生之间出现了分歧。看来，他将受雇扩建这所神圣的孤儿院。毫无疑问，赫尔贝克先生考虑到他的口袋——公平地说，除了他的口袋之外，似乎没有其他人关心——他认为某些现有的建筑可以在新计划中利用。这位建筑师——一个紧张的年轻人，举止笨拙，却有着艺术家的野心——没有想到，并坚持自己的想法。讨论变得激烈起来。赫尔贝克突然发脾气了。

“先生。蒙西！如果您愿意的话，我必须请您在这件事上更加重视我的意愿！他们可能是对的，也可能是错的——但如果我们假设他们会占上风，也许会节省时间。”

声音中的怒意让所有人都抬起头来。乡绅站直了一会儿。他把年轻蒙西正在计算的半张纸揉成一团，扔进了火里。奥古斯蒂娜畏缩地坐着。年轻人脸色惨白，鞠了一躬，什么也没说。当然，鲍尔斯神父就像那只老虎斑猫一样，立刻开始咕噜咕噜地表示和解。

“如果我会温柔地站在妈妈身边， ID 就是那个年轻人！”劳拉想。 “我可以吗！哦！如果我有机会的话！而且他也不应该这么轻易和好。”

因为她还记得，鲍尔斯神父走后，她从花园进来，发现赫尔贝克先生和建筑师一起在长长的大厅里踱步，他们的言辞似乎是最友好的。在将近一个小时的时间里，当她和奥古斯蒂娜坐在火边读书时，谈话仍在继续。

赫尔贝克当时的语气是最温和的。年轻人也低声热切地说道，催促着他的计划。有一次，当劳拉从书本上抬起头来时，她看到赫尔贝克的手臂在年轻人的肩膀上搁了一会儿。哦！毫无疑问，赫尔贝克先生只要愿意，就能让自己变得和蔼可亲——而苦苦挣扎的建筑师必须忍受雇主的脾气。

芳坦小姐更愿意认为乡绅不能强迫她向宫廷求婚。

她记得当蒙西先生道晚安时，他们三个独自一人在火光照亮的大厅里，赫尔贝克走过来站在她身边。他用一种或善或疲倦的神情瞧不起她。他一直愿意——甚至，她想，渴望与她交谈。但她并不打算像那个年轻人一样先被践踏，然后被人居高临下。因此，赫尔贝克先生刚开始——他黝黑而强壮的体格上偶尔会表现出一种奇怪的胆怯——跟她谈论下午做客的两位慈善修女会的事，她突然发现是时候了。说晚安。当她想起他突然僵硬的表情和他手上漫不经心的碰触时，她不禁皱起了眉头。

这一天天气晴朗。明媚的阳光下，刮着凛冽的风，刚刚绽放的花蕾显得干燥而受阻。但对劳拉来说，空气就是美酒，乡村充满欢乐。她正爬上山坡，朝一个落后的村庄走去。她的路笔直地沿着山坡前行，经过山坡上的村庄和树林，直到有人向她展示大门，大门之外就是通往布劳黑德农场的崎岖的上坡路。

现在，在她的上方，在她的右侧，矗立着一座崎岖的山丘，巨大的碎石陡然落入庇护着村庄的树林里。下面的山谷平原上，长满了紫色和绿色的苔藓。河流在阳光下闪闪发光，从山上奔流到大海。远处，湖区的高处与太阳和云彩形成了一场盛大的盛会——一座又一座的山峰在白色的衬托下呈现出蓝色，一朵又一朵的云朵破开，露出下面斑驳的山峦，在如此银色和紫色的光辉中，如此美丽。清新的气氛和光线，光是看着很快就变成了最令人兴奋、最明显的快乐。劳拉的精神开始与云雀和黑帽一起歌唱和翱翔！

然后，当村庄消失后，出现了一条高高的道路，俯瞰着青苔和所有跳跃的丘陵，这些丘陵在紫色的表面上延伸，就像海角一样。还有这些更近的田野——新犁沟上的这些厚厚的白色斑点是什么？海鸥飞起等待回答；女孩从它们耀眼的翅膀中感受到了海洋的气息，然后转过身去寻找西南方向河流流过的那个苍白的开口。

田野的另一边是一片树林——这样的一片树林让劳拉的南方乡村的眼睛惊奇地睁大了！她跳了出去，把小马的缰绳拴在路边的一扇门上，然后带着快乐的小叫声跑进榛树林里。水仙花盛开时的威斯特摩兰森林——不多也不少。但对于这个血液中流淌着年轻激情的孩子来说，这是一个梦想，一种狂喜。金色的花朵，细长的茎，从绿蓝色的薄雾中升起，这是由它们的矛状叶子和周围的棕色和紫色以及仍然冬季的榛子的复杂的茎和枝组成的。水仙花从来没有如此丰富过！他们被扔到了山坡上，穿过了二十英亩的土地，裹着金色的床单和挂毯——如此大胆、未经考虑的大量物品与北方国家节俭的空气和脾气、光秃秃的围墙田野、崎岖不平的环境格格不入。上面是峭壁，下面是无树沼泽的忧郁。在这共同的奢华之中，所有可能的精致，所有可能的完美的单独的花朵和簇——每一英尺的土地都有自己的荣耀。因为水仙花下面铺着一层深紫色的地毯，那么暗淡、那么紧密，以至于首先是它们的气味暴露了它们。当劳拉把脸埋在花丛中时，她可以看到金色花朵后面和榛树茎之间，远方山峦的明亮的灰色和蔚蓝。幸福的整体中的每一个细节都触动了女孩渴望的感觉，构成了一首北方春天的诗——荒野中的春天，纯洁，寒冷，期待，在岩石和牧场中闪烁着绽放的美丽，无与伦比。精致和欢乐。

不久，劳拉发现自己坐在长满青苔的灌木丛上，半哭了！沿着树林望向远方。在这个美丽的国度里，是什么让她如此着迷——以如此亲密、如此迷人的声音对她说话？

哎呀，她属于它——她属于它——她在她的血管里感受到了它！古老的遗传事物在她体内跳跃——或者她很高兴这样想。她仿佛向高山、田野伸出双臂，向它们哭泣：“我不是陌生人，把我吸引到你身边吧，我的生命源于你！”一连串灼热而温柔的思绪掠过她的心头。它们的第一个作用是让她想起农场和她的表兄弟姐妹。她跳了起来，回到了马车上。

它们又嘎嘎作响，下山穿过树林，再到另一边上来——仍然总是在苔藓的边缘。她喜欢这些村庄，还有夹在岩石间的灰色房屋。她喜欢石头农场的宽阔门廊，以及灰色正面的白色斑点。她喜欢墙壁缝隙中的一簇簇蕨类植物，喜欢牧场上随处可见的石灰岩肋骨和骨头结构，喜欢树林中无与伦比的紫色，以及落叶松和梧桐树的第一片叶子。她从来没有如此全心全意地投入到任何新世界；她的喜悦中闪现出对父亲最痛苦、最温柔的思念。 “哦！爸爸——噢，爸爸！”她微声呻吟着，一遍又一遍地对自己说。也许他小时候每天都走过这条路，而她仍然能在模糊的视野中看到小时候的自己，在布罗黑德路上小跑在他身边。最后，她转身走进了一个路过的男孩指引她的天门，长长地吸了一口气，几乎是抽泣。

她没有通知他们。但可以肯定的是，他们肯定会很高兴见到她！

他们？她试图分解这个想法，想象她将要见到的三个人。表姐伊丽莎白——母亲？啊!她认识她，因为他们从来不喜欢伊丽莎白表姐。她自己依稀记得一张冷酷的脸。与她父亲讨论时，一个固执的声音响起。然而，泉水出生的表姐伊丽莎白却把这一点家产作为嫁妆送给了她的丈夫詹姆斯·梅森。因为祖父可以自由地按照他的选择离开它，而在他的大儿子去世后——他结婚后定居在农场，并从他父亲的肩膀上卸下了繁重的工作——老人热情地更喜欢把它留给坚强、能干的孙女，她已经有了一个情人，而且了解这片土地，而且可以像他一样赚钱和“混日子”，而不是留给他书生气十足的第二个儿子，他的生活条件如此丰富。在他父亲轻蔑的看法中，他已经在纽卡斯尔的一个小政府职位上任职了。

“让我们永远感谢上帝，劳拉，我的祖父对你来说是一个畜生！”斯蒂芬·方丹在极少数的情况下，当他可能被诱导谈论他的家人时，他会对他的女儿说。 “但为此，我至今仍可能是一个套期保值者和放弃者。”

好吧，但是伊丽莎白表弟的孩子们呢？劳拉本人对他们也有一些模糊的记忆。当小马爬上陡峭的小路时，她闭上眼睛，努力回忆它们。那个金发男孩——相当胖，而且很专横——带她去房子后面的树篱里寻找一只逃学母鸡的蛋——并在回家的路上把她推到水坑里，因为她打破了一个？那么那个为她擦鞋、借给她围裙的大女孩波莉呢？不！劳拉再次睁开眼睛——费力去回忆是没有用的。从那次早期的拜访到她现在的样子，已经过去了太多年——在这些年里，史蒂芬·方丹和他的表兄弟之间没有任何形式的交流。

为什么奥古斯蒂娜对共济会如此费心费力、如此厌烦？劳拉没有尽早飞往她的表兄弟姐妹那里，而是已经过去了整整两个星期，直到这个周日早上，劳拉才得以到访。奥古斯蒂娜一直生病或烦躁。要么不愿意一个人呆着，要么对无用的琐事产生荒谬的欲望，结果却因为劳拉去惠索普购物而得到满足。每当提到共济会时，他的表情都是如此忧郁——再加上赫尔贝克先生又如此正式的沉默！这一切意味着什么？毫无疑问，她的亲戚都是粗俗、出身低贱的人！——但她并没有要求赫尔贝克先生或她的继母招待他们。她和继母之间终于出现了手臂的接触。也许赫尔贝克先生无意中听到了这件事，因为他立即从书房来到了大厅，她和奥古斯蒂娜正坐在那儿。

“芳坦小姐——请问——你希望在
周日上午？”

她立刻就到了他面前。

“不，谢谢你，赫尔贝克先生。我不去教堂——我从来没有和爸爸一起去。”

她有反抗吗？他肯定很僵硬。

“那么，也许你想要一匹小马来拜访？他今天很乐意为您服务。这适合你吗？”

“完美。”

所以她终于——终于——爬上山丘的中心了。云雾缭绕的高山、溪流潺潺的山谷、遥远的沙滩和广阔的大海——她似乎凌驾于一切之上；它们像地图一样统一地躺在她的下面。在舞动的空气中，她本可以因纯粹的肉体快乐而大笑、歌唱——在云的光芒和阴影的嬉戏中，当它们被风追​​赶着扫过她时。在她周围，小山羊正在崎岖的“intaks”中或沿着翻滚的小溪边缘吃草。寒冷的冬青草丛中，时不时地冒出一些巨大的、饱经风霜的冬青树，在蓝色的远方映衬下，它们显得锋利而黑色，在她身边行进，像分散的士兵一样，向高处行进。

除了远处山坡上的房子外，看不到一栋房子——没有任何声音，只有石头的叮当声，或者孤独的流水的落水声。

不久之后，这条路在经历了漫长的上坡之后，开始下坡。空洞里出现了几棵树，然后是一扇门和一些灰色的墙壁。

劳拉从车上跳了下来。出了大门，道路稍微向下拐了一点，一大片谷仓挡住了农舍的视线，直到她真正走到了农舍上。

但它终于来了——她依稀记得那栋灰色的、简陋的房子，粉刷成白色的门廊，对面是马厩和牛棚，旁边是小花园，后面是陡峭的山坡。

她把手放在小马身上，有些困惑地看着房子。显然没有人听到她的到来。农舍内外没有任何动静。大家都在教堂吗？但当时已经快一点了。

深深的门廊下的门没有门环，她徒劳地寻找门铃。她所能做的就是用鞭柄猛烈地敲击。

没有答案。她再次敲击——声音越来越大。最后，在敲门的间隙，她意识到里面有一种声音——一种深沉而持续的声音，就像一只巨大的蜜蜂的嗡嗡声。

她把耳朵贴在门上，听着。然后她满脸笑意。她举起手臂，用鞭子把手狠狠敲打起泡的旧门，门又摇晃起来。

“你好！”

突然传来椅子翻倒或沿着石板地板拖行的声音。然后踉踉跄跄地迈了一步——门被打开了。

“我说——这到底是怎么回事——你为什么要发出这么该死的声音？”

里面站着一个身材魁梧的年轻人，半睡半醒，用手烦躁地捂住眨着的眼睛。

“梅森先生，你好吗？”

年轻人吃了一惊，定了定神。突然，他发现站在门廊阴凉处的少女不是他的妹妹，而是一个陌生人。他惊讶地看着她——看着她优雅的裙子，还有她戴手套的小手的整洁。

“对不起，小姐，我确定！你想要什么吗？

来访者笑了。 “是的，我想要一笔好交易！我来看望我的表兄弟——你是我的表兄弟——当然你不记得我了。我想——也许——你会请我吃饭。”

年轻人的哈欠停止了。他睁大眼睛盯着，本能地把头发和衣领竖直。

“好吧，恐怕我不知道你是谁，小姐，”他最后说道，困惑地伸出手来握住她的手。 “你会走进去吗？”

“在你知道我是谁之前！”——劳拉仍然笑着说——“我是劳拉
喷泉。现在你知道了吗？”

“什么——斯蒂芬·方丹的女儿——嫁给了赫尔贝克小姐？”年轻人惊奇地说。他的脸原本因睡意而变得模糊而沉重，现在开始恢复自然的表情。

劳拉打量着他。他有一个方形的、丰满的下巴，上唇略微下垂。金色的直发披散在额头上。他的头和肩膀都很好，整体上是一个身材匀称、相当英俊的年轻人，但脸上却有一种半笨拙、半傲慢的表情。

“就是这样，”她回答他的问题时说——“我住在
班尼斯代尔，我是来看你们的。——伊丽莎白表弟在哪儿？

“妈妈，你的意思是？——哦！她在教堂。”

“你怎么也不在？”

他睁开蓝眼睛，被她清冷而清晰的声音吓了一跳。

“好吧，我无法忍受牧师——如果你想知道的话。要我把你的小马放起来吗？

“但也许你还没有睡过觉？”劳拉礼貌地询问道。

他脸涨得通红，迈着缓慢而摇摇晃晃的步子走上前来。

“我不知道周日早上在这里还能做什么，”他带着孩子气的闷闷不乐地说，同时开始牵着小马朝对面的马厩走去。 “此外，我为了照顾一头牛，半夜没睡。”

“你的邻居似乎不多，”劳拉走在他身边说道。

“那里有白嘴鸦和乌鸦”（他的发音很宽泛——“螃蟹”）——“除此之外，我能告诉你的就只有这些了。”要不要我把小马牵出去？”

“请。恐怕你得忍受我好几个小时了！”

她高兴地看着他，他也回以审视的目光。她穿着赫尔贝克前一天欣赏她时穿的那件薄薄的黑色连衣裙，上面是一件布夹克和帽子，上面镶着棕色毛皮。梅森一时被皮毛上方乳白色的脸颊、明亮的眼睛和头发弄得眼花缭乱。然后又感到了新的害羞，并变得非常忙于照顾小马。

“妈妈大约一个小时后就会回来。”他粗声粗气地说。

“天啊！到那时你要对我做什么？

他们俩都笑了，他的尴尬让他很恼火。他一点也不习惯在一个漂亮女孩面前让自己处于劣势。

“无论如何，房子里生着旺火，”他说。 “我想，开车到这里后，你会想要取暖。”

“哦！我不冷——我说，多么快活的马啊！”

因为梅森打开了马厩那扇被虫蛀的大门，从里面可以看到两匹拉车的马的头和背，它们是巨大而威严的动物，它们正从马厩的门外往外看，就好像它们是被人看见的一样。听谈话。

他们的主人冷漠地看了他们一眼。

“是的，他们并不坏。我们三年前培育了它们，它们已经获得了不止一项奖项。我敢说，老达法迪现在作为照顾他们的人，会很遗憾地与他们分开。”

“我敢说他会的。但他为什么要和他们分开呢？”

年轻人犹豫了。他正在为小马摇落一车干草，劳拉靠在马厩门上观看他的表演。

“好吧，我想我们不会一辈子都在这里务农了。”他最后说道，语气有些唐突。

“那你不喜欢吗？”

“如果可以的话，我明天就放弃它！”

他的快速答复中的强调让她感到惊讶。

“还有你妈妈？”

“哦！当然是妈妈让我坚持下去，”他说，又恢复了他以前曾经用过的那种闷闷不乐的孩子的口音。

然后他领着新表弟回到了农舍。这时他开始寻找自己的舌头并使用眼睛。劳拉意识到她正在被密切观察，而且这个男人对女人绝非漠不关心。她对自己说，她会尽力让他保持害羞。

当他们进入农舍厨房时，梅森赶紧捡起他突然醒来时打翻的椅子。

“我说，如果妈妈知道你会陷入这个困境，她会生气的！”他懊恼地说道，踢开了散落在地板上的一些体育报纸，并搬来一张带垫子的雕花橡木椅子，放在火炉前等待她的接受。

“斯克罗？那是什么？”劳拉扬起眉毛说道。 “哦，请不要再收拾了。我真的认为你让事情变得更糟。此外，没关系。多么可爱的旧厨房啊！”

她坐在有软垫的椅子上，正在火边烤着她的细脚。梅森希望她能摘下帽子——帽子遮住了她的头发。但他无法自以为她丝毫没有在忙于他的愿望。她的注意力全部集中在周围的环境上——那间古老的椽木房间，里面有炽热的火光和深陷的窗户。

外面四月的阳光很明亮，但这里却很难穿透。透过柔和的黄昏，如同透过一幅老画的清漆，人们看到金色光影中的不同物体——高大的八日钟旁边挂着的黄铜暖锅——长长的窗座前的桌子上面覆盖着格子红布——墙上一个柜子的雕花门上刻着1679年的日期——黑色椽子下堆放着各种各样的东西，干香草和工具，成捆的细绳和麻线，旧纺纱的纺锤轮子、牛药等等——厚重的橡木椅子——放在火边，有硬垫子，靠背卷起来。这是一个适合冬天的房间，是根据冬天的需要而设计的。借助于一千英尺以下苔藓残骸中年复一年燃起的巨大泥炭火，世世代代的人类与风雪和暴风雨作斗争，在高处维持着他们以自我为中心的小政体，自备。院子对面，从农场厨房的窗户望去，是简陋的牛栏，从十月到四月，牛群都被关在那里。牛群为农场带来了财富，而牲畜和它们的主人肯定有好几个星期都被大雪困住，与外界隔绝。

劳拉立刻闭上眼睛，想象着来来往往的情景——冬日黎明起床喂牲口；牧羊人在山坡上与雨夹雪和暴风雨搏斗；晚上又回到食物和火上。她年轻的幻想，已经被山的气息所激发，对农舍及其原始生活产生了温暖。这里肯定比班尼斯代尔破烂的辉煌更人性化，甚至更富有诗意。

她再次睁大眼睛，仿佛在挑衅，看到了休伯特
梅森看着她。

她本能地坐直了身子，一本正经地把脚缩进衣服的庇护下。

“我在想冬天会是什么样子，”她急忙说道。 “我知道我应该喜欢它。”

“什么，这个地方？”他粗声大笑。 “那我不明白这是为了什么。夏天就够糟糕的了。冬天很适合让你割喉。我说，你住哪里？”

“为什么，在班尼斯代尔！”劳拉惊讶地说。 “你知道我继母还活着，不是吗？”

“好吧，我什么也没考虑，”他说，变得坦率起来，因为她那双美丽的灰色眼睛，现在它们美丽而饱满地注视着他，让他惊慌失措。

“我父亲去世时，我写信给你——写给伊丽莎白表弟。”她简单而自豪地说，目光从他身上移开。

“是的——你当然这么做了，”他急忙说道。 ” “但妈妈从来不肯谈论信件。从那以后你就没有给我们留言过，是吗？”他几乎胆怯地补充道。

“不。我以为我会给你一个惊喜。我们已经在班尼斯代尔呆了两周了。”

他的脸又红又黑。

“那你已经在一个奇怪的地方待了两个星期了！”他突然、几乎是剧烈地改变了语气说道。 “我不知道你能在那个男人的屋檐下呆那么久！”

她盯着看。

“你的意思是因为他不喜欢我父亲？”

“噢，我现在还不知道这个！”他停了下来。他年轻的脸色绯红，眼神愤怒而阴险。 “他是个 蛇——是赫尔贝克！他缓缓说道，双手合十，垂在膝盖上。

劳拉向后退了一步——本能地挺直了身子。

“先生。赫尔贝克对我很好，”她尖锐地说。 “我不知道你为什么这样说他。我会一直呆在那里，直到我的继母变得坚强为止。”

他盯着她，脸色仍然红润而固执。

“赫尔贝克和他的房子一起粘在人们的砂囊上，”他说。 “你很快就会发现那个东西。也有充分的理由。你听说过泰迪·威廉姆斯吗？”

“威廉姆斯？”她皱着眉头说道。 “就是那个粉刷教堂的人吗？”

梅森笑着拍了拍膝盖。

“伙计，真的吗？他只是马斯兰学校的一个小伙子。你知道，在他去世后的第二年，我本人也在场。他是一个非常聪明的小伙子——在书本上击败了所有人——而且他可以画任何东西。我敢说，你对他的画没什么兴趣——它们都是些奇怪的东西。我自己永远无法弄清楚他们的情况。但是我们的主人老杰克逊说了很多，马斯兰的传记也是如此。他的父亲和母亲——嗯，他们认为他会为他们发家致富。有一项奖学金——或者类似的东西——他要得到它去上大学，让他们都变得富有。你知道，他们只是温索普路的普通车轮修理工。但我保证，赫尔贝克先生破坏了他们的游戏！”

他从篮子里又拿起一块草皮，扔到火上。他的语气和态度中的敌意让劳拉感到奇怪。但她至少想听听，就像他急于讲述一样。她把椅子拉得离他更近一些。

“赫尔贝克先生做​​了什么？”

梅森笑了。

“嗯，他刚刚把泰迪变成了天主教徒——把他变成了棕色。一天晚上，他在公园里抓住了他——泰迪正在画一张桥的图，你明白——很快就把他带到了自己的位置——在你说杰克之前，泰迪被安排去教堂粉刷油漆。罗宾逊。六个月后，他们就解决了这个问题。泰迪不再去上学了。一天晚上，他和他的父亲发生了争执。那个恶棍狠狠地打了他一顿，泰迪却拔腿就跑。接下来他们听说他在兰开夏郡某处的一所天主教学校里，他给他母亲发了话——她当时就快死了，你明白的——从那以后她就死了——他去当了一名牧师，如果他们不喜欢这样，他们可能会做别的事情！”

“那母亲死了？”劳拉说。

“是啊——快点！我妈妈下去给她喂奶。他们把泰迪送了回来，但已经来不及见到她了。他们把她搞砸后两三个小时他就来了。他的父亲强烈要求他滚蛋——他们不让他参加葬礼。但人们对赫尔贝克先生的交易更加疯狂，你明白，对泰迪也一样。泰迪的父亲和兄弟都是教堂信徒——他们称之为原始卫理公会教徒。他们在惠索普有一座大教堂——他们把整个地方都建在赫尔贝克先生身上，有一天晚上，从惠索普出来，他被很多人攻击，教堂的人，有点新鲜，你明白的。 。父亲就在那儿——他从不否认——不是他！赫尔贝克刚刚及时进入桥边的老磨坊，但他们还是在他的脸上做了记号。”

“啊！”劳拉盯着火说道。她刚刚记得赫尔贝克先生额头上有一道黑色疤痕，黑色头发的波浪下。 “继续——做！”

“哦！后来有很多人被绑着——其中有父亲。赫尔贝克先生身边有一位神父也很热衷——那个老家伙鲍尔斯——我敢说你见过他。是的，他是一个 蛇，是赫尔贝克！”年轻人重复道。然后他的脸更红了，并以报复性的口吻补充道：“还有一种干涉的、虚伪的、不肯妥协的一方。”如果可以的话，他想对这里的每个人都发号施令。但他就像教堂里的老鼠一样穷——谁会介意他呢？”

语言非同寻常——语气也非同寻常。劳拉越来越惊讶地看着说话者。

“谢谢你！”当梅森停下来时，她急躁地说。 “谢谢你！——但是，尽管你有这样的故事，我认为你不应该像我住在一起的那位绅士那样说话！”

梅森靠回椅子上。显然他正在努力控制自己。

“我无意冒犯，”他最后说道，声音又恢复了阴沉。 “我当然明白，你们是看重质量，而不是像我们这样的人。”

劳拉的脸上绽放出笑容。 “这是多么愚蠢的事情啊！但我不介意——我会原谅你——就像几年前你把我推到水坑里时那样！”

“我把你推到水坑里了？但是——我从来没有做过这样的事！”哭了
梅森的惊讶逐渐增强。

“哦，是的，你做到了，”她点点头。 “我打破了一个鸡蛋，你就欺负我。当然，我认为你是个可怕的男孩——而且我喜欢波莉，她帮我擦鞋，让我恢复正常。波莉在哪儿，她在教堂吗？”

“是的——我敢说，”梅森傻乎乎地说，同时全神贯注地看着他的访客。她刚刚举起一只小手，摘下了帽子。现在，她开始机械地拍打并整理额头上的小卷发，然后取出一两根发夹换上，以便将金色的团块固定得更牢固一些。雪白的手指一动，就带着一种绝妙的踏实和纤巧，举起的手臂，将少女身材的年轻曲线全部展现出来。

突然，劳拉再次转向他。她的眼睛一直注视着火焰，双手忙着梳理头发。

“所以你根本不记得我们来过？你不记得爸爸了吗？”

他摇了摇头。

“啊！好吧”——她叹了口气。梅森感到莫名的愧疚。

“我的记忆力总是很差，”他急忙说道。

“但你应该记得爸爸。”然后，用一种完全不同的声音，“这是你的客厅”——她环顾四周——“还是——还是你的厨房？”

最后这句话语气有些胆怯，生怕伤了他的心。

梅森跳了起来。

“哦，那是客厅，”他说。 “我应该首先带你去那里。你愿意吗？我很快就会生火。”

穿过厨房，他隆重地打开另一扇门。劳拉跟在后面，在门槛内停下来，环视着发霉的小客厅，里面有镶框的照片、羊毛垫、摇椅和芥末色的方块地毯。梅森一直偷偷地看着她，看看这个地方对她有何影响。

“哦，这不像厨房那么好，”她斩钉截铁地说。 “那是什么？”她指着桌子中央最大的羊毛垫上的一个锡制杯子，庄严而孤独地立着。

梅森仰起头，咯咯地笑起来。他那巨大的胸膛似乎被填满了；他所有的闷闷不乐的拘谨都消失了。

“当然，你对这些部件一无所知，”他居高临下地对她说。 “你不知道，因为我去年差点成为县冠军——不，我猜你不知道。哦！那个奖杯现在还没有——那是去年十二月的威索普体育界的大名鼎鼎的事。也许不久之后会有更好的。”

年轻的巨人咧嘴一笑，拿起杯子，假装漠不关心地指着上面的铭文。

“什么——足球？”劳拉举起手来掩饰哈欠。 “哦！我不关心足球。但是我 爱 蟋蟀。为什么——你有一架钢琴——而且是一架新钢琴！”

梅森的脸色再次变得清晰起来——以完全不同的方式。

“你认识制造者吗？”他急切地说。 “据我所知，我相信他们很重视他。我自己从羊身上买的。羔羊们表现得非常出色——无论如何，我所经历的麻烦比他们多一半。所以我没有理会妈妈。我直接去了Whinthrupp，支付了第一期付款，然后将其放入购物车中。卡斯尔先生——你认识他吗？——他是教区教堂的管风琴师——他和我一起来选择它。

“是你玩的，”劳拉疑惑地说，“还是你姐姐？”

他沉默地看了她一会儿——她也看了他一眼。他的面容在她的目光下似乎发生了变化。脸上的帅气点都出来了；它的粗俗和粗鄙消退了。他的态度突然变得安静而有男子气概——尽管充满了近乎颤抖的渴望。

“你喜欢它？”她问他。

“什么音乐？我应该这么认为。”

“哦！我忘了——你们这些北方地区都是音乐人，不是吗？”

他没有回答，而是坐在钢琴前，打开了它。她靠在椅背上，半是难以置信，半是好笑地看着他。

“我说——你听过这个吗？我相信这是剑桥大学的某个同学做的——卡斯尔是这么说的。他给我演奏了这首曲子。我只能了解其中的一小部分。”

他举起一双大手，然后落下，发出一阵和弦的声音，震动了小房间和椽子天花板。劳拉凝视着。他继续演奏——像音乐家一样演奏，尽管偶尔会绊倒——演奏时充满活力和精致，一种理解和放弃让她惊讶——然后因为努力回忆而变得深红色——动摇——然后停了下来。

“天啊！”——劳拉喊道。 “哎呀，那是斯坦福大学为尤美尼德斯谱写的音乐！
你到底是怎么听到的？离开。我可以玩。”

她推开他，坐下。他悬在她身上，脸上微笑着，面容发生了变化，而她的小手则奋力弹奏和弦，找到了后面的旋律，追寻着它，——时不时地停顿，他会插话，提示她，把手放下来，用最后，在她带着笑声和摇头完成转调后，她陷入了一种奇怪的舞蹈，他用手和四肢打拍子，用雨点般的评论催促她。

“哦！我的天哪——这不是令人振奋吗？再玩一次——只是那个改变——就一次！哦！天啊——那不是很好吗，那个和弦——还有那一段，多么低音啊！——我说， 不 是贝司吗？你不喜欢吗——你不喜欢吗 非常？“

突然，她从钢琴旁转过身来，坐在他面前，双手放在膝盖上。他跌回椅子上。

“我说”——他慢慢地说——“你是一个伟大的人！我要是知道你还能这么玩就好了！”

她的笑声消失了。让他惊讶的是，她开始皱起眉头。

“自从爸爸去世后，我就没有弹奏过——十个音符。他很喜欢这样。”

她，背对着他，开始看着钢琴顶部被撕破的乐谱。

“但是你会演奏——你会再次演奏给我听”——他恳求地说。——“哎呀，如果你不演奏那就是一种罪过！如果我能像你一样玩，我就不玩了！我从老城堡那里时不时地得到了更多的教训。我过去常常偷妈妈的鸡蛋来付钱给他——我可以演奏任何我听到的东西——我还创作了一首歌——老卡斯尔把它写下来了——他说有一天他会教我这样做。当然，我不擅长打球——我永远也不会打球。看看那些手指——它们就像一根棍子——野兽般的东西！”

他愤怒地把它们拿出来让她检查。劳拉用专业的神情看着他们。

“我不认为这是一手坏牌。我估计你没有耐心。”

“我不是吗！我告诉过你，如果有什么好处的话，我会玩一整天——但不会。”

“那么那个贫穷的农场呢？”劳拉扬起眉毛说道。

“哦！农场——农场——该死的农场！”——梅森猛烈地说道，拍着膝盖。

突然，外面传来说话声，院子里的石头上发出嘎嘎声。

梅森跳了起来，皱起了眉头。

“那是妈妈。来，让我们关掉钢琴——快点！她无法忍受。”

梅森出去见他的母亲，劳拉在等着。她站在起身的地方，钢琴旁边，紧张地看着门口。幼稚的回忆和警报似乎又涌入她的脑海。

外屋里传来一阵说话声。然后把手被粗暴地转动，劳拉看到她面前是一个矮胖的女人，头发花白，黑色的眼睛锐利有力。被那双眼睛以及新来者在门槛上突然停顿所吓倒，芳坦小姐只能疑惑地看着她。

“是伊丽莎白表弟吗？”她伸出一只颤抖的手说道。

梅森太太几乎不允许别人碰她自己的。

“我们不习惯教堂里的访客，”她突然说道，语气低沉，充满哀伤。 “映射你坐下。”

她仍然用眼睛抱着女孩，走到一把旧摇椅前，让自己掉进去，然后大声叹了口气，松开了帽子带子。

劳拉惊讶极了，不得不强忍住想笑的冲动。然后她红了脸，在钢琴前的木凳上坐了下来。梅森太太仍然盯着她，似乎在等她说话。但劳拉什么也没说。

“索阿——你是斯蒂芬·方丹的遗孀——是吗？”

“是的——而且你以前见过我，”女孩平静地回答。

她自言自语道，她的表弟有一双猛禽的眼睛。在蓬乱的头发下那张灰白的脸庞上，他们显得如此黑而凶猛。但她并不害怕。相反，她感觉自己的脾气在上升。

“森你的行为还有多久了？”

“九个月。但我想你知道这一点——因为这是我写给你的。”

梅森夫人厚重的眼皮眨了一会儿，然后她慢慢加重了语气，就像陷入危机的人一样：

“班尼斯代尔庄园有什么艺术？你的妖精的妻妾到艾伦·赫尔贝克的屋顶来拜访是怎么回事？

劳拉张开嘴，先是惊讶，然后是笑声。

“哦！我明白了，”她不耐烦地说——“你似乎不明白。但你当然记得我父亲娶了赫尔贝克小姐作为他的第二任妻子吗？”

“是啊，她已经和他们在一起了，”梅森太太惊呼道。 “她把那该死的东西收了起来！”

那张巨大的脸通红、变形，带着一种阴暗的火焰。
劳拉重新凝视着。

“如果你是这个意思的话，她放弃了天主教徒身份，”她停顿了一下后说道。 “但她无法坚持下去。当爸爸生病了，她不高兴时，她就回去了。当然，后来她和她哥哥和好了。”

梅森夫人脸上的胜利先是惊讶，然后是愤怒。

“这个可怜的软弱的家伙，”她最后用一种难以形容的轻蔑的语气说道，“这个可怜的愚蠢的家伙！但没有人需要从赫尔贝克那里得到更好的东西。——我敢说”——她猛烈地提高了声音——“我敢说她带着你和她在一起，只要你愿意，就可以了。在这里监视我们吗？”

劳拉跳了起来。

“我！”她愤怒地说。 “你认为我是天主教徒和间谍？你真好！当然，你对我父亲一无所知，也不知道他是如何养育我的。至于我可怜的小继母，我和她一起来这里是为了让她康复，我会一直陪着她直到她康复。我真的不知道你为什么这样跟我说话。我想你有理由不喜欢赫尔贝克先生，但当我来看你的时候，你却对我这个爸爸的女儿产生这种感觉，真是太奇怪了！

少女的声音有些颤抖，但她却用适合她的姿势向后仰起纤细的脖子。原本紧闭的门，悄然打开。休伯特·梅森的脸出现在门口。它热切地——钦佩地——注视着芳坦小姐。

梅森夫人没有看到他。她也没有被劳拉的愤怒吓倒。

“是哦，”她固执地说。 “你曾与亚摩利人和亚玛力人立约。他们称那为“吃他们的祭品的艺术”！

门外传来一阵不安的笑声，劳拉把惊讶的目光转向那个方向，发现休伯特站在门口，在他身后，另一个头急切地向前探出——一个年轻女子的头，戴着一顶剪得很整齐的周日帽子。

“我说，妈妈，随她去吧，好吗？”一个爽朗的声音说道；并且，推动
休伯特一旁，帽子的主人走进了房间。她走到
劳拉，给了她一个响亮的吻。

“我是波莉——波莉·梅森。我很清楚你是谁。你难道不只关注妈妈吗？这就是她的方式。休伯特和你来看我们真是太好了。”

“母亲的老鼠在亚摩利人身上！”休伯特笑着说道。

“老鼠？——亚摩利人？”——劳拉说道，可怜巴巴地看着她握着波莉的手。

波莉笑了，笑声欢快、幽默。她本人是一个活泼、幽默的人，她的眼睛充满活力，头发卷曲，高颧骨上沾着亮粉色，这显然与她母亲截然相反。

“你必须尽早开始学习才能理解他们两个，”她宣称。 “母亲总是在谈论《圣经》，休伯特在温斯拉普街上听到了很多低俗的话语——就是这样。但现在看看这里——你愿意和我们一起吃顿晚饭吗？”

“我不想妨碍你，”劳拉正式地说。确实，她有些难以控制嘴唇的颤抖，尽管很难说到底是笑还是泪更接近。

听到这里，波莉大声抗议，一直检查着她表弟的衣服，用手指抚弄着她的小表链，甚至拿起那件漂亮布夹克的一角，检查一下它的质量。然而，劳拉看着梅森太太。

“如果伊丽莎白表弟希望我留下来，”她自豪地说。

波莉又爆发出一阵大笑。

“你看，阿根妈妈要和我一起握手，那是我的生活”
天主教徒——还有赫尔贝克先生。所以每当妈妈说话的时候
她的意思是“aboot Amorites or Jesubites, or any o' thattens”
天主教徒——罗马教徒，我们的牧师也是如此。他和她一样坏。
他真想和赫尔贝克先生握手，就像和联合国握手一样！

“我会支持你的——先生。”贝利这十年没有在天主教徒中讲过道！”休伯特在门口说道。 “如果你在周日提着灯笼打猎一周，你就不会在他的教区找到他们。当我还是个小伙子的时候，我认为罗马教徒是一群恶棍。我真想看到它们被钉在谷仓门上，就像白鼬一样！”

“但是多么奇怪啊！”劳拉喊道——“这里的天主教徒如此之少。没有人 讨厌 现在是天主教徒。人们可能只是——鄙视他们。”

她困惑地看着母亲又看着儿子。自从他母亲到来以来，不仅休伯特的言谈举止变得宽广而粗俗。

“好吧，如果没有钱，他们就会达成协议，”说
波莉——“无论如何，赫尔贝克先生来到了大厅。——妈妈，我会带着
喷泉小姐在楼上，要脱掉帽子。”

在她儿子和女儿的所有戏谑过程中，梅森夫人轻蔑地沉默地坐着，用她奇怪的眼睛——狂热的眼睛，在一张异常精明和能干的脸上——时而转向劳拉，时而转向她的孩子们。劳拉又看了她一眼，犹豫着是走还是留。然后她突然有一种冲动，连她自己都感到惊讶。因为这是一种喜欢的冲动，一种血缘的冲动。当她迅速穿过房间来到梅森夫人身边时，她用一种相当恳求的声音说道：

“但是你看，伊丽莎白表弟，我不是天主教徒——爸爸也不是天主教徒。我无法帮助方丹夫人回到她原来的宗教信仰——你不应该把它归咎于我！”

梅森夫人抬起头来。

“主日那天为什么不在教堂？”

这个问题来得严厉而迅速。

劳拉犹豫了一下，然后挺直了身子。

“因为我也不是你这种人。我不相信你们的教会，也不相信你们的牧师。父亲没有，而我和他一样。”

她的声音变粗了，脸色也变得苍白。老妇人盯着她。

“那你就是异教徒中的大佬了！”她缓慢而精确地说。

“我敢说！”劳拉半笑半哭地喊道。 “那是我的事。
但我声明我想我和你一样讨厌天主教徒——那里，表弟
伊丽莎白！我当然不恨我的继母。我答应父亲
照顾她。但这是另一回事。”

“你讨厌艾伦·赫尔贝克吗？”梅森太太突然说道，她的黑眼睛猛然睁开。

女孩犹豫了一下，屏住了呼吸——然后一种最奇怪、最卑鄙的愿望涌上心头，想要安抚这个表情热情的冷酷女人。

“是的！”她疯狂地说。 “不，不！——这太愚蠢了。我还没时间去恨他。但无论如何，我不喜欢他。我几乎确定我 将 恨他！”

她的语气中毫无疑问是真话。

梅森夫人慢慢地站了起来。她的胸口长长地吸了一口气，然后平息下来。她的眉头绷紧了。她转向她的儿子。

“你会让达法迪做你所有的工作吗？”她尖锐地说。
“罗恩小牛宾看过了吗？”

“是的——我要走了，”休伯特回避地说，然后羞涩地直起身子走向前门，离开时又向他的新表弟多看了一眼。

“你真的希望我留下来吗？”劳拉坚持重复道，
梅森夫人。

“不客气，”他生硬地回答。 “大佬，如果你在安息日没有休息到这里来，我会很欢迎你的。你就去找波莉吧，把你的帽子摘下来。”

劳拉又犹豫了一会儿，咬着嘴唇，走了。

波莉·梅森很健谈。在她和劳拉在楼上度过的几分钟里，在她再次匆匆下楼去帮助母亲做周日的晚餐之前，她问了她的新表弟无数的问题，对班尼斯代尔和赫尔贝克一家表现出强烈的好奇心，迫切地想知道劳拉是否她自己有钱，或者仍然依赖她的继母，并且对芳坦小姐的温柔和美丽感到自豪。

波莉的阿谀奉承的坦率和她整个性格的旺盛，最终使劳拉变得僵硬。时不时地，在波莉提问的间隙，当她不再好奇而变得保密时，劳拉就会对自己感到惊讶。她会半闭上眼睛，试图回忆起她的表兄弟姐妹和农场的形象，那天早上她从班尼斯代尔出发。或者她会想起她的父亲，他的生活方式和言语——他真的与这个地方及其居民有联系吗？如何联系？她原本期待一些简单而重男轻女的事情。她找到了一个农民家庭，过着艰苦而拮据的生活——一个冷酷的母亲，说着广泛的方言；一个儿子，除了音乐之外，没有任何文雅或教育的要求——还有一个女儿——

劳拉把目光转向波莉，看着她那高高的红颧骨，那让她那张诚实的脸变得庸俗的奢华流苏，还有那件石色羊驼毛的周日礼服，上面缀满了洋红色的丝带。

“我会——我 将 像她这样的！”她对自己说：“我是一个可怕的、势利的、挑剔的小坏蛋。”

但她的精神却已经低落了。波莉离开后，她在开着的窗台上靠了一会儿，向外望去。穿过肮脏、凹凸不平的院子，牛栏门外堆满了粪便，她看到简陋的农舍相互挤成一团，挤成一团，简陋难看。下面，显然是从房子的门廊里，一声破裂的钟声开始响起，从三个工人对面的一些门里出来了，那些住在农场里、寄宿在农场里的“雇工”。前两个是上了年纪的男人，他们的身体多节、弯曲，就像熬过了冬天的坚韧树木。第三个是一名青年。他们穿着整齐的周日服装，因为他们的工作已经完成，他们已经准备好迎接下午的假期了。

他们一前一后，默默地朝农舍走去。就连年轻人也没有抬头看窗外，女孩就在窗外。他们的身后，刮起了一阵刺骨的东风。一朵云遮住了太阳。肮脏的农家院子、院子后面光秃秃的山坡、远处的沼泽地，都散发着一种寒冷而令人生畏的气氛。劳拉再次想象了十二月的情景——一场白雪的浪费，农场在雪地上留下了一个丑陋的斑点，她能看到黑胡子的小羊在山上吃草，挤在岩石下寻求庇护。但这一次她颤抖了。所有的咒语都被打破了。和这个疯女人、这个奇怪的年轻人——还有波莉住在一起！然而，在她看来，似乎有什么东西把她吸引到了伊丽莎白表弟身边——如果她不是那么生气的话。在这些人中发现对赫尔贝克先生的憎恶是多么奇怪——如此不同，如此遥远！她记得自己说过的话——“我确信我 将 恨他！”——这并非没有良心的谴责。也许她一直在做什么，不就是把自己的不公正加到他们的不公正之上吗？

她站在年轻的困惑和热情中迷失了——一半是愤怒，一半是悔恨。

但只有一秒钟。然后奥古斯蒂娜的某些话语在她脑海中响起——她看到自己站在教堂的角落里，而其他人则在祈祷。每一次脉搏都收紧了——她的整个本性再次充满了反抗。她似乎在阻止某种东西——一种威胁羞辱和虚伪的暴虐力量，同时又似乎在窥探秘密的事情——那些它永远、永远不应该知道——也永远不应该统治的事情！是的，她确实了解伊丽莎白表姐——她 做了!

晚餐就这么悲伤地过去了。食物很重，工人们的脸也很重，低椽厨房的空气也很重，被大火加热，弥漫着农家院子的气味。劳拉觉得这一切都很奇怪，农场仆人与共济会成员和她自己坐在同一张桌子上——没有人试图打破的长期沉默——休伯特和他母亲之间的关系。

至于工人们，梅森时不时地用一种欺负人的声音对他们说话，而他们则尽可能少地和他说话。在劳拉看来，他们和母亲之间似乎结成了联盟，共同对抗懒惰无能的主人。这小伙子的虚荣心永远都在其中。他一次又一次地振作起来，尝试绅士风度，全心全意地照顾他的年轻女士。但在他们谈话的过程中，他会听到桌子另一端有什么声音，突然间，他和​​女主人之间会爆发出一阵激烈的、难以理解的谈话，而工人们则默默地、狡猾地坐着，波莉的大声说话笑声会突然响起，试图缓和气氛。

劳拉那双冷静的灰色眼睛始终带着批判性的惊奇，注视着年轻人。在任何其他情况下，她都不会认为他值得一刻的关注。她身上有那种习惯于选择陪伴的漂亮女孩的那种傲慢的不耐烦。但这种奇怪的亲属关系却困扰着她。她想了解这些共济会成员——她父亲的同胞。

“现在他真的说得很好了，”有一次她对自己说，当时休伯特在他的风琴师朋友卡斯尔的天赋和成就中发现了一个可以解开他舌头束缚、让他几乎感到愉快的话题。突然，一个问题传入了他的耳中。

“达法迪，你发出咕咕声了吗？”妈妈大声说道。即使是在最平常的问题上，她的目光也具有同样的穿透力和热情的品质——实际上是她的整个个性。

休伯特放下了他的话语——以及他的刀叉——愤怒地盯着
达法迪、老牛夫和卡特。

达法迪偷偷地看了他的主人一眼，然后嚼了一口面包和奶酪，没有回答。

他是一个灰发而沉默寡言的人，一脸挑衅的耐心。

“你在咕咕咕地做什么？”休伯特尖锐地说。 “我在半小时前就离开了她。”

达法迪又把头转向休伯特的方向片刻，然后故意对情妇说道。

“是啊，是啊，夫人”——他用高亢的小声音说道——“我把她的后门转了过来，为她铺上了新的衣服。”她做了瓦拉米德林。”

“如果她昨天以适当的方式翻身，她现在就可以站起来了，”梅森太太说，看了一眼她的儿子。

“别这样，妈妈，”休伯特喊道。他向前倾身，满脸通红，因为愤怒，或者说是啤酒——他的药水已经开始让劳拉充满沮丧——说话时带着一种威吓的暴力。 “我告诉你，昨晚蹄铁匠来的时候，他说她的管理是一流的！如果你和达法迪有你的方法，你的堕落和你的废话，你永远不会让一个可怜的生病的怪物独自呆五分钟;我劝达法迪放过她，我会让他知道谁是这里的主人！”

他瞪着卡特，全然不顾劳拉在场。波莉大声咳嗽，起身收拾盘子，试图转移注意力。三名战斗者没有注意到。

达法迪慢慢地用舌头舔过嘴唇。然后他再次看着女主人说道：

“如果哈娜把她翻过来，我相信她就会滑倒——她肿得像两个人一样。”

“我告诉你别管她了！”休伯特怒吼道。 “如果她死了，那就是ma consarn；我不会干涉我的命令——你听到了吗？

“是啊，上个月要三十英镑，这个也要三十英镑，”他母亲慢慢地说。 “呼喊艺术也很好。你的父亲需要把他的铜管加上去——让你彻底摆脱困境。

休伯特咒骂着从桌子上站起来，站了一会儿，低头看着劳拉，怒目而视，猛烈地拉着自己的小胡子，然后，大声地打开前门，大步穿过院子，朝牛栏走去。

一阵沉默。然后梅森夫人站了起来，双手合十，眼睛半闭。

“对于我们所得到的，主让我们由衷地感激，”她用带着鼻音的响亮声音说道。 “阿门。”

吃完晚饭，劳拉穿上波莉的围裙，帮表弟收拾东西。梅森太太粗声粗气地叫她别动，但当女孩坚持要坐时，她自己——因晚餐和战斗而涨红了脸——坐在长椅上，与老达法迪相对，故意休假，一直在客厅里看着斯蒂芬的女儿。浓密的眉毛和白发下，黑色的眼睛转动着，闪烁着奇异的光芒。

老牛夫弓着背坐在火边，在幸福的沉默中抽着烟斗。

但不久，劳拉在来回走动时，听到了一些谈话的片段。

“你上周日去莱斯吉尔了吗？”梅森太太突然说道。

达法迪取下了烟斗。

“是啊，一去，一说。这是一场瓦拉搅拌会议。 Sum o' yor 支付 preests sud ha' bin theer。真是奇怪。我试图把他们全部击中——但还是有一点点。”

停顿了一下，他平静地补充道：

“突然的爆发可能不适合他们，瓦拉·韦尔。那个人就在我旁边，在半路上把我拉倒了。”

“达法迪，你得付钱给神父，”梅森太太严厉地说。
“你现在就明白了。”

达法迪狡猾地看了一眼他的情妇——她那宽大的身躯、闪闪发光的羊驼毛和黑色丝绸围裙所暗示的“教会骄傲”。

“也许不会，”他温和地说，“也许不会。”他又继续吹烟斗。

还有一次，当劳拉掠过厨房，吸引着两个囚犯的目光时，她听到了一些似乎是关于葬礼的谈话片段。

“是啊，可怜的珍妮！”梅森夫人说。 “他们没有对她进行任何调查。”

“不，”——达法迪摇摇头表示同情，——“那是一个可怜的瓦拉墓，是珍妮的埋葬地。现在只是泰伊，类似的。”

梅森夫人举起两只瘦弱的手，又放在膝盖上。

“我不认为他们会感到羞耻，”她说。 “珍妮的铜管乐器非常好用。她竭尽全力把它留给“un”。

达法迪又抽出了烟斗。他那张灯笼般的脸，因缓慢的思考而皱起眉头，挂在火焰上。

“是的，”他说，“是的。沃尔，我埋葬了三个孩子——我只是个小混蛋——但感谢上帝，我把他们埋葬了——用火腿。”

最后一句话，语气凝重。厨房另一端的劳拉张大了嘴看着这两个人。两张脸上的特征都没有移动。她飞快地回到牛奶场，波莉惊讶地抬起头来。

“你怎么了？”她说。

“噢，没什么！”劳拉说着，擦掉了眼中快乐的泪水。她开始卷起袖子，将手和手臂浸入波莉放在她面前的一碗温水中。与此同时，波莉身材魁梧，脸色也因为忙碌的家务而红得通红，她就站在她表弟的肩膀后面，低头看着她那纤细的白皙手腕和漂亮的手指，半是羡慕，半是钦佩。

过了一会儿，两个女孩把所有家务活的痕迹都清除掉，回到了厨房。达法迪和梅森夫人失踪了。

“伊丽莎白表弟在哪儿？”劳拉环顾四周，尖锐地说。

波莉解释说，她母亲可能正被关在卧室里读圣经。这是她周日下午的习惯。

“怎么，我根本就没跟她说过话！”劳拉喊道。她的脸颊涨红了。

波莉露出尴尬的表情。

“下次你来的时候，妈妈会带你去的。她一直在欺骗你，我会好好对待你的。”

“这不是我想要的，”劳拉说。

她走到窗前，把头靠在窗框上。波莉愧疚地看着她，清楚地看到嘴唇突然下垂。她所能做的就是提议带她表弟去看房子。

劳拉懒洋洋地答应了。

于是他们又在黑暗的石板奶牛场里闲逛，奶锅在一侧，培根槽在另一侧。走进楼上闷热的小卧室，每间卧室都有小橡木四柱柱子和拼凑而成的床罩。他们看着休伯特床上的自制鹅绒被——波莉的手工品——。那些凹凸不平的旧墙上挂着一簇簇褪色的照片和彩色印刷品；波莉房间里巨大的餐柜里存放着家庭当年储存的餐食和燕麦饼。

“当我们还是小孩子的时候，休伯特从磨坊带回家的新鲜啤酒那天，父亲常常给我一个银萨克斯便士，”波莉说。 “当我们还小的时候，我们可以吃一些教区小贵族帕里奇和燕麦饼。现在我会支持你，没有一个农场仆人无论发生什么事都想要他的白面包。”

房子整洁干净，但里面没有什么舒适的东西，也没有什么奢侈品。它还显示了一些小破烂，只需很少的钱和关怀很快就能修复。波莉悲伤地指着他们。没有钱，休伯特也不自找麻烦。 “父亲正在忙着工作。每年这个时候他都会四点半起床，但从来没有这么早睡觉。但休伯特现在帮不了什么忙。当皮特科特的布拉斯廷与他们在一起时，你很难让他去温索普。当为邻居们做一份工作时，马可能会吃得头破血流，休伯特却不愿动弹。 “让他们为自己做事吧”——这就是他会说的。艾弗森的父亲是本·江林，母亲是休伯特。看到一切都在走下坡路，她很生气。既然他这么有主见，他就不会被拖着走。你看到他在晚餐时如何与达法迪相处。但如果没有 Daffady 和我们，就没有库存了。”

可怜的波莉坐在餐柜的边缘，晃来晃去地摇晃着她的大脚，讲述了许多悲伤的细节，这些细节在劳拉耳中大多难以理解，有时甚至令人厌恶。

休伯特似乎总是威胁要离开农场。 “给我一点钱，你很快就会离开我。我要去弗罗斯威克，发财”——这是他对母亲说的。但谁会给他钱让他乱扔呢？而且根据父亲的遗嘱，当梅森夫人活着时，他不能出售农场。

至于她的母亲，波莉承认她“病得很重，无法和她一起生活”。没有人像她一样“这里有点混乱，那里有点混乱”。她是乡村最好的黄油制造商和销售商。但自从年轻时患上一场疾病后，她就对宗教产生了奇怪的态度。

现在是部长贝利先生让她兴奋，也让她变得更糟。波莉则恨他。 “我的保证，他确实会做！”她说。每个星期日他都宣讲反对天主教徒、教皇等。由于附近没有天主教徒，除了班尼斯代尔的赫尔贝克先生和惠索普的一些天主教徒，人们不知道如何看待他。他们嘲笑他，然后就不再去了——除了偶尔出于好奇，因为他穿着黑色长袍讲道，据波莉听，这在当今是非常罕见的。但妈妈会按小时听他说话。这一切都是泰迪·威廉姆斯的功劳。正是这一点让她发疯。

然而说到这里，波莉突然停下来问了一个急切的问题。先生有什么？
当劳拉告诉他她想去看看她的表兄弟姐妹时，赫尔贝克说？

“我敢保证他不是最高兴！费瑟无法忍受他——因为泰迪。他没有向温斯拉普巷扔石头——费瑟是个严格的人，读过他的圣经规则——但他站在小伙子们身边看着——他没有说要阻止他们。赫尔贝克先生对他喊道——他身边有一位牧师——“先生。”石匠！'他意识到，“这是一位老人——跟那些家伙说话吧！”但费瑟不会。 “让他们打败你！”他认为——是的，还有他！它不会造成任何伤害。”——好吧，他说什么了，赫尔贝克先生？——我想知道。

“说？没什么——除了路途遥远，而且我可能有马车。”

劳拉的语气相当干巴巴。她坐在波莉的床边，手臂搂着一根橡木柱子。波莉说话时，她的脸颊贴在柱子上，眼睛四处游移。直到提到赫尔贝克。然后她的注意力又回来了。当波莉讲述惠索普巷的事件时，她开始皱起眉头。毕竟这是多么偏执啊！至于年轻的威廉姆斯的故事——非常令人费解——她将从奥古斯蒂娜那里得知真相。但非同寻常的是，它在这个高地农场如此出名，以至于它在赫尔贝克先生和共济会之间建立了一种联系——一种仇恨的联系。在她对梅森太太表示了强烈的同情之后，随着波莉的喋喋不休，她现在意识到，她几乎不了解她的表兄弟，就像她不了解赫尔贝克一样。

不，还有更多。赫尔贝克被这些粗鲁、没有受过教育的人用石头砸死和虐待的画面开始引起她一种奇怪的同情。她的思想不情愿地赋予了他新的尊严。

因此，当波莉漫无目的地讲述贝利先生在街头斗殴后如何在济贫院的一次会议上遇见赫尔贝克先生，并在赫尔贝克先生伸出双手时将他的双手背在背后时，劳拉摇摇头。

“真是个可笑的人！”她轻蔑地说； “这有什么关系
赫尔贝克先生，贝利先生是否与他握手？

波莉有些惊讶地看着她，就放弃了话题。老妇人意识到自己的平庸和自卑，所以谦卑地渴望取悦她的新表弟。女孩娇嫩而有特色的体格，清澈的眼神，果断的态度，还有她说话时那种半心不在焉、半挑剔的神情，这是从她父亲那里继承来的，所有这些结合在一起，让相貌平平的波莉感到害怕，她觉得也许随着她与来访者的接触越多，她就越不自在。

不久，他们站在波莉壁炉架上的一些旧照片前。
波莉胆怯地看着她的表弟。

“你不觉得休伯特的维拉很帅吗？”她说。

她拿起其中一张肖像，用袖子拂过，递给劳拉。

劳拉把它举起来仔细检查。

“不——哦，”她冷静地说，“不太帅。”

波莉看上去很失望。

“这里的钱都比休伯特帅，”她强调道。

“夸女孩们帅是休伯特的事，”劳拉笑着说，然后把照片递了回来。

波莉咧嘴一笑——然后突然显得严肃起来。

“我希望他不要打扰他们！”她用一种充满活力的口音说道：“这些天他会惹上麻烦的！”

“我想，他们没有让他留在原来的地方，”劳拉脸红地说，她几乎不知道为什么。她站起来，穿过房间走到窗前。关于休伯特和“t'gells”她想知道什么？她讨厌粗俗而懒惰的年轻人！——尽管他们可能有音乐天赋，可以说，不属于他们。

尽管如此，她还是转过身来，语气有些专横地问道：

“你哥哥在哪儿？——他一直在做什么？”

“我敢说，坐在咕咕旁边——免得达法迪获得了她的信任，”波莉笑着说。 “这个可怜的怪物摔了三天森——法里尔说，就像中风一样——一个休伯特的垃圾箱，嫉妒达法迪艾弗森。事实上，他每天早晨都会在床上大便，以便在她身后蹲下！——上帝保佑我们——我要去喂小牛！

波莉赶紧把围裙套在周日礼服外面，旋风般地哗啦啦地下了楼梯。

劳拉更加悠闲地跟着她，穿过空荡荡的厨房，打开前门。

当她站在门廊下向外看时，她抬起一只小手来掩饰打哈欠。那天早上出发时，她本来打算在农场待上一整天。现在还没到下午茶时间，她已经准备好出发了。事实上，她的心很热，而且有些苦涩。当然，伊丽莎白表姐对待她的态度是一种奇怪的冷漠。至于休伯特——在友谊爆发之后，在钢琴旁边！她猛地镇定下来——她会立即去向他要她的小马车。

她优雅地掀起裙子，小心翼翼地穿过肮脏的院子，摸索着对面的一扇门——她曾在晚餐时间看到老达法迪从这扇门出来。

“谁在那儿？”里面传来威胁的声音。

劳拉成功地抬起了笨拙的门闩。休伯特·梅森从里面看到一个金色的小脑袋出现在门口。

“你能帮我拿一下小马车吗？”芳坦小姐用轻快、半讽刺的声音说道。 “我得走了，波莉正在喂小牛。”

起初，她的眼睛除了低矮屋顶下拥挤的摊位中一排模糊的动物形状之外什么也看不到。然后她看到一头牛躺在地上，休伯特·梅森在她旁边，他正从粘土烟斗中喷出一圈圈烟雾。这个地方又黑又密，而且散发着恶臭。她连忙把头缩了回来。里面传来一阵嘀咕声和动静，梅森走到门口，把烟斗塞进口袋里。

“你现在想去做什么？”他突然说道。

“我该回家了。”

“不;你不关心我们，也不关心我们的生活方式。就是这样;我不奇怪。”

她礼貌地提出抗议，但他不听。他在暴风雨般的沉默中大步走在她身边，直到刺痛他的冲动压倒了她。

“你通常和牛坐在一起吗？”她甜蜜地问他。她用灰色的眼睛看着他，充满了嘲讽和冷静的审视。他不习惯他选择注意的年轻女子的这种表情。

“我不会留下来在陌生人面前受到这样的对待！”他阴沉凶狠地说道。 “母亲认为她和达法迪可以对我为所欲为，就像我还是个小伙子时他们经常做的那样。但我会让她知道——是的，还有男人们！”

“但如果你讨厌务农，为什么不让达法迪来做呢？”

她狡猾的声音再次刺痛了他。

“因为我会成为mëaster！”他一边说，一边用力地把手放在小马车的车轴上。 “如果我要留在这个可怕的洞里，我会让每个人都知道自己的位置。让妈妈给我一些钱，我很快就会离开，留给她一个达法迪，让他们自己用自己的方式打水。但如果我在这里的话 梅斯特！”他又撞了推车。

“你真的没有你父亲那么努力吗？”

他惊讶地看着她。如果磨坊里的苏西·弗林德斯对他这样说话，他就会知道如何帮她闭嘴。

“我敢说是这样，”他激动地说。 “我不会过我父亲那样的狗生活——这一切都是为了再骗邻居六便士或两便士。让妈妈把农场的钱给我吧。我会尽快去弗罗斯维克。那就是上车的地方。我有朋友——我很快就会工作起来。”

劳拉看了他一眼。她什么也没说。

“你认为我不会？”他愤怒地问她，停下来处理安全带，以反击她态度上的挑战。他的愤怒似乎让他变得更英俊、更有勇气、更有活力。当他站在她面前时，她第一次从身体上钦佩他。

但她只是微微扬起眉毛。

“我认为一个人必须有一种特殊的商业头脑——而且还要尽早开始？”

“我可以学习，”他粗声粗气地说，之后他们都沉默了，直到挽具完成。

然后他抬起头来。

“我想开车送你去桥——如果你同意的话？”

“哦，别为难自己了，祈祷吧！”她礼貌地急忙说道。

他的眉头再次皱起。

“我知道怎么回事——你不会再来这里了。”

她的小脸变了。

“我愿意，”她声音颤抖地说，“因为爸爸以前住在这里。”

他盯着她。

“我确实记得斯蒂芬表弟，”他最后说道，“虽然我没有拖你走。我可以看到他站在门口——戴着一顶大帽子——留着稻草般的胡须——穿着一件带有大口袋的格子外套。”

他惊讶地停了下来，看到她突然美丽的眼睛和脸颊。

“就是这样，”她说，靠向他。 “噢，就是这样！”她闭上眼睛片刻，小嘴唇颤抖着。然后她长长地叹了口气将它们打开。

“是的，如果你愿意的话，可以开车送我去桥。”

在开车的路上，她就是另一个人。她和他谈论音乐，语气如此轻柔、亲切，让年轻人高兴得头晕目眩。她自己所有的音乐热情和经历——大学教堂里的音乐、希腊戏剧中的音乐、她听过的为数不多的伦敦音乐会和歌剧、她的老师和她的英雄崇拜——她在她圆润轻盈的声音中汲取了一切，他时不时地加入进来，带着一种粗糙的热情和渴望，这似乎改变了他的面貌。半个小时后，他们就成了朋友了。他们的关系彻底改变了。他用所有的眼睛看着她；他全神贯注地倾听着她。而她——她忘记了他是个粗俗的小丑；如此令人窒息的快乐，如此谦卑地全神贯注于卓越的智慧，本来是会削弱最严格的标准的。

对于他来说，时间过得很快。当班尼斯代尔河上的桥梁终于架起时
河流出现在视线中，他开始检查小马。

“我们继续开一点吧，”他恳求地说。

“不，不——我必须回到芳汀太太身边。”她从他手中夺走了缰绳。

“我说，你什么时候再来？”

“哦，我不知道。”她再次表现出镇定自若的态度，这让他的同胞感到困惑。

“我说，妈妈下次不跟你说这种事了。我会告诉她——”他恳求地说。——“哈罗！放我出去好吗？”

令她惊讶的是，她还没来得及把小马拉进来，他就从马车上跳了下来。

“赫尔贝克先生来了！”他红着脸对她说道。 “我走了。”
再见！”

他连忙握了握她的手，转身大步走开。

她有些困惑地看向大门，发现赫尔贝克正为她把门打开。他旁边站着一位高个子牧师——不是鲍尔斯神父。显然，他们都看到了她和表弟的分别。

嗯，然后呢？那是什么，或者赫尔贝克先生的隆重问候，让她的脸颊一下子变得滚烫？她本可以因为愚蠢的缺乏自制力而殴打自己。更何况，她还可以因为休伯特的滑稽和匆忙离开而殴打他。他怕什么？他认为她会表现出她农民关系中最轻微的耻辱吗？

“那是方顿夫人的继女吗？”当劳拉和她的马车消失在两人行走的蜿蜒道路的拐角处时，赫尔贝克的同伴说道。

赫尔贝克做出了同意的手势。

“你很可能认识她的父亲？”他命名了斯蒂芬·方丹曾担任院士的剑桥学院。

这位耶稣会士是一名皈依者，也是一位杰出的剑桥人，他考虑了一会儿。

“哦！是的——我记得那个人！这是一个奇怪的存在，如果我没记错的话，只有在战争时期才听说过他。如果出现任何争议——尤其是在宗教问题上——斯蒂芬·方丹就会拿着大报冲上去。哦，是的，我清楚地记得他——一个邋遢、金发、好斗的家伙，对他来说，任何关心他灵魂的人要么是傻瓜，要么是无赖。女儿继承了他的多少财产？”

赫尔贝克也回以微笑。 “我想是一大块。她来到这里的处境很奇怪，因为她以前从未在基督教家庭里生活过，而且她似乎已经很难忍受我们了。”

利德汉姆神父笑了，然后露出沉思的表情。

“我多少次知道，这是所有可能的开始中最好的！她对她的继母有感情吗？”

“是的。但芳坦夫人对她没有影响力。”

“这是一种引人注目的颜色——白色的皮肤和红色的头发。这也是一张具有某种力量的面孔。”

“力量？”赫尔贝克表示反对。 “我认为她很聪明，”他干巴巴地说。 “当然，她来自大学城，听说过其他女孩一无所知的事情。但她没有受过道德或智力方面的训练。”

“没有基督教教育吗？”

赫尔贝克耸了耸肩。

“她是在艰难的情况下才受洗的。据我所知，当她十一岁或十二岁的时候，她被允许去教堂两三次，这是根据希洛原​​则——很快就感到厌恶——她的父亲当然在家里不断发表评论——而且她完全站在所有宗教之外种以来。”

“可怜的孩子！”神父热情地说。话语中的父亲意味不仅仅是官方的。他是一个鳏夫，在加入罗马教会前两年失去了妻子和年幼的女儿。

赫尔贝克笑了。 “我向你保证，芳汀小姐不会把她的怜悯花在自己身上。”

“我敢说的比你想象的还要多。在像你们这样的房子里，非信徒的处境总是令人痛苦的。你看她孤身一人。一定有一种被放逐的感觉——某种感人而深刻的事情发生在她身边，而她却被排除在外。她走进一栋有教堂的房子，那里保留着圣礼，每个人都在严格遵守四旬期。她和你们没有任何共同的想法。不;我对方亭小姐感到非常抱歉。”

赫尔贝克沉默了一会儿。他黝黑的脸上露出一丝不安。

“她在这附近有一些亲戚，”他最后说道，“但不幸的是，我无法做太多事情来促使她见到他们。你还记得威廉姆斯的故事吗？”

“当然。你们在当地发生了一些争吵，不是吗？啊!我记得。”

两人继续前行，讨论着一个他们作为天主教徒曾经并且仍然非常感兴趣的案件。此外，这位英雄——耶稣会新手本人——对他们俩来说都很熟悉。

“那么方丹小姐的亲戚就属于那个农民阶级？”耶稣会士若有所思地说。 “真奇怪，她竟然发现自己与你和班尼斯代尔有着如此双重的关系！”

“如果你愿意的话，请稍微考虑一下我，”赫尔贝克说道，脸上带着罕见的轻微微笑。 “虽然那位年轻女士在我的屋檐下——你看她有多么迷人——你会承认，我无法摆脱某种责任。奥古斯蒂娜既没有母亲的意愿，也没有母亲的权威，而且实际上没有其他人了。现在这个梅森家族里正好有一个年轻人——”

“啊！”神父说； “那个从桥上跳下来的年轻绅士，穿着一双这么轻的高跟鞋？”

赫尔贝克点点头。 “老人是农民和狂热分子。他们在威廉姆斯事件中对我怀有恶意，而我的母亲，她还活着，如果可以的话，她很乐意明天绞死我并分尸。但这是另一点。老人们有自己的尊严，有自己的风度和美德——或者更确切地说，有他们阶级的风度和美德。老人虽然粗鲁、粗鲁，但他工作勤奋、正直，而且是一位基督徒。但老人已经死了，儿子现在和母亲一起务农，没有阶级，没有品格。他的学历刚刚够鄙视他的父亲和他父亲的辛苦。他与他的下级或他的亲属说方言，而与你我说方言。旧的传统对他没有任何约束力，他只是一个粗俗而恶毒的混血儿，酗酒过度，对任何低级的风流韵事都有天然的亲和力。我在上次狩猎舞会上遇见了他。我从来没有去过这样的事情，但去年我去了。”

“好的！”耶稣会士脱口而出，对讲话者露出友好的面孔。

赫尔贝克停了下来。这个词，尤其是它的强调语气，对他提出了挑战。他正要为自己辩护，反对隐含的指控，但想了想，又继续说道：

“不幸的是，考虑到整个家族对我的态度，我发现这个年轻人在晚餐室里，对一个同类女孩表现不端，而且喝得酩酊大醉。我叫来了一个管家，他被告知可以走了。之后，你可能会想象，看到我的客人——一位非常年轻、非常漂亮、非常尊贵的女士——与这个生物以表兄弟的关系开车在这个国家旅行，我几乎不高兴！

最后一句话说得相当活​​泼。贵族与苦行僧、名门望族与严谨挑剔的品格，在他们身上都有所体现。

耶稣会士沉思了一下。

“不;你必须保持警惕。为什么不分散她的注意力呢？你一定还有很多其他邻居可以给她看。”

赫尔贝克摇摇头。

“我像隐士一样生活。我姐姐守寡第一年，身体非常娇弱。”

“我懂了。”耶稣会士犹豫了一下，然后用冒险者的语气微笑着说道：“前几天，主教和我允许我们讨论你的这些与世隔绝的方式。我们以为你会像一对老朋友一样原谅我们。”

“我知道，”他很快打断道，“主教在这些事情上就是曼宁的脾气。他相信要对新教世界采取行动，并与新教世界一起行动——相信我们作为公民的地位。去年我加入一两个委员会就是为了取悦他——我才去参加狩猎舞会——”

然后，突然，赫尔贝克以一种非常特有的方式控制了自己的语速，然后更加平静地继续说道：“嗯，所有这些——”

“你还是持同样的观点吗？”耶稣会士微笑着说道。

“恰恰。我不属于我的邻居，他们也不属于我。我们说的不是同一种语言，我也无法让自己说他们的语言。我知道，旧的条件已经不复存在。但我的感觉仍然和我祖先的感觉差不多。我知道这在当今并不常见，但我的血液中流淌着那句古老的格言：“Extra ecclesiam nulla salus。”

“在英国，没有什么比这对我们造成更致命的伤害了，”耶稣会士喊道。 “我们忘记了英格兰是一个受洗的国家，因此处于超自然状态。”

“我经常提醒自己这一点，”赫尔贝克带着一种自豪的顺从说道。 “我不评判任何人。但我的力量，我的时间，都是有限的。我更愿意将他们奉献给‘信仰之家’。”

两人沉默地走了一段时间。不久，莱德汉姆神父脸上露出了有趣的表情，他说道：

“当然，我们现代皈依者比我们的前辈过得更好！主教向我讲述了关于这个代牧区对他们的旧感情的最令人难以置信的事情。无论我走到哪里，我似乎都会听到老牧师的故事，他感谢上帝，因为他从未接待过任何人进入教会。每个人都见过认识那个老家伙的人！他可能是一个神话——但他的背后显然有历史！”

“我完全理解他，”赫尔贝克微笑着说道。他立即以一种奇怪的强度补充道：“我也从未影响过，也从未试图影响过我生命中的任何人。”

牧师疑惑地看着他。

“不是威廉姆斯吗？”

“威廉姆斯！但威廉姆斯是为信仰而生的。他一看到我想在教堂里做什么，就祈祷能来帮助我。这是他的暑假——他没有怠慢；很高兴看到他在工作中感到快乐——正如我所想，这只是一种艺术上的快乐。他常常问我关于不同圣徒的问题；他借过一两次书——有必要把标志弄对。但我从来没有对他说过一句有争议的话。我从来没有和他辩论过宗教话题，直到那天晚上，他父亲把他打得无法站立，然后才到我那里避难。是恩典教他的，不是我。”

“恩典教导了他，但通过你，”神父平静地强调道。
“也许我比你更了解这一点。”

赫尔贝克脸红了。

“我认为你错了。无论如何，我宁愿你错了。”

神父扬起了眉毛。

“一个‘在教会之外没有任何救赎’的人，”他慢慢地说，“并为自己从未影响过任何人而感到高兴？”

“我对这样一个工具所取得的成果不抱什么希望。有些人与自己的灵魂有足够的关系，”这是低沉但激烈的回答。

神父疑惑地看了他的同伴一眼，看到他身旁那张严厉的脸上流露出的感情——深刻而病态的感情。

“也许你从来没有足够关心外面的人，以至于热情地希望把他们带进来，”他说。 “但如果这种情况发生在你身上，你就会准备好——我想你会准备好——使用任何工具，甚至是你自己。”

神父的声音有些变化。赫尔贝克有些吃惊，回忆起利德汉姆神父的个人经历，并认为他明白了。这个话题立刻就被搁置了，两人继续朝房子走去，讨论在圣彼得教堂举办的一场盛大的封圣仪式以及教皇个人在其中的角色。

当赫尔贝克和利德汉姆神父走近老礼堂时，它俯视着一片生机盎然的景象，而在近代，人们已经很少习惯这种景象了。前面的绿地和碎石小道上散布着一群群穿着蓝白相间制服的孩子。三四个戴着带翅膀的白色帽子的慈悲修女们在她们中间走来走去，一些孩子像蜜蜂一样聚集在修女们的裙子周围，而另一些孩子则跑来跑去，兴高采烈地采摘草地上散落的水仙花。

入侵者来自圣乌苏拉孤儿院，这是一所由
赫尔贝克先生的努力位于班尼斯代尔和
惠索普。他们到达不久，正在等待念珠
在他们被允许喝茶之前，在教堂里进行祝福
丹顿夫人和奥古斯蒂娜已经在大厅里为他们铺好了座位。

赫尔贝克一看到孩子们，脸上就放光了，脚步也加快了。他们一边从四面八方跑向他。他还没来得及向负责她们的修女们打招呼，那些急切的生物就把他拉进大厅后面的围墙花园里，一个小女孩挂在他的手上，另一个则停在他的肩膀上。利德汉姆神父走进屋内准备仪式。

花园又旧又暗，就像矗立在花园和阳光之间的都铎式房屋。笔直的人行道上排列着一排排用活生生的紫杉木和黄木雕刻而成的奇异形状。一个被高高的山毛榉树篱围起来的保龄球果岭被放置在整个正式场所的正中心，而西、北、南三边的步道和小巷则聚集在它上面，按照自最初以来未曾改变的计划制定于詹姆斯二世时代。每年的这个时候，僵硬的花坛里都没有花。因为赫尔贝克先生早已停止在他的花园上花费除了最必要的钱之外的任何钱。只有在环绕着这个陌生而忧郁的游乐场的高高的石墙上，以及位于东侧花园和山地之间的“荒野”中，大自然和泉水才得以展现自己。他们共同的魔法让古老的墙壁布满了果花，让“荒野”开满了水仙花。否则，一切都是黑暗的、折磨的、荒诞的，是一座旧世界任性的纪念碑，人们的心无法喜爱，尽管虔诚可能无法摧毁它。

然而，孩子们却带来了生机和光明。他们在小路上互相追逐，在保龄球场上进进出出。赫尔贝克让他们玩游戏，并亲自和他们一起玩。现在只有孤儿们，他才会这样回忆自己的青春。

两姐妹，一个比较年轻，另一个是五十岁的女人，站在保龄球馆的空地上，看着比赛。

小女儿对她的同伴、孤儿院院长说：“我很高兴看到赫尔贝克先生和孩子们在一起！这似乎彻底改变了他。”

她说话时充满了热切的同情，而她的眼睛，典型的宗教人士的富有远见的眼睛，在一张既甜蜜又暴躁的脸上，注视着孩子们和他们的主人。

另一个——面容精明，身材魁梧——却表现出了不耐烦的表情。

“我想看看赫尔贝克先生和他自己的一些孩子。五年来，我一直祈求圣母给他一个好妻子。这就是他想要的。啊!芳坦夫人——”

当奥古斯蒂娜在她继女的陪伴下，带着她那微弱的慵懒神情向前走去时，修女们聚集在她周围，叽叽喳喳、咕咕叫着，向她表示了一百种关注，将她包裹在一种敬意之中，这种敬意部分是对她们恩人的妹妹说的，部分是——正如她所理解的那样——那些丢失又找到的羊。对于继女，他们表现出彬彬有礼的矜持。他们中的一两个人已经认识了她，并没有觉得她和蔼可亲。

事实上，劳拉像以前一样保持着冷漠的态度。但她好奇地看了那位希望赫尔贝克先生娶个好妻子的老妇人一眼。当女孩和她的继母转过茂密的山毛榉树篱的角落时，女孩听到了这句话，树篱的每个点都有开口，围住了保龄球果岭。

不久，赫尔贝克停下来喘口气，在一场他一直是这场比赛的生命中，看到了红棕色树篱上那个苗条的身影。下一刻，他发现方丹小姐正一脸惊讶地看着他。

他的第一反应是放手让她去。自从她到来以来，她对他的态度几乎没有间断，以至于让最善于交际的脾气都变得冷漠起来。赫尔贝克的脾气也很不善于交际。

但她的态度中的某些东西——也许是孤独——让他感到不舒服。他拖着一群小孩子走到她面前，孩子们拽着他的外套和手。

“喷泉小姐，你会可怜我们吗？我的气息已经消失了。”

他看到她犹豫了。然后她突然笑了。

“你要什么？”她一边说，一边抓住最近的孩子。 “母亲
束？”

她飞走了，奔跑着，扭动着，与他们一起快乐地转身，她松散的头发在阳光下闪闪发光，她的小脚闪闪发光。现在轮到赫尔贝克站着观看了。她的一举一动都透露出一种多么奇妙的优雅和目的啊！即使在她的剧作中，芳汀小姐也是有个性的。

最后，和她一起跑的一个小女孩开始拖着脚步，脸色变得苍白。劳拉停下来看着她。

“我不能再跑了。”孩子可怜巴巴地说。 “去年我腿上的一根骨头被拔掉了。”

她是一个看上去病恹恹的人，摇摇晃晃，患有肺病，是利物浦贫民窟的流浪者。劳拉抱起她，把她带到远离比赛的紫杉凉亭里的座位上。然后孩子用害羞的眼神打量着她，突然用一根像棍子一样的手臂搂住了这位漂亮女士的脖子。

“老师，请给我讲一个故事。”她恳求道。

劳拉吃了一惊，因为她已经忘记了自己童年的故事，也从未有过弟弟妹妹，也没有对一般的孩子给予过太多关注。但她遇到了一些困难，偶然发现了灰姑娘。

“哦，是的，我知道；但这很可爱。”最后，孩子满意地叹了口气说道。 “现在我告诉你一个。”

她用一种高鼻音的声音开始讲起一些事情，劳拉很快就发现这是圣人的生活，就像在课堂上重复一节课一样。她越来越反感地听着这句话，直到最后演讲者带着她的一位听众的口吻说道：

“有一次，仁慈的父亲去医院看望一些病人。当他听到一个可怜的水手的自白时，他发现那是他自己已经很久很久没有见面的兄弟了。现在水手病得很重，快要死了，他是个坏人，做了很多恶事。但仁慈的父亲并没有让这个可怜的人知道他是谁。他回家告诉他的上级他找到了他的兄弟。上级禁止他再次去看望他的兄弟，因为他说，上帝会照顾他。父亲非常伤心，魔鬼也极力地试探他。但他向神祷告，神就帮助他顺服。

许多年后，一位可怜的妇女来看望仁慈的父亲。她告诉他她在异象中看到了我们的圣母。我们的圣母派她去告诉天父，因为他是如此服从，并且没有再见到他的兄弟，圣母已经为他的兄弟向我们的主祈祷。他的兄弟死得很好，并且得救了，这一切都是因为仁慈的父亲听从了他的长官告诉他的。”

劳拉跳了起来。原本期待着一个吻和一句虔诚话语的孩子抬起头来，吃了一惊。

“这不是一个美丽的故事吗？”她胆怯地说。

“不;我一点也不喜欢它。”芳坦小姐斩钉截铁地说。 “我不知道他们会告诉你这样的故事！”

孩子盯着她看了一会儿。然后，她那双清澈的眼睛突然蒙上了一层纱，那双眼睛有着异常的大小和疾病的光芒。她的表情变了。它变成了观察动物的狡猾，感觉到了敌人。她没有再说一句话。

劳拉感到一阵羞愧，尽管她仍因孩子的故事在她心中激起的厌恶而颤抖。

“看！”她一边说着，一边将孩子抱在怀里。 “其他人都进屋了。我们也去吧？”

但孩子却顽强地挣扎着。

“放我下来。我可以走。”劳拉把她放下来，孩子用她那条瘸腿尽可能快地走着，跟其他人汇合。有一两次，她偷偷地回头看了看她的同伴。但她不肯接受劳拉向她伸出的手，而且她似乎完全失去了舌头。

“小偏执狂！”劳拉心想，一半生气，一半好笑。 “他们从摇篮里就抓住了它吗？”

不久，她们发现自己跟在一群孩子和修女们的后面，她们正沿着通往花园的门口的楼梯走上楼梯。劳拉知道，门口通向教堂的走廊。她任由自己随波逐流，犹豫不决，不久她发现自己站在拉着窗帘的门口，机械地帮助姐妹和奥古斯丁把孩子们放在各自的位置上。

一两个年龄较大的孩子注意到那位年轻女士和方丹夫人没有在自己身上签上圣水，在经过祭坛时也没有跪拜，他们偷偷地惊讶地看着她。当她把一个很小的孩子抱到座位上时，一位看上去很温柔的小姐妹向她走来。

“谢谢你，”修女低声说道，“你真是太好了。”但这声音虽然很轻，但却很冷，劳拉立刻感觉自己是入侵者，退到了人群的后面。

再一次，就像她第一次参观教堂时一样，现在，她出于好奇，尽管浑身酸痛，却不敢去。她必须看看他们会做什么。

“念珠”过去了，她几乎听不懂一个字。耶稣会士的吟诵声对她来说没有任何意义，过了一段时间她才听清孩子们大声回答的内容。 “圣母玛利亚，天主之母，请为我们罪人祈祷，无论是现在还是在我们死亡的时刻”——是这样吗？偶尔会有一句“我们的父亲”插进来——所有这些都尽可能快地喋喋不休，仿佛牧师和人们的唯一目标就是通过并结束。一遍又一遍，没有变化，也没有变化——只有一种单调的重复和同样单调的变化。这是多么野蛮和愚蠢的行为啊！

很快她就不再听了。她的目光扫视着壁画，扫视着覆盖着紫色覆盖物的光秃秃的祭坛，扫视着圣堂前闪闪发光的高高的蜡烛。色彩斑斓、香气扑鼻的阴暗，被远处的灯光刺穿，给她一种隐隐约约的快乐。

不久，一阵停顿。孩子们叽叽喳喳地在座位上坐了下来。利德汉姆神父退休了，修女们跪下，每个人深深地鞠了一躬，头巾下闭着眼睛，双手紧握在身前。

他们还在等什么？啊!神父又来了，不过换了一套衣服——一身华丽的白色罩袍。一位修女演奏的管风琴打破了寂静，其他人的声音突然响起，小而甜美，就像一首拉丁赞美诗。祭司走到圣幕前，把门打开。香火摇曳，一股股香烟飘散到教堂上，将祭坛和祭坛前的人影映得黯淡无光。劳拉瞥见了对她说话的年轻修女。她跪着，闭着眼睛，甜蜜地唱歌；很明显，她被一种狂热的感情所占据。方廷小姐惊奇地想：“她不可能比我大多少！”

圣歌结束后，就轮到孩子们了。他们唱着什么歌，伴着如此欢快的舞曲？劳拉弯下腰，看着面前一位修女的书。

“处女座谨慎，处女座追求，处女座追求——”

她好不容易才在她旁边椅子上的另一本书里找到了这个地方。接下来的几分钟里，她对那一连串的绰号和形容词感到第一次惊讶，世界各地的天主教会用这些绰号和形容词日复一日地庆祝玛丽的荣耀。欢快的音乐、孩子们刺耳而渴望的声音不断响起，香火在教堂里蔓延开来。当她抬起眼睛时，目光落在了远处赫尔贝克深色的脑袋上，就在他侍者的小屋上方。她的脸色迅速变化，变成了强烈的蔑视。

但没有人想到她——除了一次。仪式的美好“时刻”到来了。利德汉姆神父已升起装有圣体的圣体圣体，以进行祝福。每个修女，每个孩子，除了几个又小又累的孩子，都以最谦卑的崇拜鞠躬。

赫尔贝克先生也跪在小唱诗班里。但他的注意力却转移了。除了和莱德姆神父一起散步之外，他从一大早就在教堂里，连他自己也暂时感到疲惫不堪。他的目光扫过教堂。

突然就被抓起来了。在跪着的会众上方，一张遥远的脸在四月的黄昏中在焚香和绘画的昏暗中清晰地显现出来——一张女孩的脸，精致的白色和坚定——一张叛逆的脸。

“她为什么在这里？”这是他的第一个想法。随之而来的是一股恼怒，甚至是怨恨。但立刻就有了其他的想法：“她很孤独；她很孤独。”她就在我的屋檐下；她失去了父亲；可怜的孩子！”

最后这句话与其说是他自己的，不如说是利德汉姆神父的回声。在赫尔贝克的心目中，这句话和神父说的很像——带着一种奇怪的温柔，既如此亲密又如此客观，这属于天主教的精神关系。女孩的灵魂——孤独、充满敌意、无人照顾——呼吁信徒的仁慈。与此同时，她的蔑视，她对他的家族和信仰的粗鲁不满，刺激和挑战了这个男人。他第一次意识到自己内心出现了一种新的冲突，他在黑暗中坚定地看着她。

就好像他已经寻找并找到了一种方法来使自己超越她年轻的骄傲和她无知的敌意。有一瞬间，他的思想中出现了一种奇怪的兴奋和暴虐。他低下头，为她祈祷，话语缓慢而深思熟虑地在他的意识中落下。她无法怨恨或阻止它。这是一种侵略，她对此无能为力。它打消了她苍白脸色的抗议。

晚饭时，当修女们和她们的照顾者离开后，鲍尔斯神父出现了，赫尔贝克以前从未如此悲哀地意识到他的教区牧师的荒谬和自卑。

耶稣会士也敏锐地意识到了他们，就连奥古斯丁也觉得有些不对劲。是不是他们所有人——除了鲍尔斯神父——都被赫尔贝克右边那位年轻女士的存在所影响——被她冷静超然的举止所影响，被她那种不吸引任何人、也没有要求任何性和魅力特权的泰然自若所影响。 ，而时不时地让人感觉到她对环境的默示和坚决反对？

“他可能不会管那些东西！”当耶稣会士听到鲍尔斯神父向方丹夫人温和地自鸣得意地讲述最近在惠索普举办的一次地质讲座时，耶稣会士愤怒地想。

“我总是说，你知道，我亲爱的女士，是这样的：你必须向我展示证据！毕竟，你们地质学家已经做了很多工作——你们到处挖掘，这是事实。但是在世界各地挖掘——到处挖掘——把一切都暴露出来。那你就叫我听你的吧！”

圆脸小神父环顾桌子寻求支持。劳拉咬着嘴唇，俯身吃着盘子。利德汉姆神父急忙转向赫尔贝克，开始与他讨论最近一本关于罗马城墙的专着，显示出对该主题丰富的学术知识。不久，他把对面的女孩拉了过来，用一种世俗的从容和礼貌对她说话，这让她放下了戒心。看来他刚从英属圭亚那传教回来，还去过印度，从各方面来看，他都是一个游历广泛、颇有造诣的人。但女孩并没有屈服，尽管她很有礼貌、很专注地听着他说话。

但耶稣会士的轻松或优美的话语再次打破了鲍尔斯神父的愚蠢。

“卢尔德，我亲爱的女士？卢尔德？卢尔德的奇迹怎能有丝毫怀疑呢？为什么！他们派了两名医生在现场核实一切！”

耶稣会士的幽默感受到了不舒服的触动。他看了芳汀小姐一眼，却只看到她正目不转睛地注视着窗外。

至于他自己，作为一所著名大学的皈依者和前院士，他内心强烈同意他自己的一些领导人的判断，即这个国家的老天主教牧师通常令人遗憾地不适合他们的工作。 “我们在英格兰的机会每年都在扩大，”他对自己说。 “我们如何利用这些工具来抓住它？但总的来说我们想要 男子。哦！为更多‘四十五岁出局’的人！”

晚饭后，在客厅里，劳拉像往常一样，坐在一张厚重桌子后面的一扇深深的凸窗里：奥古斯蒂娜对早上的探险——对共济会和他们的农场表现出焦急的好奇心。但劳拉很少谈论他们。

当先生们进来时，赫尔贝克向客厅四周看了看。他给人一种带着目的而来的气质。

美丽的旧房间光线昏暗。两端的一盏灯对似乎从镶板墙和深红色窗户窗帘上辐射出来的阴影起不了多大作用。但炉边的柴火发出柔和的光芒，落在黑暗中的几个亮点上——落在象牙色的回纹天花板上，落在罗姆尼家耀眼的裙子上，落在芳坦小姐金色的头发上。

当赫尔贝克走近劳拉时，劳拉有些惊讶地抬起头来。然后，看到他显然想说话，她就在她靠窗的座位上散布的旧《美丽之书》中为他留了一个位置。

“我相信小马今天早上表现得很好？”他坐下时说道。

劳拉礼貌地回答。

“你轻而易举地就找到了路吗？”

“哦是的！你的指示是准确的。”

她心里自言自语道：“他是想盘问我关于共济会的事情吗？”然后，突然，她注意到他头发下的疤痕——锯齿状的痕迹，证明伤口很严重——这让她感到不舒服。不仅如此，这似乎以某种奇怪的方式让她陷入了错误，动摇了她的自力更生。

但赫尔贝克来的目的并不是要谈论共济会。他对他们名字的回避确实是很尖锐的。他表达了她对水仙花和布罗黑德巷风景的钦佩之情。

“复活节过后，我们必须向您展示一些高山。奥古斯蒂娜告诉我你钦佩这个国家。温德米尔的头会让你高兴的。”

他向她提供这些客套的方式有点僵硬和传统——这是一个在老派乡村绅士中长大的人的方式，除了伦敦和伦敦之外。 博恩蒙德。但劳拉惊讶地发现，这是他第一次对她说话，就像他这样有教养的男人应该对一位到他家做客的女士说话一样。有考虑，而且明显有取悦他人的愿望。在他眼里，她似乎一下子就长成了比方丹夫人的小继女更重要的人了，后者无疑是一名有用的护士和伴侣，但仍然非常不受欢迎和微不足道。

女孩的虚荣心不可避免地被磨平了。她开始更加自然地回答；她的笑容越来越频繁。渐渐地，赫尔贝克也感受到了一种不寻常的轻松和享受。他终于说话如此生动，以至于引起了房间里另一个人的注意。利德汉姆神父一直慵懒地靠在雕花高高的壁炉架上，鲍尔斯神父和奥古斯丁娜在他身下喋喋不休，他开始越来越多地注意到芳坦小姐，以及她与班尼斯代尔一家的关系。他认为，对于一个“没有受过任何训练、道德或智力”的女孩来说，她表现出的自己对严格的主人来说比预想的更有吸引力。

赫尔贝克突然停了下来。他一直在描述华兹华斯的国家，一直住在格拉斯米尔和埃达尔山，他的语气确实对湖区诗人或他们的诗歌没有任何重大关心，但仍然明显希望引起他的兴趣。伴侣。紧接着第一次与她交朋友的努力之后，又出现了一些进一步的情况。

他犹豫了一下，看着劳拉，最后用比平时更低的声音说道：“我相信你的父亲，方丹小姐，是华兹华斯的一位伟大的情人。奥古斯蒂娜是这么告诉我的。你和他已经习惯了一起读书，不是吗？你的损失一定很大。也许你不会奇怪，对我来说，有与你父亲有关的痛苦想法。但我并非麻木不仁——我并非没有感情——对我的妹妹——也对你。”

他说话时带着尴尬，还有一种恳求。劳拉被他的第一句话吓了一跳，当他说话时，她脸色苍白，笔直地坐着，盯着他。放在腿上的手颤抖着。

当他停下来时，她没有回答。她转过头，他看到她美丽的喉咙在颤抖。然后她赶紧举起手帕。脸上掠过一丝挣扎；她擦干眼泪，仰起头，抽泣着，明亮的头发轻轻摇动，就像一个自责的人。但她什么也没说；很明显，她无论说什么都不会崩溃。

赫尔贝克深受触动，不自觉地向她靠近了一些。他立即改变话题，开始和她谈论孩子们和下午的小节日。一小时前他会本能地避免做类似的事情。现在，他终于敢于做他自己，或者接近他自己。劳拉恢复了平静，把注意力集中在他身上，眉头微皱。她的思想在最矛盾的冲动和吸引力之间分裂。过了一会儿，她问自己，这是怎么发生的？ 她 就这样听他为孩子们和新孤儿院制定的计划吗？——她，而不是他的自然听众，两位牧师和奥古斯丁。

她实际上听到他描述了他自己和该县其他一两个天主教徒为该县的天主教孤儿提供庇护和教育所做的努力。他详述了一些早期同事的死亡和失踪，详述了县城附近迫切需要一座新建筑，详述了他自己十几年前搭建的“家”的扩建，惠索普路。

“但是，不幸的是，大计划需要大手段，”他微笑着补充道，“我担心它会实现——奥古斯蒂娜对你说过什么吗？——我担心没有什么，但我们的那里的美女一定会提供的。”

他对着对面墙上闪闪发光的照片点了点头。然后他严肃而简单地补充道：

“这是我最后拥有的任何有价值的东西。”

在认识他的两周里，劳拉曾多次听到他以同样简单的方式谈论他的个人和金钱事务。任何一个如此庄严的人都应该如此对待自己和自己的世俗关注 奈韦特 经常给她带来惊喜。那么，他的尊严、他的矜持又适用于什么呢？

然而，因为她幼稚地对这幅画已经站在了一边，所以他的态度明显冷漠，让她很恼火。她退后一步。

“是的，奥古斯蒂娜告诉我的。但这不是很残酷吗？这不是不厚道吗？这样的画面是有生命的。它已经在这里很久了，几乎感觉不到它只属于自己。它是房子的一部分，不是吗？——家庭的一部分？其他人——后来的人——不会责备你吗？

赫尔贝克抬起肩膀，黝黑的脸上一半是好笑，一半是悲伤。

“她一百年前就死了，美丽的女人！轮到她了；我们也是如此——很高兴看到她。”

“但她是你的。”女孩坚持道。 “她是你的亲人。”

他犹豫了一下，然后用新的强调语回答了她自己的话：

“也许有两种亲属——”

女孩的脸颊涨红了。

“你的意思是，一个人总是会排挤另一个人？我知道，因为你的一个孩子今天给我讲了一个故事——真是一个可怕的故事！——一个圣人为了服从而不愿去看望他垂死的兄弟。她问我是否喜欢它。我怎么能说我喜欢呢！我告诉她这太可怕了！我想知道人们怎么能告诉她这样的故事。”

她的举止再次充满了敌意——一种年轻的反抗。她很高兴地承认了自己。她的罪行，不为人知，一直压在她的良心上，伤害了她天性的坦率。

赫尔贝克的脸色变了。他专注地看着她，那双精致的黑眼睛，在威严的眉毛下，笔直而闪闪发光。

“你对孩子这么说？”

“是的。”

她的胸部颤动着。他看到她浑身颤抖，激动得难以抑制。

他也感受到了一种新奇的兴奋——强烈意志所激发的兴奋。他很清楚，她是想激怒他——她年轻的性格肆意地与他的性格发生冲突。他说话的语气很严厉，很直接。

“我认为你做错了——大错特错。请原谅这个词，但你让我近距离接触。你在孩子的心中播下了怀疑、反抗的种子。”

“也许吧，”劳拉很快说道。 “然后怎样呢？”

她的表情半狂野半嘲讽。一切柔软、触动的东西都消失了。金色的头发下，眼睛闪闪发光；小嘴紧闭着，充满轻蔑。赫尔贝克惊讶地看着她，他自己的脉搏也在加快。

“然后怎样呢？”他重复道，语气中的严厉程度连他自己都感到惊讶。 “问问你自己的感觉。一个孩子——一个受命令的小孩子——与怀疑或反抗有什么关系？对她来说，对我们所有人来说，怀疑就是痛苦。”

劳拉站了起来。她强压下激动的心情——让自己坦白地说出来。

“爸爸教我——这就是生活——我相信他。”

房间另一角的旧钟敲响了十点一刻——祈祷时间。房间另一边的两个牧师站了起来，奥古斯蒂娜收起了她的织针。

劳拉转向赫尔贝克，冷冷地伸出了小手。他触碰了它，她穿过了房间。 “晚安，奥古斯蒂娜。”

她吻了继母，并向两位神父鞠躬。利德汉姆神父隆重地为她打开了门。然后他和赫尔贝克、鲍尔斯神父和奥古斯蒂娜跟着穿过黑暗的大厅前往教堂。劳拉拿起蜡烛，可以看到她轻盈的身影登上詹姆士一世时期的楼梯，在老房子的阴影下显得纤细而迷人。

利德汉姆神父用眼睛和思想追随着它。然后他看向赫尔贝克。一个想法——而且是一个非常不受欢迎的想法——正在强行进入牧师的脑海。

从那天晚上开始，赫尔贝克和他姐姐的继女之间的关系出现了另一种基调。他不再我行我素，只是隐隐约约地意识到家里有一个好奇而难相处的女孩。他越来越感兴趣地看着她。他开始尝到她特有的那种带刺的魅力。

并不是说他被允许看到太多的魅力。在受难主日的谈话之后，她对他的态度并不比以前冷淡和疏远。他认为，他们在孩子问题上的最后一次冲突已经消除了他对她父亲的和解话语的影响。毫无疑问，一定是这样，因为她对他和他的朋友们的敌意观察似乎丝毫没有减弱。

他在这个特定的时间如此频繁地意识到她，这让他感到恼火和困扰。这是天主教年中最神圣的时刻。莱德姆神父是他在斯托尼赫斯特的老朋友，他来班尼斯代尔度过受难周和圣周，这是对教会公正地列为她最忠实的儿子之一的特殊恩惠。而耶稣会与过去的赫尔贝克家族和现在的大厅主人都有许多相互服务和感情的联系。事实上，赫尔贝克对英格兰这个特定地区的天主教具有真正的重要性。这里曾经盛产天主教家庭，但现在几乎没有一个留下来了，赫尔贝克以他的资源有限和日渐减少的财产，将大量本应分配给一个大圈子的劳动力移交给了赫尔贝克。只有像他这样的热情才能完成这项任务。但是，为了教会的缘故，他已经有大约十五年未婚了。他在大宅子里过着苦行僧般的生活，身边有几个女仆。他把所有的收入——除了一小部分——都花在了广大地区的善行上。当需要更多资金时，他准备好，不，急切地出售提供这些资金所需的土地。每当他前往英格兰其他地区或欧洲大陆时，人们普遍认为他不是像其他人那样去寻找乐趣和娱乐，而只是为了追求某种天主教目的，无论是金钱还是行政管理。 ，在其他地方信仰的富人和有权势的人之中。与此同时，人们相信他已将班尼斯代尔的房屋和公园遗赠给了一位远房表弟，也是一名严格的天主教徒，并警告说，他的继承人将不会从家族古老而辉煌的遗产中剩下多少东西。

那么，耶稣会士乐意为这样的人提供服务，这并不奇怪。在赫尔贝克看来，在这几周充满情感和忏悔的日子里，没有什么服务比他们的教派牧师的来访更伟大了。每天在小教堂里举行弥撒。每天晚上，一小群人聚集在一起祈祷或祝福。在祈祷和冥想的间隙，日常生活继续进行。房子里挤满了牧师——年老体弱的牧师，其中许多人来自不远的西海岸的耶稣会隐修院，他们发现访问班尼斯代尔是他们痛苦或单调生活的主要乐趣之一；而赫尔贝克自己的孤儿院的院长们总是准备好在特别神圣的日子里帮助班尼斯代尔教堂，派出一群修女和孩子们来唱歌。

与此同时，其他一切都被遗忘了。至于食物，赫尔贝克和利德汉姆神父——根据劳拉这几周写给一位剑桥女朋友的描述她经历的信件——每天靠“一杯咖啡和一根香蕉”过活，而她却难以克制自己的饮食习惯。奥古斯蒂娜，责备你不要再这样做。事实上，对于奥古斯蒂娜——斯蒂芬·方丹的黑袍小寡妇——来说，她的丈夫每天都在向一个昏暗而可怕的距离退去，她在那里感到恐惧，却又想到他而哭泣。她在恢复信仰的陶醉中度过了这段时间，周围的人、教堂里的仪式以及她对自己邪恶的结合、堕落和恢复的恐惧都让她兴奋不已。吟诵的声音、熏香的气味似乎弥漫在整个屋子里。在这一切的中心，祭坛上神秘的存在，随着圣周和复活节伟大日子的临近，它更加强烈地吸引了天主教徒心中的热情。

在这一切充满创造性和严格信仰的戏剧中，劳拉·芳汀就像一个来自另一个世界的人、一个外星人和一个嘲讽的灵魂。她什么也没说，但眼神却充满讽刺。她出现在这所房子里的影响可能是所有的囚犯和许多访客都感受到的。她没有再像对待那个瘸腿的小孤儿那样激烈地表达自己的意思——除了很少对奥古斯丁娜之外。她很乐意偶尔与机智愉快的利德汉姆神父谈笑风生，时不时地故意与她交往。由于奥古斯蒂娜身体虚弱，她在不知不觉中建立了某些与女人有关的家庭习俗，这对班尼斯代尔来说是新鲜事。她在客厅里种满了水仙花。她把大厅火炉边的茶几变成了一个让所有来访的人都感到愉快的地方。她穿着最漂亮、最整洁的春装在屋子里走来走去。她的头发、她的脸、她白皙的手和脖子在镶板的阴影中闪闪发光，就像棺材里的珠宝一样。每个人都意识到了她——不安地意识到了。她不向任何人屈服，不被任何人感动。她站在一边，通过她冰冷、轻盈的方式讲述着这个世界和否认的精神——这个世界让天主教徒感到不寒而栗。

与此同时，就像家里的其他人一样——甚至是闷闷不乐的管家——她因为四旬斋的食物而变得苍白、瘦弱。赫尔贝克先生当然已经向丹顿夫人下令，要为他的妹妹和芳坦小姐提供充足的食物。但丹顿夫人要么不情愿，要么健忘。劳拉看到奥古斯蒂娜被强迫吃饭，而她自己却在吃剩下的东西，这让劳拉感到很有趣。无论哪种食物，通常都很少而且煮得不好。乡绅和利德汉姆神父都不关心餐桌上的乐趣，无论是在四旬期还是在四旬斋外。赫尔贝克先生几乎没有注意到摆在他面前的是什么。确实有那么一两次，他醒悟到没有足够的女士们，于是对丹顿夫人说了一句愤怒的话。但总的来说，劳拉能够随心所欲地尝试天主教的紧缩政策。

“亲爱的，”她写信给她的朋友，“你从天主教四旬斋中学到的一件事是，食物‘现在’很重要，正如他们在这些地方所说的那样。没有它和有它一样好。为什么你不吃它就认为自己是圣人，这让我很困惑。否则-饥饿万岁！由于我们中没有人愿意像世界上的穷人、士兵、水手和探险家那样挨饿，为了取悦自己或他们的国家，我认为没有人会这样做。受到伤害。

“不过，你要明白，我们的紧缩政策是相当不寻常的。当有人从外面进来时，他们会尽可能地隐藏起来……。据我所知，老赫尔贝克家族一定是与他们现代后裔截然不同的人。他们是非常好的天主教徒，明白。他们按照教会的规定做了——但没有超出一点点。他们就像那种非常懒惰的小学生， 只是 他已经完成了他的功课，但如果他再多做一个字，他就会认为自己是个傻瓜。而现在住在这里的人永远做得不够！

“总的来说，这些古老的天主教房屋——来自奥古斯丁的故事——一定充满了乐趣和盛宴。好吧，我可以保证，现在班尼斯代尔没有什么好玩的了！我想这就是赫尔贝克先生的性格。它创造了自己的氛围。他 能够 笑——我亲眼所见！——但这是一个事件。”

随着四旬斋的继续，方丹小姐看待周围环境的好奇心和冷静的批评的混合也许变得更加明显。尤其是利德汉姆神父，发现了这位年轻女士的禁食实验。他对赫尔贝克说，它们缺乏精致和品味。但乡绅似乎更倾向于将这些视为一个被宠坏的、任性的孩子的突发奇想。

两人判断力的差异可能是即将发生的一切的最初迹象之一。

当然，自从这个二十一岁的女孩到来后，赫尔贝克在自己的房子里从未感到如此不舒服。然而，随着时间的推移，那种半是好笑、半是轻蔑的尴尬，这是她出现在一个对女人和她们的方式如此不习惯的男人心中的第一个自然效果，已经不知不觉地变成了别的东西。他的拘谨和正式的态度保持不变。但芳坦小姐的来来去去对他不再漠不关心。他们之间已经产生了一种沉默的关系——她仍然不知道。

当他第一次注意到自己身上的事实时，产生了强烈的、暂时的反应。他责备自己脾气太轻浮，不值得。他的孤独生活是否让他变得如此虚弱，以至于任何新的面孔和个性都会分散他的注意力并打扰他，即使在这些庄严的日子里有伟大的思想？他的心、他的生命都在他的信仰之中。二十多年来，通过祈祷和冥想，通过天主教会提供的所有巧妙手段，他发展了信仰的敏感性；对于天主教徒来说，这些情感以受难为中心并由受难维持。现在，一小时又一小时，他的主正在走向十字架。在耶路撒冷的街道、客西马尼园、总督府的台阶上，他永远站在圣像旁边。各种各样的、戏剧性的仪式总是在进行，以激发信徒的想象力、忏悔和奉献。任何事情如果闯入这些天的神圣专注，在他看来都是一场需要回避的灾难——不，是一种需要悔改的罪恶。他把所有能放下的事情都放在一边，只有一个目的，而且只有一个目的——过一个“美好的复活节”。

然而，当他从教堂做完礼拜回来，或者与天主教朋友谈论教会事务后，他突然发现自己充满了期待。方廷小姐是在大厅里还是在花园里？还是她去找布劳海德的那些人了？如果她不在屋子里——尤其是如果她和共济会成员在一起的话——他会发现自己很难再次沉浸在之前困扰他的思绪中。如果她在那里，如果他发现她坐在大厅的火边读书或工作，狗在她脚边，他确实很少去和她说话。他会走进图书馆，强迫自己做自己的事情，而利德汉姆神父则与她和奥古斯蒂娜交谈。但图书馆开在大厅上，他仍然能听到远处那个声音。通常，当她抚摸狗时，她的语气中含有她在他屋檐下的第一个晚上吓到他的音符。这是一种隐藏的、充满激情的东西的出现；它在他身上唤醒了一种奇怪而令人不安的回声——一种早已被推倒和埋葬的旧记忆的涌动。他的青春岁月流逝得多么快啊！十五年来，一个女人的声音、一个女人的存在对他来说已经不再重要了。

因此，在某种程度上，他对芳坦小姐所做的一切大体上了解，但他对她的了解却很少。看来她在桥附近的小村庄里发现了一辆可供出租的小马车，这两周里有一两次，他从奥古斯蒂娜那里得知，她在布劳海德农场度过了下午，而班尼斯代尔一家则忙于做一些事情。季节的功能。

奥古斯蒂娜和他一样不喜欢这个消息，并且会恼怒地举起双手。

“ 能够 她在那儿做什么？他们看起来是最粗暴的人。但她说儿子弹得非常好。我相信她会和他一起表演二重唱。她推着装满音乐的推车出去。”

“音乐！”赫尔贝克惊讶地说。 “那个笨蛋！”

“嗯，她是这么说的，”奥古斯蒂娜生气地说，好像这是对个人的侮辱。 “你觉得怎么样，艾伦？她谈到复活节后去那里参加舞会——我想是下周四。”

“在农场？”赫尔贝克的语气充满了难以置信。

“不;在工厂——或者其他地方。她说是校长给的，或者类似的东西。当然是最不合适的。但我该怎么办，艾伦？他们 ，那恭喜你， 她的亲戚！”

“同时，他们也不是她的班级，”赫尔贝克斩钉截铁地说。 “她以不同的方式长大，她不能表现得好像她属于他们。还有跳舞，还有那个照顾她的年轻人！你应该阻止它。”

奥古斯蒂娜沮丧地说她会尝试一下，但当她继续编织时，她的头比平时更加​​虚弱地摇晃着。

第二天，赫尔贝克特意单独找到了他的妹妹。但她只是给了他一个不屑的眼神。

“我试过了，艾伦——我确实做到了。她说她想要一些娱乐——这对她有好处——当然她父亲会让她和他的亲戚一起去跳舞。当我对她说任何与他们不一样的事情时，她就会勃然大怒。她说，如果别人认为她比他们更好，她会感到羞愧，而休伯特的优点比某些人想象的要多得多。”

“休伯特！”赫尔贝克先生厌恶地耸起肩膀，惊呼道。沉默了一会儿，他在离开房间时转身，突然说道：“她要在农场过夜吗？”

“不！不好了！她想回家。她说她不会迟到；她保证不会迟到。”

“当然，那个年轻人会开车送她回家吗？”

“好吧，艾伦，在深夜这个时候，她不能独自开车回家。这不太合适。”

赫尔贝克先生的笑容有些酸涩。 “人们可能会怀疑礼节从何而来。好吧，她看起来很坚定。我们必须安排一下。有塔门。请告诉她，奥古斯蒂娜，我会让她拥有钥匙。也请善意地告诉她——当然是你自己——如果她确实在合理的时间回家，她会礼貌地对待我们所有人。这些年来，我们一家人一直非常安静、拘谨，丹顿夫人虽然有很多美德，但她却很会说话。”

“她确实做到了，”奥古斯蒂娜叹了口气说。 “而且她不喜欢劳拉——一点也不喜欢。”

赫尔贝克迅速抬起头。 “我相信她没有做任何让芳汀小姐感到不舒服的事情吧？”

“哦——不，”奥古斯蒂娜犹豫不决地说。 “除此之外，没关系。劳拉已经把艾伦置于她的掌控之中了。”

赫尔贝克严肃的脸上露出一丝笑意。

“丹顿夫人对此有何看法？”

“哦！她必须忍受。艾伦，你没看到那女孩变得多么开朗吗？劳拉向她展示了如何打理头发。她帮她为复活节做了一件新连衣裙；这个女孩愿意为她做任何事。就像布鲁诺一样。你有没有注意到，艾伦——我真的以为你会生气——当劳拉在那里时，狗几乎不会和你一起去？

“哦！芳坦小姐是一位非常有吸引力的年轻女士——对于她喜欢的人来说。”赫尔贝克干巴巴地说。

然后他就走了。

在耶稣受难日下午，劳拉怀着对家里发生的一切的新的反抗热情，走进自己的房间，给她的朋友写信。教堂里有人在诵念祷文。遥远而忧郁的声音时不时地传到她耳边。除此之外，房子里充满了哀悼的寂静。外面，拖曳的云彩悬在古老的墙壁周围，在周围形成了一道悔罪的屏障。

“这周之后，”劳拉写信给她的朋友，“我将永远对‘罪恶’和‘世界’抱有善意！他们是如何被侦察和鞭打的！我问你，如果没有它们，我们会做什么？确实是“世界”！当这些人在祈祷时，我似乎听到它在隆隆作响，这个可怜的、耐心的、辛劳的东西。它起作用了，使他们能够祈祷——尽管他们滥用和辱骂它。

“至于‘罪’，以及我们因此而生活在阴暗之中——对于任何受过良好教育和成长的生物来说，它到底意味着什么？你要么贪婪，要么自私，要么懒惰，要么行为不端。那么，很好——大自然，或者你的邻居，会因此而击倒你，并为你服务。下次你不会再这样做了，或者不再那么糟糕了，渐渐地你甚至不想再这样做了——正如人们所说，你会感到“羞耻”。我想，这是每个人都必须经历的过程——完全没有经过我们的任何许可，就以我们现在的样子被送到这个世界上。但为什么要为此发出如此哀号、哀伤和喧闹呢！哦——真是浪费时间！赫尔贝克先生为什么不去学地质学呢？我发誓他根本不知道他自己山谷的岩石是由什么构成的！

“当然还有 非常 大恶棍——我不喜欢去想他们。以及生来错误和患病的人。但不久之后，我们就会把它们淘汰掉，或者改良这个品种。为什么不把你的精力花在这样做上，而不是唱诵经，费尽心思不吃你喜欢的东西呢？

“……我很快就会因为共济会的事而让奥古斯蒂娜和赫尔贝克先生蒙羞——也就是说，更糟糕的耻辱。现在我已经找到了一匹属于自己的小马，我每周去那里两到三次。真的——尽管我告诉过你这些第一次经历——我喜欢它！伊丽莎白表姐开始跟我说话了；当我回到家时，我读了圣经，想了解其中的内容。我也不会让她说赫尔贝克先生的坏话——这对我来说不太有绅士风度。我现在从她和奥古斯蒂娜那里知道了威廉姆斯的大部分故事。

“想象一下，亲爱的！——一个儿子在母亲去世前不被允许来看望她，尽管她日夜为他哭泣。他在威尔士的一所耶稣会学校就读。他们犹豫不决，写了没完没了的信——最后在她去世的那天送走了他。他迟到了三个小时，父亲当着他的面关上了门。 “不，你不会看到她，”那个冷酷的老家伙说，“如果天上有上帝，你在天堂也不会看到她！”奥古斯丁当然称之为“神圣的服从”。

“教堂里的画真是非同寻常。首先，赫尔贝克先生似乎已经教导了这个年轻人。他本人很久以前就曾经画过画——从他仍留在教堂里的作品来看，我认为画得不太好。但无论如何，年轻人从他那里学到了基础知识，然后当然远远超出了他的老师。他在这里已经快两年了，在家里工作——一直受到家人的禁忌。然后似乎在伦敦度过了一年，他给赫尔贝克先生带来了一些麻烦。我不知道——奥古斯蒂娜含糊其辞。我不明白他是如何加入耶稣会的。毫无疑问，赫尔贝克先生诱导他们带走了他。但 为什么——我问你——有这样的礼物吗？他们说他会在夏天来到这里，人们必须咬紧牙关与他握手。

“哦，教堂里的嗡嗡声——又来了！我会打开窗户，让雨声呼啸而入，驱散它。但我总是无法让自己远离它。一切都是那么新鲜——那么亲密。时不时地，音乐、祈祷之类的东西会刺痛我的心。——痛苦、折磨的声音——哦！如此可怕，如此 真实。然后我就来读爸爸的笔记本，花一个小时把它忘掉。我希望他曾经教过我任何东西——严格地！但 当然 是我的错。

“……这个舞，我为什么不去？——你告诉我吧！这是新校长和两三个年轻农民在老磨坊的大房间里讲授的。校长是最令人厌烦的贤良青年，整个事情又是那么的令人尊敬，想想就让人打哈欠。波莉恳求我走，我喜欢波莉。 （很快她就会让我把她的刘海减半！）我初步冷落了休伯特，现在他不敢恳求我去。但这更有吸引力。我 别 和他调情！——天哪！——除非你称之为驯熊调情。但人们不能看到他的音乐在如此发脾气和脾气的泥沼中白白浪费掉。我必须试试我的手。因为他是我的表弟，所以我可以忍受他。”

复活节周日的大弥撒结束后，赫尔贝克独自从惠索普步行回家，因为他的同伴利德汉姆神父在镇上有一个约会。

圣周的大部分时间里，天空都像这个季节一样灰暗而令人悔恨。夜间，山地和河滩遭到暴雨和狂风的袭击，而在苍白的早晨，在天亮之前，任何希望的阳光都会再次被淹没。老房子的屋顶、屋檐、小窗玻璃都被雨水滴落，闪闪发亮。到了晚上，风从西边吹来，伴随着巨大的轰鸣声和猛烈的冲击，撕裂了河谷。但复活节前夕出现了绥靖政策——漫长的风暴悄然消逝。复活节早晨，当赫尔贝克沿着河流前行时，山峦、洪水、草木都沐浴在阳光的照耀下。远处的丘陵在天空中被描绘成天堂般的蓝色和紫色。河水轰鸣着，冲过瀑布和堰，泛起泡沫。鹿儿们在快速变绿的草丛中以新的热情进食。

他停了下来，靠在手杖上，环顾四周。他自己的动作让他想起了大约五周前的另一次孤独散步。与此同时，他发现面前的石凳上坐着一个小小的身影。是芳汀小姐。她膝盖上放着一本书，两只狗就在她身边。她的白色连衣裙和帽子似乎成为整个风景的中心。河水在她脚下向内弯曲，峭壁在她身后升起，河对岸的山谷、树林、疤痕和云彩的广阔前景似乎只为她的眼睛而展开。赫尔贝克突然产生了一种奇怪的幻想。这是他的世界——他的继承和爱的世界。五个星期前，他独自一人走过这里。现在这个人物就像是坐在了它的中心。他粗略地甩掉了这种幻想，继续往前走。

芳坦小姐以她一贯的超然态度迎接他。他犹豫不决地站了一两分钟，然后倒在她面前的斜坡上。

“布鲁诺现在几乎不会看他的主人了，”他愉快地对她说，并指着那只狗的态度，因为它把鼻子放在她衣服的下摆上。

劳拉有些恼怒地合上了书。他通常从河对岸回来，她并不因为他违反习惯而感激他。他为什么要插手她的事情？她完全理解为什么奥古斯蒂娜对舞蹈以及整个共济会感到如此困难。让他保守自己的礼仪吧。她，劳拉，与他们没有任何关系。她算不上是他的客人，更不是他的受监护人。她违背自己的意愿来到班尼斯代尔，只是作为奥古斯蒂娜的护士。作为回报，赫尔贝克先生让她独自一人，随心所欲地享受她的平民关系。

尽管如此，她当然必须彬彬有礼。她时不时地试图表现得彬彬有礼。她通过爱抚那只狗来回应他对布鲁诺的评论，这让他把枪口靠在她的膝盖上。

“你介意吗？有些人确实介意。我可以轻而易举地把他赶走。”

“不好了！我认为有一天他会康复。”他坦率地微笑着说道。

劳拉脸红了。

“很快，我想。赫尔贝克先生，您是否注意到奥古斯蒂娜已经好多了？我相信，至少到夏天结束时，她就可以不需要我了。她还告诉我，孤儿院的院长有一个女孩推荐她作为我去时的同伴。”

“我认为圣母相当多管闲事，”赫尔贝克尖锐地说。
他顿了顿，又加重语气道：“小姐，别想像了。”
喷泉，任何人都可以为我妹妹做你所做的事情。”

“啊！但是——嗯——人必须过自己的生活——难道不是吗，弗里卡？”——此时弗里卡正在嫉妒地抓着她的衣服。 “今年冬天我想努力创作我的音乐。”

“我担心班尼斯代尔对年轻女士来说不是一个非常同性恋的地方？”

他笑了。她也是如此；尽管他的语气中带着傲慢的谦逊，让她感到尴尬。

“真是美如梦境啊！”她举起小手说道，突然充满了活力。他转过身来，像她一样看着河流和树林。

“你就这么感受到它的美妙吗？”他疑惑地问她。他对故乡的强烈感情完全是出于旧习惯和联想。她脸上闪现出狂野的喜悦之情，令他大吃一惊。里面有一种火热的、不驯服的东西，这是这个女孩的显着标志，她的灵魂和自我。它是否开始从她的血液中向他说话？

她点点头，然后笑了。

“但是，当然，住在这里不关我的事。我有一个好朋友——一位剑桥女孩——我们已经安排好了这一切。我们要住在一起，经常旅行，并从事音乐工作。”

“这就是现在年轻女士所做的事情，我明白。”

“那么为何不？”

他抬起肩膀，好像要拒绝这个答案，然后沉默了——沉默得她最终被迫上场。

“赫尔贝克先生，你不赞成‘新女性’吗？哦！我希望我是一个新女人，”她挑衅地说道。 “但我还不够好——我什么都不知道。”

“我没有想到他们，”他简单地说。 “我想到了过去这里、这个地方、我的母亲和祖母的妇女们的生活。”

她不禁产生了兴趣。班尼斯代尔的天主教女性会是什么样子？她沿着通往房子的小路望去，似乎看到了他们的身影——不像奥古斯蒂娜那样矮小、病弱，但他们的眼睛和白眉毛上都带着早晨的光芒，就像罗姆尼夫人一样。与此同时，赫尔贝克的思想中充满了更坚实的记忆形式。

“你还记得那张照片吗？”他最后说道，打破了沉默。 “那位女士的丈夫是个粗人，也是个赌徒。他很快伤了她的心。但她的孩子们在一定程度上安慰了她，尤其是女儿们，其中几个成为了修女。这位可怜的妻子出身于兰开夏郡的一个大家庭，但婚后她几乎很少见到自己的亲戚。她为丈夫的失败和日益贫穷的生活感到羞愧。她变得非常害羞和孤独，而且非常虔诚。这些沿河的岩座都是她布置的。据说，在夏天，她常常在你坐的那个座位上花很长时间，做针线活，或者阅读《圣母的小办公室》，而当时她在法国修道院的女儿们会说她们在教堂的办公室。她先于她的丈夫去世，她的丈夫是一个非常温顺、破碎的人。我有一本关于她冥想的小书，是她根据忏悔神父的愿望写成的。

“那么我的祖母——啊！好吧，这个故事太长了。她是一位法国女人——我们的书房里有她的一些书。她从来没有与英格兰和英国人相处过——最后，在她丈夫去世后，她再也没有走出过房子和公园。我父亲的害羞和古怪很大程度上归功于她的成长。当她感到自己快要死了时，她前往南特的家人那里去世。她被埋葬在那里；我的父亲被送到南特的耶稣会学校学习很长一段时间。那么我的母亲——但我不能让这些家庭故事让你感到厌烦。”

他转身看着他的听众。劳拉此时半是尴尬，半是感动。

“我想听听你母亲的事，”她相当生硬地说。

“如果你愿意的话，你可以跟我说话，但是别这样，祈祷吧！”——这就是她的态度。

赫尔贝克在他的黑胡子下面露出了一丝看不见的微笑。

“我的母亲非常热爱书籍——我想，她是赫尔贝克唯一读过书的人。她是怀斯曼红衣主教的朋友和通讯员，她试图利用这里的报纸来记录家族历史。但在晚年，她因风湿性痛风而变得扭曲和残废——她可怜的手指无法翻页。我有时会帮助她；但我们谁都没有分享她的品味。不过，她是一个非常快乐的人。”

快乐的！为什么？当他停下来时，劳拉感到一阵新的刺痛。难道她永远都无法逃脱吗——即使是在这里，在四月的阳光下，在河岸边！当然，这一切意味着，真正善良、令人钦佩的女人不会为了艺术和友谊而漫游世界；而是为了追求艺术和友谊。她在宗教和风湿性痛风中让自己在家里感到快乐。

但赫尔贝克又继续说道。她立刻意识到他丢掉了一句话，又继续说下去。

“但是当时家里没有牧师，因为协会无法为我们安排一个牧师；教堂里的服务很少。在她年轻的时候，没有什么比英国天主教更贫穷、更破烂的了。惠索普没有教堂。一个又一个星期天，我父亲常常在小教堂里读祈祷文，那是半个杂物间。我常常认为，没有什么异议是最赤裸裸的了。但只要有机会，我们就会听弥撒，这对我们来说就足够了。她去世时，斯托尼赫斯特的一位牧师来了。这是她的小弥撒书。”

他从草地上拿起它——一本用褪色的摩洛哥木皮装订的小册子——但他没有主动把它拿给芳坦小姐看，而她也不想索要它。

“为什么他们这么孤独地生活？”她皱着眉头问他。 “我想总是有邻居吧？”

他摇了摇头。

“除了宗教之外，法律和教育背后的差异是根深蒂固的。时代变了，但它依然深刻。”

一阵停顿。然后她异想天开地扬起眉毛看着他。

“班尼斯代尔不好玩吗？”她说。

他幽默地笑了。 “当然不适合女人。对于一个男人来说，是的。有很多粗暴的运动和打牌，还有很多喝酒。这些人很有个性，往往也很有能力。但没有出路，教育也很糟糕。我的曾祖父也许可以通过军队的任命而得救。但法律禁止他这么做。所以他们只为自己而活；他们没有选择与他们的新教邻居住在一起——他们使他们成为亡命之徒和下等人！当然，他们的举止和文雅也下降了。你可能会在今天所有的天主教小家庭——即古老的家庭——中看到这个结果。少数仍然忠诚的大家族摆脱了这一地位的许多缺点。较小的人受苦了，然后屈服了。但他们也有他们的补偿！”

当他说话时，他从草地上站了起来，狗们跳了起来，在他周围欢快地吠叫。

“我想奥古斯蒂娜会等我们吃晚饭。”

本来打算留下来的劳拉发现她要和他一起走回家。她不情愿地站起来，走到他身边。

“他们的报酬？”这意味着弥撒和这个残暴的执着宗教的所有其他部分。老实说，这对赫尔贝克先生——对任何人来说——意味着什么？她记得父亲粗暴的笑声。 “亲爱的，雅典娜俱乐部有一千二百人。我把主教交给你。在他们之后，你认为宗教会对剩下的一千二百人说什么？有多少人想过这个问题？”

她偷偷地抬起眼睛，看着赫尔贝克的脸。尽管它的线条忧郁，但她最近开始发现它的基本表情是一种满足的表情。毫无疑问，这来自于“补偿”。但今天还有更多。当他默默地大步走在她身边时，她被他幸福的表情吓了一跳。由于四旬斋的疲劳和“屈辱”在他身上留下了明显的痕迹，这更加引人注目。

那天是复活节，她猜想他是吃完了圣餐回来的。

她浑身微微颤抖，因为回想起上周在教堂里听到的话语和亲眼所见的行为——情感、遗弃的言语和行为——爱为爱而哭泣。一阵口渴抓住了她——刹那间的匮乏感、渴望感，几乎一来就消失了。

赫尔贝克转向她。

“那么你打算在星期四参加这个舞会？”他愉快地说。

她立刻清醒过来。

“是的，周四八点。我要早点去。我雇了一只苍蝇带我去农场——谢谢！——我的表兄弟会送我回家。我很感激你给我钥匙。这将省去我带来的任何麻烦。”

“如果你这么做了，我们不应该怨恨，”他平静地说。

她又沉默了几步，才说道：

“赫尔贝克先生，我很理解您不同意我去。但我必须自己判断。共济会成员是我自己的人。我很抱歉他们应该——嗯——我不明白——但看来你有理由认为他们不好。”

“不属于 他们”他强调地说。

“那么我表弟休伯特呢？”

他没有回答。她气得脸色涨红，然后爆发出孩子般的话语：

“有很多关于休伯特的言论我认为他不值得！他有很多良好的品味——他的音乐很棒。无论如何，他是我的表弟；他们是爸爸在世界上唯一的亲戚。他会对休伯特很友善；如果我因为住在一栋豪宅里，和一群伟人而背弃他们，他会鄙视我的！”

“伟大的人们！”赫尔贝克扬起眉毛说道。 “但是我很抱歉让你说出这些话，方丹小姐。打扰一下——我可以为您打开这扇门吗？”

她尽快回到自己的房间，愤怒地倒在梳妆台旁边的椅子上。一张小而热情的脸从玻璃里望着她。但在第一个本能时刻之后，她就没有注意到这一点。她仍然用心灵的眼睛看到刚刚离开的那个身影，那高贵的头颅，向后仰在宽阔的肩膀上，黑色和灰色的头发，清晰锐利的目光——所有这些都带有岁月和朴素的轻微迹象。它已经开始夺走乡绅的青春。至少过了十分钟，她才能够从走路时不受欢迎的记忆中解脱出来，找到一种报复性的快感，赶紧跑去看看她的一件白色连衣裙——她在眉头舞会上必须穿的所有衣服。

周四下午，赫尔贝克在公园里钓鱼。海鳟鱼即将上岸，天气晴朗，他表现得很好。但当晚起时，他就举起钓竿回家了。利德汉姆神父已经离去。奥古斯蒂娜、芳坦小姐和他又独自一人在屋子里。

他走进书房，把门开着，忙着写东西。

不久，奥古斯蒂娜把头伸了进去。她看上去衣冠不整，而且比平常更粉红，就像她的日常生活受到最小干扰时总是发生的那样。

“艾伦，劳拉刚刚去穿衣服。还好吗？

“没有下雨，”他头也不回地说道。 “请不要关门。这火势太猛烈了。”

她走了，他又写了一会儿——然后听着。他听到头顶上有急促的脚步声和动作，不久，一扇门匆忙打开，一个声音惊呼道：“只有两三个，你知道，艾伦——来自厨房窗户下的那个角落！快跑，有个好姑娘！”

当艾伦跑下前楼梯，然后沿着走廊飞向花园门口时，传来一阵咔哒声。

过了一会儿，她又回来了，当她经过他的房间时，赫尔贝克看到她手里拿着一束白水仙。

然后头顶上传来更多的笑声和闲聊声。最后，奥古斯蒂娜匆匆走下来，再次看着他，脸上满是慌乱，脸上带着微笑。

“艾伦，你真的必须见见她。她看起来很漂亮。”

“恐怕我很忙，”他一边说，一边还在写。她失望地退了出去，但还是小心翼翼地遵循了他关于门的愿望。

“奥古斯蒂娜，抓住布鲁诺！”突然轻声喊道。 “如果他跳到我身上
我已经完蛋了！”

柔软的裙子发出嗖嗖声，她就在那里——在大厅里。当她穿着白色连衣裙站在橡木桌旁时，赫尔贝克可以清楚地看到她。喉咙处刚好可以放一条珍珠项链，手腕处可以放一些细金手镯。水仙花长在她的头发上，她把头发盘成一圈，用一种美妙的方式盘绕起来，因此，赫尔贝克的眼睛被它的颜色和丰富性以及下面细长脖子的白色弄得眼花缭乱。与此同时，她完全没有意识到他的邻居，他看到她高兴极了，匆忙戴上手套，轮流对奥古斯蒂娜和变形后的艾伦喋喋不休，艾伦站在她身后，手持斗篷，无言以对。

“好了，艾伦，就这样了。你是个宝贝——而且这些花也很完美。现在就跑，告诉丹顿太太我没让你呆超过二十分钟。哦，是的，奥古斯蒂娜，我很热情。亲爱的，即使是为了取悦你，我也无法窒息。现在——就在这里！如果你把我锁在门外，桥下有一个角落，非常舒适。我的衣服会介意的——我不会介意的。晚安。我向赫尔贝克先生致意。”

然后匆匆吻了一下奥古斯蒂娜，她就消失了。

赫尔贝克走到大厅里。奥古斯蒂娜站在台阶上，看着飞走的苍蝇。一看到哥哥，她就转过身来，可怜的小脸泛着红光。

“她看起来确实很漂亮，艾伦！我希望她去参加一场正规的舞会，而不是去参加这些奇怪的农民和人们。为什么，他们都会穿着高礼服去，并认为她很自大。”

“我向你保证，我从来没有在狩猎舞会上见过像梅森小姐这么聪明的人，”赫尔贝克说。 “奥古斯蒂娜，你给她钥匙了吗？但我可能会坐起来。有一些复活节账目必须做。”

大厅里的旧钟敲响了。赫尔贝克坐在他刚刚添满的柴火前他熟悉的椅子上。一只手上写着圣菲利普·内里的一生，另一只手心不在焉地把玩着布鲁诺的耳朵。事实上，他不是在读，而是在听。

突然有声音传来。他转头，发现从大厅通往塔楼楼梯，再到厨房区域的门已经打开。

“谁在那儿？”他惊讶地说。

丹顿夫人出现了。

“你，丹顿！这个时候你准备做什么？”

“我是来看看那位小姐回来了没有。”她低声说道，语气中充满了令人生畏的神情。 “已经很晚了，我还没听到。”

“晚的？一点也不！丹顿，立刻去睡觉；喷泉小姐会直接赶到。”

“我不困; “我可以等她。”管家说着，往大厅里走了一两步。 “先生，您累了，该休息了。”

“我一点也不累，谢谢。晚安。我建议你尽快去睡觉。”

丹顿夫人逗留了一会儿，仿佛在犹豫，然后带着一种阴沉的不情愿走了出去，这对她的主人来说是显而易见的。

赫尔贝克微微一笑，将书放在膝盖上。

“她本来想挨骂，但我们不会给她机会。”

接下来的遐想并不令人愉快。他似乎在这间质朴的大房间里看到了芳坦小姐，周围有一群年轻人——穿着周日外套的年轻人，头发闪亮，四肢从不合身的衣服中伸出来。会有大声的谈话和笑声，会有让她皱眉的粗俗笑话，会让她厌恶的赞美——他们不知道如何接受她，她也不知道如何接受他们。她会完全脱离自己的位置——成为无礼的对象——也许更糟。而且会有一种将一位女士从她的领域中拖出来的感觉——摆脱老房子和老家庭的束缚。

他想到这里就感到厌恶。他是一位彻头彻尾的贵族。

但这有什么帮助呢？当他想起她站在大厅里时，她如此年轻、美丽，如此渴望她的快乐，他突然由衷地自言自语道：

“废话！希望孩子玩得开心。”即使在他最不正式的想法中，他还是第一次对她用这样的词。

再次沉默。风轻轻地吹过房子。他能听到河水奔流的声音。

有一次他以为有轮子的声音，就走到外门，但什么也没有。头顶上星星闪烁，河道上笼罩着一层白色的薄雾。

然而，当他转身回大厅时，他听到雾气中传来声音——一个响亮的男人声音，然后是某人因害怕或愤怒而发出的小声哭泣，然后是一首歌曲。它欢快的曲调在夜色中呼啸而过，在老房子周围庄严的寂静中呼啸而过，产生了最突然、最不体面的效果。

赫尔贝克跑下台阶。一辆带灯的马车驶近屋前低矮的石围墙内的大门。它的射门速度如此之快，又如此笨拙，以至于擦伤了内门柱。又传来一声小哭声。然后，车子经过各种颠簸和冲刺，绕过碎石路，来到了台阶附近的某个地方。

休伯特·梅森跳了下来。

“那是谁？赫尔贝克先生？主啊！很高兴见到你，我确信！真是个小傻瓜——她一路上一直大惊小怪——以为我会把她弄翻到河里，我确实相信。她会试图控制缰绳，尽管我告诉她这是最糟糕的事情，无论如何——干扰司机。主！我还以为她会用鞭子打我呢！”

梅森站在竖井旁边，双臂放在一边，大声笑着看着劳拉。

“先生，请让开！”赫尔贝克严厉地说：“让我帮助小姐
喷泉。”

“哦！我说！——来吧，我不能忍受你以同样的方式对我两次——不是我，”年轻人大声喊道，语气发生了剧烈的变化。 “完全 让开，你妈的！我把芳汀小姐带回家了，她是我的表弟——所以！——不是你的。”

“休伯特，你赶紧走开！”劳拉用颤抖而又专横的声音说道。 “我更希望赫尔贝克先生帮助我。”

她已经站起来，紧紧抓住马车的栏杆，脸低垂着，不让赫尔贝克看见。

梅森又咒骂了一声，向后退了一步，脚被他不小心挂在身上的缰绳卡住了，然后跪在了砾石上。

“没关系，”赫尔贝克说，看到劳拉惊恐地停了下来。 “把你的手给我，芳坦小姐。”

她在黑暗中在台阶上滑倒，赫尔贝克抓住了她，让她站起来。

“请进去吧。我会照顾他的。”

她跑上台阶，然后转身看去。

梅森还在咒骂和嘟哝，站起来有些困难。
赫尔贝克站在一旁，直到他站起来解开缰绳。

“如果你不小心地在大雾中沿着公园行驶，你就会受到伤害，”当梅森坐到座位上时，他简短地说。

“这不关你的事，”梅森闷闷不乐地说。 “我带了我的表弟，没问题——我想我可以带我自己去。现在，你上来吧！”

他用缰绳猛烈地击打小马的背。疲惫的动物开始向前走。车又左右摇晃起来。当车经过门柱时，赫尔贝克屏住了呼吸。但它很快就消失了，很快整个夜里除了后退的马蹄声之外什么也听不到。

他走上台阶，关上并锁上外门。当他走进大厅时，劳拉正坐在橡木桌旁，一只手撑着脸，另一只手无精打采地垂在身旁。

当他进来时，她挣扎着站起来。她蓝色斗篷的兜帽向后落下，脸和脖子上的头发乱糟糟的。她的脸颊很白，眼里还含着泪水。他从来没有觉得她如此娇小、如此幼稚、如此可爱。

他没有注意到她的激动或她说话的努力。他走到边桌上的一盘按照他的吩咐留下的酒和饼干前，倒了一些酒。

“不，我不想要它，”她说着，挥手把它推开。 “我不知道该说些什么 - ”

“你最好接受它，”他打断了她的话。

他安静的坚持征服了她，她喝下了它。它让她恢复了声音和一点色彩。她咬着嘴唇，看着赫尔贝克走到大厅的另一端，为她点燃蜡烛。

“先生。赫尔贝克，”当他走近时，她开始说道。然后她聚集了力量。 “你必须——你应该让我道歉。”

“为了什么？恐怕你开车回家的路很不愉快而且很危险。你想让我叫醒一名仆人——也许是艾伦——然后让她来找你吗？

“哦！你不让我说我该说的话。”她绝望地喊道。 “我表弟应该这样——应该侮辱你——”

“不！不！”他语气有些专横地说。 “你表哥竟然敢在这种情况下开车跟你一起开车，侮辱了你。这对我来说才是最重要的——或者我想，这对你来说也应该很重要。你可以拿蜡烛吗？我可以叫人吗？”

她摇摇头，在他的陪伴下，向楼梯走去。当他看到她走路的样子如此虚弱时，他正想请她挽着他的手臂，让他扶她到她的房间去。但他没有这么做。

到了楼梯口，她停了下来。当她伸出手时，她的“晚安”话戛然而止。她的沮丧，她少女般的羞耻，使她对他有着难以言喻的吸引力。这是他第一次看到她双臂垂下的样子。但他什么也没说。他以愉快的礼貌向她道晚安，然后回到大厅的火旁，站在火旁，直到听到远处关门的声音。

然后他坐回椅子上，一动不动地坐着，皱着眉头，凝视着火洞，整整呆了将近一个小时。

第二天早上，劳拉很早就醒了，虽然外面阳光明媚，但她并没有感到高兴。前一天晚上，她赶紧脱掉衣服，以便尽快把自己埋进枕头里，强迫自己入睡。这是她面对痛苦或羞辱时的本能。无论用什么简单的方法来逃避它始终是她的第一个念头。 “我会的，我要睡觉了！”她对自己说，对自己和命运感到悲惨的愤怒；在极度疲惫的帮助下，我睡着了。

但到了早上，她再也无法对自己施暴了。记忆顺其自然，而且是一个非常令人不安的过程。她从床上坐起来，双手抱住膝盖，不仅想起了与舞会有关的所有不幸和不幸的事件，还想起了舞会之前的整整三个星期。她到底做了什么，做了什么坏事，竟然让这个可恶的少年敢如此对待她？

弗里卡跳到她身边，劳拉将狗的鼻子贴在她的脸颊上寻求安慰，同时她也坦白了自己的情况。哦！她真是个傻瓜。请问，她为什么要到农场去这么多次，并在这个年轻人的陪伴下度过这么多时间呢？她敏捷的智慧解开了所有疑团。向往她的亲人吗？——是的，确实有过这样的事。从班尼斯代尔的道路上退缩，愤怒地渴望侦察它们并驾驶它们？——是的，一直有很多。但她更深地陷入了自我厌恶之中，并提出了真正的底层真相，尽管它是令人不快和可恨的：仅仅是对一个年轻人的兴奋，作为一个年轻人——仅仅是对其他人发现的一个伟大的魁梧家伙的权力的热爱。难以管理！是的，它就在那里，尽管她在给莫莉·弗里德兰的信中对它进行了种种修饰。自始至终，她都清楚地知道休伯特·梅森不是她的对手。他在许多问题上有粗俗的习惯和粗俗的想法；他经常以一种她本应反感的方式表达对她的钦佩。事实上，她不敢探索他的整个侧面——她想要，不，是决心一无所知。

另一方面，她年轻的胆大妄为，由于缺乏更好的猎物，从一开始就乐于将他置于自己的枷锁之下。当她第二次来到农场时，她发现她可以让他成为她的奴隶——她只需要对他一点点奉承，一点点鼓励，他就会像他的好斗和脾气暴躁一样对她顺从和顺从。走向世界其他地方。而她的虚荣心居然发在了这么可怜的猎物身上！一个借口——是的，只有一个借口！和她在一起时，他展现了他的亲族中只有她能欣赏的一面。要不是因为害怕伊丽莎白表弟，她本可以让他在钢琴前一小时又一小时地弹奏，充满激情。这是共同点。不仅如此，就天生的力量而言，他是她的上级，尽管她凭借更好的音乐训练，可以用一千种方式帮助和纠正他。她具有女人对影响力的热情；他在她手中就像蜡一样。为什么不帮助他接受教育和提高自己，培养他最好的一面呢？她会说服伊丽莎白表弟——为他改变和修正他的生活——而赫尔贝克先生应该看到，有更好的方式与人打交道，而不是轻视和鄙视他们。

现在，一想到这些徒劳而愚蠢的梦想，她的脸就燃烧起来。权力凌驾于他之上？让她只记住那些让她受过的屈辱吧！所有的舞蹈又回到了她的身上——陌生的人，陌生的年轻人，陌生的椽木房间，磨坊溪流的噪音和堰在其中振动，并与小提琴的喋喋不休混合在一起。但她决心享受这一切，不摆架子，全力忘记自己与这些山谷里的人不同，他们的血统是她的。对于老年人来说，一切都很容易。尤其是那些穿着深色长袍、戴着大领子的老年妇女，让她有一种宾至如归的感觉。她一次又一次地把自己置于他们的羽翼之下，而他们则默默地把精明的母亲般的眼睛转向她，审视她和她衣着的每一个细节。而那些老人，他们的家长式举止和宽广的言辞——对她来说都是甜蜜和愉快的。 “不，小姐，他们告诉我，你是史蒂芬·方丹的遗孀。我不敢和你说话，因为当他还是个小伙子的时候，我就知道了。或者“你会伸出你的手，方丹小姐，因为我们很高兴也很自豪能把你拉到这里。你的父亲打算一起去。我的话，但他是教区克里弗！当你追随他时，我达乌尔赛。”善良的人们！一切迹象都表明他们生活艰苦而简单。

但那些年轻人——她是多么恨他们啊！——无论他们是害羞的，还是大胆的；他们都一样。他们是否与心上人嬉闹，像巴珊的公牛一样嘲笑自己的笑话，或者他们是否穿着最好的衣服，好像衣服烧伤了他们，在流汗和痛苦的沉默中跳着波尔卡舞！不;她不属于 其 上课了，谢天谢地！她从来不希望这样。一个男人让她在他的衣领上别上一根别针。另一个人把一杯咖啡洒在了她的白色裙子上。第三个人向她吐露，他的年轻女士在公共场合对他来说是“那个爱人”，他不得不吩咐她“在离开之前保持安静”。唯一给她跳舞带来一丝乐趣的舞伴是校长和晚会的主要主持人，一个身材高大、体弱多病的年轻人，戴着眼镜，用鼻子说话。但他说的都是她能理解的事情，而且他跳舞也还算过得去。唉!麻烦来了。当晚早些时候，休伯特·梅森一直站在她身边放哨。他对她表现出最自豪和最排他的态度，他的主要目的似乎是让她记住他作为一名足球运动员和运动员在同伴中享有的威望。到最后，他的恩惠和吹嘘对于任何有精神的女孩来说都是无法忍受的。还有他的舞蹈！在她看来，他就像一面盾牌一样将她挡在面前，然后带着她冲进了房间。她发现自己成为了所有人目光的中心，漂亮的裙子被撕破了，头发遮住了耳朵。所以她甩掉了他——毫无疑问，她太不耐烦了，而且太不考虑他的易怒脾气。然后，什么暴风雨般的表情，什么嘀咕声，什么消失在茶点室里——最后，什么，对校长的强烈嫉妒！劳拉终于醒悟到了一个令人不快的事实：她必须和他一起开车回家——而他已经让她变得可笑了。就连波莉——那个穿得邋遢的波莉——也显得很严肃，而且她和她哥哥之间也曾发生过愤怒的会议。

然后是离开，劳拉此时充满了恐惧，但不知道该怎么办，也不知道如何回家。而且，哦！门边那群咧着嘴笑的年轻人——梅森胜利地跳进马车，向他的朋友们大声告别——以及第一个危险的时刻，当时小马几乎倒退到磨坊溪流中，只有六个坚定的人才把它扶正。手臂，在街上的笑声中！

至于在黑暗中疯狂驾车的事，一想到这件事，她又浑身发抖，一半是愤怒，一半是恐惧。他们是怎么回家的？她说不出来。当然，他喝醉了。在她看来，他似乎对一切事情都一心一意、凌驾于一切之上，总是辱骂校长、赫尔贝克先生和他的母亲，当她回答他时，他就转向她，或者对他们可能发生的事情表现出任何恐惧，现在带着愤怒，现在又试图做爱，她用尽了对他的所有力量才平息了这一切。

他们冲上公园就像野马骑士一样。她每时每刻都期待着自己会在河里。随着房子的临近，他变得比以前更狂野、更难以控制。 “该死的！让我们唤醒老天主教徒吧！”当她试图阻止他唱歌时，他对她说道。 “它会造成什么危害？”

至于他们到来的耻辱，一想到他们走近时赫尔贝克先生一言不发地站在台阶上，想到休伯特的举止，想到主人在大厅里对她的态度，她就闭上眼睛，把红脸藏在弗里卡面前。为了同情。她怎么能再次见到赫尔贝克先生，再与他对抗呢！

一个小时后，劳拉穿戴整齐，挺直身子，走进奥古斯蒂娜的房间。

“哦，劳拉！”门打开时，芳坦太太叫道。她脸色涨得通红，在床上焦急地沉默着，盯着继女。

劳拉突然停了下来。

“嗯，什么事，奥古斯蒂娜？你听到了什么？

“劳拉！如何 能够 你竟然做出这种事！”

奥古斯蒂娜已经在旁边吃过早餐，她把手帕举到眼前，开始哭泣。劳拉抬起头，走到远处的一扇窗户前，转身面对方丹太太。

“嗯，他很快就告诉你了，”她声音低沉但凶狠地说。

“他？你是什​​么意思？我的兄弟？仿佛他说了一句话！我不相信他会这么做。但丹顿夫人全都听到了。”

“太太。丹顿？”劳拉说。 “丹顿夫人？ 她到底和这件事有什么关系？”

“她听到你开车过来了。你知道她的房间看起来在前面。”

“她听了？狡猾的老东西！”劳拉恢复了平静，说道。 “好吧，这也是没办法的事。如果她听到了，她听到了，无论我有什么感觉，我都不会向丹顿夫人道歉。”

“但是，劳拉——劳拉——他是——”

奥古斯蒂娜无法回答这个令人厌恶的问题。

“我想他是的，”劳拉苦涩地说。 “对于这类年轻人来说，这似乎是很自然的事情。”

“劳拉，一定要来这里。”

劳拉不情愿地走过来，奥古斯蒂娜握住她的手，抬头看着她。

“而且，劳拉，他对艾伦非常粗鲁！”

“是的，他是，我很抱歉，”女孩慢慢地说。 “但这也没办法，让自己痛苦也没什么好处，奥古斯蒂娜。”

“悲惨的？我？是你，劳拉，看起来很痛苦。我从来没有见过你看起来这么白、那么拖沓。你绝对、绝对不能再见到他。”

少女的固执瞬间苏醒了。

“我不知道我是否会答应这一点，奥古斯蒂娜。”

“哦，劳拉！就好像你愿意一样，”奥古斯蒂娜泪流满面地说。

“我不能放弃我父亲的人。”女孩生硬地说。 “但他再也不会惹恼赫尔贝克先生了，我向你保证，奥古斯蒂娜。”

“哦！你看起来确实很漂亮，劳拉，你的衣服也很漂亮！”

劳拉笑了，笑得相当冷酷。

“今天早上已经所剩无几了，”她说。 “然而，正如一位善意地帮助毁掉它的绅士昨晚所说的那样，‘上帝保佑你，它会消失的！’”

早餐后，劳拉发现自己在客厅里，透过开着的窗户看着春天的绿色，心情非常紧张和烦躁。

“如果我不能继续下去，我就不会开始。”她轻蔑地对自己说。但她的嘴唇颤抖着。

所以赫尔贝克先生毕竟生气了。早餐时几乎不说一句话，除了必要的最简短、最起码的礼貌。看来他要出差三天，也许一周。如果他给了她最轻微的机会，她就打算充分控制自己的骄傲，再次道歉并征求他的建议，当然，这取决于她自己对血统和善意可能对她有何要求的最终判断。但他没有给她机会，而且显然他们之间也不想再提起这个话题了。

她也可能要求他限制丹顿夫人的舌头。但不，事实并非如此。很好。女孩收起她娇小的身躯，准备好为自己着想，与自己交朋友，因为没有人为她着想，也没有人与她交朋友。

接下来的几天她都在抑郁中度过。赫尔贝克先生缺席。
奥古斯蒂娜病得很重，而且爱发牢骚，劳拉也觉得
这是她的错。布劳海德没有一句遗憾或道歉的话
农场。

与此同时，丹顿夫人显然已经让她的侄女明白，不能再与芳坦小姐调情了。每当她和劳拉见面时，艾伦就低着头跑。劳拉发现女孩不能再亲自侍候她了。与此同时，女管家亲自经过芳坦小姐身边，态度冷漠，态度沉默，这本身就是一种侮辱。

赫尔贝克离开两天后，劳拉正穿过大厅准备喝下午茶，这时她看到丹顿夫人接纳了孤儿院的一位姐妹。正是圣母本人，这位肥胖而精明的女人希望赫尔贝克先生有一个好妻子。劳拉从她身边走过，修女冷冷地向她行礼。 “天啊！我的好朋友，奥古斯蒂娜就是你自己的了。”芳坦小姐想。 “别害怕。”她转身走进花园。

一小时后她回来了。当她打开旧墙上的门时，她看到修女在台阶上与丹顿夫人交谈。一看到她，他们就分开了。修女披上长长的黑斗篷，跑下台阶，匆匆离去。

在室内，劳拉无法想象她的继母发生了什么事。奥古斯蒂娜显然很兴奋，但她什么也没说。她焦躁不安，时不时地流下眼泪。有一两次，她用最悲惨的眼神看着劳拉，但劳拉一靠近她，她就会匆忙埋头在报纸里，或者开始数编织的针数。

最后，午饭过后，方丹太太突然放下手中的工作，叹了口气，娇小的身材从头到脚都在颤抖。

“我希望我知道你出了什么问题，”劳拉走到她身后，将一双柔软的手放在她的肩膀上。 “要我给你拿新补品吗？”

“不！”奥古斯丁娜生气地说。然后，她无法抑制地说出了一句话：

“劳拉，你必须——你绝对必须放弃那个年轻人。”

劳拉转过身来，坐在继母面前的防护凳上。

“哦！就是这样了。还有人闲聊吗？”

“我真希望你不要——你不要这么冷静地对待事情！”奥古斯蒂娜喊道。 “我告诉你，一点小事就足以伤害你这个年纪的少女了。你父亲一定会很生气的。”

“我不这么认为，”劳拉平静地说。 “但是现在是谁呢？牧师
母亲？”

奥古斯蒂娜犹豫了。有人建议她把事情保密。但她无意反对劳拉，事实上​​，她内心充满了压抑的抗议。

“没关系，亲爱的。人们永远不知道这样的故事会走向何方。这就是女孩们不记得的事情。”

“谁讲了一个故事，讲了什么？我在舞会上没有看到圣母。”

“劳拉！但你从来没有想过，亲爱的——你从来不知道——那里有鲍尔斯神父的一个表弟——他在市场街经营那家天主教小店。你看，这就是和地位比你低的人一起参加聚会所带来的后果。”

“哦！鲍尔斯神父的表弟也在场吗？劳拉慢慢地说。 “嗯，他编了一个漂亮的故事吗？”

“劳拉！你是最惹人生气的——你根本不明白人们的想法。大家都劝你，你怎么能跟他走呢？”

“没有人抗议。”女孩尖锐地说。

“他姐姐求你不要走。”

“他的妹妹没有做这样的事。她在村子里过夜，我除了和休伯特一起回家或者投身于某个陌生人之外，几乎没有什么可做的。”

“还有关于这个可怕的年轻人的故事！”哭了
奥古斯蒂娜.

“我敢说。总有故事。”

“我什至无法告诉你它们是关于什么的！”奥古斯蒂娜说。 “你父亲会 当然 已经完全禁止了。”

一阵沉默。劳拉一如既往地昂首挺胸。事实上，她正处于一种矛盾和怨恨的狂热之中，而丹顿夫人和姐妹们等人的干涉很快就使梅森得到了宽恕。当然，她很可能会在那所房子里听到他最糟糕的事情。什么样的赫尔贝克，或者什么样的依赖于赫尔贝克，会让他从怀疑中受益？

奥古斯蒂娜用尽全力编织了几分钟，然后抬起头来。

“你不觉得吗？”她的语气有点胆怯地说——“亲爱的，你不觉得你可以去剑桥呆几个星期吗？我确信弗里德兰一家会接纳你。你会参加所有的聚会，而且——而且你不必为我烦恼。安吉拉修女的侄女可以来这里住几个星期。圣母是这么告诉我的。”

劳拉站了起来。

“安吉拉姐姐建议的？谢谢你，我不会让安吉拉修女为我安排我的计划。如果你和赫尔贝克先生想把我赶出去，那我当然要去。”

奥古斯蒂娜对女孩的态度和声音惊恐地伸出双手。

“劳拉，别说这种话！就好像你对我来说不是天使一样！就好像我可以忍受别人的想法一样！”

劳拉的脸上闪过一丝颤抖。 “好吧，那就别忍受了，”她说着，又在继母身边跪了下来。 “你看起来病得很重，而且很兴奋，奥古斯蒂娜。我想我们以后会把圣母拒之门外。你不躺下来让我给你盖被子吗？”

就这样，这段时间结束了——奥古斯蒂娜身体虚弱，爱抚劳拉身体。

但当芳坦小姐独自一人时，她就坐下来试图把事情想清楚。

“姐妹们到底想插手什么？他们会妨碍我吗？我受宠若惊！我希望我是。嗯！——醉酒是世界上最糟糕的事情吗？”她故意问自己。 “当然，如果它超过了某个程度，那就就像疯狂一样——为了你自己，你必须避开它。但爸爸常说，还有很多事情比这更糟糕。原来如此！——卑鄙，为了你的灵魂而用真理洗牌。至于其他的故事，我不相信。但如果我真的这么做了，我就不会嫁给他了！”

她觉得自己非常明智。事实上，正如史蒂芬·方丹在死前忧心忡忡地认识到的那样，在劳拉的众多无知中，没有什么比她对散布在我们周围的所有丑陋的事实的无知更彻底或更危险的了，这对人类的绊脚石来说。她坚决不认识他们，正如他总是羞于告诉他们一样。

至于其余的部分，她的反思无疑代表了她年轻时从父亲那里听到的许多格言。对于史蒂芬·方丹来说，整个基督教的罪孽教义都是“敌人”。对某些行为和习惯的神秘仇恨本身就是世界上一半非理性的根源。

第二天轮到鲍尔斯神父了。他以一种似乎最温柔、最像猫的心情走过来，双手摩擦胸前，为自己讲的笑话而高兴不已。他对劳拉本身就是和蔼可亲的。但他也和奥古斯蒂娜独处了二十分钟。随后，方丹夫人再次大胆地向劳拉讲述了变化和乐趣。芳坦小姐微笑着，像以前一样回答道：首先她没有请柬，其次她也没有礼服。但和以前一样，如果赫尔贝克先生希望她结束对班尼斯代尔的访​​问，那将是另一回事。

第二天早上，劳拉正在公园里散步，这时老威尔逊、马夫、牧牛人和总杂役给她带来了一封信。

她把它拿到河边一个隐蔽的角落里读起来。原来是从
休伯特·梅森（Hubert Mason）以他最出色的商业手法，其内容如下：

“亲爱的芳坦小姐，——我知道，你不会再允许我叫你劳拉表姐了，所以我不会尝试这样做。当然，我不值得——也不值得你再次与我握手。我无法忘记我所做的事情。妈妈和波莉会告诉你，我晚上几乎没睡过——因为你当然不会相信我。我不明白我怎么会成为这样一个无赖。我一定是拿太多了。我只知道这似乎没什么大不了的，但如果不是我内心的激动，我不相信任何事情都会出错。但我不忍心看到你和那个男人跳舞并鄙视我。就是这样——我永远无法克服它，你也永远不会原谅我。我觉得我不能再待在这里了，母亲终于同意让我在农场里有一些钱。如果我能在走之前见到你，向你道别，并请求你的原谅，那对我来说会有更好的机会。当然，我不能去赫尔贝克先生家，我想你也不会来这里。明天晚上我将从 Kirby Whardale 集市回家，并在八点到九点之间的某个时间穿过公园上端的小桥。但我知道你不会在那里。我无法预料到这一点，我可以告诉你，我感觉很糟糕。我确实希望通过认识你我可以变得更好。无论你怎么看我，我始终都是

“你尊敬而谦虚的表弟，

“休伯特·梅森。”

“好吧——我保证！”劳拉说。她把信扔到身旁的草地上，然后坐下来，双手抱住膝盖，盯着河水，眼中闪烁着愤怒和惊讶的光芒。

多么大胆啊！——指望她在晚上偷偷溜出去——无论如何，在黄昏——去见他——他！她对这种越轨行为的所有细节的想象都激起了她的愤怒。当然，那是在晚饭后，在迅速变长的暮色中。赫尔贝克和他的妹妹会在客厅里——因为赫尔贝克先生预计第二天回家——她很可能会像往常一样，让他们独自谈论天主教的闲话，然后溜出去。穿过教堂的通道和门，穿过旧花园，到达河岸上方墙上的大门，然后到达沿着Greet穿过公园上端的道路。当然，没有什么比这更容易的了——没有什么。

光是想想，对于劳拉这种气质的女孩来说，就已经一点点的倾向于了。她开始把它翻过来，尝尝其中的冒险——小声地快速地和弗里卡说话，还夹杂着阵阵笑声。毫无疑问，男孩谦逊的表情中有一些令人平静的东西。至于他的不眠之夜——多么有益啊！多么有益啊！只是钉子必须钉得更深——必须在伤口上转动。

也许需要极大的严厉才能消除她仅仅服从他的召唤所带来的影响——假设她决心服从它。出色地！她会相当严厉。她会对他说非常简单的事情——确实是非常简单的事情。这是她第一次与这些巨大、愚蠢、麻烦的雄性动物进行认真的冒险，她的表现就像赫尔贝克在《问候》中扮演鲑鱼一样。是的！他应该向她道别，让神父和修女谈论他们喜欢的丑闻。是的！如果他愿意的话，为了亲属的缘故，他应该继续他的道路，得到宽恕和警告。

她的脸颊火辣辣的，心跳得很快。他和她是同一种血统——他们都不受贵族和神圣罗马人的尊重。至于他，他的家就要毁掉了；他身上有一种奇怪的艺术天赋，值得人们思考和拯救。他身上有小崽子的所有缺点。他会因此而被彻底断绝关系吗？她会仅仅因为赫尔贝克夫妇和他们的朋友的命令就永远抛弃他吗？

当然，他永远不会被允许进入班尼斯代尔的客厅，而且她目前无意去布劳海德农场。那么，就在天空和云彩之下吧！一次仁慈的赦免，一次适当的训诫——以及一次短暂的告别。

那天和接下来的一天，劳拉完全随心所欲。与此同时，她完全意识到她正在计划的事情是鲁莽而任性的。尽管如此，她还是很喜欢它。事实上，这个计划是自从她第一次来到班尼斯代尔以来一直毒害和折磨她的所有痛苦情绪的最终结晶。这一刻给了她一种病态的快感，所有愤怒的人都会因说出愤怒的言语或行为而获得这种快感。

与此同时，她越来越意识到某种责备和讨论的网络似乎正在封闭她和她的行为。它通过一些小迹象表现出来。当她去惠索普为奥古斯蒂娜购物时，她觉得店里的售货员，甚至胖乎乎的布艺师本人，都用一种狡猾的好奇心看着她。女孩的自尊心一小时一小时地变得越来越难以控制。如果镇上和邻里流传着一些关于她的恶意流言蜚语，到目前为止，她有没有对此给出过哪怕一丝借口？没有一丝阴影！

晚饭后，赫尔贝克先生、他的妹妹和劳拉在客厅里。
劳拉一直在密切观察方丹太太。

“她很想和他谈谈。”女孩想。 “她会得到它——只要她愿意。”

百叶窗还没有关上，房间里的木头噼啪作响，充满了柔和的光线。太阳确实已经消失了，但西方仍然在发光，前面围墙里高大的落叶松在金色的天空衬托下显得漆黑一片。劳拉起身离开了房间。当她打开门时，她看到奥古斯蒂娜迅速松了口气的表情以及织针的掉落。

弗里卡被安全地囚禁在楼上。劳拉戴上挂在大厅里的帽子和深色斗篷，沿着通往教堂的通道跑去。尽头那扇厚重的十七世纪大门，她费了好大劲才打开，没有发出任何声音，但终于打开了，她来到了古老的花园里。

她穿着斗篷的小身影，在黑色的紫杉丛中，在黄昏中几乎看不到。花园里一片寂静，墙上的门开着。一到河边的路上，她就忍不住要跑，空气是那么清新，夜晚的孤独是那么自由而广阔。一切都太平了；除了几只鸟儿和阵阵微风之外，什么都没有动。头顶上，巨大的雷云遮住了日落。下面，傍晚的蓝色与玫瑰色交织在一起；缓缓流动的水中的树林和天空的倒影也是如此。有的池塘里，鳟鱼还在懒洋洋地游上来。鸽子和信鸽慢慢地穿过树顶和刚刚出现的星星之间的空地。劳拉停下来后，屏住了呼吸，以为她透过暮色看到了一只翠鸟的蓝色闪光，正在向她熟悉的巢穴走去。即使在这昏暗的光线下，树木也有五月的壮丽——除了橡树，它们仍然梦想着最美好的未来。河上峭壁的怀抱上，时不时地有几丛报春花，孤独而自给自足，就像所有最可爱的事物一样，在岩石的暗淡中熠熠生辉。

劳拉的双脚在她身下翩翩起舞。傍晚的美丽和她热情的回应仿佛相互流动，使脉搏跳动。尽管有疑虑和愤怒，但她的身体从未如此快乐，如此充满活力。她经过复活节周日她和赫尔贝克曾逗留过的座位。然后她走进一条高高在河上方的小路，在茂密的橡树下。不久，一座小桥出现在眼前，峭壁上有一些台阶通向桥下。

在桥的近端，为了方便渔民，有一个小木平台被抛入河中，有一个栏杆，上面有一个座位。座位很好地隐藏在树木和河岸下，劳拉坐在那里。

她还没等五分钟，沉浸在碧波荡漾的河流和柔和的空气的纯粹乐趣中，就听到脚步声靠近岸边。抬头，她看到了天空中梅森的身影。他在岩石楼梯的顶端停了下来，扫视着桥和它的引道。他没有看到她，举起了手，发出了她听不见的惊呼声。

她微笑着站了起来。

当她小小的身影在苍白的木制平台和河里的一块发光的斑块之间变得清晰可见时，她听到了一声叫喊，然后是匆匆走下岩石台阶的声音。

他在离她一码远的地方停了下来。她没有伸出手，片刻的停顿之后，他的眼睛试图在黑暗中寻找她的脸，然后他摘下帽子，用手抚过额头，深吸了一口气。

“我没想到你会来。”他沙哑地说。

“好吧，当然你没必要问我！而我只能停留几分钟。假设你坐在那里。”

她指了指其中一个石阶，然后又在座位上坐了下来，离他有一段距离。

然后是一阵尴尬的沉默，劳拉毫不费力地打破了沉默。
梅森最终在绝望中把它打破了。

“你知道我说话很糟糕，方丹小姐。我不能——所以这不好。但我已经得到教训了。我可以告诉你，自上周以来我经历了一段非常艰难的时期。”

“你的行为已经很糟糕了——不是吗？”劳拉在黑暗中用柔和而尖刻的声音说道。

梅森坐立不安。

“我无法让它变得更好，”他最后说道。 “没有人说我可以，因为我不能。如果我确实给你借口，你也不会相信。那天晚上有一个魔鬼抓住了我——这是事实。我只拿了一两杯。好吧，就这样！——我会早点把我的手砍掉的。”

他那令人痛苦的谦卑语气开始对她产生一种相当奇怪的影响。钉入钉子并不容易。

“你不必这么悔改，”她说，笑得有点收缩。 “一个人必须及时忘记一切。你为惠索普的人们提供了一些可以谈论的话题，但我对此并不感激。你差点杀了我，但这并不重要。你对赫尔贝克先生的行为也很不光彩。但事情已经过去了——现在你必须以某种方式弥补。”

“从那时起，他有让你为此付出代价吗？”梅森急切地说。

“他？赫尔贝克先生？她笑了。然后她以她所能表现出的全部严肃态度补充道：“如果你想知道的话，他以一种最友善、最绅士的方式对待我。最大的遗憾是你——还有伊丽莎白表弟——对他一无所知。”

他呻吟着。她能听到他的脚步不安地移动。

“好吧——现在你要去弗罗斯维克，”她继续说道。 “你要去那里做什么？”

“我的一个叔叔在那里的一个造船厂工作。他请假带我去试衣部。如果我合适的话他就会带我去办公室。这就是我这两年想要的。”

“好吧，现在你已经明白了，”她不耐烦地说，“别沮丧。你有你的机会。”

“是的，我一点也不在乎，”他说，突然充满了活力，抬起头，把拳头放在膝盖上。

她感受到了自己的力量，并且喜欢它。但她还是赶紧回答：

“哦！是的你是！如果你是一个男人，你 必须。你会学到很多新东西——你会保持正直，因为你有很多事情要做。为什么，正如有人所说，它会“再次孵化你，孵化出不同的你”。你会看到的。”

他看着她，努力在暮色中捕捉她的表情。

“如果我真的以不同的方式回来，也许——也许——有一天你不会因为和我在一起而感到羞耻？看这里，劳拉小姐。从我第一次看到你——从你出现的那一天——那个周日——我一直无法安定下来。我觉得，没错，我不适合和你说话。但我是你的——呃，你的亲人，你明白吗？我们之间不可能存在如此巨大的差距。如果我能稍微管理一下自己，找到适合自己的工作，远离这里的这些家伙，远离这个畜生农场——”

“啊！——你和达法迪吵了一整天了吗？”

她寻找他飞出去。但他只是看了一眼，然后就转身走开了。

“主啊！说话有什么好处？”他说，口音让她吃了一惊。

她从座位上站起来。

“我来跟你说话，你感到抱歉吗？你不值得——是吗？

她的声音是最珍珠、最有音乐感，但却是最遥远的东西。他也站了起来——被它抓住了。

“现在你必须去成为一个真正的男人。这就是你必须做的——你明白吗？我希望爸爸还活着。他会告诉你怎么做——我不能。但如果你忘记了你的音乐，那就是一种罪过——如果你把你的歌寄给我，让我为你写，我会帮你写的。并告诉波莉有一天我会再次来看她。现在晚安！如果我不快点回家，他们就会锁起来。”

但他站在台阶上，挡住了去路。

“我说，给我一些随身携带的东西，”他沙哑地说。 “你帽子里的是什么？”

“在我的帽子里？”她笑着说——（但如果有光的话，他就会看到她的嘴唇变白了）。 “为什么，一堆毛茛。我昨天在惠索普买的。”

“给我一个，”他说。

“给你一个假毛茛吗？胡说些什么！”

“有总比没有好，”他固执地说，并伸出了手。

她犹豫了；然后她摘下帽子，悄悄地松开了一朵花。她金色的头发在昏暗的灯光下闪闪发光。梅森的目光始终没有离开过她的小脑袋。他一直在控制自己，这正在考验着一套全新的力量——以全新的方式考验着这个小伙子不成熟的天性。

她把花放在他手里。

“那里;现在我们又成为朋友了，不是吗？请让我过去——晚安！”

他移到一边，盲目地抗拒着用有力的双臂搂住她并把她留在那里，或者带她过桥的冲动——随他的意。

但她那淡淡的无畏征服了他。他放开了她；他在头顶橡树间的月光下，看着台阶上她的身影。

“晚安！”她再次落下，已经很远了——远远高于他。

年轻人感到喉咙里有一声抽泣。

“我的上帝！我再也见不到她了。”他突然惊恐地对自己说。 “她要去那所房子——去那个男人！”

他第一次对赫尔贝克产生了强烈的嫉妒心。他冲过桥，摔在对岸的一块石头上，然后睁大眼睛望着河对岸。

……是的，她经过那里，一片快速移动的白色，在高高的水边像守望者一样矗立的大树中间。他身下流淌着小溪，一道黑暗的深渊，到处被银色的片状和锯齿状裂缝所撕裂。而她，那个苍白的幽灵——穿过它——很远——正从他的视野中掠过。

年轻人天性的所有源泉在一阵巨大的叫喊和混乱中涌动起来。他想到了他孩子气的爱情和肉欲——想到了那些激怒了他们的女孩——想到了与它们相关的一些丑陋事实。他感到非常惊讶，感到非常恶心。他感受到了肉体的重担，精神的挣扎。贯穿这一切的是最疯狂、最贪婪的渴望！——从计划和希望中涌出，就像迎宾月光下的涟漪一样，在它们形成的同时又很快消散。

与此同时，劳拉很快就回家了。女孩心里对“幼崽”产生了新的温柔、新的悔恨。她应该走吗？她很友善吗？哦！她会成为他的朋友和好天使——当然，没有任何废话。

她快步穿过树林，沿着那条微光闪烁的小路走去。突然，她看到远处有一盏灯笼在闪闪发光。

真烦人！难道她已经无路可逃了吗？她看着上面的攀爬树林，看看下面的陡峭的河岸，有些为难。

啊!好吧，她的帽子很大，遮住了她的脸。而她的裙子全部被斗篷遮住了。她加快脚步。

那是一个男人——一个老人——提着一个包裹和一个灯笼。当她走近他时，他似乎犹豫了，停了下来，就在她经过他的那一刻，令她惊讶的是，他突然扑倒在小路山边的一棵树上，他的灯笼向她展示了他的脸。一瞬间——一张苍白的脸，充满了——恐惧，是吗？或者是什么？

她感到害怕。她继续跑，当她跑的时候，她似乎听到有什么东西掉下来，发出叮当的一声，然后是一声叫喊。她回头看了一眼。老人仍然站在那里，笔直地站着，但他的光芒消失了。

嗯，毫无疑问他的灯笼掉了。让他再次点燃它。这与她无关。

这是墙上的门。它在她的触摸下打开了。她穿过花园溜进去，发现教堂的门半开着，几秒钟后她就安全地回到了自己的房间。

劳拉正站在镜子前整理因快速行走而弄乱的卷发，这时她的注意力被房子里某些不寻常的声音吸引了。远处传来一阵急促的脚步声——呼唤声，好像是从厨房里传来的——最后是赫尔贝克先生低沉的声音。芳坦小姐停了下来，手里拿着画笔，想知道发生了什么事。

裙子飘动的声音，以及“劳拉！”的叫声——芳坦小姐打开了门，看到从不跑步的奥古斯丁娜正以她虚弱的速度以最快的速度朝她的继女走去。

“劳拉！——我的萨尔挥发物在哪里？你记得，昨天你给了我一些治疗我的头痛。楼下有人生病了。”

她停下来喘口气。

“在这儿，”劳拉说着，找到了瓶子，把它拿了过来。 “怎么了？”

“哦，亲爱的，真是一次冒险！有一位老人在厨房里晕倒了。他来到后门要给他的灯笼点一盏灯。丹顿夫人说，当她第一次见到他时，他浑身发抖，而且和她的围裙一样白。他告诉她他看到了鬼魂！ “我经常听说班尼斯代尔女士，”他说，“现在我亲眼见到了她！”她让他坐下来休息一下，他立刻就晕了过去。你知道，他就是那个老斯卡斯布鲁克，他的妻子给我们洗衣服。他们住在公园另一端堰边的小屋里。我必须去！丹顿夫人给了他一些白兰地——艾伦就倒下了。这不是一件很了不起的事情吗？”

“非常喜欢，”劳拉一边说，一边陪着她的继母走过走廊。 “他看到了什么？”

她停了下来，将一只手放在奥古斯蒂娜的手臂上，同时用力敲打着她的大脑。是的！她现在还记得赫尔贝克先生对利德汉姆神父说过的一些轻蔑的言论，主题是乡绅记忆中出现的一个与公园和房子有关的鬼故事——据赫尔贝克说，这是一个相当现代的故事，吉普赛妇女的共同动机和她的诅咒，始于大约四十年前，在当地取得了成功，显然，这对班尼斯代尔的主人来说不是什么冒犯。

“他看到了什么？”女孩重复道。 “别着急，奥古斯蒂娜；你知道医生告诉你不是的。我要服用挥发性盐吗？

“哦，不！——他们想要我。”无论是大事还是小事，奥古斯蒂娜都非常高兴地意识到自己的重要性。 “我不知道他到底看到了什么。那是一位女士，他说——从帽子和走路的样子来看，他知道是一位女士。她一袭黑衣——戴着一顶“多莉·瓦登帽子”——想象一下那个老家伙！——那把脸遮住了——还有一只白色的小手，当他走到她面前时，它发出火花！你听过这样的故事吗？现在，劳拉，我没事了。让我走。你喜欢的话就来吧。”

奥古斯蒂娜匆匆离去。劳拉站在过道里若有所思。

“嗯，真不走运，”她对自己说。

然后她低头看着自己的右手。无名指上戴着一枚老式钻戒，主石很大，是她母亲的。她不自觉地笑了笑，摘下戒指，回到了自己的房间。

“现在该怎么办？”她一边想，一边把戒指放进抽屉里。 “我要下去解释一下吗——比如说我出去散步了？”——她摇了摇头。——“现在不行——我一分钟前应该更冷静一些。”奥古斯蒂娜会怀疑一百件事。真是太戏剧性了。我要下去吗？他没有看到我的脸——不，我要对此负责！这是为了它！”

她把金色的头发拨开，直到眉毛周围比平时更加​​浓密，看了看自己的白色裙子——疑惑地摇了摇头——对着镜子里自己泛红的脸笑了笑，然后平静地下了楼。

她在空荡荡的仆人大厅里发现了一群焦虑的人。老人靠着枕头，躺在一张木凳上，赫尔贝克、奥古斯蒂娜和丹顿夫人站在旁边。她首先看到的是老农闭着的眼睛和苍白的脸，然后是他上方赫贝克严肃而困惑的表情。乡绅在芳汀小姐的脚步声中转过身来。是她想象出来的——还是他迅速的目光里有一种特殊的锐利？

丹顿夫人刚刚喝了第二剂白兰地，显然正在向她的主人报告斯卡斯布鲁克的故事。

“‘我正想从她身边经过，’他说，‘当我注意到她的脚下没有发出任何声音时。她轻轻一滑——一滑——我的头发竖了起来——它把我的整个头顶都抬起来了。她像一阵风一样从我身边走过——像冰一样凝结——我担心我的行为或活着。我跟踪她，她就消失在小路中间。我的利特走了——我不敢继续前进，如果它愿意的话——所以我只能爬回去——’”

“门在墙上！”劳拉想。 “他不知道它在那里。”

丹顿夫人说话时，她一直待在后面，但现在她走近了长椅。丹顿夫人恶狠狠地看了她一眼，然后猛地让开。赫尔贝克默默地给她让出位置。当她经过他身边时，她本能地感觉到他疏远的礼貌变得更加明显。他把她的问题留给奥古斯蒂娜来回答，而他自己则把手插进口袋里走开了。

“你派人去找人了吗？”劳拉对芳汀太太说道。

“是的。威尔逊坐上小马车去找妻子了。如果她到这里时他还没有苏醒——就得有人去找医生了，艾伦？”

她茫然地环顾四周。

“当然。威尔逊必须继续前进，”赫尔贝克在远处说道。 “要不我自己去吧。”

“但他正在苏醒过来，”劳拉指着说道。

“如果你不让开，小姐，我们就能找到他，”丹顿夫人尖锐地说。劳拉连忙听从了她的吩咐。管家又送来了更多的白兰地。然后力量恢复的迹象越来越强，当妻子出现时，老家伙已经开始无力地移动并环顾四周。

在妻子滔滔不绝的哀叹、疑问和假设中，劳拉退到了幕后。但她无法说服自己去。勇气或兴奋让她呆在那里，直到老人恢复平静。

他终于挣扎着站起来，长长地叹了口气，语气中还带着一丝颤抖，说道：“是——不，我要回家了——莉丝贝斯。”

他站在那里，一副可怜兮兮的样子，矮小的身躯仍在颤抖，布满皱纹的脸毫无血色，灰白的头发一片混乱。突然，他看着自己的妻子，语气十分严肃地说：“莉兹贝特——我收到了死刑令！”

“别说这样的话，斯卡斯布鲁克，”赫尔贝克说，上前支持他。 “你知道我不相信这种鬼生意——而且从来没有相信过。你在公园里看到一个陌生人——她很快就从你身边经过，你看不清她去了哪里。你可能确信这将是事实。你记得——这是一条公共道路——任何人都可能在那里。试着采取这种观点——看在你妻子的份上，别担心。我们会打听一下，明天我会来看你。至于死刑令，我们都在上帝的看顾之下，你知道的——别忘了这一点。”

他微笑着，带着对老人的亲切关心和怜悯。但斯卡斯布鲁克摇了摇头。

“这是班尼斯代尔女士的事，”他重复道。 “我经常听说她——经常——但我从来没有见过她。”

“好吧，明天你就会为此感到自豪，”赫尔贝克高兴地说。 “来，我把你放进购物车。我想，如果我们为您提供一个舒适的座位，您现在就可以开车回家了。”

斯卡斯布鲁克一侧靠乡绅有力的手臂，另一侧靠妻子的搀扶，一瘸一拐地走下通往内院门口的长长的通道，小马车就停在那里。显然，他的感知仍然是一片茫然。除了乡绅之外，他不认识房间里的任何人，也没有和任何人说过话——甚至不认识他的老朋友丹顿夫人。

劳拉长长地吸了一口气。

“奥古斯蒂娜，快去睡觉吧，”她走到继母身边说道，“不然接下来你就会生病。”

奥古斯蒂娜让自己上楼。但很久之后，她才让继女离开她。她心里充满了超自然的恐惧和兴奋，一定要讲述鬼魂以前的所有出现——她童年时讲过的故事——老人版本中新的或令人震惊的细节，等等。 “他手上的光是什么意思？”她说，想知道。 “我以前从没听说过这个。她过去总是穿灰色的衣服；现在他说她从头到脚都是黑色的裙子。”

“他们的衣柜太有限了——可怜的、潮湿的、邋遢的东西！”劳拉一边梳理继母的头发，一边轻率地说。 “你认为这种胡言乱语明天就会传遍整个乡村吗，奥古斯蒂娜？”

“你是什么 真 你认为他看到了吗，劳拉？”芳坦太太喊道，她在怀疑和相信之间摇摆不定。

“天哪！——别问我。”芳坦小姐耸了耸她的小肩膀。 “我不养家庭鬼魂。”

当奥古斯蒂娜终于躺在床上，并被说服服用一些安眠药时，劳拉正在向她道晚安，这时方丹太太说：“哦！我忘了，劳拉——威尔逊今天下午从邮局给你带来了一封信——他把它交给了丹顿夫人，而她直到晚饭后才把它忘掉——”

“当然——因为那是我的，”劳拉报复地说。 “它在哪里？”

“在客厅的烟囱上。”

“好的。我会去争取的。但我会打扰赫尔贝克先生。”

“哦！不——已经太晚了。艾伦会去书房了。”

芳坦小姐在她继母的门外站了一会儿，看着手表。

因为她急于收到信，而一点也不急于与赫尔贝克先生交往。至少，如果有人问她，她会自己解释。事实上，她的愿望和意图一片混乱。在她等待奥古斯蒂娜的整个过程中，她的大脑、她的脉搏都在狂跳。从她在赫尔贝克的态度中观察到的额外的僵硬，她很容易猜出他无疑在晚饭后与奥古斯丁进行的那次谈话的结果，当时她正在河边。他对她的看法是不是比以前更糟了？好吧！——如果他和奥古斯蒂娜不能没有她，就让他们把她送走吧——用尽一切办法！她有自己的朋友，自己的钱，在各方面都是自己的情妇，只要求按照自己的意愿过自己的生活。

然而，当她手里拿着蜡烛穿过黑暗的大厅时，劳拉·芳汀确实快要放声大哭了。在她父亲去世后的几个月里，这些哭泣的痛苦夜复一夜地降临在她身上——任何人都看不到。她现在感觉到了一个宿敌的逼近，并与之斗争。 “人不能每天晚上都这么兴奋！”她半自嘲地对自己说。 “没有神经能忍受。”

图书馆门下有一盏灯。好吧，很好。她想知道，在这么多孤独的时间里，他是如何在那里度过的？她曾有一两次听到他上楼睡觉的声音，而且从来没有在一两点钟之前。

突然，她羞愧地站了起来。她推开客厅的门，房间就在她面前，几乎一片漆黑。另一端还亮着一盏昏暗的灯，房间中央站着赫尔贝克先生，他来回走动，画面令人惊讶。

劳拉非常沮丧地退缩了。 “哦，对不起，先生。
赫尔贝克！我不知道有人还在这里。”

“有什么可以为您效劳的吗？”他说前进。

“奥古斯蒂娜告诉我今晚有一封信给我。”

“当然。它就在壁炉架上。我应该记得的。”

他拿起信，递给她。然后他突然停了下来，猛地收回手，放在旁边的桌子上，把手放在上面。她看到他脸上闪过一丝坚定的决心，而她自己的脉搏也在颤动。

“芳婷小姐，请原谅我耽搁您一会儿好吗？我一直在思考这个老人的故事，以及它可能的解释。它以一种非常奇特的方式给我留下了深刻的印象。如你所知，我从来没有太关注过这里的鬼故事——我们以前从未有过如此直接的证言。你有可能对此有所了解吗？你记得，晚饭后你就离开了我们。你是不是偶然走进了花园？——我想，这个夜晚很诱人。如果是这样，你的记忆可能会想起一些——小事。”

“是的，”她犹豫片刻后说道，“我确实走进了花园。”

他的眼睛闪闪发亮。他又靠近了一步。

“你有没有看到或听到任何东西——来解释发生了什么？”

她一时没有回答。她做了一个模糊的动作，好像要收回她的信——好奇地看着她旁边的一个玻璃柜，里面装着一些斯图亚特的遗物和亲笔签名。然后，她以绝对的镇定，转身面对他，一只手放在玻璃柜上。

“是的;我可以解释这一切。我就是那个鬼！”

一阵沉默。赫尔贝克的嘴唇上露出了微笑——她皱起眉头的微笑。

“我也是这么想的。”他平静地说。

她站在那里，被不同的冲动撕裂。然后，一种对自己的恼怒和对他的愤怒袭上她的心头。

“现在你也许想知道我为什么要隐瞒它？”她带着她所能拥有的全部尊严说道。 “很简单，因为我出去见一个人并告别——他是我的亲戚——我不能在这所房子里见到他，而且这里对他有一种无理的态度——”她犹豫道；然后继续，固执地倚在这句话上——“是的！总而言之，它 is 一种无理的偏见。”

“你是说休伯特·梅森先生吗？”

她点点头。

“经过那天晚上的事情，你认为这是一种无理的偏见吗？”

她动摇了。

“我不想为那天晚上发生的事情辩护，”她声音颤抖地说。

赫尔贝克仔细地观察着她。他的举止很有决断力，同时也很有礼貌。

“那你知道他会去公园吗？原谅我的问题。
它们不仅仅是好奇心。”

“也许不是。”她淡淡地说。 “但我想我已经告诉了你所有需要告诉的事情。我可以拿一下我的信吗？”

她向前走去。

“等一下。我想知道，芳坦小姐，”——他慢慢地选择了自己的措辞——“我是否能让你理解我的立场。它是这个。我姐姐带来了一位年轻的女士，她的继女，住在我的屋檐下。那位年轻女士恰好与这一带的一个家庭有联系，这对我来说已经是众所周知的了。对于其中的一些成员，我除了尊重之外一无所有——对于其中的一个我碰巧有强烈的意见。我的观点是有理由的。我想很少有人会以任何方式思考我在这件事上的不合理或偏见。当然，这让我有些担心，因为我对一位我感到有某种责任的年轻女士应该经常与这个年轻人在一起。他在社会地位上与她不一样，而且——请原谅——她对他所属的类型一无所知。我试图间接地警告她。我尽可能温柔地和姐姐说话。但从一开始她就拒绝了我所说的一切——她认为我没有好意——而且她不会接受我的任何建议。最后发生了一件令人不快的事件——不幸的是，了解这件事的不仅限于我们自己——”

劳拉瞥了他一眼。

“不！——已经有人处理了！”她说。

赫尔贝克没有注意到。

“这不仅是我们自己知道的，”他坚定地重复道。 “八卦开始了。我姐姐很烦恼。她请求你结束这种事态，并咨询了我，觉得我们确实都在某种程度上感到担忧。”

“哦，快说我给你们带来了丑闻！”劳拉喊道。 “这当然是安吉拉修女和鲍尔斯神父对奥古斯丁娜说的话。他们很高兴对我表现出最大的焦虑——如此之多，以至于他们非常善意地希望解除我对奥古斯丁的指控。——所以我理解！但我担心我既不温顺也不懂得感恩！——我永远不会感恩——”

赫尔贝克打断道。

“让我们现在就讨论这个问题。我想结束我的故事。当我和姐姐正在商量，试图想出所有可以做的事情来阻止愚蠢的谈话并消除不幸的事件时，这位年轻的女士”——他的声音​​变得冰冷而清晰——”在夜里偷偷溜出去去赴约和这个已经给她造成如此大伤害的男人在一起。现在我想问她，这一切对她目前住在一起的人来说是否是善意的——合理的——慷慨的——如果这种行为不是”——他停顿了一下——“对自己不明智，对他人不公正。”

他的话语带着强烈而震撼的强调。劳拉脸颊绯红地面对着他。

“我想这样就可以了，赫尔贝克先生！”她哭了。 “你已经说了。——现在让我这么说——这些人是我的亲戚——我在世界上没有其他的亲人了。”

他快步向前迈出一步，仿佛陷入了困境。但她举起了手。

“我非常想说这句话，拜托。当我来到这里时，我非常清楚你不会喜欢共济会——原因有很多。”她的声音再次哽咽。 “你从来不喜欢奥古斯蒂娜的婚姻——你不太可能想见到爸爸的人。我没有要求你见他们。我和他们的所有标准都与你的不同。但我更喜欢他们的——而不是你的！我和你没有任何关系。我从小到大——好吧， 恨 你的——如果必须说实话的话。”

她停了下来，半窒息，胸口剧烈起伏。赫尔贝克的目光笼罩着她——看到了她粗暴的言语和她娇小的身材之间的对比。男人黝黑的脸上渐渐融化了。但他说得够干巴巴的。

“我想新教徒和天主教徒在这类问题上的标准非常相似。但不要让我们再为已经发生的事情浪费时间了。我承认，我想就未来向你恳求。”

他温柔地看着她，甚至有些恳求。在整个场景中，她一直在不知不觉中愤怒地意识到他的个人尊严和魅力——这种尊严似乎在行动或情感高涨的时刻出现，并在他日常生活中缺席的隐士态度下再次消失。她对他的话感到刺痛——一旦她可以独自一人、自由地回忆起这些话，她就准备将双重的怨恨情绪集中在他们身上。但是 -

“至于未来。”她冷冷的说道。 “对于一个人来说，这很简单。休伯特·梅森将立即前往弗罗斯维克开展业务。”

“我很高兴听到这个消息——这对他来说非常有好处。”

他停了一会儿，寻找说服和调解的词语。

“芳坦小姐！——如果你认为早在你来到这个街区之前发生的某些事件与我现在所说的有任何关系，那么让我向你保证——最真诚的——事实并非如此！我完全认识到，对于某个案件（您可能已经听说过），共济会和他们的朋友真诚地认为，已经发生了错误和不公正的事情。他们企图实施人身暴力。我很难指望会认为它是论证！但我对他们没有恶意。我这么说是因为你们可能听说过三四年前发生的事情——鲍尔斯神父和我在街上发生争吵。它从来没有给我带来丝毫的负担，第二天我就可以和老梅森握手了——他就在人群中，拒绝停止扔石头。至于梅森夫人”——他微笑着抬起头来——“如果她能说服自己和她的女儿一起来这里见你，我就不会缺少欢迎。但是，你知道，她宁愿去地狱！没有人比我更清楚，方丹小姐，这是一座沉闷的房子，适合一位年轻女士居住——而且——”

他的脸色涨得通红，但他并没有回避自己要说的话。

“你让我们所有人都觉得，你认为我们试图充实和激励我们的生活的做法和仪式，仅仅是可恨的愚蠢和迷信！”他检查了自己。 “这也太强了吧？”他突然急切地补充道。 “如果是这样，我道歉并撤回它！”

劳拉一时间无言以对。然后她集中了力量，用她试图镇定下来的声音说道：

“我认为你夸大了，赫尔贝克先生；无论如何，我希望你能做到。但事实是，我——我不应该试图忍受。考虑到家里发生的一切——这超出了我的力量！也许——继续下去不会有什么好处——而且最好停止。赫尔贝克先生！——如果您的上司真的能同时找到一位好护士和同伴，您愿意与她沟通吗？只要我能和我的朋友们安排好，我就会立即去剑桥。毫无疑问，奥古斯蒂娜今年晚些时候会来和我一起住在海边的某个地方。”

赫尔贝克一直默默地听着她讲话——听着她尖锐而坚定的声音。他靠在高高的壁炉架上，他的脸遮住了她。当她不再说话时，他转过身来，仅仅只是他的一个眼神就立刻平息了女孩的愤怒。他悲伤地摇摇头。

“博士。麦克布莱德昨天在桥上拦住了我，当时他正要离开家。”

劳拉退后一步。她的目光紧紧地盯着他。

“他认为她的状态很严重。我们不要惊动她，也不要干扰她的日常习惯。我想你知道，有一种瓣膜病，而且它已经发展了。他和任何人都无法预测。”

女孩的头垂了下来。她意识到比赛已经结束了。她不能去；她不能去。她不能离开奥古斯蒂娜；她不能离开奥古斯丁。推论很清楚。没有一句威胁的话，但她明白。赫尔贝克先生的意愿必须占上风。这半小时的屈辱是她自己造成的——她必须承担由此带来的后果。她走向赫尔贝克。

“那么，我必须留下来，”她沙哑地说，“而且我必须努力——记住我将来在哪里。我应该能够隐藏我的一切感受——当然！但不幸的是，这是我从未学到的。而且——有些生活方式——那——相差太远了。然而！”——她把手举到额头上，皱起眉头，想了想——“我不能对我的表兄弟赫尔贝克先生做​​出任何承诺。 I 我非常清楚——无论怎么说——我没有做过任何值得羞耻的事情。我一直想——帮助我的表弟。他值得帮助——无论如何——而我 将 如果可以的话，帮助他！但如果我要继续做你的客人，我想我必须征求你的意愿——”

赫尔贝克再次试图用手势阻止她，但她还是赶紧走了。

“就这栋房子和这个街区而言，任何人都没有任何理由——说话。”

然后她猛地把头向后仰去，脸突然涨得通红。

“当然，如果人们生来就会说和想一些恶意的事情！——比如
丹顿夫人——”

赫尔贝克惊呼道。

“我会尽力做到这一点，”他说。 “你没有理由抱怨，那里。”

劳拉耸耸肩。

“你能把我的信给我吗？”

当他把它递给她时，她向他微微鞠了一躬，在他为她开门之前走到门口，然后就走了。

赫尔贝克转过身来，发出一声压抑的惊呼。他关了灯，慢慢走向书房。

当班尼斯代尔的主人关上图书馆的门时，熟悉的房间给他留下了鲜明而独特的印象。他一生中最神圣、最关键的时刻是在它的围墙内度过的。当他现在进入其中时，它似乎让他感到厌恶，不再属于他了。

房间不大。这是房子里的旧图书馆，赫尔贝克家族在他们最辉煌的日子里从来都不是一个文学种族。有一点十七世纪的神学；以及一些英语经典。那里有赫尔贝克祖母——班尼斯代尔人们对她的称呼——“夫人”的法文书籍；其中包括圣弗朗索瓦·德·萨勒斯的破旧棕色书籍，以及夫人在第一帝国时代的某个时候放入的黄色纸条，以标记她最喜欢的段落。附近有一些杂散的军事书籍，关于战术和防御的论文，这些书属于狄龙团一位英俊的年轻军官，靠近一些《Epîtres Amoureux》，译为《达夫尼斯和克洛伊》，等等——现在全都在这儿了。一起陷入同样的​​尘土飞扬的忽视之中。

赫尔贝克写字台上方的墙上摆放着他母亲的书，以及他自己经常使用的书。在这里，每一本书都是一个老朋友，一个熟悉的工具。艾伦·赫尔贝克既不是学生，也不是文人。但他有某些强烈的偏见、本能和情感，一些书籍是这些偏见、本能和情感的来源和寄托。

至于其他的——多年来，他一直是圣弗朗西斯第三骑士团的成员，从其他方面来看，这个房间几乎是一个宗教场所。内墙上立着一个十字架，上面挂着一个十字架。再远一点，有一个圣约瑟夫的小祭坛，上面有图画、小雕像和蜡烛。壁炉架上俯视着一幅简陋的皮奥·诺诺版画。地板几乎是光秃秃的，除了零星几块旧席子。原先铺在客厅上的破旧土耳其地毯已被移走，以使客厅对奥古斯蒂娜来说更加舒适。大多数椅子也是如此。剩下的人是最正直、最坚强的人。

然而，在那个肮脏的房间里，赫尔贝克经历了精神生活中最幸福、最亲密的时刻。今晚，他带着一种奇怪的痛苦感——一种致命的挫败感——进入了这个世界。他机械地走到写字台前，在写字台前坐下，从表链上取出一把钥匙，打开了上面一本锁着的大笔记本。

这本书包含许多书面冥想、一系列段落和思想，以及他母亲和他在斯托尼赫斯特最早的耶稣会老师的一些褪色照片。

最后一页上有一段话是他前一天晚上从一本习惯性的灵修书中抄下来的——抄下来是一种精神练习——让自己仔细思考其中的每一个字。

“我何时才能独自渴望你——独自以你为食——哦，我的喜悦，我唯一的好处！我慈爱全能的主啊！现在把这颗可怜的心从一切依恋、一切尘世的情感中解放出来吧！用你神圣的美德装饰它，并以纯粹的意图做一切事情来取悦你，以便我可以向你打开它，并以温和的暴力迫使你进来，以便你，主啊，可以在其中毫无抵抗地工作祢从永恒以来就希望在我身上产生的所有这些效果。=

他把脸埋在双手里，话语里犹豫了一会儿。然后他慢慢翻回之前的一页——

“人类必须利用生物，因为它们本身是冷漠的。他不能受他们的控制，而要利用他们来达到他自己的目的，他自己的首要目的，即拯救他的灵魂。=

他浑身一阵颤抖。他急忙从座位上站起来，开始在房间里踱步。他已经经历过类似的挣扎，并且离开去抵抗诱惑。今晚的斗争更加激烈。汹涌澎湃的激情席卷了他。

“小脸色苍白，愤怒！我像个孩子一样责骂了她——像个孩子一样原谅她是多么高兴啊！——作为回报，我请求她的原谅——感觉到柔软的头靠在我的胸前。她对我非常严厉——我想她恨我。然而——她对我并不是无动于衷！——她知道我什么时候在那里。在楼下，她始终意识到我的存在——我知道。她的秘密就在她的脸上。我从一开始就猜到了——愚蠢的孩子。奇怪的、暴风雨般的本性！——我看到了这一切——她对她父亲的热情，以及对属于他的这些农民的热情——她对我和我们信仰的仇恨，因为她父亲讨厌我们——她对奥古斯丁的感情——那种僵化的感觉，她所承担的义务，只是在两三点上——自然的感情。也许正是这种感觉，让她的灵魂与这座房子——与我——斗争。她多么厌恶我们所爱的一切——谦卑、耐心、服从！她宁愿死也不愿服从。除非她爱过！那么指挥她是多么一门艺术，多么令人着迷啊！这会极大地消耗爱人的力量、爱人的心。啊！”

他一动不动地站着，以钢铁般的决心努力抛开脑海中涌动的幻想。如果他有可能征服她，可以想象他可能会赢得她——这样的梦想对他来说是千倍禁止的，艾伦·赫尔贝克！这样的婚姻将毁掉无数为了教会的利益、为了完善他自己的生活而制定的计划。这将是对重大信任的背叛，对重大机会的放弃。 “我的生活将以她为中心。她会排在第一位，而教会排在第二位。她的本性会影响我的本性，而不是我的本性影响她的本性。我什至能跟她谈论我所相信的事情吗？——她连字母表都不懂。我对改变宗教信仰感到畏缩。上帝原谅我！——我爱的是她狂野的异教自我——我渴望——”

人类的渴望、人类的痛苦的爆发很难满足——也很难抑制。
但天主教徒战斗并取得了胜利。

“我不是我自己的人——我承担了任何诚实人都无法背叛的任务。我也有誓言，将我特别与我们的主——他的教会联系在一起。教会不赞成这样的爱情——这样的婚姻。她并不禁止它们——但它们让她心痛。到目前为止，我已经接受了她的判断，没有困难，没有冲突。现在服从很难。但我可以服从——我们不会被要求做不可能的事。”

他走到十字架前，俯伏在十字架前。午夜的寂静笼罩着整座房子。

但在远处的楼上房间里，劳拉·芳汀哭着睡着了——只是一次又一次地醒来，泪水淹没了她的脸颊。难道这只是她所经历的令人不快又刺激的一幕吗？对她生活的这种新的入侵是什么？——这种新的存在在内心的目光中，一种既吸引她又排斥她的形式和外表。一百种外星力量正在威胁和压迫她——从他们的内心深处涌出这种奇怪的图画——这种磁力——这种令人不安的痛苦。

在班尼斯代尔——在赫尔贝克先生的屋檐下——被囚禁了好几个月——这个想法让她抓狂。

但当她想象自己可以自由地离开——再次远离这座古老而忧郁的房子——在志趣相投的朋友和风景中时——她并不比以前更快乐。一阵愤怒和痛苦的呻吟传来，她把它压在枕头上，热情地呼唤着睡眠，它会、一定会驱赶所有这些疲劳或兴奋的幻影，让她恢复原来自由的自我。

“我们将在首都时间到达那里——太好了！”波莉·梅森放下她刚刚在马斯兰车站购买的小铁路指南，带着一阵满意的沙沙声说道。

波莉确实脾气很好，衣服也很新。她的刘海——即使减半——也很惊人。她那只廉价的柠檬色手套在她的大手上开裂了。她在花花帽子的周围系了一层又一层的白色薄纱，这在一定程度上软化了她晒黑和深红色的肤色。她的裙子是硬邦邦的白色棉布材质，有着令人吃惊的褶皱和棱角。它的每一个动作，淀粉都会发出嘎嘎声。

火车车厢对面的座位上是劳拉喷泉——她膝上放着一本打开的书，她没有在读。然而，她没有对波莉的话做出任何回应。她的态度给人留下的印象是她对此不感兴趣。芳坦小姐本人似乎并没有从威斯特摩兰的空气中获益匪浅，而这种空气的品质对奥古斯蒂娜来说却大有裨益。现在是六月，六月末，劳拉的脸色确实比三月更苍白，也没有那么绽放。她看起来更有意识了。她确实不那么容光焕发了。她的美丽是否因这一微小的改变而变得更加美丽，可能还有待商榷。事实上，当他们快速移动时，波莉的眼睛向她的表弟表达了长久以来贪婪的敬意。她总是在穿上自己的衣服和软化自己的身体点时遇到困难，这使她更加意识到劳拉的微妙轻松，以及那件黑白细布小连衣裙如此轻易地融入的所有屈服和优雅的线条，劳拉和她的帽子、劳拉和她的手套之间所有天然的亲缘关系，可怜的波莉完全察觉到了，她清楚而悲伤地知道她自己永远无法达到这一点。

尽管如此——芳坦小姐可能很漂亮；她确实很优雅；但波莉并没有发现她是节日里最好的伙伴。他们要去弗罗斯威克——沿海的一个大城镇——去见休伯特和另一位年轻人，一位是西顿先生，他是一家大型工程公司的工头，波莉已经有一段时间提到他的名字了。

两个多星期以来，姐姐在休伯特不断的信件的驱使下，向劳拉提议，他们两个应该在弗罗斯维克度过一个夏日，参观那个地方赖以成名的伟大钢铁厂，并由两个年轻人。劳拉起初充耳不闻。然后突然间——一种非常强烈的渴望和接受！——突然选择了日期和火车。现在他们真的上路了，一切都安排好了，头顶上是灿烂的六月阳光，劳拉是那么沉默，那么不情愿，那么烦躁——你可能会想——

好吧！——波莉实在不知道该怎么想。她自己也不太高兴。当她的目光停留在劳拉身上时，她时不时地意识到自己内心深处隐藏着某种罪恶感。她希望休伯特能更理智一些——她希望一切都会顺利进行！但当然会。波莉是个乐观主义者，对待一切事情都很简单。她对劳拉的焦虑并没有长期抵制旅途中的纯粹快乐和期待中的奉承。西顿先生是一位多么值得尊敬、总体来说又英俊的年轻人啊！波莉第一次见到他是在布朗海德舞会上。因此，劳拉记忆中的一个黑色丑陋的地方，在她表弟的记忆中却闪耀着玫瑰色的光芒。

与此同时，劳拉（主要是为了避免波莉的谈话）一直盯着窗外。他们正沿着一个大河口的南岸奔跑。徘徊的火车后面矗立着他们刚刚离开的山丘，这些山丘遮蔽了溪流和班尼斯代尔的树林。眉头下方那片肥沃、黑暗的地方就是房子所在的树林。向北，越过海湾，绵延着一排高山，在最晴朗、最明亮的天空下，是一片阳光明媚的斜坡和陡峭的昏暗天堂——蓝色的城墙，缓缓敞开的山谷从那里向下流淌，一个接一个，一直延伸到山上。河口和大海。

这并不是说，汹涌的大海本身还没有太多值得一看的地方。紧邻铁路线的是绵延数里的坚硬的红色沙子，无数的格瑞特海峡穿过沙子。阳光灼热而耀眼，照在宽阔平坦的地面上、照在成群的海鸥上、照在清澈的水池上。窗户开着，六月的酷热吹来一股刺鼻的咸味气息。然而，劳拉却没有感受到通常如此容易在她身上流露出来的身体上的兴奋。是因为班尼斯代尔森林仍然可见吗？是什么让那个黑斑对女孩不安的眼睛有重要意义？她一次又一次地回到这个话题。它就像一面旗帜，一百种交战的思想聚集在它周围。

为什么？

她和赫尔贝克先生的关系不是很好吗？奥古斯丁不是很高兴——很满足吗？ “我亲爱的劳拉，我一直都知道你和艾伦迟早会和睦相处的。哎呀，任何人都可以和艾伦相处融洽——他真是太好了！”听到这些话，劳拉普遍笑了起来。她没有提醒方丹太太，在她生前，她并没有发现“与艾伦相处得特别容易”。但女孩确实曾经允许自己反驳过——“当你从周末到周末都见不到一个人时，吵架就没那么容易了，不是吗？” “一周结束到一周结束？”芳坦太太含糊地重复道。 “是的——艾伦经常不在——人们非常信任他——他有很多生意。”

劳拉认为，他的第一件事很可能就是多看看他丧偶的妹妹！她和奥古斯丁娜日复一日地单独相处，而赫尔贝克先生则忙着处理教会事务。为了打破班尼斯代尔的沉闷，确实做出了一项宝贵的尝试。方廷小姐一想到这件事，脸颊就火辣辣的。原来有一个下午的聚会！尽管奥古斯蒂娜守寡还不到一年！方丹夫人被派往全国各地送信和卡片。结果是：——噢，真是一场聚会！——真是一个没完没了的下午！这些人从哪里来？——他们是谁？如果波莉好奇地询问一些细节，劳拉就会摇头回答说她对此一无所知；丹顿夫人提供了不好的茶和更差的蛋糕，客人们“坐满了椅子”，没有什么可说的。赫尔贝克先生的害羞和努力；他时不时地向妹妹投去恳求的目光；当事情完成时，他明显的沮丧——这些事情没有告诉波莉。在女孩痛苦的心灵中，它们占有一席之地；但他们没有讲话。无论如何，她相信——不，是相当肯定——班尼斯代尔不会再遭受第二次这样的考验。这是为了谁的利益？——谁的！

一个晚上 -

当火车穿过河口的桥梁，从一片热沙到另一片热沙时，劳拉凝视着眼前的景色，除了心灵的影像之外什么也没有看到，除了记忆的魔力之外，什么也感受不到。

班尼斯代尔的大厅，北方的日光在十点钟仍然从没有拉窗帘的凸肚窗照进来——她自己坐在钢琴前，奥古斯丁坐在长椅上——夜色和花朵的香气从空旷的昏暗的地方蔓延开来。远处客厅的窗户。她旁边放着一支蜡烛——镶板上到处都闪烁着奇怪的月光。一个高大的身影从教堂通道走进来。奥古斯蒂娜在高背椅上腾出空间——乡绅靠在椅背上聆听。弹钢琴的女孩；寂静和黑夜似乎向她释放了双手。那些一直压抑和束缚灵魂的束缚崩溃了；她完全用自己的方式玩耍，就像她可能对朋友——对她的父亲——说话或哭泣一样。最后，在短暂的停顿中，乡绅在她旁边放了一支新蜡烛，他低沉而害羞的声音赞扬了她，请她继续演奏。随后，愉快而温柔的谈话持续了半个小时——奥古斯蒂娜几乎无法上床睡觉——当她终于站起来时，女孩的小手滑进了男人的手，在那里迷失了，感受到了一种新的挥之不去的触感，双方几乎同样匆忙地退出。对于女孩来说，这个夜晚被不安所打破，她拼命地努力重新拉紧旧的脚镣，夹紧并囚禁一些颤动的东西——挣扎的东西。

第二天早上，早餐桌上有一张空椅子。 “乡绅出差早早离开了。”没有任何警告——有什么礼貌的信息吗？某天晚上，久别重逢后，回到家，然后——又出发了！看来，一个好的天主教徒住在火车上，并让自己成为所有想利用他达到自己目的的人的猫爪！

……至于那个老农民斯卡斯布鲁克，还有什么比赫尔贝克先生的行为更武断、更荒唐的呢？事实证明，事情很严重。老家伙的胡须和头发因恐惧而变白；他躺在床上，医生谈到严重的“神经休克”——对于病人这个年纪来说非常严重，往往是致命的。为什么不立即承认一切，纠正事情，将可怜的动摇的心灵从压迫中解放出来呢？谁害怕？——饭后散步有什么坏处？

但是，真相显然是没有人想要的，没有人会拥有的——尤其是，赫尔贝克先生。她在公园的橡树下看到了一次会面——同样的高个子男人和女孩——女孩急躁地想要忏悔，老斯卡斯布鲁克的恐惧彻底得到了抚慰——男人挡在路上，像他自己的山楂之一。当然是礼貌！没有人能让礼貌变得如此令人难堪；然后如此出于意志和个性的射击，如此突然，如此火山般的强烈抗议！而女人就是这样一个可怜的、缺乏精神的生物，即使是她们中最勇敢的人！当她应该奋力向前时，她屈服了——当她应该留下来摔跤时，她却回家发怒。

后来，又缺席了——老房子像坟墓一样寂静——奥古斯蒂娜如此烦躁，如此厌倦！但她更好，更好。医生和那些制造医生的人是多么无良啊！

随着六月的炎热，这种沉闷似乎越来越严重。很快就变得难以忍受。没有人来，没有人说话；没有人会为了信任和同情而向你献出自己。好吧，但是某种变化和兴奋 必须 有！——如果你能得到它，谁该受到责备？

与休伯特·梅森一起在弗罗斯威克度过一天？是的，为什么不？波莉提出了这个建议——以前已经提出过一两次了，但没有任何意义。这位年轻人已经接受训练两个月了。波莉经常给他写信；劳拉有时会想，波莉对她的盘问是否部分是为了休伯特的利益。她本人已经给他写了两次信，回复了大约六封信，还为他纠正了他的歌曲——总共扮演了一个非常道德和姐妹般的角色。年轻人真的有爱情吗？也许。会对他有什么伤害吗？

奥古斯蒂娜当然不喜欢弗罗斯维克日的前景。但是，说实话，奥古斯蒂娜必须忍受！圣母下午会来并陪伴她。最近，班尼斯代尔的所有天主教朋友对芳汀小姐表现出了如此的礼貌！这种礼貌总是在守候，周复一周，日复一日，从来没有一刻屈服，从来没有人类的冲动，没有防备。语气。有一天，利德汉姆神父也在那里——他特意与芳坦小姐交谈。他把谈话引向剑桥，引向她的父亲——他一直敏锐地注视着她，皈依者的隐秘生活和神秘主义者时不时地跳到表面，并被一种让人感觉到的意志再次压低——即使对于如此冷静的听众来说也是如此——作为一个活生生的暴虐之物，它的发展与人格的其余部分完全不成比例，甚至是以残酷的代价为代价的。然而，这不是这个人自己的意志——而是他的秩序、他的信仰的意志。为什么这些反复提到班尼斯代尔——它的主人——主人的来来去去？它们很难说是问题，但如果被问者愿意的话，它们可能很容易完成问题的工作。劳拉想到这里就笑了。

啊!好吧，但是今天的谨慎，明天的谨慎，永远的谨慎，并不是最有趣的饮食。她变得多么愚蠢，多么温顺啊！没有人可以与之争斗，也没有任何地方可以释放女孩紧闭的嘴唇背后的尖锐话语和说法。令人惊奇的是，人们竟然错过了教堂里那些依赖乡绅在场的更丰富的活动！鲍尔斯神父每周在那里做两次弥撒。祭坛前的灯还亮着；奥古斯蒂娜每天都会多次消失在厚重的门内。但当赫尔贝克先生在家时，这个地方就成了房子的核心。它贯穿整个有机体；以便任何人都无法忽视或忘记它。

当他回来时，是什么造成了不同？头脑不情愿地塑造了它的答案。一种团结和法律的感觉重新回到了房子里——一种隐藏的尊严和诗意。乡绅的黑色脑袋带有严厉的提醒，挑战或挑衅的提醒；但“他没有任何平常的东西，也没有意义”，随着时间的流逝，较小的凡人开始感到他们的愤怒和批评被驱回自己身上，认识到宗教生活的奇怪的持久性和力量。

非人的力量！但任何形式的力量都倾向于吸引、征服。劳拉不止一次看到自己在晚上，几乎在教堂的台阶上，在通道的黑暗阴影中——跟随奥古斯丁娜。但她还从未登上过台阶——从未跨过门。有一两次，她愤怒地抽身不去听远处的声音。

……赫尔贝克先生对弗罗斯维克计划很少发表评论。不由自主地迅速看了一眼早餐，谁会说——“我们的契约？”但没有契约。她会去的。

最后所有的反对意见都消失了。一定是赫尔贝克先生让奥古斯蒂娜闭嘴了——因为就连她也不再抱怨了。火车受到监视；已安排从中途村庄接波莉；一只苍蝇被命令去接晚上的9.10火车。为什么一个人自始至终都感觉自己是罪魁祸首？荒谬！是一个一生都在喵喵叫的人，在赫尔贝克先生的指挥下抛弃所有的乐趣和嬉闹——先生。赫尔贝克现在几乎没有踏足过班尼斯代尔，自从他姐姐和她的继女搬来居住的那一刻起，他似乎就背弃了自己的房子？直到今年他才像现在这样焦躁不安——丹顿夫人说，她的脾气越来越急躁。

哦——至于欢乐和嬉戏！女孩看着窗外，打了个哈欠。这将是多么漫长炎热的一天——所有的探险、所有正式的享乐都是多么愚蠢！ 9.10 在马斯兰——大约七点，她猜，在弗罗斯威克？她的思绪已经很忙碌，如饥似渴地忙碌着晚上和回来的事情。

火车疾驰而去。他们经过了陡峭的树木繁茂的山丘下的一个小饮水场——在这个炎热的六月里，这里是阳光的熔炉，在冬天，这里是北方的一个柔软而有庇护的避难所。再往前，矗立着一座伟大的西多会修道院的废墟，巨大的肋骨和红砂岩拱门，在废墟中仍然构成了一个安静山谷的灵魂和美丽。然后是一些拥有磨坊和工厂的繁忙城镇，位于湖区南部和西部边界的工业区边缘；更宽阔的山谷一直延伸到蓝色的山脉；丰富的六月树叶和开花的树木；最后是码头和建筑物、仓库和“工厂”、广阔的铁路线网络，以及一个重要且不断发展的城镇的所有其他标志。火车在人群中停了下来，波莉赶紧走到门口。

“为什么，休伯特！——先生。西顿！——我们到了！”

她疯狂地招手，不少路人转头看向那飘动的薄纱云朵。

“我们会找到他们的，波莉——别喊，”劳拉在她身后说道，有些厌恶。

然而，波莉大喊大叫，招手示意，她确实这么做了，而且愿意这么做，直到两个年轻人最终被安全保护。

“休伯特，你从来没有告诉过我那地方有多大，”波莉高兴地说。 “天哪，西顿先生，别打扮自己了。这是芳坦小姐——我的表弟。我知道你会记得她的。”

西顿先生一边接过波莉的披肩和包，一边开始了礼貌而生硬的演讲。他是一个非常优秀的年轻人，属于办事员或领班的类型，腰部有些不健康，后背平坦，面色苍白。劳拉飞快地看了他一眼。但她主要的好奇心是休伯特。第一眼，她就看到了我们中间不断发生的那种强烈而无声的过程的迹象，这种过程使乡下人适应了城镇的生活和习惯。这位来自山地的年轻运动员受其影响才几个月，其衣着、言谈和举止的痕迹就已经很明显了。方言几乎消失了。黑色周日外套是弗罗斯维克能提供的最时尚的剪裁；他们一路走着，劳拉不止一次地从同伴低垂的眼神中发现了对他新灰色裤子膝盖的一种隐秘的焦虑。到目前为止，这一变化并不是一种修饰。第一次失去自由和粗暴的力量从来都不是这样的。但这引起了女孩的注意，并产生了一种暗自同情。她也感受到了外星生命的束缚！——她几乎可以向他伸出手，就像向一个被囚禁的战友伸出手一样。

在车站外，令劳拉惊讶的是——考虑到这次探险的目的——休伯特向他的妹妹做了个手势，然后他们两个就落后了一点。

“她怎么了？”当休伯特判断他们已经听不到前面那对夫妇的声音时，他突然说道。

“你说谁？劳拉？哎呀，她真是太好了！

“那她就不看了。她很着急。她怎么了？

当休伯特瞧不起他的妹妹时，波莉被他不耐烦的表情和举止吓了一跳。那小伙子的眼睛是多么红润，多么疲惫啊！你可能以为他已经一周没有睡觉了。波莉的脑子里闪过一系列的猜测；她以威斯特摩兰式的朴素爆发了——

“休伯特，我真希望你不是个傻瓜！我已经拖了好多次了。”

“是的，你可以告诉我，直到王国到来——我不会介意你的，”他固执地说。 “我知道她和乡绅之间有某种关系。我看她的表情就知道了。”

波莉笑了。

“你怎么跳啊！我告诉她，她从来没有对他说过一句话。”

休伯特郁闷地看着前方劳拉小小的身影。

“更有理由！”他咬牙切齿地说。 “当她第一次来的时候，她会谈论他。但我会找到答案的——别害怕。”

“看在上帝的份上，休伯特，随她去吧！”波莉恳求道。 “我写的都是些疯狂的东西！如果你没有在这里得到她的惩罚，严可能会认为你会被割断喉咙。——你在想什么，小伙子？她绝对不会嫁给那个人！她不属于我们——而且无法挽回。”

休伯特没有回答，但他肌肉发达的身躯不自觉地变得僵硬起来。他的脸色变得坚定而顽固。

“好吧，你保持警惕，”他说。 “你会看到的——我会让你的付出变得值得。”

波莉抬起头——半笑起来。她明白他指的是她自己和她的新恋人。如果她愿意玩休伯特的游戏，休伯特也会玩她的游戏。好吧——只要有可能，她不反对帮助他见到劳拉。波莉的道德感并不过分细腻，对于事情的结果和问题，她的想象力运转得很慢。她不想让自己去想休伯特与女人的关系——例如与惠索普的一两个狂野女孩的关系。但是劳拉——劳拉比他们更善于交际，她的举止和沉着让他们俩都惊叹不已，休伯特的任何言行对她造成的伤害有多大呢？对于这位质朴的威斯特摩兰女孩来说，劳拉·芳汀 (Laura Fountain) 穿着长袍，手持权杖，像一位小女王一样站在基座上。休伯特是个傻瓜，竟然会为自己烦恼——一个傻瓜去追求一个对他来说地位过高的人。还有什么可说或想的？

在下一个街角，劳拉毅然停了下来。波莉不应该再被她的西顿先生欺骗了。此外，劳拉还想和休伯特谈谈。比顿先生的长篇大论，以及他极其正确的短语的发音方式，似乎已经让这个早晨失去了乐趣。

当交换进行时——先生。西顿唉！表现出的热情没有想象中的那么高——劳拉静静地审视着她的同伴。她觉得他比以前更高了。她肯定比他的肘部高不了多少！休伯特意识到自己正在受到审视，脸色涨红，移开视线，咳嗽了一声，显然无话可说。

“嗯——你过得怎么样？”那个轻柔的声音说道，振动穿过男人整个强壮的身躯。

“我想我进展顺利，”他一边说，一边用手杖拨弄着路边的栏杆。

“你做什么样的工作？”

他给了她一个结结巴巴的叙述，她从中得知，他当时是一个办公室的杂务，为每个人派去差事，并对每个人的缺点负责。

她怜悯地看了他一眼。这个年轻的赫拉克勒斯，凭借他的露天传统和他身后的运动员胜利，变成了闷热的办公室里六名职员的屁股和下属！

“我不介意。”他急忙说道。 “所有其他人都为自己的位置付出了代价；我没有付我的钱。总有一天我会和他们算账的。这正是我想要的机会，我叔叔时不时地载我一程。为了让他高兴，他们给了我这个卧铺。对他们来说，他每年价值数千美元！”

他开始吹嘘他的叔叔丹尼尔·梅森的重要性和能力，丹尼尔·梅森现在是休伯特所在的大造船厂的总经理，作为对他亲戚的恩惠。

“他和我一样，都是从底层开始的，只是他比我年轻，”休伯特说，“所以他有影响力。但你会看到，我会努力的。自从我来到这里以来，我学到了很多东西。学院的课程——嗯，很好！”

劳拉露出惊讶的目光。这个小伙子新的一面似乎正在显露出来。

她询问他的音乐。但他声称自己太忙，无暇顾及这件事。很快冬天他就会上课了。学院有一个小提琴班——也许他会参加。然后突然，他用大大的蓝眼睛俯视着她——

“你和乡绅相处得怎么样？”

他以为她开始了，但又不太确定。

“和乡绅相处好了吗？为什么，资本！每当他在那里相处时。”

“什么——他走了？”他急切地说。

她抬起肩膀。

“他总是不在——”

“哎呀，我以为他们现在已经把你变成天主教徒了，”他说。

他的笑声很粗暴，但他的目光却带着一种奇怪的坚持注视着她。

“下次请你想想更合理的事情吧！现在，我们去哪儿吃午饭呢？”

“我们已经全部准备好了。但我们必须先看看院子……错过
喷泉——劳拉——你送我的那朵花我收到了。”

他的声音突然变得沙哑。

她看了他一眼，扬起眉毛。

“你真是太愚蠢了，我确信......现在告诉我，你怎么这么早就下班了？”

他闷闷不乐地向她解释说，他自己的院子里的工作异常轻松。此外，为了在这个星期六休息一两个小时，他在一周内特别加班，而且西顿在一家大型工程“工厂”值夜班，因此他的日子真是太棒了。但她并没有太在意。她全神贯注地看着弗罗斯维克的新建筑和街道、全新的广场和雕像。

“人们怎么能在这么丑陋的地方建造和居住呢？”她最后说道，站着不动，以便可以凝视四周——“世界上有如此可爱的事物；”例如，剑桥——或者——班尼斯代尔。”

最后一个字是不知不觉中，如梦似幻地脱口而出的。

小伙子的脸涨得通红。

“我不知道班尼斯代尔有什么可看的，”他激动地说。 “这是一个潮湿、黑暗、可怕的地方。”

“比起这个，我更喜欢班尼斯代尔，谢谢。”劳拉说着，对那位身着长袍、身材魁梧的古铜色绅士做了个小鬼脸，这位绅士正站在一个新建的空荡荡的大广场中央，对一群幽灵般的人群发表长篇大论。 “哦！成功——有钱是多么丑陋啊！”

梅森半困惑地皱着眉头看着她——这种皱眉最近已经习惯性地挑逗着他英俊的额头。

“拥有一点黄铜有什么坏处？”他愤怒地说。 “在一个摇摇欲坠的破旧地方生活，口袋里没有六便士，却自豪地带你去济贫院，那生活有什么美呢！”

劳拉的小嘴露出了有趣的表情，一种刺痛的表情。她举起了挂在腰带上的一把小扇子。

“弗罗斯威克有树荫吗？”她环顾四周说道。

梅森沉默了，当波莉和西顿先生加入他们时，他费了很大的劲才控制住自己的脾气，并再次开始为他的新家做些光荣的事——那些被忽视的光荣事。

……但是哦！造船厂的炎热。劳拉已经又累又虚弱，她几乎无法拖着脚在码头上建造的巨大骨架船的两侧上下移动，也无法穿过无休无止的“装配”棚屋，棚屋里堆满了桃花心木和柚木，还有嗡嗡作响的车床和机器。锯子、成堆的刨花、树脂般的木头气味。然而，总经理亲自出现了二十分钟，一个瘦小、鹰眼的男人，一点也不不愿意给这位年轻女士短暂的光顾，据说她以一种奉承的方式将梅森和赫尔贝克的房子连在一起。平等。

“他从来没有这样做过 us！”波莉满怀敬畏地低声对小姐说道。
喷泉。 “他就是你！”

然而，劳拉并不感激。她把她的工业教训搞砸了，非常匆忙和疏忽，因此，一旦主任和他的侄子落后了，这位伟人私下里对他的亲戚的讲话往往比梅森夫人自己的讲话宽泛得多，轻蔑地说：

“我不太想念你的好表弟，伙计！她是个轻浮的小姐。

年轻人什么也没说。他仍然对叔叔感到不自在，因为他的未来全都依赖于他的仁慈。

“还有什么可看的吗？”劳拉懒洋洋地说。

“只有钢铁厂，”西顿先生带着居高临下的微笑说道。 “我想，你们这些年轻的女士们，如果没有参观过我们的主要建筑，是不会愿意离开的。弗罗斯维克钢铁和赤铁矿厂雇用了三千名工人。”

“是吗？——这重要吗？”劳拉一边玩着盐一边说道。

她脸上带着些许哀伤和疲倦的神情，这与她柔和的苍白相称，让她在两个年轻人的眼中显得分外迷人。梅森一直注视着她，期待着她最轻微的动作，等待着她最不想要的。西顿先生一向对自己的情绪如此自信，并且能够完全控制自己的情绪，现在他开始感到困惑了。他的热情明显减弱了，目光从芳坦小姐转向波莉——他的波莉，正如他几乎开始想到的那样，诚实的管理波莉，有一点“黄铜”，在各方面都是一个对于像他这样的男人来说，是一个整洁又合适的妻子。但她为什么要把那些愚蠢的白色东西裹在头上呢？还有她的手！——先生。西顿狡猾地把目光从波莉泛红的肢体上移开，把目光固定在劳拉举在空中的纤细白皙的手腕上，以及转动着盐勺的漂亮手指上。

波莉这时候坐直了身子，不再说话。正如挂在对面的镜子所显示的那样，午餐并没有改善她的肤色。她时不时也会不安地扫一眼劳拉。

“哎呀，如果我们不喜欢的话，我们根本就不需要去工作，”波莉说。
“休伯特，我们不能买一只苍蝇，然后去某个地方短途旅行吗？”

休伯特敏捷地向前倾身。他们当然可以。如果他们沿河而上四英里左右，他们就会来到真正美丽的乡村和一个可以喝茶的农舍。

“好吧，我愿意，”西顿先生慷慨地拍着口袋说道。
“任何能让这些女士高兴的事情。”

“我不知道那趟七点钟的火车，”梅森疑惑地说。

“好吧，如果我们不能做到这一点，还有稍后的。”

“不，这是最后一次了。”

“你可以相信我，”西顿傲慢地说。 “我了解铁路指南。八点过一点就有了。”

休伯特摇摇头。他认为西顿错了。但劳拉解决了这件事。

“谢谢你——我们不会错过火车的，”她说着，站起身来，把帽子直接放在玻璃前——“所以，事情就这样了，拜托。”那是什么——熔炉和烧红的东西？”

又过了一两分钟，他们又来到了街上。西顿先生结账时一副“该死的费用”的样子，这惹恼了梅森——他当然是当天所有指控的合伙人——也让劳拉咬住了嘴唇。在外面，他表现出强烈的愿望，想和芳坦小姐一起散步，以便他可以指导她贝塞麦工艺和钢轨制造的细节。但这个漫不经心的小家伙如此轻松地摆脱了他，他发现自己迅速转向波莉，然后离开去盯着前面匆匆而过的劳拉和休伯特的背影，这让他感到惊讶。

“她长得不是很好看吗？”可怜的波莉说，她也无助地盯着远处的一对。

她的披肩压在她的手臂上，西顿先生忘了要它。但他的回答中，带着一丝急躁的烦恼：

“有些人可能持这种观点，梅森小姐。我承认我更喜欢女性之间的更大程度的平衡。”

“哦！他指的是我吗？”波莉想。

而她的精神也稍微恢复了一些。

与此同时，当劳拉和休伯特走在通往伟大钢铁厂的荒凉道路上时，休伯特感受到了一种嫉妒和折磨的幸福。她就在那儿，在他身旁翩翩起舞，精致的脸时常转向他，脚与他步调一致。与此同时，他们之间还有多么坚固的无形障碍啊！她已经收起了嘲讽的语气——显然她决心要表现得友善和堂兄。然而，每一句话都只会让男孩胸中的爱与痛苦的浪潮更加强烈地膨胀。 “她不属于我们，而且无法挽回。”波莉的话萦绕在他耳边。但他不敢再问她有关赫尔贝克的问题；尽管她身材娇小，体弱多病，但她却能把自己包裹在一种难以接近的尊严之中。迄今为止，还没有人解开劳拉内心深处的不情愿之谜。休伯特绝望地知道，他笨拙的方法在她身上几乎没有机会。但他感到一种愤怒，因为她身上有痛苦的迹象。他预感到一些事情需要知道，同时他清楚地意识到这不是他知道的。啊!那个男人——那个丑陋、刻板的伪君子——他到底抓住了她吗？谁能住在她附近而不感到这种痛苦——这种剧痛？……她要不费吹灰之力就屈服于他吗——屈服于那个歪歪扭扭、嗡嗡作响的家伙，还有他的房子监狱？嘿，他会在六个月内毁掉她的生命！

小伙子的感觉一阵急促和旋转。他的内心升起了动物般的嫉妒——暴力的呼喊。

“多么美妙！——多么迷人！”劳拉喊道，她的目光闪闪发光，她的整个身体因快乐而颤抖。

他们刚刚进入钢铁厂的大主棚。工头在年轻人的怂恿下带他们过去，正在把劳拉放在一块砖屏风的庇护所里，以保护她免受炽热的火花的袭击，否则这些火花会席卷她。女孩惊讶地环顾四周。

一间巨大的棚屋，大部分都在黑暗中，堆满了昏暗的铁和砖——在一端，另一侧，有开口，六月的日子就从那里穿过。里面——火焰与阴影的宏伟混合——巨大的白色或蓝色火焰从一个巨大的熔炉中发出，在棚屋的内墙上咆哮——火花，像星雨，在黑暗的空间中旋转——发光的钢锭，纯净的柱子火焰来来回回，热量烧焦了女孩萎缩的脸颊——到处都是黑暗，火焰映衬下，人类的动作响应着火焰的跳跃和冲刷，黑色的男人在不断地活动，主人和大臣立刻，他们周围就出现了这种噼啪作响的恐怖。

“是啊！”他们的向导在咆哮声中尽可能地回答了女孩的问题——“那是他们煮钢的大熔炉。现在你看——当火焰——看！现在它是白色的——变成蓝色——这意味着这个过程已经完成——钢已经煮熟了。然后他们会把大桶移到下面——把炉子翻过来——你就会看到钢铁倒出来。”

“那是铁路吗？”

她指着炉子前面的一个高台。一辆载着高高的金属桶的卡车沿着它行驶。

“是的——他们就是从那里给熔炉加水的——一会儿你就会看到浴缸翻倒了。”

信号铃声响起——机器的嘎嘎声。木桶倾斜了，一股巨大的白色火焰从炉子里向上喷射——那张大嘴已经吞下了它的猎物。

“那些推着独轮车的人呢？为什么他们让他们走得那么近？”

她颤抖着，用手捂住眼睛。

工头笑了。

“哎呀，这很安全！——浴缸已经移开了。你看，熔炉必须加入不同的东西——浴缸带来一种，手推车带来另一种。现在看——他们要把它翻过来。退后！”

他举起手示意梅森躲起来。

劳拉环顾四周。

“另外两个人在哪儿？”她问。

“哦！他们已经去看了律师资格考试——他们很快就会来。西顿认识测试车间的负责人。”

劳拉不再去想他们。她全神贯注于眼前的一幕。炉口开始向下摆动。新鲜的火花以狂野的曲线和螺旋状从棚子里飞溅而出。液态钢流流入下方的大桶中。然后火杯慢慢地恢复原状；火焰再次在墙上咆哮。两边蜂拥而至的人影再次开始喂食怪物——人和卡车、独轮车、小铁路线和支撑它的铁柱，在强光的照射下全都是黑色的——

劳拉气喘吁吁地站着——她狂野的本性被她所看到的一切所吸引。然而，尽管梅森一直盯着眼前的景象，但她却从未放过一眼。除了她之外，他几乎什么也意识不到——她孩子气的身躯，穿着贴身的小裙子，她苍白的脸，每一个柔和的特征在光芒中清晰可见，她舞动的眼睛，她那一头浓密的红发，宽大的黑帽子从头发上滑落了。在她兴奋的向上凝视中。小伙子把这个形象记在心里——它在那里燃烧，仿佛它也像火一样。

“现在让我们看看别的事情吧！”劳拉最后说道，长长地叹了一口气，转过身去。

他们带她去看从熔炉中装满的大桶，正在将其倒入锭模中——然后四个模具缓慢地向前移动，直到它们在一只铁手的作用下停了下来，这只手下降并把它们从白热化的炉子中庄严地举起来。下方的钢铁，露出了四根火红的柱子，当他们穿过棚屋时，柱子变成了血红色——直到另一边，一颗又一颗的锭从卡车上降下来，刚接触到地面，它就成为了猎物的猎物。某种看不见的力量，驱使它从下面迅速向前，发出嘶嘶声，嘎吱作响地跳进磨坊的下颚。然后又在另一边，被拉长，被削去，里面的恶魔已经被驯服了一半！——就像从第一座磨坊里飞出来一样，结果又被第二座、第三座磨坊的挤压所抓住——直到最后颤抖的铁轨出现在另一端，像一条扭曲的火蛇，在工人的控制杆下仍然柔软。它滑行，滑行，滑出棚屋，进入露天，直到它到达一个坑上方的平台，铁爪从下面抓住它，使它在自己的位置上得到最后的休息，除了无数的同伴，等待着市场和买家。

“我们不能再次回到熔炉吗？”芳坦小姐热切地对她的向导说——“就等一下！”

他对她微笑，无法拒绝。

然后他们穿过棚子走回砖砌的避难所。大熔炉像以前一样咆哮着，白色的火焰即将变色，一个又一个的浴缸，一个又一个的手推车将里面的东西倒入巨大的燃烧的喉咙中。避难所后面是一位头上蒙着围巾的老妇人。她给一些工人带来了一罐茶，像陌生人一样站着，看着炉子，躲避火花。

现在只剩下一个人了——此后，又要放下一个盆子——地狱汤又煮好了，会流出来。

那人推着手推车前进。当他转身向身后的人发出信号时，劳拉在难以忍受的光线下看到了他变黑的脸。电铃响了。

然后 -

那是什么？

天哪！——那是什么？

一阵可怕的叫喊声响彻整个作品。劳拉困惑地把手放在眼睛上。旁边的工头大喊一声，向前跑去。

“那个男人在哪儿？”她无奈地对梅森说道。

但梅森没有回答。他紧贴着砖墙，眼睛瞪得老大。一条巨大的喧闹声从这条小铁路里——从它的下面——从它的四面八方传来。棚屋里开始挤满了奔跑的人，所有人都急匆匆地奔向熔炉。空气中充满了他们的哭声。这就像失去了一个疯狂的蜂巢。

劳拉摇摇晃晃，向后靠在墙上。送茶来的老太婆冲到了她面前。

“噢，主啊，拯救我们！——主啊，拯救我们！”她哭了，哭声撕心裂肺。

两个女人倒在了彼此的怀里，浑身颤抖着，口中说出了一些狂野而断断续续的话语，但她们谁也没听见，也不知道。

“看那儿！看在上帝的份上，去你的地方吧！”

工头的叫声传到了紧贴着的妇女们的耳朵里。他们四分五裂——每个人都凝视着人群和骚动。

他们骑在距离他们大约十几码的一块木头上——挥舞着手臂，对着惊慌失措的工人大喊——他们看到了那个在工作中引导他们的人。四块刚没盖上的白热钢锭在他附近的卡车上熊熊燃烧，许多男人和男孩从它们身边推过，急切地想要到达熔炉附近，彼此翻滚。金属锭和附近的一些机器之间的空间极其狭窄。冲过去的人随时都有可能被推到载着死亡的卡车上。啊!又哭了一次。一名男子的衣袖着火了。他被拉了回来——另一件外套被扔到他身上——那排白脸瞬间转向他——动摇了——然后人群像以前一样继续流动。

另一位权威人士也大喊大叫。街区里的男人下了马，两人快速地交谈起来。 “他们派人去请马丁先生了吗？” “是啊。” “巴洛先生在哪儿？” “他不好！” “他们停止了工厂的建设吗？” “是的——没有人会碰任何东西——你会认为他们已经失去了理智。如果有人不能让他们安静下来，到处都会发生事故。”

突然，工头身后嗡嗡作响的人群分开了，一个年轻的宽肩膀工人，从头到脚都沾满了污垢，黑脸上的蓝眼睛翻滚着，摇摇晃晃地走过来。

“给我喝一杯，”他抓住老妇人说道。 “让妈妈坐下！”

他差点摔倒在路上一辆面朝下的铁手推车上。劳拉病态地蹲在地上，抬起头看着他。另一个男人，显然是一位战友，跟在他身后，从老妇人颤抖的手中接过一杯冷茶，抬起头帮他喝了下去。

“该死！——为什么不是烈酒？”年轻人说着，向后靠在他的同伴身上。他的眼睛闭上了沾满污迹的脸颊。他的下巴掉了下来；他的整个身躯似乎要崩溃了。那些注视着他的人仿佛看到了一个人的混乱和毁灭。

“振作起来，奈德——振作起来，”老人跪在他身后说道，“你会克服的，我的孩子——这不是你的错。伙计们，站到后面去，我是空气。”

“噢，该死的你！让我去吧，”年轻人气喘吁吁地靠着另一个人的支撑，就像一个感觉自己整个内心都病得要死的人，在痛苦之下一刻也不能平静。

端茶的女人开始大声哭泣并提问。劳拉站起来，抚摸她。

“别哭——你不能喝点白兰地吗？”然后轮到她了，她感觉自己被手臂抓住了。

“芳坦小姐——劳拉小姐——我可以救你出去！——后面有一条路可以出去。”

当梅森转身时，她的肩膀上露出了苍白的脸。

“还没有——没人能找到一些白兰地吗？啊！”

因为他们的向导此时手里拿着一个瓶子走了过来。是劳拉把杯子递给了他，也是她弯下腰，把烈酒送到了昏倒的工人嘴边。她的思绪似乎漂浮在恐怖的迷雾中，但她的意志坚定不移。她比周围的男人更快地恢复了行动力。他们盯着这位年轻女士看了一会儿。但仅此而已。他们所关注的唯一一个可怕的事实剥夺了其他一切的意义。

“他看到了吗？”劳拉对那个男人的朋友说。除了他的耳朵之外，没有人能听到她的声音。因为他们的周围有两种喧闹声：工人群的喧闹声、几千人漫无目的地涌动、互相呼喊的声音，以及远处熔炉的轰鸣声。

“是的，小姐。他正开着浴缸，他看到奥弗顿在前面——他的车把的轮子打滑了，他一定被撞了——如果他直接放开那辆车，那他就不会受到伤害——位他一定是想把它拉回来——但栏杆把他拉了进去。”

“他没有受苦吗？”劳拉急切地说，她的脸靠近他的脸。

“感谢上帝，他现在就知道了！——现在就知道了。”小姐，在他感觉到火之前，煤气就已经把他闷死了。”

“有老婆吗？”

“诺亚——他作为鳏夫来这里三个星期了——有一个小凝胶——”

是啊！ “他们已经去找她了，”另一个声音说道。 “他来的时候要做什么？”

“拯救主人的良心！”第三个人愤怒地叫道。 “他们会先把我们烧到地狱，然后用祈祷让我们安静下来。”

许多人的脸都转向说话者，一个瘦削、精瘦的男人，镇上的“煽动者”之一，一阵沉闷的呻吟声响起。

“让路！”一个威严的声音喊道，他们和棚屋入口之间的人群开始分开。一位绅士走过来，领着一位神职人员，神职人员低着头，将书抱在胸前，脚步匆匆。

偌大的棚子里传来帽子的飘动声。每个人的头都裸露着，低着头。牧师朝有铁路的小站台走去。熔炉已经有些下沉了——它的轰鸣声不再那么尖锐了——劳拉看着它，想起了那头倒在地上休息的狼吞虎咽的野兽。

但人群又分开了——一声抽泣！——数百人的共同抽泣。

劳拉看了看。

“奈德，这真是个小家伙！”你这个小凝胶！”老工人对他所支持的年轻人说道。

在这群漆黑的人群中，有一个孩子，吓坏了，哭泣着，由一位白发工人温柔地领着，他低头看着她，完全没有意识到自己脸颊上的泪水。

“哦，放开我——放开我！”劳拉喊道。她身边的男人们纷纷退后。他们为她和孩子开了一条路。老妇人不见了。刹那间，劳拉理所当然地取代了她的性别。半小时前，她还只是这群人中最微不足道的陌生人。现在她是他们的一部分，对于他们中间发生的事情来说是有机必要的。男人们本能地立刻把孩子交给了她。她用自己的手臂抱住了这个小家伙。

“她应该在这里吗？”她尖锐地对灰发男子问道。

“小姐，他们要念丧葬仪式，”他一边说，一边驱散眼中的雾气。 “我们认为这个小家伙有一天会认为她来过这里。所以我找到了她——她在学校工作。”

孩子惊恐地环顾四周。炉前的平台已被匆忙清理干净。现在里面挤满了男人——身穿黑色外套的主人和经理与工人混在一起，前面是穿着白色外套的牧师。他转向下面的人群，打开了书。

“我是复活和生命。=

一群工人心中涌动着巨大的脉动。各方强者都崩溃哭泣。

孩子盯着平台，然后又看看周围那些转向她的面孔。

“爸爸——爸爸在哪儿？”她颤抖着说道，可怜巴巴的目光扫视着身旁的美丽女士。

劳拉坐在一辆卡车的边缘，把这个颤抖的小生物拉到胸前。她身上散发出如此温柔的力量，乳房如此柔软，女士腰带上别着的玫瑰花香如此柔和，孩子安静了。当她看着那些围着她的男人时，她时不时地感到一阵恐惧。她在劳拉的怀抱中颤抖着挣扎。除此之外，她没有发出任何声音。伟大的话语席卷而来。

这一幕多么具有穿透力啊！——在女孩本性颤抖的组织中留下了永远无法抹去的巨大刺痕。之前她曾听过一次英国葬礼。当她十五岁的时候，她的父亲在友谊的惩罚下呻吟和烦恼，带她去参加一位剑桥老同事的葬礼。她仍然记得冰冷的墓地教堂、穿着长袍的哀悼者、学术礼仪，或者仪式通过时的轻微遗憾。然后，当他们走回家时，她父亲表现得极度不耐烦——应该要求合理年龄的合理男人坐下来听保罗的逻辑，以及保罗宇宙推测的荒谬！

而现在——从她内心的什么运动、什么模糊的变化中，产生了这种半厌恶、半吸引的新感觉，它无法从这种基督教诗歌的攻击中退出——这些灵魂的呼喊，现在来自诗篇，现在来自保罗，现在来自教会未知的声音？

仅仅是环境造成了这种差异吗——过去发生的事情令人恐惧，工人们的恐惧和心烦意乱让这突如其来的平静给眼睛和心灵带来了无限的宽慰——这座巨大的教堂棚屋的陌生感，它那猛烈的、永恒的戏剧性的攻击火焰和飞翔的阴影，以及它的机器的憔悴纠结的形式——远处那座熔炉发出的暗淡的眩光，几乎没有产生什么——几乎没有额外的悸动，几乎没有跳跃的火焰！半小时前被扔向它的活人，在这人类怜悯的伟大行为背后，似乎仍在低语和咆哮，在垂死的不满中？

这种平静、安抚的力量从何而来？

她周围的男人们都在抽泣和呻吟，但正如暴风雨过后海浪平息一样。他们似乎感到自己处于某种持续的掌控中，某种让生活再次变得可以忍受的束缚。 “阿门”来得又快又浓。脸上的抽搐正在减弱。人类与生俱来的勇气又回到了收缩的心灵中。

“死者有福了——因为他们从自己的劳作中得到安息——”“正如我们的希望是我们的兄弟所做的那样。=

劳拉颤抖着。世界上持续不断的痛苦，在不断寻找一切安慰、一切缓和的东西的过程中，向她伸出了令人信服的手。出于本能，她用双臂更加热情地抱紧了膝上的孩子。

“她不来吗？”梅森说。

他和西顿站在一排工人小屋中一栋小房子的楼下客厅里，距离钢铁厂大约半英里。

梅森的神情和举止仍然显示出他所目睹的恐怖的痕迹。但他已经从这件事中恢复过来，意识到自己的个人不满、他们被破坏的一天以及他失去的机会。西顿也表现出了恼怒和不耐烦。当波莉走进房间时，他重复了梅森的问题。

波莉摇摇头。

“她说不到最后一刻她不会离开孩子。我们得去喝茶，然后回来接她。”

“那就一起来吧！”梅森一边带路向门口走去，一边阴郁地说。

当他们经过外面的小花园时，那里挤满了讨论事故的妇女，时不时会有一群人聚集在人行道上，然后又散去。对于每一位发言者来说，最无法忍受的事情就是那个可怜的失踪者的彻底消失。没有尸体，没有衣服，没有死者的有形遗物：这是对传统信仰的痛苦考验。当没有幻影墓体来审判时，天堂和地狱都显得不可思议。一位又一位女士宣称，如果她的任何财物发生这种情况，她都会生气。 “但幸好没有人可以担心——小家伙，她太漂亮了。”人们对那位和她一起回家的年轻女士有很多议论——“一个漂亮的卢金年轻的克里特人”——小耐莉奇怪地依附在她身上——毫无疑问，因为她和她的父亲在弗罗斯威克呆了几个星期，以至于他们几乎没有时间结交自己的朋友。迪克森先生报告说，孩子永远把这位女士的礼服握在手里——一刻也不会失去她的视线。但这位女士本人只是弗罗斯威克的一名游客，事故发生时她刚刚被带去参观工厂，她要乘晚间火车离开小镇——据说是这样。然而，会有一些人留下来照顾这只可怜的羔羊——夫人。斯塔尔，他把茶带到了工厂，还有迪克森夫人，奥弗顿家的女房东。他们现在在屋子里。但这位女士恳求其他人都留在外面。

夏天的傍晚悄然而至。

六点半，波莉带着休伯特爬上了小房子的楼梯。波莉推开了后面房间的门，休伯特越过她的肩膀往外看。

里面是一间小工人的房间，生着火，窗户大开。桌子上摆着茶具。一只金丝雀在窗边的笼子里大声歌唱；还有一套男装，其中一件干净的衬衫挂在火炉旁的椅子上。

窗边的一张摇椅上躺着一个小女孩——大约九岁的孩子。她脸色苍白，但没有哭。她的眼睛里仍然充满了看到这些作品时所唤起的恐惧，每听到一个声音她都会惊慌失措。劳拉跪在她身边，试图让她喝点茶。孩子不断地把茶推开，但她的另一只手紧紧抓住劳拉的手臂。桌子的另一边坐着两个老妇人。

“劳拉，只有时间了！”波莉把头伸进门外，轻声说道。

孩子吓了一跳，劳拉手里的杯子好不容易才掉下来。

劳拉弯下腰，亲吻了小家伙的脸颊。

“亲爱的，你现在可以放开我了吗？迪克森夫人会照顾你的——我很快就会再次来看你。”

耐莉开始呼吸急促。她用双手抓住劳拉的袖子。

“小姐，你别走——我不会留在她身边。”她向女房东点了点头。

“现在，耐莉，你一定是个好女孩，”狄克逊夫人站起身来，走上前来——她是个奇怪、丑陋的女人，头几乎秃了——“你必须做你可怜的爸爸希望你做的事。”做。让这位女士走吧，我会像照顾我自己的人一样照顾你，直到他们来带你去房子。”

“哦！别这么说！”劳拉喊道。

但为时已晚。孩子听过这个词——也理解了它。

她疯狂地看着一个又一个，然后她靠在椅子的一侧，疯狂地哭泣。现在，她连劳拉都推开了。似乎听到这句话，她就觉得自己确实被抛弃了，她已经熟悉了自己的悲伤。

劳拉的眼睛里充满了泪水。

波莉站在门口，跟她说话也无济于事。

“还有另一列火车——先生。”西顿也是这么说的！”劳拉把这句话扔到了肩上，仿佛很生气。休伯特·梅森站在她身后。在她的兴奋中，她觉得他正在用武力把她从她面前哭泣和尖叫的痛苦中拖出来。

“我不相信他是对的。我从来没有听说过 7.10 以后还有火车。”梅森困惑地说。

“你去问问他吧。”

梅森走了又回来了。

“他当然发誓有。你不会让西顿匆忙地说他错了。我只知道我从未听说过。”

“他一定是对的，”劳拉固执地说。 “别为我操心——派辆出租车吧。哦！”

当他们站在门口时，她暂时用手捂住了耳朵，仿佛要阻止孩子的哭声。休伯特低头看着她，犹豫着，脸涨得通红，眼神憔悴而阴沉。

“现在——劳拉小姐，我送你回家吧？对你来说会很晚了。我明天就可以回来。”

她突然抬起头来。

“没有， 没有！”她几乎跺着脚说道。 “我一个人回家也能很好。
我谁都不要。”

然后她注意到了小伙子的表情——把手放在额头上一会儿。

“无论如何，现在就回来找我吧——一小时内，”她用另一种声音说道。 “当然，请带我去火车。那我得走了。”

“哦，劳拉，我 不能 等待！”波莉在楼梯上喊道——“我希望我能。但妈妈要派达法迪推车——她会很生气的。”

劳拉来到楼梯处。

“别等了。只要告诉马车——注意”——她挂在栏杆上，
执行的话——”告诉他们我要乘晚一班火车来。
他们不会再派人来接我了——我可以在旅馆里叫到一辆出租车。头脑，
波莉——你听到了吗？

她向前倾身，得到波莉的同意，然后跑回孩子身边。

一小时后，梅森发现劳拉和小耐莉躺在她怀里睡着了。一看到他，她就把手指放在嘴唇上，站起来，把孩子抱到床上。她温柔地把她放下——温柔地吻了一下她的小手。孩子的熟睡似乎让她安心了，她转过身去，苍白的嘴唇上带着微笑。她给了斯塔尔太太钱，斯塔尔太太要照顾这个小家伙一周，然后，在梅森看来，她非常高兴，非常渴望去。

“哦！但我们迟到了！”她一边说，一边在街上看表。她赶紧把头伸出窗外，恳求马车夫快点。

梅森什么也没说。

当他们到达车站时，星期六晚上正处于骚动之中。火车陆续出发和抵达，月台上挤满了乘客。

当他们冲进来时，梅森对一个搬运工说了一句话。搬运工回答了。然后，当他们继续逃跑时，那人停了下来，回头看了一眼，似乎要追他们。但十几个带着行李的乘客立刻向他伸出了手，他只来得及低声说道：

“马斯兰？哎呀，今晚布雷赛德以外就没有火车了。”

“不。 4 号站台，”休伯特对他的同伴说道。 “火车刚刚开动。”劳拉甩掉疲惫，拔腿就跑。

守卫只是把哨子放到嘴边。休伯特把她抱进马车。

“再见，”她向他挥手说道，然后立刻消失在一群乘客中。

“适合马斯兰吗？”休伯特对警卫喊道。

守卫已经吹了口哨，挥舞着旗帜回答道：

“马斯兰？今晚没有火车经过路口。”

休伯特停顿了一会儿，然后，当火车轻快地驶出时，他跳到了踏板上。一个搬运工冲了上来，门被打开，他在前后的抗议声中被推了进去。

满载的火车在每个车站都停下来——已经晚点了近一个小时。节日期间，人群进进出出；站台上充满了欢声笑语。

梅森什么也没看到，也什么也没听到。他坐得前倾，帽子垂在眼睛上。对面的男人以为他睡着了。

是谁的错？没有这个！他也许已经确定了？为什么，不是
西顿的话够好吗？ 她 认为这样。

为什么他没有确定一下？——在他回来找她之前的那段时间。她可能会在弗罗斯威克过夜。很多正派的人都会收留她。他记得他直到最后一刻才叫出租车。

……天哪！一个人怎么可能知道自己在想什么！他对那件可怕的事情以及所有计划的改变感到震惊——困惑。西顿也说过这样的话。西顿是一个务实的人，总是在铁路上。

当火车停下来时，她会说什么？在期待中，他已经听到了搬运工的喊声——“布雷赛德——一切都变了！”他的额头开始冒汗。嗯，布雷赛德肯定有一家像样的旅馆，他会为她做一切。一旦她发现自己的困境，她就会很高兴——当然，她很高兴见到他。毕竟他是她的表弟——她的血亲。

赫尔贝克先生呢？小伙子的手握紧了。在路边车站，一个钟面慢慢映入眼帘。 8.45。他现在正在马斯兰等她。因为乡绅会亲自带来陷阱；班尼斯代尔没有车夫。当他想到乡绅正在等待、火车到站、空荡荡的月台、返程的马车时，他的心中闪过一阵强烈的喜悦。乡绅会怎么想？该死的！——让他爱怎么想就怎么想吧。

与此同时，在另一辆马车上，劳拉向后靠着，闭着眼睛，被一个又一个醒着的梦所追寻。阴影和火焰——旋转的火花——哭声！——她胸中的心脏可怕的绞痛——离去的人群，还有那个白脸的孩子，幽灵般地出现在人群之中。她坐了起来，再次被恐惧所震撼，试图把它从她身上赶走。

此时车厢已经空了。其他旅人都下马了，她似乎一个人在夏夜里奔波。漫长的白昼即将结束。六月傍晚的紫色正在变成更神秘的星光紫色。清澈如宝石般的天空柔和地悬挂在“向海张开的嘴唇”的山谷上空，悬挂在树林上空，野玫瑰丛在边缘发出微弱的光芒；越过岩石地面的小丘，顶部是白色的农场；越过那些遥远的形状，到达遥远的北方，那里的群山融入了夜色。

她的心仍然牵挂着这个孤儿——毫无疑问，昨天还很珍贵——他们说他是个好父亲！——今天却很孤独——就像她自己一样。 “爸爸！——爸爸在哪儿？”她把额头靠在窗台上，一想起那声颤抖的哭声，眼泪又涌了出来。因为这是她自己的声音——她自己饥饿的声音——孤儿对孤儿。

然而，在经历了这可怕的一天——这永远不会忘记的震惊和恐怖——之后，她并没有感到不高兴。相反，当火车疾驰时，一种秘密的喜悦占据了她的心。她的天性似乎正在疲倦地陷入和解与安宁的柔软深渊中。弗罗斯维克，连同它的挣扎和死亡，它的新鲜和不安，都在她身后——她要回家，回到那座简朴而平静的老房子。

家？班尼斯代尔，在家吗？多么奇怪！但今晚她太累了，无法与自己抗争——她就这样说了。在她的屈服中，有一种秘密的快乐。

……这时候第一班火车已经进站了。她急切地看到站台上的波莉——波莉正在寻找小马车。是老威尔逊，还是赫尔贝克先生？当然是威尔逊！然而——然而——她知道威尔逊整天都在惠索普处理农场事务。赫尔贝克先生很小心这个老人。呃，好吧！当她到达时，会有人和人来迎接她。她的心知道这一点。

现在他们正在渡过河口。月亮从沙滩上升起，还有那些遥远的山丘，班尼斯代尔的山丘。对岸是布雷赛德的灯光。她忘记问他们是否在路口换车——可能马斯兰火车正在等待。

问候！——它的声音在她耳边，它的许多通道在泛滥的光芒中闪闪发光。山看起来多么近啊！——月​​光沿着沙滩漫步，有人就在那里，在古老的塔楼和树林下。人们说，沙子很危险。其中有流沙，必须认路。啊!好吧——她笑了。今晚单调的火车和出租车对她来说已经足够了。

她挂在开着的窗户上，俯视着银色的水面。在经历了这些可怕的时刻之后，感觉自己漂浮在美丽与平静中——一种颤抖的平静——就像这样，是多么奇怪？世界按照你的方式发展——灵魂屈服于命运——不再为明天而痛苦地思考——

“布雷赛德！一切都变了！”

劳拉从马车上跳了下来。对面车站的时钟让她沮丧地告诉她，已经快十一点半了。

“马斯兰火车在哪里？”她对上前帮助她的搬运工说道。 “我们迟到得多么可怕啊！”

“马斯兰号列车，小姐！最后一个一小时前离开——明天早上 6.12 点 XNUMX 分之前就没有其他的了。”

“你是什么意思？哦！你没听见！——这是开往的火车 马斯兰 我想。”

“小姐，恐怕要到明天你才能拿到。”弗罗斯维克他们没有警告过你吗？他们应该这样做。这列火车只连接克鲁和拉格比的主线，8.20 月 XNUMX 日之后不再连接惠索普。”

劳拉的四肢似乎在她身下颤抖。一步踏上平台。她转身看到了休伯特·梅森。

“您！”

梅森以为她会晕倒。他抓住她的手臂来支撑她。搬运工好奇地看着他们，然后微笑着走开。

劳拉摇摇晃晃地走到站台后面的栏杆上，靠在栏杆上。

“你为什么在这里？”她用一种声音——一种仇恨的声音——一种刺痛的声音对他说道。

他低头看了她一眼，拉扯他那白皙的小胡子。他英俊的脸庞已经泛起深深的红晕。

“我只是从警卫那里听说，就在你们出发的时候，没有火车开动；所以我跳上了下一节车厢，如果可以的话，我可能会对你有所帮助。你不必这样看着我，”他猛烈地喊道——“我没办法！”

“你可能已经发现了，”她沙哑地说。

“说你相信我是故意的！——让你陷入麻烦！——你也可以。我知道你会相信我的任何坏话。”

他的声音里已经有了一种新的调调，一种沙哑、专横的调调，仿佛他感觉到她在他的掌控之中。女孩在恐惧中回想起了眉毛舞中的狂野动力，以及它的厌恶和痛苦。他现在清醒了吗？她该怎么办？——她该如何保护自己？她强烈地确信自己被困住了，他策划了整个灾难，很清楚班尼斯代尔附近的人会怎么看她。

她环顾四周，竭尽全力抑制疲惫和兴奋。干线列车刚刚开走，站长提着灯笼正走上站台。

劳拉去迎接他。

“我犯了一个错误，错过了去马斯兰的末班车。我可以在车站坐到早上吗？”

站长目光锐利地看着她，然后又看了看站在她身后一两码远的男人。在他眼里，这位年轻女士的样子很狂野，头发蓬乱。她金色的头发从四面八方的束缚中挣脱出来，松散地垂在背后的脖子上。她的帽子被孩子拥抱的双臂弄皱、弯弯了。细布小裙子上到处都是煤尘，浅色手套是黑色的。

“不，小姐，”他做出了粗略的决定。 “你不能坐在车站里。还会有一趟直达列车——快车——然后我们就关闭车站过夜。”

“那要多久？”她淡淡地问道。他看着他的手表。

“三十五分钟。小姐，你可以去酒店，挺体面的。”

他又锐利地看了她一眼。他是一名异见者，一个北方虔诚的人，对自己和他人的道德都严格要求。午夜时分，她在这邋遢的状态下，和一个年轻人到底在做什么？错过火车？年轻人没有提及错过火车的事。

但正当他转身要走的时候，女孩却拉住了他。

“穿过沙滩到马斯兰车站有多远？”

“八英里，大约——最短路线。”

“那路呢？”

“十五中最好的部分。”

他走开了，在身后留下了告别的话语。

“现在请理解，当我们锁门过夜时，我不能让任何人在这里。”

劳拉几乎没听见他说话。她首先看向车站的一侧，然后看向另一侧。平台和线路矗立在山下。就在车站外面的北边，河口的沙子在月光下一望无际，光秃秃的。在另一个方向，在她的右手边，山峦陡峭。靠近线上方的一个石灰石采石场在山坡上留下了一个巨大的缺口。她站在那里，凝视着映照着月亮的闪闪发光的岩石墙。在顶部的小栏杆处，与天空形成鲜明对比；在发动机室和空卡车。

突然她转身面向梅森。他站在几码外的平台上，看着她，心中充满了愚蠢的嫉妒之怒，完全阻止了他扮演任何理性或合理的角色。她苦涩的语气，她明显的痛苦，一两个小时前她拒绝让他护送她回家——这一切都是他那天早上所担心和怀疑的——在过去的几周里——这些事情让他感到一阵黑暗的骚动，除了愤怒和激情的交替叫喊之外，什么也听不到。

但她却勇敢地走到了他的面前。她试图笑。

“出色地！这是非常不幸和非常不愉快的。但站长说有一家很不错的客栈。我等的时候你能去看看吗？如果不行的话——如果那不是我可以去的地方——我会在你要求的时候在这里休息，然后我会步行穿过沙滩前往马斯兰。八英里——我能做到。”

他惊呼：

“不，你不能。”——他的声音​​里有一种他无意识的语调，这种语气增加了女孩对他的恐惧。——“除非你让我带你走，否则不行。我想你宁愿死也不愿再忍受我一个小时！——沙子很危险。你可以问问他们。”

他向远处的人点了点头。

她给自己施加了力量，微笑着。 “你为什么不带我走？不过你先去旅馆看看吧——拜托！——我很累了。那就过来汇报吧。”

她在座位上坐了下来，披上了一条白色的小围巾。
她的小脸从褶皱中抬起来，表情柔和而恳求。

他徘徊着——他的心一半是怀疑，一半是暴力，他打算强迫她听他的话——要么现在，要么早上。尽管她如此轻蔑，但在他们分手之前，她应该知道他内心燃烧着的这种痛苦。他也会说出他乐意谈论班尼斯代尔那个被牧师缠身的傻瓜的话。

当他俯视她时，她显得那么渺小，那么脆弱。一种丑陋的力量感在他心中升起。加上绝望，真的！因为这就是她的精致，她的淑女的优雅——简单得令人发狂。 他 穿过钢铁厂的所有污渍——这让希望变得不可能，让他永远成为她的下等人。

“保证你不会自己尝试任何事情——保证你会坐在这里直到我回来，”他用听起来像是威胁的语气说道。

“当然。”

他还是犹豫了。然后他看了一眼沙子，就做出了决定。凭他们的坦诚，她怎么能逃脱他呢？——如果她真的溜走了。月光下，到处都是薄薄的薄雾。但总的来说，沙子是清澈的，夜晚没有任何污点。

“好的。我十分钟后就回来——还不到！”

她点点头。他匆匆沿着站台走去，问了站长一两个问题，然后就消失了。

她急切地转过身来观看。她看见他沿着车站外的马路奔跑——穿过一片树林——再次进入月光。然后路拐了弯，她就再也看不见他了。就在拐弯处，出现了小镇的第一批房屋。

她站了起来。她的心跳得如此剧烈，在她看来，那似乎是一个敌对的东西在阻碍着她。一阵恐慌驱使着她继续前行，但疲惫和身体虚弱却控制住了她的意志，让她的双脚踩上了铅鞋​​。

然而，她走下月台，来到站长身边。

“先生已经去客栈询问了。当他回来时，你能告诉他我终于决定步行去马斯兰了吗？他可以在沙滩上追上我。”

“很好，小姐。但是对于那些不了解沙子的人来说，沙子不太安全。如果你是陌生人，最好不要冒险。”

“我不是陌生人，我的表弟也认得路。你可以派他来追我。”

她离开了车站。她全神贯注，没有再去想站长。

但整件事情有一个地方，引起了那人的好奇。他沿着高高的平台走到了可以看到那位年轻女士的情况的地方。

车站只有一个出口。但就在外面，从镇上来的路穿过铁路线下的一条隧道。要到达沙滩，出站后必须原路返回，穿过隧道，然后离开右侧的道路。沙石边缘一直延伸到道路，道路沿着河口边缘向东延伸，一条笔直的白色线条逐渐消失在夜色中。

围观的男子看到那道小小的身影出现了。但女孩从未转向隧道。她径直朝小镇走去，在距离车站一百码左右的悬垂树木所形成的浓密阴影中，他看不见她了。

“据我所知，她是个深沉的人！”他说着，转身走开。 “它打败了我——公平。”

“你好！”站台尽头的看门人喊道。 “刚才有一条消息传来，先生。”

站长有些惊讶地转向电报局。这不是普通的信号消息，否则下行信号就会消失。

他读完了。 “如果一位女士在 10.20 之前到达，对于马斯兰火车来说太晚了，
请帮她安排晚上的事宜。带她去白鹿
客栈，告诉她将会遇见她的马斯兰首班车。回复。赫尔贝克,
班尼斯代尔。”

站长盯着这条信息。当然，时间已经过去很久了，赫尔贝克先生——他知道他的名字——从马斯兰发送消息肯定遇到了相当大的困难，那里的车站在十点钟到达之后就会关闭。最后一班火车。

又一声咔嗒声——外面传来信号的嘎嘎声。快递就在眼前。他不是一个能在短时间内进行太多推理的人，他已经从刚刚在车站闲逛的两个人的行为中得出了一些不利的推论。于是他连忙回答道：

“女士离开车站，说打算步行经过沙地，但已经朝城镇走去。绅士与她同在。”

然后他就冲出去去赶快递。

但劳拉并没有进城。从站台上，她清楚地看到山坡上有一条小路，穿过一些破碎的地面，通向车站上方的大采石场。树林遮住了她的视线，但那里一定有通向道路的出口；她离开车站去寻找它。

她一到达树林，左边的墙上就出现了一扇门。她穿过它，匆匆走上外面的陡峭小路。她一次又一次地把自己藏在山坡上散落的巨石后面，以免从下面看到她移动的身影——她常常惊恐地停下来，被脚步声所困扰，想象着她身后有一种呼吸、一种声音。

她跑着，跌跌撞撞——又跑了——撕破了她的轻薄衣服——咽下了喉咙里的抽泣——她每走一步都害怕晕倒，被追赶的人抓住。或者溜进某个黑洞——地面上似乎布满了它们——然后迷失在那里——更糟糕的是，被发现在那里！——受伤，毫无防御能力。

但最后还是爬上了斜坡。她看到面前有一个小平台，在黑色的支撑柱网络上——一个发动机室——以及更远的地方，卡车排成一排，上面有六辆空卡车，线路沿着她面前的下降边缘延伸。她攀登的第一座低山。

再往前，是一个黑暗的深渊——然后是采石场耀眼的墙壁。机舱朝海的一端有一片最深、最黑的阴影引起了她的注意。她得到了它，沉入其中，无力而喘息。

这里肯定没有人能看到她！然而不久，她发现身边的阴影里有一堆低矮的木板，为了更好的保护，她爬到了木板后面。她的眼睛位于他们之上。整个下层世界，车站的屋顶，铁路线，远处的沙子，在月光下清晰地展现在她面前。

然后她的神经崩溃了。她把头靠在发动机室的石头上抽泣起来。她所有的自制力、冷静的清醒都消失了。失望的震惊，突如其来的孤独带来的恐惧，她跌跌撞撞的飞行遭遇的噩梦，她的本性已经动摇了，力量已经降低了，这些都产生了悲惨的效果。她因自己的恐惧而感到自卑。但一切根源上的恐惧，包括并产生了其余的恐惧，使她陷入了如此严重的、如此折磨人的恶习中，以至于她做了她想做的事，她无法反抗自己——只能哭泣——哭泣。

然而，假设她和表弟一起走过沙滩，会有人对她有如此不好的看法吗——休伯特本人敢对她表示任何不尊重吗？

话又说回来，为什么不去客栈呢？难道她就不容易找到一个可以投身于她、愿意与她交朋友的女人吗？

或者为什么不尝试叫一辆马车呢？距马斯兰 15 英里，距班尼斯代尔 18 英里。即使在这个小地方，在半夜，只要保证有足够的钱，她就可能找到一只苍蝇和一名司机。

但这些念头刚一升起，就被打消了。她所有的理智一时都蒙上了一层阴影。她表弟的出现突然在她心中引起了如此强烈的厌恶，如此强烈的痛苦，她只想逃离他。在沙滩上，在客栈里，在马车里，他仍然在那里，在她触手可及的地方，或者在她身边。这个梦让她在木板堆后面蹲得更紧了。

月亮正处于她的高度；海湾对面，山脉和低矮的山丘向她升起，“雄心勃勃”，因为她在海岸和海湾上洒下了银色的神圣色彩。夜，是一声轻柔的叹息。河流波光粼粼地流向大海。就连小车站闪亮的屋顶和道路的白色线条也有美感，交织在共同的咒语中。但在劳拉身上却不起作用。她在班尼斯代尔的大厅里——在马斯兰站台上——在赫尔贝克先生回家的林间道路上。

不！——现在他正在书房里。她看到了十字架、书籍和小祭坛。他坐在那里——也许他正在想那个晚上和她醉酒的表弟出去玩的女孩，那个他曾用一百种方式警告过、保护过、考虑过的女孩——她只是出于任性而计划了这一天——他不可能在时间和火车方面犯过任何无心的错误。

她绞着双手。哦！但波莉一定已经解释过，一定已经让他相信，由于一本正经的自信，他们都同样愚蠢，同样被误导。除非休伯特——？但话说回来，她又有什么错呢？在想象中，她通过波莉的嘴唇说出了这一切。这句话灼热又可怜，带着她的灵魂。但橡木椅上的那张脸并没有改变。

然而，在瞬间，头脑却清晰地运转着；它站起来，斥责这汹涌的疼痛，就像海浪拍打礁石一样冲击着它。蠢事！如果一个女孩的名字确实受到这样的机会的支配，那么人们为什么要关心——不辞辛苦呢？这样一个贪婪的世界值得尊重、值得恐惧吗？

正是她的天真和无知让她痛苦不堪。世界上为什么会有这些神秘的猜疑和惩罚？她的脑子里没有任何答案。但她依然颤抖。

她竟然发抖，真是奇怪！两个月前，同样的冒险会对她产生影响吗？哎呀，她一定会一笑置之的；可能会和休伯特一起走过沙滩，也许还会唱歌。

某种秘密的原因削弱了意志——瘫痪了所有旧有的勇气。他以后不会再骂她、吵架吗？除了冷漠的容忍之外什么也没有——赤裸裸的礼貌和为了奥古斯汀娜的保护？但从来没有那种古老的、罕见的仁慈——从来没有！他已经走了很远，而她却暗暗怨恨，准备像个发脾气的孩子一样任性地报复自己！但回归的日子——期待、回忆的时刻！

她的心向她自己的阅读敞开——就像一朵绽放花鞘的大花。但这样的痛苦——哦，这样的痛苦！她把小手指按在胸前，试图将这个正在逃离她的羞辱真相赶回来，撕扯出一条通往光明的道路。

蔑视和战争怎么会变这样？她似乎一直在与某种一直具有威严、魅力的东西作斗争——这种东西本身就蕴藏着驯服女人的力量。在所有的时代里，女人都会屈服于苦行僧面前——屈服于可以没有她的男人面前。理智可能会反抗；但在它的反抗之下，心屈服了。哦！被神秘主义者引导、爱护、粉碎（如果需要的话），他的第一个念头永远不会是你——他把他自己的灵魂，以及一百种折磨人的要求，放在你的嘴唇、你的眼前！奇怪的激情！——它在一场渴望与绝望混合的风暴中冲过女孩的天性……。

……那是什么声音？

她抬起头。沙地里传来一声呼唤——遥远的呼唤，飘荡在夜色中。又一个——又一个！她站了起来——她跳到了木板上，睁大了眼睛。是的——她肯定在那片广阔的沙滩上看到了一个人影，正在快速移动，正在远离？哭声此起彼伏，唤醒了岸边微弱的回声。

毫无疑问，是休伯特——休伯特在追赶她，并呼唤她，以免她无意中发现了沙滩上的危险点。

她站着，看着那个移动的斑点，直到它消失在一片阴影中。然后她就再也看不到它了，哭声也停止了。

他会比她先到班尼斯代尔吗？她擦干眼泪，笑了。啊!让他去那里寻找她！——让他为她做预告。光芒照在她身上；她开始从痛苦中站起来。

但她必须睡一会儿，否则她将永远没有力气在黎明时分开始行走。她会步行，而不是等待迟到的火车。她看到自己爬上山丘——她永远不会相信自己能走上那条路，那条开阔的路，表兄弟姐妹可能就躲在那里——穿过后巷，进入沉睡的村庄，叫醒某人，让一辆马车到达公园上方的某个地方。 ，然后溜到花园门口，在可以进入的情况下从教堂进入。她会直接去奥古斯丁。可怜的奥古斯蒂娜！今晚她几乎睡不着觉。女孩的眼里再次涌出了泪水。

她拉上薄薄的围巾，再次蹑手蹑脚地钻进发动机室的阴影里。不到三个小时，这一天就会回来。但黎明的气息似乎已经吹过黑夜。因为天气变冷了，她的四肢发抖。

……她经常在恐惧中醒来，被火焰追赶，或者从深不可测的空间坠落；自始至终都被一种厄运感、一种可怕的期待所困扰——就像一个人接近某个可怕的阿特柔斯阈值，并意识到其背后的死亡。但睡意又袭来，寒冷折磨着她，几个小时过去了。

与此同时，刚刚消失的光芒又轻轻地涌了回来。星星黯淡；高山云雾缭绕；清澈的黄色从东方升起，使黄昏充满欢乐。然后鸟儿醒了。潮水在逐渐缩小的沙滩上闪烁着海鸟的光芒。空气很快就充满了它们白色的曲线。

劳拉猛地惊醒了。东部山丘上空盘旋着猩红色的羽毛云；当她看着时，阳光照在他们身上。班尼斯代尔就在北边蓝色的昏暗之中。

她跳了起来，惊愕地盯着采石场的黑色深处——她一直睡在采石场旁边——然后用眼睛搜寻着这片山地。是的，有向上的道路。她开始做这件事，祈祷朋友和家人能尽快见到她。

与此同时，除了她之外，世界上似乎没有任何东西在动。

午夜钟声敲响时，昏昏欲睡的站长将来自布雷赛德的消息交给了赫尔贝克先生，赫尔贝克先生被这位绅士的紧迫感从他在线路旁边整洁的小屋里的第一次睡梦中拖了出来。

班尼斯代尔的主人把纸条塞进口袋，低着头站了一会儿，似乎在思考。

“谢谢你，布劳先生，”他最后说道。 “我不会再要求你做任何事了。晚安。”

正当的奖励过去了，赫尔贝克先生离开了车站。外面，他的小马车拴在车站栏杆上。

在进入之前，他心里盘算着是否应该驱车前往马斯兰镇，在那里骑马，然后立即前往布雷赛德。

他大约几个小时内就能到达那里。进而？

在一座沉睡的小镇中寻找芳坦小姐——这能解决问题吗？

凌晨两点，一辆马车抵达——客栈醒来了——也许那里没有女士——是什么阻止她在另一个地方找到像样的住所呢？那个时候他要挨家挨户拜访吗？多么明智啊！不管怎样，流言蜚语无论如何都会传到国外，这是多么令人震惊啊！

他调转小马回家的路。

奥古斯蒂娜披着披肩，浑身抽搐，给他打开了门。一小时前有人给她发了一条消息，大意是芳坦小姐错过了火车，而且不太可能在当晚到达。

“哦， 艾伦！-她在哪？”

“我收到一封电报给站长。别着急，奥古斯蒂娜。我请他带她去旅馆。他们说，老白鹿队已经交给了新的管理层，而且很舒服。她可能会乘首班火车到达——7.20点XNUMX分。无论如何，我都会遇到它。”

奥古斯蒂娜焦急地询问和猜测着他。赫尔贝克脸色苍白，心情阴沉，一屁股坐在长椅上，讲述了事故的经过，直到喋喋不休、语无伦次的波莉让他听懂为止。奥古斯蒂娜那边传来新的哀号。这是多么可怕、可怕的事情啊！当然，这个孩子非常沮丧——也许受伤了——否则她永远不会对火车这么愚蠢。现在连她是否找到睡觉的地方都无法确定！她回家时会一团糟——简直就是一团糟。赫尔贝克不安地移动着。

“据梅森小姐说，她没有受伤。”

“我想年轻的梅森送她走吧？”

“我想是这样。”

“他们究竟是为了什么，竟然犯下这样的错误？”

赫尔贝克耸了耸肩，最后他成功地让妹妹安静下来，除了最普通和令人安慰的建议外，他坚决压制了所有建议。

“好吧，毕竟，谢天谢地，劳拉有很多常识——她一直都有，”方丹太太说道，表情晴朗。

“当然。我毫不怀疑，在你准备好早餐之前，她会来的。虽然不吉利，但不应该影响你晚上的休息。请去睡觉吧。”他费了一番周折才开车送她到那儿。

奥古斯蒂娜退休了，但这是为了度过一个破碎且经常流泪的夜晚。艾伦可能会说他喜欢说的话——这都是最令人不愉快的。为什么！——旅馆会收留她吗？方丹夫人经常被告知，一家客栈，一家受人尊敬的客栈，不仅需要一个人，还需要一个箱子。劳拉甚至连包都没有——绝对不是手提包。这个想法引发了一百个新的警报，可怜的芳登太太一直睡到早上。

与此同时，赫尔贝克去了他的书房。他进去的时候已经快一点了，但他却没有想到要睡觉。他从口袋里掏出布雷赛德发来的电报，重读了一遍，然后将其销毁。

所以梅森和她在一起——当然是梅森。从姐姐那里听不到任何这样的关联。她显然以为劳拉会独自出发，独自到达。或者她也在阴谋之中？难道梅森只是安排了整个“错误”，与她跳上了同一趟火车，并在路口与她对峙？

赫尔贝克在房间里盲目地来回走动，他的同胞们都容易陷入兴奋的风暴之中。一想到这两个人在午夜一起离开布雷赛德车站，他心中就升起一种一半是嫉妒、一半是骄傲的疯狂。他看到了那精致的脑袋，帽子下的金色云彩，漂亮的步态，少女般的腰肢，所有这些周来他在痛苦中崇拜的精致或魅力。想到他们就在那个粗俗而肉欲的小伙子的附近，一直都是一种亵渎。现在谁不会自由地说话，说出她少女般的名字呢？这样的亲属关系真是不合时宜！——这样的并列。

如果他能知道她在这次远征中面对奥古斯丁的哀号和他自己的沉默时所表现出的坚持的真正原因吗？她一直很无聊——天知道这两个月她在班尼斯代尔一直很无聊。每当他从他强迫自己的中间缺席中回来时，他都发现她萎靡不振，她正在愚蠢地与那些将她的青春与变化和欢笑以及自然的娱乐、奉承和爱隔绝的障碍进行斗争。等待，或者应该等待，在甜蜜的二十岁时的求爱。他不止一次地意识到，女孩不安的情绪中伴随着发烧。她当然不满意，也挨饿了。她不是那种会接受的人 角色 同伴或生病的护士没有杂音。他能做什么呢——他，她带着折磨人的力量潜入了他的体内——他，即使她不再恨他，也不能嫁给她——他只能无助地在他们之间隔开土地和距离？然后，谁知道一个女孩的计划是什么，她会屈尊做什么，出于她年轻时的热情和匆忙，即使是最卑鄙的人，她也会带着什么样的光环？她的血液在召唤她——不是这个男人或那个男人！她做出自己的决定——在神秘的面纱后面，这个神秘的面纱掩盖了女人的意愿。谁知道——谁能知道？也许是一位母亲。奥古斯蒂娜不是，他不是，也不是其他人。

他发出呻吟声。他徒劳地鞭打自己和自己的卑鄙思想。他徒劳地对自己说：“她所有的本能，她的喜好，都是纯洁的、朴实的、细腻的——我可以发誓，我这个观察过她的一举一动的人。”脾气？——是的。任性？——是的。一百种不成熟和粗鲁？——是的！但归根结底，是最耀眼、最令人信服的少女感。不是那种低垂的眼神，不是旧式基督教或天主教类型的谦逊——远非如此。但当你仔细思考这一点时，你会发现怀疑只是一种愚蠢的行为。

然而，正是他的自信，他的抗议，让他陷入了痛苦之中。天主教教义中有关性关系的某些内容可能会削弱男人对女人本能的信心。在这个领域里，邪恶及其变种，以一种如此完整的学术完整性和如此令人信服的演绎坦率，永远地压在他的思想上，没有什么可以反对这个过程。他随处可见腐败——随处可见腐败。他的想象力不允许在其帝国或其行动的任何部分留下阴影。真正起作用的是忏悔室。虔诚的天主教徒看到了整个世界 佩卡蒂亚种。在他看来，肉体似乎随时准备倒下——魔鬼总是在身边。

——不安分的骄傲小生物！她对他来说一直是个谜——自从那天晚上他在客厅里和她摔跤以来，她在房子里走来走去，苍白、难以接近，总体来说也是如此沉默。他们之间在公园里就老斯卡斯布鲁克的问题发生了一场新的战斗。荒唐可笑！——她竟然以为自己可以被允许坦白自己——于是就把邻居们的所有低声议论都传到了她的耳朵里。他能听到老人对这次奇怪的经历的哀伤沉思，这次经历使他的头发和胡须变白，使他离死亡又近了一步。 “那天，赫尔贝克先生，有人拖了我的老女人，在年轻的梅森·布劳黑德公园里，我一直在公园里呆着。马彭你会告诉我他的身体非常好。诺亚！——他不喜欢那些喜欢的人！她的脚从来没有发出过任何声音，赫尔贝克先生！她在草地上欢快地奔跑，就像夏天的一朵云，她的动作像鹡鸰一样。我见过 aw maks o' gells，但是这个赌注是 aw。”事后，她又急躁地向老农夫妇解释！想要阻止她，需要坚强的意志。 “先生。赫尔贝克，我想说实话，而且我应该说实话！而你的论点对我来说毫无意义。”

但他已经让他们获胜了。而且她并没有惩罚他太重。
脸色多了一点，沉默多了一点——仅此而已！

当他在夜里踱步时，一系列令人心酸的回忆占据了他的心。夏日黄昏中的音乐——她小脸的柔软——她那挥之不去的手的友善——首先，令人难以置信的友善！第二天早上，他被放逐到巴黎，执行为此目的而设计的天主教传教活动。他离开了，被激情撕扯——离开了，带着驱使神秘主义者经历宗教历史记录的所有形式的自我折磨的精神——专业荣誉学士学位。当他回来时，发现她像以前一样冷漠而充满敌意——对奥古斯蒂娜来说是任性的——与他自己是矛盾的。弗罗斯维克的计划已经开始实施——而且他还进一步推进了这个计划——出于安抚她、让她幸福的可怜愿望。会对她造成什么伤害？姐姐会和她一起去，把她带回来。为什么他一定要扮演不听话、专横的主人？他能解除她和共济会的血缘关系吗？如果只是为了困难和反对，她真的对这个庸俗小伙子有什么好感的话，也许让她看够他，让她不再抱有幻想才是最好的事情！有些直觉是可以信任的。

这就是早上的想法。它们并不能帮助他度过这些夜晚，尽管有所有常识性的争论，他还是一次又一次地想起她在梅森的陪伴下独自一人、可能毫无防备的形象。

突然，他发现光线在变化。他关掉灯，掀开窗帘。东边已经出现了淡金色的光芒。花园里奇怪的紫杉树开始从夜色中显现出来。一只巨大的绿色狮子露出了下巴，露出了王冠，笔直的尾巴在晨风中颤抖；一只孔雀在底座上僵硬地点着头。德莱顿死前，在柱子上竖立着一个巨大的H，在早晨的天空映衬下呈黑色，在笨拙的拥挤形状之间到处都是玫瑰，零散地被露水浸透，或者是六月盛开的墙花，或者是牡丹，紫杉丛中出现一片深红色。这座古老的花园在这一年余下的时间里都是那么僵硬和悲伤，但现在却正处于它的辉煌时刻。

赫尔贝克打开了凸肚窗的一扇格子，站在那里凝视着。六个月前，他和他的遗产之间、他的本性和他的种族精神之间已经存在着一种热情的统一。他们的贫困和迫害，他们的过失，他们愚蠢或愚蠢的忠诚，甚至他们的恶习，都成为他内心持续而秘密的感情的源泉。因为他们的罪恶来自于他们长期的殉道，而他们的殉道则来自于他们的信仰。新的影响对他产生了作用，与他出身的饥饿和本地类型相比，这些影响使他与更加欧洲化和激进的天主教徒联系在一起。但通过这一切，他的家庭自豪感、血统感及其所有的刺激和义务却不断增强。他为灾难、贫困、孤立感到自豪；它们是朝圣者脚上的伤疤——压迫者留下的荣誉印记。他光秃秃的、被雨淋过的房子，他忧郁的花园，自从规划者拒绝遵守《测试法案》并因此丧失了议会席位以来，那里的任何一张床或一条小路都没有发生过变化；他日渐减少的资源，他的隐士生活和食物——这对他来说不都是快乐吗？多年来，他一直渴望成为一名耶稣会士。他的地位和名字的义务阻碍了他的前进。他虽然不是圣伊格内修斯的儿子，但他为成为赫尔贝克人而感到高兴——越是被剥夺和被鄙视，越是幸福——与他身后那些残缺不全的世代相伴，他的信仰、他的信仰和他们的信仰的胜利，为心灵镀上了一层镀金。地平线。

现在，经过仅仅四个月的诱惑，他站在那里，对这个异教小生物的渴望折磨着，这个没有任何基督教情感或传统的女孩，一个异教徒父亲的孩子，她自己沉浸在否认和怀疑之中，没有任何温顺的东西她身上充满了女性气质，可以在上面打上新的印记——并且很清楚为什么她会否认，即使不是亲自和有意识地，至少是通过一种继承来否认。

错综复杂的花园，慢慢地在晨光中绽放出绚丽的光芒，老房子的墙壁，像原生岩石一样从草丛中拔地而起——他第一次感觉到自己和它们之间存在着鸿沟。他的理想在灵魂黑暗的空气中动摇；激情的气息驱使着他们来来往往。

痛苦地喊道：“主啊，exaudi！”他从窗户里爬起来，离开房间，穿过大厅，天花板上的都铎徽章，大壁炉上方“伊丽莎白·雷吉娜”的手臂在寒冷的黎明中已经清晰可见，他悄无声息地走了过去。可能去教堂。

墙上那些奇异的人影，已经将他们身上的黑暗给震散了。翅膀升起，光环叠着，每一张脸都以一种神秘的热情转向祭坛及其坚定的光芒。

Domine Deus、Agnus Dei、Filius Patris、qui tollis peccata mundi、suscipe deprecationem nostram。 Qui sedes ad dexteram Patris, miserere nobis.

他在祈祷和热情的冥想中度过了大部分仍需忍受的时间。但与此同时，在他罪恶而萎缩的心灵中，他清楚地知道，至少在那天晚上，他只是在祈祷，因为他无能为力——没有什么可以给他劳拉，也没有什么可以把他从震撼他内心的恐惧中解救出来。 。

六点前不久，赫尔贝克离开了教堂。他必须洗澡、穿衣——然后去农场拿小马车。如果她没有乘第一班火车到达，他就会在马斯兰找一匹马，然后开车去布雷赛德。但首先他必须小心地给丹顿夫人留个口信，当她前一天晚上站着听他讲述芳坦小姐的不幸遭遇时，她那张恶毒的脸再次出现在他的脑海里，令人不舒服。

管家也许还有一个小时都不会动。他回到自己的书房，给她写了一些简短的指示，涵盖了他可能缺席的时间。

当他走进房间时，尽管格子是敞开的，但他还是觉得房间里充满霉味，空气不流通。本能地，在写作之前，他又打开了一扇窗户。一股清新的玫瑰香味扑面而来，他立刻向前倾身，让凉爽的气流流过他的全身。

窗下有一个白色的东西引起了他的注意。

劳拉缓缓抬起头。

她是因为疲惫而睡着了吗？

赫尔贝克弯下腰，看到她的眼睛没有闭上。她以一种从未有过的眼神看着他——带着悲伤和精神上的单纯，仿佛她在一个所有人都可以说真话的世界里醒来，男人和女人之间没有任何面纱。

她的浅色帽子从额头上垂下来；她那精致、紧缩的面庞上带着痛苦的印记，与他的眼神相遇是如此甜蜜——如此坦率！

“我曾是 非常 累了，”她用一种新的声音说道，一种充满吸引力的信任的声音。 “而且门也没开。”

她举起小手，他握住了它，他的男人全身的力量都在颤抖。

“我只是想看看火车是否载你来。”

“不——我是步行的——至少走了很长一段路。你会帮我起来吗？
这很愚蠢，但我无法忍受。”

她摇摇晃晃地站起来，重重地靠在他的手上。她在额头上画了自己的画。

“这只是饥饿。我还喝了一些牛奶。奥古斯蒂娜过得好吗？”

“她当然很焦虑。我们都是。”

“是的！这太愚蠢了。但是你看——”她紧紧抓住他。 “在我见到奥古斯蒂娜之前，你能带我去客厅，给我拿点酒吗？”

“靠在我身上。”

她服从了，他带她进去。客厅的门开着，她坐到最近的椅子上。当她抬起头时，她看到墙上的罗姆尼女士在早晨的阳光下闪闪发光。蓝眼睛的美女俯视着苍白、衣衫褴褛的劳拉，仿佛带着一种漫不经心的居高临下的态度。但劳拉既不嫉妒也不羞愧。当赫尔贝克离开她去拿酒时，她一动不动地躺着，脸色苍白。但当他离开时，在房间里的孤独中，她紧闭的眼睑下突然浮现出一丝微笑，就像黎明本身一样幽灵般，然后又消失了。

当他回来时，她尽最大努力按照吩咐喝和吃。但她的疲惫变得痛苦不堪，而他则笼罩着她，在焦虑、悔恨和狂喜的脉动之间挣扎，几乎无法掩饰，即使是他自己。

“让我叫醒奥古斯蒂娜，把她打倒！”

“不——等一下。我在采石场待了一整夜，你瞧！那不是——休息！”

“我试图引导你——我设法给站长发电了；但它一定是错过了。我让他带你去旅馆。”

“哦，客栈！”她突然浑身一颤。 “不行，我不能去旅馆。”

“为什么——什么让你害怕？”

他在她身边坐下，语气非常温柔，就像对一个孩子一样。

她沉默了。他的心跳得厉害——他的耳朵渴望听到下一个词。

她抬起疲惫的眼睑。

“我的表弟就在那儿——在路口。我不想要他。我不想和他在一起；我不想和他在一起。他没有任何权利跟随我。于是我就派他去客栈询问——而我——”

“你 - ？”

“他不在的时候我就躲进了采石场。当他回来时，他继续在沙滩上呼唤我——也许他认为我在一个糟糕的地方迷路了。”

她异想天开地叹了口气，仿佛一想到这个小伙子可能受到的惊吓和徘徊，她就很高兴。

赫尔贝克向她弯下腰。

“And so—to avoid him——?”

She followed his eye like a child.

“I had noticed a quarry beside the line. I climbed up there—under the engine-house—and sat there till it was light. You see”—her breath fluttered—”I couldn’t—I couldn’t be sure—he was sober. I dare say it was ridiculous—but I was so startled—and he had no business——”

“He had given you no hint—that he wished to accompany you?”

Something drove, persecuted the man to ask it in that hoarse, shaking tone.

She did not answer. She simply looked at him, while the tears rose softly in her clear eyes. The question seemed to hurt her. Yet there was neither petulance nor evasion. She was Laura, and not Laura—the pale sprite of herself. One might have fancied her clothed already in the heavenly super-sensual body, with the pure heart pulsing visibly through the spirit frame.

Helbeck rose, closed the door softly, came back and stood before her, struggling to speak. But she intercepted him. There was a look of suffering, a frown.

“I saw a man die yesterday,” she said abruptly. “Did Polly tell you?”

“I heard of the accident, and that you had stayed to comfort the child.”

“It seems very heartless, but somehow as we were in the train I had almost forgotten it. I was so glad to get away from Froswick—to be coming back. And I was very tired, of course, and never dreamt of anything going wrong. Oh, 没有! I haven’t forgotten really—I never shall forget.”

She pressed her hands together shuddering. Helbeck was still silent.

But it was a silence that pierced. Suddenly she flushed deeply. The spell that held her—that strange transparency of soul—broke up.

“Naturally I was afraid lest Augustina should be anxious,” she said hastily, “and lest it should be bad for her.”

Helbeck knelt down beside her. She sank back in her chair, staring at him.

“You were glad to be coming back—to be coming here?” he said in his deep voice. “Is that true? Do you know that I have sat here all night—in misery?”

The struggling breath checked the answer, cheeks and lips lost every vestige of their returning red. Only her eyes spoke. Helbeck came closer. Suddenly he snatched the little form to his breast. She made one small effort to free herself, then yielded. Soul and body were too weak, the ecstasy of his touch too great.

“You can’t love me—you can’t.”

She had torn herself away. They were sitting side by side; but now she would not even give him her hand. That one trembling kiss had changed their lives. But in both natures, passion was proud and fastidious from its birth; it could live without much caressing.

As she spoke, he met her gaze with a smiling emotion. The long, stern face in its grizzled setting of hair and beard had suffered a transformation that made it almost strange to her. He was like a man loosed from many bonds, and dazzled by the effects of his own will. The last few minutes had made him young again. But she looked at him wistfully once or twice, as though her fancy nursed something which had grown dear to it.

“You can’t love me,” she repeated; “when did you begin? You didn’t love me yesterday, you know—nor the day before.”

“Why do you suppose I went away the day after the ghost?” he asked her slowly.

“Because you had business, or you were tired of my very undesirable company.”

“Put it as you like! Do you explain my recent absences in the same way?”

“Oh, I can’t explain you!” She raised her shoulders, but her face trembled. “I never tried.”

“Let me show you how. I went because you were here.”

“And you were afraid—that you might love me? Was it—such a hard fate?”
她转过头去。

“What have I to offer you?” he said passionately; “poverty—an elderly lover—a life uncongenial to you.”

She slipped a hand nearer to him, but her face clouded a little.

“It’s the very strangest thing in the world,” she said deliberately, “that we should love each other. What can it mean? I hated you when I came, and meant to hate you. And”—she sat up and spoke with an emphasis that brought the colour back into her face—”I can never, never be a Catholic.”

他严肃地看着她。

“That I understand.”

“You know that I was brought up apart from religion, altogether?”

His eye saddened. Then he raised her hand and kissed it. The pitying tenderness of the action almost made her break down. But she tried to snatch her hand away.

“It was papa’s doing, and I shall never blame him—never!”

“I have been in Belgium lately,” he said, holding the hand close, “at a great Catholic town—Louvain—where I was educated. I went to an old priest I know, and to a Reverend Mother who has sent me Sisters once or twice, and I begged of them both—prayers for your father’s soul.”

She stared. The painful tears rushed into her eyes.

“I thought that—for you—that was all sure and settled long ago.”

“I don’t think you know much about us, little heretic! I have prayed for your father’s soul at every Mass since—you remember that Rosary service in April?”

她点点头。

“And what you said to me afterwards, about the child—and doubt? I stayed long in the chapel that night. It was borne in upon me, with a certainty I shall never lose, that all was well with your poor father. Our Blessed Lord has revealed to him in that other life what an invincible ignorance hid from him here.”

He spoke with a beautiful simplicity, like a man dealing with all that was most familiarly and yet sacredly real to his daily mind and thought.

She trembled. Words and ideas of the kind were still all strange and double-edged to her—suggesting on the one side the old feelings of contempt and resistance, on the other a new troubling of the waters of the heart.

She leant her brow against the back of the old sofa on which they were sitting. “And—and no prayers for me?” she said huskily.

“Dear love!—at all times—in all places—at my downsitting and mine uprising,” he answered—every word an adoration.

She was silent for a moment, then she dashed the tears from her eyes.

“All the same, I shall never be a Catholic,” she repeated resolutely; “and how can you marry an unbeliever?”

“My Church allows it—under certain conditions.”

Her mind flew over the conditions. She had heard them named on one or two occasions during the preceding months. Then she turned away, dreading his eye.

“Suppose I am jealous of your Church and hate her?”

“No!—you will love her for my sake.”

“I can’t promise. There are two selves in me. All your Catholic friends—Father Leadham—the Reverend Mother—will be in despair.”

She saw him wince. But he spoke firmly. “I ask only what is lawful. I am free in such a matter to choose my own path—under my conscience.”

She said nothing for a little. But she pondered on all that he might be facing and sacrificing for such a marriage. Once a cloud of sudden misgiving descended upon her, as though, a bird had brushed her with its black wing. But she shook it away. Her little hand crept back to him—while her face was still hidden from him.

“I ought not to marry you—but—but I will. There—take me!—will you guide me?”

“With all my strength!”

“Will you fight me?”

He laughed. “To the best of my ability—when I must. Did I do it well—that night—about the ghost?”

She shrugged her shoulders—half laughing, half crying.

“No!—you were violent—impossible. Will you never, never let me get the upper hand?”

“How would you do it?—little atom!” He bent over her, trying to see her face, but she pressed him away from her.

“Make me afraid to mock at your beliefs!” she said passionately; “make me afraid!—there is no other way.”

“劳拉！”

At last she let his arms have their will. And it was time. The exhaustion which had been driven back for the moment by food and excitement returned upon her with paralysing force. Helbeck woke to a new and stronger alarm. He half led, half carried her through the hall, on the way to Augustina.

At the foot of the stairs, as Laura was making a tottering effort to climb them with Helbeck’s arm round her, Mrs. Denton came out of the dining-room straight upon them. She carried a pan and brush, and had evidently just begun her morning work.

At sight of her Laura started; but Helbeck gave her no chance to withdraw herself. He turned quietly to his housekeeper, who stood transfixed.

“Good-morning, Denton. Miss Fountain has just returned, having walked most of the way from Braeside. She is very tired, as you see—let some breakfast be got ready for her at once. And let me tell you now—what I should anyway have told you a few hours later—that Miss Fountain has promised to be my wife.”

He spoke with a cold dignity, scanning the woman closely. Mrs. Denton grew very white. But she dropped a curtesy in old Westmoreland fashion.

“I wish you joy, sir—and Miss Fountain, too.”

Her voice was low and mumbling, but Helbeck gave her a cheerful nod.

“Thank you. I shall be downstairs again as soon as I have taken Miss
Fountain to my sister—and I, too, should be glad of some breakfast.”

“He’s been agate all night,” said the housekeeper to herself, as she entered the study and looked at the chairs, the lamp which its master had forgotten to extinguish, the open window. “An where’s she been? Who knows? I saw it from the first. It’s a bewitchment—an it’ll coom to noa good.”

She went about her dusting with a shaking hand.

Augustina was not told till later in the day. When her brother, who was alone with her, had at last succeeded in making her understand that he proposed to make Laura Fountain his wife, the surprise and shock of the news was such that Mrs. Fountain was only saved from faintness by her very strongest smelling-salts.

“Alan—my dear brother! Oh! Alan—you can’t have thought it out. She’s her father’s child, Alan, all through. How can you be happy? Why, Alan, the things she says—poor Laura!”

“她 具有 said them,” he replied.

“She can’t help saying them—thinking them—it’s in her. No one will ever change her. Oh! it’s all so strange——”

And Augustina began to cry, silently, piteously.

Helbeck bent over her.

“Augustina!” He spoke with emotion. “If she loved, wouldn’t that change her? Don’t all women live by their affections? I am not worth her loving—but——”

His face shone, and spoke the rest for him.

Augustina looked at him in bewilderment. Why, it was only yesterday that Laura disliked and despised him, and that Alan hardly ever spoke when her stepdaughter was there. It was utterly incomprehensible to her. Was it another punishment from Heaven for her own wilful and sacrilegious marriage? As she thought of the new conditions and relations that were coming upon them all—the disapproval of friends, the danger to her brother’s Catholic life, the transformation of her own ties to Laura, her feeble soul lost itself in fear. Secretly, she said to herself, with the natural weariness of coming age:

“Perhaps I shall die—before it happens.”

Augustina was sitting in the garden with Father Bowles. Their chairs were placed under a tall Scotch fir, which spread its umbrella top between them and the sun. All around, the old garden was still full and flowery. For it was mid-September, and fine weather.

Mrs. Fountain was lying on a sort of deck-chair, and had as usual a number of little invalid appliances about her. But in truth, as Father Bowles was just reflecting, she looked remarkably well. The influences of her native air seemed so far to have brought Dr. MacBride’s warnings to naught. Or was it the stimulating effect of her brother’s engagement? At any rate she talked more, and with more vigour; she was more liable to opinions of her own; and in these days there was that going on at Bannisdale which provoked opinion in great plenty.

“Miss Fountain is not at home?” remarked the old priest. An afternoon gossip with Mrs. Fountain had become a very common feature of his recent life.

“Laura has gone, I believe, to meet my brother at the lodge. He has been over to Braeside on business.”

“He is selling some land there?”

“I hope so!” said Augustina, with fervour.

“It is time indeed that our poor orphans were housed,” said Father Bowles naïvely. “For the last three months some of our dear nuns have been sleeping in the passages.”

Augustina sighed.

“It seems a little hard that there is nobody but Alan to do anything! And how long is it to go on?”

The priest bent forward.

“你的意思是 - ？”

“How long will my stepdaughter let it go on?” said Augustina impatiently.
“She will be mistress here directly.”

The eyes of her companion flinched, as though something had struck him.
But he hastened to say:

“Do not let us doubt, my dear lady, that the soul of Miss Fountain will sooner or later be granted to our prayers.”

“But there is not the smallest sign of it,” cried Augustina. And she in her turn bent towards her companion, unable to resist the temptation of these priestly ears so patiently inclined to her. “And yet, Father, she isn’t happy!—though Alan gives way to her in everything. It’s not a bit like a girl in love—you’d expect her to be thinking about her clothes, and the man, and her housekeeping at least—if she won’t think about—well! those other things that we should all wish her to think about. While we were at the sea, and Alan used to come down every now and then to stay near us in lodgings, it was all right. They never argued or disputed; they were out all day; and really I thought my brother began to look ten years younger. But now—since we have come back—of course my brother has all his affairs, and all his Church business to look after, and Laura doesn’t seem so contented—nearly. It would be different if she cared for any of his interests—but I often think she hates the orphans! She is really naughty about them. And then the Sisters—oh dear!”—Augustina gave a worried sigh—”I don’t think the Reverend Mother can have managed it at all well.”

Father Bowles said that he understood both from the Reverend Mother and
Sister Angela that they had made very great efforts to secure Miss
Fountain’s friendly opinion.

“Well, it didn’t succeed, that’s all I can say,” replied Augustina fretfully. “And I don’t know what they’ll do after November.”

November had been fixed for the marriage, which was to take place at
剑桥。

Father Bowles hung his hands between his knees and looked down upon them in gentle meditation.

“Your brother seems still very much attached——”

“Attached!”

Augustina was silent. In reality she spent half her days in secretly marvelling how such a good man as Alan could allow himself to be so much in love.

“If only someone had ever warned me that this might happen—when I was coming back to live here,” she said, in her most melancholy voice; and clasping her thin hands she looked sadly down the garden paths, while her poor head shook and jerked under the influence of the thoughts—so far from agreeable!—with which it was filled.

There was a little silence. Then Father Bowles broke it.

“And our dear Squire does nothing to try and change Miss Fountain’s mind towards the Church?” he asked, looking vaguely round the corner all the time.

Nothing—so Augustina declared.

“I say to him—’Alan, give her some books.’ Why, they always give people books to read! ‘Or get Father Leadham to talk to her.’ What’s the good of a man like Father Leadham—so learned, and such manners!—if he can’t talk to a girl like Laura? But no, Alan won’t. He says we must let her alone—and wait God’s time!—And there’s no altering him, as you know.”

Father Bowles pondered a little, then said with a mild perplexity:

“I find, in my books, that a great many instances are recorded of holy wives—or even betrothed—who were instrumental under God in procuring the conversion of their unbelieving husbands—or—or lovers, if I may use such a word to a lady. But I cannot discover any of an opposite nature. There was the pious Nonna, for instance, the mother of the great St. Gregory Nazianzen, who converted her husband so effectually that he became a bishop, and died at the age of ninety.”

“What became of her?” inquired Augustina hastily.

牧师犹豫了。

“It is a very curious case—and, I understand, much disputed. Some people suppose that St. Gregory was born after his father became a bishop, and many infidel writers have made use of the story for their own malicious purposes. But if it was so, the Church may have allowed such a departure from her law, at a time of great emergency and in a scarcity of pastors. But the most probable thing is that nothing of the kind happened—” he drew himself up with decision—”that the father of St. Gregory had separated from his wife before he became a bishop—and that those writers who record the birth of St. Gregory during the episcopate of his father were altogether mistaken.”

“At any rate, I really don’t see how it helps us!” said Augustina.

Father Bowles looked a little crestfallen.

“There is one other case that occurs to me,” he said timidly. “It is that of St. Amator, Bishop of Auxerre. He was desired by his parents to marry Martha, a rich young lady of his neighbourhood. But he took her aside, and pressed upon her the claims of the ascetic life with such fervour that she instantly consented to renounce the world with him. She therefore went into a convent; and he received the tonsure, and was in due time made Bishop of Auxerre.”

“Well, I assure you, I should be satisfied with a good deal less than that in Laura’s case!” said Augustina, half angry, half laughing.

Father Bowles said no more. His mind was a curious medley of scraps from many quarters—from a small shelf of books that held a humble place in his little parlour, from the newspapers, and from the few recollections still left to him of his seminary training. He was one of the most complacently ignorant of men; and it had ceased to trouble him that even with Augustina he was no longer of importance.

Mrs. Fountain made him welcome, indeed, not only because he was one of the chief gossips of the neighbourhood, but because she was able to assume towards him certain little airs of superiority that no other human being allowed her. With him, she was the widow of a Cambridge scholar, who had herself breathed the forbidden atmosphere of an English University; she prattled familiarly of things and persons wherewith the poor priest, in his provincial poverty and isolation, could have no acquaintance; she let him understand that by her marriage she had passed into hell-flame regions of pure intellect, that little parish priests might denounce but could never appreciate. He bore it all very meekly; he liked her tea and talk; and at bottom the sacerdotal pride, however hidden and silent, is more than a match for any other.

Augustina lay for a while in a frowning and flushed silence, with a host of thoughts, of the most disagreeable and heterogeneous sort, scampering through her mind. Suddenly she said:

“I don’t think Sister Angela should talk as she does! She told me when she heard of the engagement that she could not help thinking of St. Philip Neri, who was attacked by three devils near the Colosseum, because they were enraged by the success of his holy work among the young men of Rome. I asked her whether she meant to call Laura a devil! And she coloured, and got very confused, and said it was so sad that Mr. Helbeck, of all people, should marry an unbelieving wife—and we were taught to believe that all temptations came from evil spirits.”

“Sister Angela means well, but she expresses herself very unwarrantably,” said the priest sharply. “Now the Reverend Mother tells me that she expected something of the kind, almost from the first.”

“Why didn’t she tell me?” cried Augustina. “But I don’t really think she did, Father. She makes a mistake. How 可以 she? But the dear Reverend Mother—well! you know—though she is so wonderfully humble, she doesn’t like anybody to be wiser than she. And I can hardly bear it—I 知道she puts it all down to some secret sin on Alan’s part. She spends a great part of the night—that she told me—in praying for him in the chapel.”

Father Bowles sighed.

“I believe that our dear Reverend Mother has often and often prayed for a good wife for Mr. Helbeck. Miss Fountain, no doubt, is a very attractive and accomplished young lady, but—”

“Oh, don’t, please, go through the ‘buts,'” said Mrs. Fountain with a shrug of despair. “I don’t know what’s to become of us all—I don’t indeed. It isn’t as though Laura could hold her tongue. Since we came back I can see her father in her all day long. I had a talk with the Bishop yesterday,” she said in a lower voice, looking plaintively at her companion.

He bent forward.

“Oh! he’s just, broken-hearted. He can hardly bring himself to speak to Alan about it at all. Of course, Alan will get his dispensation for the marriage. They can’t refuse it to him when they give it to so many others. But!”—she threw up her hands—”the Bishop asked me if Laura had been really baptized. I told him there was no doubt at all about it—though it was a very near thing. But her mother did insist that once. And it appears that if she hadn’t——”

She looked interrogatively at the priest.

“The marriage could not have taken place,” he said slowly. “No Catholic priest could have celebrated it, at least. There would have been a diriment impediment.”

“I thought so,” said Augustina excitedly, “though I wasn’t sure. There are so many dispensations nowadays.”

“Ah, but not in such cases as that,” said the priest, with an unconscious sigh that rather startled his companion.

Then with a sudden movement he pounced upon something on the further side of the table, nearly upsetting the tea-tray. Augustina exclaimed.

“I beg your pardon,” he said humbly; “it was only a nasty fly.” And he dropped the flattened creature on the grass.

Both relapsed into a melancholy silence. But several times during the course of it Mrs. Fountain looked towards her companion as though on the point of saying something—then rebuked herself and refrained.

But when the priest had taken his leave, and Mrs. Fountain was left alone in the garden with the flowers and the autumn wind, her thoughts were painfully concerned with quite another part of the episcopal conversation from that which she had reported to Father Bowles. What right had the Bishop or anyone else to speak of “stories” about Laura? Of course, the dear Bishop had been very kind and cautious. He had said emphatically that he did not believe the stories—nor that other report that Mr. Helbeck’s sudden proposal of marriage to Miss Fountain had been brought about by his chivalrous wish to protect the endangered name of a young girl, his guest, to whom he had become unwisely attached.

But why should there be “stories,” and what did it all mean?

That unlucky Froswick business—and young Mason? But what had Mason to do with it—on that occasion? As Augustina understood, he had seen the child off from Froswick by the 8.20 train—and there was an end of him in the matter. As for the rest of that adventure, no doubt it was foolish of Laura to sit in the quarry till daylight, instead of going to the inn; but all the world might know that she took a carriage at Wryneck, half-way home, about four o’clock in the morning, and left it at the top gate of the park. Why, she was in her room by six, or a little after!

What on earth did the Bishop mean? Augustina fell into a maze of rather miserable cogitation. She recalled her brother’s manner and words after his return from the station on the night of the expedition—and then next day, the news!—and Laura’s abrupt admission: “I met him in the garden, Augustina, and—well! we soon understood each other. It had to come, I suppose—it might as well come then. But I don’t wonder it’s all very surprising to you——” And then such a wild burst of tears—such a sudden gathering of the stepmother in the girl’s young arms—such a wrestle with feelings to which the bewildered Augustina had no clue.

Was Alan up all that night? Mrs. Denton had said something of the sort.
Was he really making up his mind to propose—because people might talk?
But why?—how ridiculous! Certainly it must have been very sudden. Mrs.
Denton met them coming upstairs a little after six; and Alan told her
然后。

“Oh, if I only 可以 understand it,” thought Augustina, with a little moan. “And now Alan just lives and breathes for her. And she will be here, in my mother’s place—Stephen’s daughter.”

Mrs. Fountain felt the burning of a strange jealousy. Her vanity and her heart were alike sore. She remembered how she had trembled before Alan in his strict youth—how she had apostatised even, merely to escape the demands which the intensity of Alan’s faith made on all about him. And now this little chit of twenty, her own stepdaughter, might do and say what she pleased. She would be mistress of Alan, and of the old house. Alan’s sister might creep into a corner, and pray!—that was enough for her.

And yet she loved Laura, and clung to her! She felt the humiliation of her secret troubles and envies. Her only comfort lay in her recovered faith; in the rosary to which her hands turned perpetually; in her fortnightly confession; in her visits to the sacrament. The great Catholic tradition beat through her meagre life, as the whole Atlantic may run pulsing through a drifting weed.

Meanwhile, near the entrance gate of the park, on a wooded knoll that overlooked the park wall and commanded the road beyond, Laura Fountain was sitting with the dogs—waiting for Helbeck.

He had been at Whinthorpe all day, on some business in which she was specially interested. The Romney lady was not yet sold. During May and June, Laura had often wondered why she still lingered on the wall. An offer had actually been made—so Augustina said. And there was pressing need for the money that it represented—that, every sojourner in Bannisdale must know. And yet, there still she hung.

Then, with the first day of her engagement, Laura knew why. “You saved her,” said Helbeck. “Since that evening when you denounced me for selling her—little termagant!—I have racked my brains to keep her.”

And now for some time there had been negotiations going on between Helbeck and a land agent in Whinthorpe for the sale of an outlying piece of Bannisdale land, to which the growth of a little watering-place on the estuary had given of late a new value. Helbeck, in general a singularly absent and ineffective man of business, had thrown himself into the matter with an astonishing energy, had pressed his price, hurried his solicitors, and begged the patience of the nuns—who were still sleeping in doorways and praying for new buildings—till all should be complete.

That afternoon he had ridden over to Whinthorpe in the hopes of signing the contract. He did not yet know—so Laura gathered—with whom he was really treating. The Whinthorpe agent had talked vaguely of “a Manchester gentleman,” and Helbeck had not troubled himself to inquire further.

When they were married, would he still sell all that he had, and give to the poor—in the shape of orphanages and reformatories? Laura was almost as unpractical, and cared quite as little about money, as he. But her heart yearned towards the old house; and she already dreamt of making it beautiful and habitable again. As a woman, too, she was more alive to the habitual discomforts of the household than Helbeck himself. Mrs. Denton at least should go! So much he had already promised her. The girl thought with joy of that dismissal, tightening her small lips. Oh! the tyranny of those perpetual grumblings and parsimonies, of those sour unfriendly looks! Economy—yes! But it should be a seemly, a smiling economy in future—one still compatible with a little elegance, a little dignity.

Laura liked to think of her own three hundred a year; liked to feel it of importance in the narrow lot of this impoverished estate. To a rich bridegroom it would have been a trifle for contempt. To Helbeck and herself—though she scarcely believed that he had realised as yet that she possessed a farthing!—it would mean just escape from penury; a few more fires and servants and travellings; enough to ease his life from that hard strain that had tugged at it so long. For 这里 money should not go to nuns or Jesuits!—she would protect it zealously, and not for her own sake.

… Oh! those days by the sea! Those were days for remembering. That tall form always beside her—those eyes so grey and kind—so fiery-kind, often!—revealing to her day by day more of the man, learning a new language for her alone, in all the world, a language that could set her trembling, that could draw her to him, in a humility that was strange and difficult, yet pure joy!—her hand slipping into his, her look sinking beneath his, almost with an appeal to love to let her be. Then—nothing but the sparkling sands and the white-edged waves for company! A little pleasant chat with Augustina; duty walks with her bath chair along the sea-wall; strolls in the summer dusk, while Mrs. Fountain, wrapped in her many shawls, watched them from the balcony; their day had known no other events, no other disturbance than these.

As far as things external were concerned.—Else, each word, each look made history. And though he had not talked much to her of his religion, his Catholic friends and schemes, all that he had said on these things she had been ready to take into a softened heart. His mystic’s practice and belief wore still their grand air for her—that aspect of power and mystery which had in fact borne so large a part in the winning of her imagination, the subduing of her will. She did not want then to know too much. She wished the mystery still kept up. And he, on his side, had made it plain to her that he would not attempt to disturb her inherited ideas—so long as she herself did not ask for the teaching and initiation that could only, according to his own deepest conviction, bear fruit in the willing and prepared mind.

But now—— They were at Bannisdale again, and he was once more Helbeck of Bannisdale, a man sixteen years older than she, wound round with the habits and friendship and ideals which had been the slow and firm deposit of those years—habits and ideals which were not hers, which were at the opposite pole from hers, of which she still only dimly guessed the motives and foundations.

“Helbeck of Bannisdale.” Her new relation to him, brought back into the old conditions, revealed to her day by day fresh meanings and connotations of the name. And the old revolts, under different, perhaps more poignant forms, were already strong.

什么是 次 this religion took! Apart from the daily Mass, which drew him always to Whinthorpe before breakfast, there were the morning and evening prayers, the visits to the Sacrament, the two Masses on Sunday morning, Rosary and Benediction in the evening, and the many occasional services for the marking of Saints’-days or other festivals. Not to speak of all the business that fell upon him as the chief Catholic layman of a large district.

And it seemed to her that since their return home he was more strict, more rigorous than ever in points of observance. She noticed that not only was Friday a fast-day, but Wednesday also was an “abstinence” day; that he looked with disquiet upon the books and magazines that were often sent her by the Friedlands, and would sometimes gently beg her—for the Sisters’ sake—to put them out of sight; that on the subject of balls and theatres he spoke sometimes with a severity no member of the Metropolitan Tabernacle could have outdone. What was that phrase he had dropped once as to being “under a rule”? What was “The Third Order of St. Francis”? She had seen a book of “Constitutions” in his study; and a printed card of devout recommendations to “Tertiaries of the Northern Province” hung beside his table. She half thirsted, half dreaded, to know precisely what these things meant to him. But he was silent, and she shrank from asking.

Was he all the more rigid with himself on the religious side of late, because of that inevitable scandal which his engagement had given to his Catholic friends—perhaps because of his own knowledge of the weakening effects of passion on the will? For Laura’s imagination was singularly free and cool where the important matters of her own life were concerned. She often guessed that but for the sudden emotion of that miserable night, and their strange meeting in the dawn, he might have succeeded in driving down and subduing his love for her—might have proved himself in that, as in all other matters, a good Catholic to the end. That she should have brought him to her feet in spite of all trammels was food for a natural and secret exultation. But now that the first exquisite days of love were over, the trammels, the forgotten trammels, were all there again—for the fretting of her patience. That his mind was often disturbed, his cheerfulness overcast, that his letters gave him frequently more pain than pleasure, and that a certain inward unrest made his dealings with himself more stern, and his manner to those around him less attractive than before,—these things were constantly plain to Laura. As she dwelt upon them, they carried flame and poison through the girl’s secret mind. For they were the evidences of forces and influences not hers—forces that warred with hers, and must always war with hers. Passion on her side began to put forward a hundred new and jealous claims; and at the touch of resistance in him, her own will steeled.

As to the Catholic friends, surely she had done her best! She had called with Augustina on the Reverend Mother and Sister Angela—a cold, embarrassed visit. She had tried to be civil whenever they came to the house. She had borne with the dubious congratulations of Father Bowles. She had never once asked to see any portion of that correspondence which Helbeck had been carrying on for weeks with Father Leadham, persuaded though she was, from its effects on Helbeck’s moods and actions, that it was wholly concerned with their engagement, and with the problems and difficulties it presented from the Catholic point of view.

She was preparing even to welcome with politeness that young Jesuit who had neglected his dying mother, against whom—on the stories she had heard—her whole inner nature cried out….

The sound of a horse approaching. Up sprang the dogs, and she with them.

Helbeck waved his hand to her as he came over the bridge. Then at the gate he dismounted, seeing Wilson in the drive, and gave his horse to the old bailiff.

“Cross the bridge with me,” he said, as he joined her, “and let us walk home the other side of the river. Is it too far?”

His eyes searched her face—with the eagerness of one who has found absence a burden. She shook her head and smiled. The little frown that had been marring the youth of her pretty brow smoothed itself away. She tripped beside him, feeling the contagion of his joy—inwardly repentant—and very happy.

But he was tired and disappointed by the day’s result. The contract was not signed. His solicitor had been summoned in haste to make the will of a neighbouring magnate; some of the last formalities of his own business had been left uncompleted; and in short the matter was postponed for at least a day or two.

“I wish it was done,” he said, sighing—and Laura could only feel that the responsibilities and anxieties weighing upon him seemed to press with unusual strength.

A rosy evening stole upon them as they walked along the Greet.—The glow caught the grey walls of the house on the further bank—lit up the reaches of the stream—and the bare branch work of a great ruined tree in front of them. Long lines of heavy wood closed the horizon on either hand, shutting in the house, the river, and their two figures.

“How solitary we are here!” he said, suddenly looking round him. “Oh!
Laura, can you be happy—with poverty—and me?”

“Well, I shan’t read my prayer-book along the river!—and I shan’t embroider curtains for the best bedroom—alack! Perhaps a new piano might keep me quiet—I don’t know!”

He looked at her, then quickly withdrew his eyes, as though they offended. Through his mind had run the sacred thought, “Her children will fill her life—and mine!”

“When am I to teach you Latin?” he said, laughing.

她抬起肩膀。

“I wouldn’t learn it if I could do without it! But you Catholics are bred upon it.”

“We are the children of the Church,” he said gently. “And it is her tongue.”

She made no answer, and he talked of something else immediately. As they crossed the little footbridge he drew her attention to the deep pool on the further side, above which was built the wooden platform, where Laura had held her May tryst with Mason.

“Did I ever tell you the story of my great-grandfather drowning in that pool?”

“What, the drinking and gambling gentleman?”

“Yes, poor wretch! He had half killed his wife, and ruined the property—so it was time. He was otter hunting—there is an otter hole still, half-way down that bank. Somehow or other he came to the top of the crag alone, probably not sober. The river was in flood; and his poor wife, sitting on one of those rock seats with her needlework and her books, heard the shouts of the huntsmen—helped to draw him out and to carry him home. Do you see that little beach?”—he pointed to a break in the rocky bank. “It was there—so tradition says—that he lay upon her knee, she wailing over him. And in three months she too was gone.”

Laura turned away.

“I won’t think of it,” she said obstinately. “I will only think of her as she is in the picture.”

On the little platform she paused, with her hand on the railing, the dark water eddying below her, the crag above her.

“I could—tell 您 something about this place,” she said slowly. “Do you want to hear?”

She bent over the water. He stood beside her. The solitude of the spot, the deep shadow of the crag, gave love freedom.

He drew her to him.

“Dear!—confess!”

She too whispered:

“It was here—I saw Hubert Mason—that night.”

“Culprit! Repeat every word—and I will determine the penance.”

“As if there had not been already too much! Oh! what a lecture you read me—and you have never apologised yet! Begin—开始—at once!”

He raised her hand and kissed it.

“So? Now—courage!”

And with some difficulty—half laughing—she described the scene with
Hubert, her rush home, her meeting with old Scarsbrook.

“I tell you,” she insisted at the end, “there is good in that boy somewhere—there is”

Helbeck said nothing.

“But you always saw the worst,” she added, looking up.

“I am afraid I only saw what there was,” he said dryly. “Dear, it gets cold, and that white frock is very thin.”

They walked on. In truth, he could hardly bear that she should take Mason’s name upon her lips at all. The thoughts and comments of ill-natured persons, of some of his own friends—the sort of misgiving that had found expression in the Bishop’s talk with his sister—he was perfectly aware of them all, impossible as it would have been for Augustina or anyone else to say a word to him on the subject. The dignity no less than the passion of a strong man was deeply concerned. He repented and humbled himself every day for his own passing doubts; but his resolution only stiffened the more. There was no room, there should never be any room in Laura’s future life, for any further contact with the Mason family.

And, indeed, the Mason family itself seemed to have arrived at very similar conclusions! All that Helbeck knew of them since the Froswick day might have been summed up in a few sentences. On the Sunday morning Mason, in a wild state, with wet clothes and bloodshot eyes, had presented himself at the Wilsons’ cottage, asking for news of Miss Fountain. They told him that she was safely at home, and he departed. As far as Helbeck knew, he had spent the rest of the Sunday drinking heavily at Marsland. Since then Laura had received one insolent letter from him, reiterating his own passion for her, attacking Helbeck in the fiercest terms, and prophesying that she would soon be tired of her lover and her bargain. Laura had placed the letter in Helbeck’s hands, and Helbeck had replied by a curt note through his solicitor, to the effect that if any further annoyance were offered to Miss Fountain he would know how to protect her.

Mrs. Mason also had written. Madwoman! She forbade her cousin to visit the farm again, or to hold any communication with Polly or herself. A girl, born of a decent stock, who was capable of such an act as marrying a Papist and idolater was not fit to cross the threshold of Christian people. Mrs. Mason left her to the mercy of her offended God.

And in this matter of her cousins Laura was not unwilling to be governed.
It was as though she liked to feel the curb.

And to-night as they strolled homewards, hand locked in hand, all her secret reserves and suspicions dropped away—silenced or soothed. Her charming head drooped a little; her whole small self seemed to shrink towards him as though she felt the spell of that mere physical maturity and strength that moved beside her youth. Their walk was all sweetness; and both would have prolonged it but that Augustina had been left too long alone.

She was no longer in the garden, however, and they went in by the chapel entrance, seeking for her.

“Let me just get my letters,” said Helbeck, and Laura followed him to his study.

The afternoon post lay upon his writing-table. He opened the first, read it, and handed it with a look of hesitation to Laura.

“Dear, Mr. Williams comes to-morrow. They have given him a fortnight’s holiday. He has had a sharp attack of illness and depression, and wants change. Will you feel it too long?”

Involuntarily her look darkened. She put down the letter without reading it.

“Why—I want to see him! I—I shall make a study of him,” she said with some constraint.

But by this time Helbeck was half through the contents of his next envelope. She heard an exclamation of disgust, and he threw down what he held with vehemence.

“One can trust nobody!” he said—”没有人！=

He began to pace the floor with angry energy, his hands thrust into his pockets. She—in astonishment—threw him questions which he hardly seemed to hear. Suddenly he paused.

“Dear Laura!—will you forgive me?—but after all I must sell that picture!”

“为什么？”

“I hear to-day, for the first time, who is to be the real purchaser of that land, and why it is wanted. It is to be the site of a new Anglican church and vicarage. I have been tricked throughout—tricked—and deceived! But thank God it is not too late! The circumstances of this afternoon were providential. There is still time for me to write to Whinthorpe.” He glanced at the clock. “And my lawyers may tear up the contract when they please!”

“And—that means—you will sell the Romney?” said Laura slowly.

“I must! Dear little one!”—he came to stoop over her—”I am most truly grieved. But I am bound to my orphans by all possible engagements—both of honour and conscience.”

“Why is it so horrible that an Anglican church should be built on your land?” she said, slightly holding him away from her.

“Because I am responsible for the use of my land, as for any other talent. It shall not be used for the spread of heresy.”

“Are there any Catholics near it?”

“Not that I know of. But it has been a fixed principle with me throughout my life”—he spoke with a firm and, as she thought, a haughty decision—”to give no help, direct or indirect, to a schismatical and rebellious church. I see now why there has been so much secrecy! My land is of vital importance to them. They apparently feel that the whole Anglican development of this new town may depend upon it. Let them feel it. They shall not have a foot—not an inch of what belongs to me!”

“Then they are to have no church,” said Laura. She had grown quite pale.

“Not on my land,” he said, with a violence that first amazed and then offended her. “Let them find sympathisers of their own. They have filched enough from us Catholics in the past.”

And he resumed his rapid walk, his face darkened with an anger he vainly tried to curb. Never had she seen him so roused.

She too rose, trembling a little.

“But I love that picture!” she said. “I beg you not to sell it.”

He stopped, in distress.

“Unfortunately, dear, I have promised the money. It must be found within six weeks—and I see no other way.”

She thought that he spoke stiffly, and she resented the small effect of her appeal.

“And you won’t bend a single prejudice to—to save such a family possession—though I care for it so much?”

He came up to her with outstretched hands.

“I have been trying to save it all these weeks! Nothing but such a cause as this could have stood in the way. It is not a prejudice, darling—believe me!—it belongs, for me at any rate, to Catholic obligation.”

She took no notice of the hands. With her own she clung to the table behind her.

“Why do you give so much to the Sisters? It is not right! They give a very bad education!”

He stared at her. How pale she had grown—and this half-stifled voice!——

“I think we must be the judges of that,” he said, dropping his hands. “We teach what we hold most important.”

“Nobody like Sister Angela ought to teach!” she cried—”you give money to bring pupils to Sister Angela. And she is not well trained. I never heard anyone talk so ignorantly as she does to Augustina. And the children learn nothing, of course—everyone says so.”

“And you are so eager to listen to them?” he said, with sparkling eyes.
Then he controlled himself.

“But that is not the point. I humbly admit our teaching is not nearly so good as it might be if we had larger funds to spend upon it. But the point is that I have promised the money, and that a number of arrangements—fresh teachers among them—are already dependent on it. Dearest, won’t you recognise my difficulties, and—and help me through them?”

“You make them yourself,” she said, drawing back. “There would be none if you did not—hate—your fellow-citizens.”

“I hate no one—but I cannot aid and abet the English Church. That is impossible to me. Laura!” He observed her carefully. “I don’t understand. Why do you say these things?—why does it hurt you so much?”

“Oh! let me go,” she cried, flinging his hand away from her. “Let me go!”

And before he could stop her, she had fled to the door, and disappeared.

Helbeck and Augustina ate a lonely dinner.

“You must have taken Laura too far this afternoon, Alan,” said Mrs. Fountain fretfully. “She says she is too tired to come down again to-night—so very unlike her!”

“She did not complain—but it may have been a long round,” said her companion.

After dinner, Helbeck took his pipe into the garden, and walked for long up and down the bowling-green, torn with solitary thought. He had put up his pipe, and was beginning drearily to feel the necessity of going back to his study, and applying himself—if he could force his will so far—to some official business that lay waiting for him there, when a light noise on the gravel caught his ear.

His heart leapt.

“劳拉！”

She stopped—a white wraith in the light mist that filled the garden. He went up to her overwhelmed with the joy of her coming—accusing himself of a hundred faults.

She was too miserable to resist him. The storm of feeling through which she had passed had exhausted her wholly; and the pining for his step and voice had become an anguish driving her to him.

“I told you to make me afraid!” she said mournfully, as she found herself once more upon his breast—”but you can’t! There is something in me that fears nothing—not even the breaking of both our hearts.”

A week later the Jesuit scholastic Edward Williams arrived at Bannisdale.

In Laura his coming roused a curiosity half angry, half feminine, by which Helbeck was alternately harassed and amused. She never tired of asking questions about the Jesuits—their training, their rules, their occupations. She could not remember that she had ever seen one till she made acquaintance with Father Leadham. They were alternately a mystery and a repulsion to her.

Helbeck smilingly told her that she was no worse than the mass of English people. “They have set up their bogey and they like it.” She would be surprised to find how simple was the Jesuit secret.

“What is it?—in two words?” she asked him.

“Obedience—training. So little!” he laughed at her, and took her hand tenderly.

She inquired if Mr. Williams were yet “a full Jesuit.”

“Oh dear no! He has taken his first vows. Now he has three years’ philosophy, then four years’ theology. After that they will make him teach somewhere. Then he will take orders—go through a third year’s noviceship—get a doctor’s degree, if he can—and after that, perhaps, he will be a professed ‘Father.’ It isn’t done just by wishing for it, you see.”

The spirit of opposition reared its head. She coloured, laughed—and half without intending it repeated some of the caustic things she had heard occasionally from her father or his friends as to the learning of Jesuits. Helbeck, under his lover’s sweetness, showed a certain restlessness. He hardly let himself think the thought that Stephen Fountain had been quoted to him very often of late; but it was there.

“I am no judge,” he said at last. “I am not learned. I dare say you will find Williams ignorant enough. But he was a clever boy—besides his art.”

“And they have made him give up his art?”

“For a time—yes—perhaps altogether. Of course it has been his great renunciation. His superiors thought it necessary to cut him off from it entirely. And no doubt during the novitiate he suffered a great deal. It has been like any other starved faculty.”

The girl’s instincts rose in revolt. She cried out against such waste, such mutilation. The Catholic tried to appease her; but in another language. He bade her remember the Jesuit motto. “A Jesuit is like any other soldier—he puts himself under orders for a purpose.”

“And God is to be glorified by the crashing out of all He took the trouble to give you!”

“You must take the means to the end,” said Helbeck steadily. “The Jesuit must yield his will—otherwise the Society need not exist. In Williams’s case, so long as he had a fascinating and absorbing pursuit, how could he give himself up to his superiors? Besides”—his grave face stiffened—”in his case there were peculiar difficulties. His art had become a temptation. He wished to protect himself from it.”

Laura’s curiosity was roused; but Helbeck gently put her questions aside, and at last she said in a flash of something like passion that she wondered which the young man had felt most—the trampling on his art, or the forsaking his mother.

Helbeck looked at her with sudden animation.

“I knew you had heard that story. Dear—he did not forsake his mother! He meant to go—the Fathers had given him leave. But there was a mistake, a miscalculation—and he arrived too late.”

Laura’s beautiful eyes threw lightnings.

“A miscalculation!” she cried scornfully, her quick breath beating—”That puts it in a nutshell.”

Helbeck looked at her sadly.

“So you are going to be very unkind to him?”

“No. I shall watch him.”

“Look into him rather! Try and make out his spring. I will help you.”

She protested that there was nothing she less desired. She had been reading some Jesuit biographies from Augustina’s room, and they had made her feel that the only thing to be done with such people was to keep them at a distance.

Helbeck sighed and gave up the conversation. Then in a moment, compunctions and softenings began to creep over the girl’s face. A small hand made its way to his.

“There is Wilson in the garden—shall we go and talk to him?”

They were in Helbeck’s study—where Augustina had left them alone for a little after luncheon.

Helbeck put down his pipe with alacrity. Laura ran for her hat and cape, and they went out together.

A number of small improvements both inside and outside the house had been recently inaugurated to please the coming bride. Already Helbeck realised—and not without a secret chafing—the restraints that would soon be laid upon the almsgiving of Bannisdale. A man who marries, who may have children, can no longer deal with his money as he pleases. Meanwhile he found his reward in Laura’s half-reluctant pleasure. She was at once full of eagerness and full of a proud shyness. No bride less grasping or more sensitive could have been imagined. She loved the old house and would fain repair its hurts. But her wild nature, at the moment, asked, in this at least, to be commanded, not to command. To be the managing wife of an obedient husband was the last thing that her imagination coveted. So that when any change in the garden, any repair in the house, was in progress, she would hover round Helbeck, half cold, half eager, now only showing a fraction of her mind, and now flashing out into a word or look that for Helbeck turned the whole business into pure joy. Day by day, indeed, amid all jars and misgivings, the once solitary master of Bannisdale was becoming better acquainted with that mere pleasantness of a woman’s company which is not passion, but its best friend. In the case of those women whom nature marks for love, it is a company full of incident, full of surprise. Certainly Helbeck found it so.

A week or more had now passed since the quarrel over the picture. Not a word upon the subject had passed between them since. As for Laura, she took pains not to look at the picture—to forget its existence. It was as though she felt some hidden link between herself and it—as though some superstitious feeling attached to it in her mind.

Meanwhile a number of new understandings were developing in Helbeck. His own nature was simple and concentrated, with little introspective power of the modern kind—even through all the passions and subtleties of his religion. Nevertheless his lover’s sense revealed to him a good deal of what was going on in the semi-darkness of Laura’s feelings and ideas. He divined this jealousy of his religious life that had taken possession of her since their return from the sea. He felt by sympathy that obscure pain of separation that tormented her. What was he to do?—what could he do?

The change astonished him, for while they were at the sea, it seemed to him that she had accepted the situation with a remarkable resolution. But it also set him on new trains of thought; it roused in him a secret excitement, a vague hope. If her earlier mood had persisted; if amid the joys of their love she had continued to put the whole religious matter away from her, as many a girl with her training might and would have done—then indeed he must have resigned himself to a life-long difference and silence between them on these vital things.

But, since she suffered—since she felt the need of that more intimate, more exquisite link—? Since she could not let it alone, but must needs wound herself and him——?

Instinctively he felt the weakness of her intellectual defence. Once or twice he let himself imagine the capture of her little struggling soul, the break-down of her childish resistance, and felt the flooding of a joy, at once mystical and very human.

But that natural chivalry and deep self-distrust he had once expressed to
Father Leadham kept him in check; made him very slow and scrupulous.
Towards his Catholic friends indeed he stood all along in defence of
Laura, an attitude which only made him more sensitive and more vulnerable
in other directions.

Meanwhile his own struggles and discomforts were not few. No strong man of Helbeck’s type endures so complete an overthrow at the hands of impulse and circumstance as he had done, without going afterwards through a period of painful readjustment. The new image of himself that he saw reflected in the astonished eyes of his Catholic companions worked in him a number of fresh forms of self-torment. His loyalty to Laura, indeed, and to his own passion was complete. Secretly, he had come to believe, with all the obstinate ardor of the religious mind, that the train of events which had first brought Laura into his life, and had then overcome his own resistance to her spell, represented, not temptation, but a Divine volition concerning him. No one so impoverished and forlorn as she in the matters of the soul! But not of her own doing. Was she responsible for her father? In the mere fact that she had so incredibly come to love him—he being what he was—there was surely a significance which the Catholic was free to interpret in the Catholic sense. So that, where others saw defection from a high ideal and danger to his own Catholic position, he, with hidden passion, and very few words of explanation even to his director, Father Leadham, felt the drawing of a heavenly force, the promise of an ultimate and joyful issue.

At the same time, the sadness of his Catholic friends should find no other pretext. Upon his fidelity now and here, not only his own eternal fate, but Laura’s, might depend. Devotion to the crucified Lord and His Mother, obedience to His Church, imitation of His saints, charity to His poor—these are the means by which the Catholic draws down the grace, the condescension that he seeks. He felt his own life offered for hers. So that the more he loved her, the more set, the more rigid became all the habits and purposes of religion. Again and again he was tempted to soften them—to spend time with her that he had been accustomed to give to Catholic practice—to slacken or modify the harshness of that life of self-renouncement, solitude, unpopularity, to which he had vowed himself for years—to conceal from her the more startling and difficult of his convictions. But he crushed the temptation, guided, inflamed by that profound idea of a substituted life and a vicarious obedience which has been among the root forces of Christianity.

One evening, as she was dressing for the very simple meal that only Mrs.
Denton dignified by the name of “dinner,” Laura reminded herself that Mr.
Williams must have arrived, and that she would probably find him in the
hall on her descent.

It happened to be the moment for donning a new dress, which she had
ordered from a local artist. She had no mind to exhibit it to the Jesuit.
On the other hand the temptation to show it to Helbeck was irresistible.
她穿上了。

When she entered the hall, her feelings of dislike to Mr. Williams, and her pride in her new dress, had both combined to give her colour and radiance. Helbeck saw her come in with a start of pleasure. Augustina fidgeted uncomfortably. She thought that Laura might have dressed in something more quiet and retiring to meet a guest who was a religious, almost a priest.

Helbeck introduced the newcomer. Laura’s quick eyes travelled over the young man who bowed to her with a cold awkwardness. She turned aside and seated herself in a corner of the settle, whither Helbeck came to bend over her.

“What have you been doing to yourself?” he asked her in a low voice. At the moment of her entrance she had thought him pale and fatigued. He had been half over the country that day on Catholic business. But now his deep-set eyes shone again. He had thrown off the load.

“Experimenting with a Whinthorpe dressmaker,” she said; “do you approve?”

Her smile, her brilliance in her pretty dress, intoxicated him. He murmured some lover’s words under his breath. She flushed a little deeper, then exerted herself to keep him by her. Till supper was announced they had not a word or look for anyone but each other. The young “scholastic” talked ceremoniously to Augustina.

“Who talks of Jesuit tyranny now?” said Helbeck, laughing, as he and
Laura led the way to the dining-room. “If it is not too much for him,
Williams has leave to finish some of his work in the chapel while he is
here. But he looks very ill—don’t you think so?”

She understood the implied appeal to her sympathy.

“He is extraordinarily handsome,” she said, with decision.

At table, however, she came to terms more exactly with her impression. The face of the young Jesuit was indeed, in some ways, singularly handsome. The round, dark eyes, the features delicate without weakness, the high brow narrowed by the thick and curly hair that overhung it, the small chin and curving mouth, kept still something of the look and the bloom of the child—a look that was only intensified by the strange force of expression that was added to the face whenever the lids so constantly dropped over the eyes were raised. For one saw in it a mingling at once of sharp observation and of distrust; it seemed to spring from some fiery source of personality, which at the very moment it revealed itself, yet warned the spectator back, and stood, half proudly, half sullenly, on the defensive. Such a look one may often see in the eyes of a poetic and morbid child.

But the whole aspect was neither delicate nor poetic. For the beauty of the head was curiously and unexpectedly contradicted by the clumsiness of the frame below it. “Brother” Williams might have the head of a poet; he had the form and movements, the large feet and shambling gait, of the peasant. And Laura, scanning him with some closeness, noticed with distaste a good many signs of personal slovenliness and ill-breeding. His hands were not as clean as they might have been; his clerical coat badly wanted a brushing.

His talk to Augustina could hardly have been more formal. In speaking to ladies he seldom raised his eyes; and as far as she herself was concerned Laura was certain, before half an hour was over, that he meant to address her and to be addressed by her, as little as possible.

Towards Helbeck the visitor’s manner was more natural and more attractive. It was a manner of affection, and great deference; but even here the occasional bursts of conversation into which the Squire drew his guest were constantly interrupted by fits of silence or absence on the part of the scholastic.

Perhaps the subject on which they talked most easily was that of Jesuit Missions—especially of certain West African stations. Helbeck had some old friends there; and Laura thought she detected that the young scholastic had himself missionary ambitions.

Augustina too joined in with eagerness; Laura fell silent.

But she watched Helbeck, she listened to Helbeck throughout. How full his mind and heart were of matters, persons, causes, that must for ever represent a sealed world to her! The eagerness, the knowledge with which he discussed them, roused in her that jealous, half-desolate sense that was becoming an habitual tone of mind.

And some things offended her taste. Helbeck showed most animation, and the young Jesuit most response, whenever it was a question not so much of Catholic triumphs, as of Protestant rebuffs. The follies, mistakes, and defeats of Anglican missions in particular—Helbeck’s memory was stored with them. By his own confession he had made a Jesuit friend departing for the mission, promise to tell him any funny or discreditable tales that could be gathered as to their Anglican rivals in the same region. And while he repeated them for Williams’s amusement, he laughed immoderately—he who laughed so seldom. The Jesuit too was convulsed—threw off all restraint for the first time.

The girl flushed brightly, and began to play with Bruno. Years ago she remembered hearing her father say approvingly of Helbeck’s manner and bearing that they were those “of a man of rank, though not of a man of fashion;” and it was hardly possible to say how much of Helbeck’s first effect on her imagination had been produced by that proud unworldliness, that gently, cold courtesy in which he was commonly wrapped. These silly pointless stories that he had been telling with such relish disturbed and repelled her. They revealed a new element in his character, something small and ugly, that was like the speck in a fine fruit, or, rather, like the disclosure of an angry sore beneath an outward health and strength.

She recalled the incident of the land, and that cold isolation in which Helbeck held himself towards his Protestant neighbours—the passionate animosity with which he would sometimes speak of their charities or their pietisms, the contempt he had for almost all their ideals, national or social. Again and again, in the early days at Bannisdale, it had ruffled or provoked her.

Helbeck soon perceived that she was jarred. When she called to Bruno he checked his flow of anecdote, and said to her in a lower voice:

“You think us uncharitable?”

She looked up—but rather at the Jesuit than at Helbeck.

“No—only it is not amusing! If Augustina or I could speak for the other side—that would be more fun!”

“Laura!” cried Augustina, scandalised.

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t, if you could,” said the girl gayly. “And I can’t. So there it is. One can’t stop you, I suppose!”

She threw back her bright head and turned to Helbeck. The action was pretty and coquettish; but there was a touch of fever in it, nevertheless, which did not escape the stranger sitting opposite to her. Brother Williams raised his down-dropped lids an instant. Those brilliant eyes of his took in the girl’s beauty and the change in Helbeck’s countenance.

“You shall stop what you like,” said Helbeck. A mute conversation seemed to pass between him and Miss Fountain; then the Squire turned to his sister, and asked her cheerfully as to the merits of a new pony that she and Laura had been trying that afternoon.

After dinner Helbeck, much troubled by the pinched features and pale cheeks of his guest, descended himself to the cellar in search of a particular Burgundy laid down by his father and reputed to possess a rare medicinal force.

Mr. Williams was left standing before the hearth, and the famous carved mantelpiece put up by the martyr of 1596. As soon as Helbeck was gone he looked carefully—furtively—round the room. It was the look of the peasant appraising a world not his.

A noise made by the wind at one of the old windows disturbed him. He looked up and was caught by a photograph that had been propped against one of the vases of the mantelpiece. It was a picture—recently taken—of Miss Fountain sitting on the settle in the hall with the dogs beside her. And it rendered the half-mocking animation of her small face with a peculiar fidelity.

The young man was conscious of a strong movement of repulsion. Mr. Helbeck’s engagement had sent a thrill of pain through a large section of the Catholic world; and the Jesuit had already divined a hostile force in the small and brilliant creature whose eyes had scanned him so coldly as she sat beside the Squire. He fell into a reverie, and took one or two turns up and down the room.

“Shall I?” he said to himself in an excitement that was half vanity, half religion.

Half an hour later Laura was in the oriel window of the drawing-room, looking out through the open casement at the rising of a golden moon above the fell. Her mind was full of confusion.

“Is he never to be free to say what he thinks and feels in his own house?” she asked herself passionately. “Or am I to sit by and see him sink to the level of these bigots?”

Augustina was upstairs, and Laura, absorbed in her own thoughts and the night loveliness of the garden, did not hear Helbeck and Mr. Williams enter the room, which was as usual but dimly lighted. Suddenly she caught the words:

“So you still keep her? That’s good! One could not imagine this room without her.”

The voice was the voice of the Jesuit, but in a new tone—more eager, more sincere. What were they talking of?—the picture? And she, Laura, of course was hidden from them by the heavy curtain half drawn across the oriel. She could not help waiting for Helbeck’s reply.

“Ah!—you remember how she was threatened even when you first began to come here! I have clung to her, of course—there has always been a strong feeling about her in the family. Last week I thought again that she must go. But—well! it is too soon to speak—I still have some hopes—-I have been straining every nerve. You know, however, that we must begin our new buildings at the orphanage in six weeks—and that I must have the money?”

He spoke with his usual simplicity. Laura dropped her head upon the window-sill, and the tears rushed into her eyes.

“I know—we all know—what you have done and sacrificed for the faith,” said the younger man with emotion.

“完全 will not venture to make a merit of it,” said Helbeck gravely. “For we serve the same ends—only you perceive them more clearly—and follow them more persistently than I.”

“I have stronger aids—and shall have to answer for more!” said Williams, in a low voice. “And I owe it all to you—my friend and rescuer.”

“You use a great deal too strong language,” said Helbeck, smiling.

Williams threw him an uncertain look. The colour mounted in the young man’s sickly cheek. He approached the Squire.

“Mr. Helbeck—I know from something a common friend told me—that you think—that you have said to others—that my conversion was not your doing. You are mistaken. I should like to tell you the truth. May I?”

Helbeck looked uncomfortable, but was not ready enough to stave off the impending confidence. Williams fixed him with eyes now fully lifted, and piercingly bright.

“You said little—that is quite true. But it was what you did, what I saw as I worked here beside you week after week that conquered me. Do you remember once rebuking me in anger because I had made some mistake in the chapel work? You were very angry—and I was cut to the heart. That very night you came to me, as I was still working, and asked my pardon—you! Mr. Helbeck of Bannisdale, and I, a boy of sixteen, the son of the wheelwright who mended your farm carts. You made me kneel down beside you on the steps of the sanctuary—and we said the Confiteor together. Don’t say you forget it!”

Helbeck hesitated, then spoke with evident unwillingness.

“You make a great deal of nothing, my dear Edward. I had treated you to one of the Helbeck rages, I suppose—and had the grace to be ashamed of myself.”

“It made me a Catholic,” said the other emphatically, “so I naturally dwell upon it. Next day I stole a ‘Garden of the Soul’ and a book of meditations from your study. Then, on the pretext of the work, I used to make you tell me or read me the stories of the saints—later, I often used to follow you in the morning when you went to Mass. I watched you day by day, till the sense of something supernatural possessed me. Then you noticed my coming to Mass—you asked Father Bowles to speak to me—you seemed to shrink—or I thought so—from speaking yourself. But it was not Father Bowles—it was not my first teachers at St. Aloysius it was you—who brought me to the faith!”

“Well, if so, I thank God. But I think your humility——”

“One moment,” said the Jesuit hurriedly. “There is something on my mind to say to you—if I might be allowed to say it—if the gratitude, the strong and filial gratitude, which I feel towards you—for that, and much, much else,” his voice shook, “might be my excuse——”

Helbeck was silent. Laura to her dismay heard the sound of steps. Mr.
Williams had walked to the open door of the drawing-room and closed it.
What was she to do? Indecision—a wilful passion of curiosity—held her
where she was.

It was some moments, however, before the conversation was resumed. At last the young man said in a tone of strong agitation:

“You may blame me—my superiors may blame me. I have no leave—no commission whatever. The impulse to speak came to me when I was waiting for you in the dining-room just now. I can only plead your own goodness to me—and—the fact that I have remembered you before the Blessed Sacrament for these eight years…. It was an impression at meditation that I want to tell you of—an impression so strong that I have never since been able to escape from it—it haunts me perpetually. I was in our chapel at St. Aloysius. The subject of meditation was St. John vii. 36, ‘Every man went unto his own house,’ followed immediately by the first words of the eighth chapter, ‘and Jesus went unto Mount Olivet.’ … I endeavoured strictly to obey the advice of St. Ignatius. I placed myself at the feet of our Lord. I went through the Preludes. Then I began on the meditation. I saw the multitude returning to their homes and their amusements—while our Lord went alone to the Mount of Olives. It was evening. The path seemed to me steep and weary—and He was bent with fatigue. At first He was all alone—darkness hung over the hill and the olive gardens. Then, suddenly, I became aware of forms that followed Him, at a long distance—saints, virgins, martyrs, confessors. They swept along in silence. I could just see them as a dim majestic crowd. Presently, a form detached itself from the crowd—to my amazement, I saw 您 distinctly—there seemed to be a special light upon your face. And the rest appeared to fall back. Soon I only saw the Form toiling in front, and you following. Then at the brow of the hill the Lord turned—and you, who were half-way up the last steep, paused also. The Lord beckoned to you. His Divine face was full of sweetness and encouragement—and you made a spring towards Him. Then something happened—something horrible—but I could hardly see what. But a figure seemed to snatch at you from behind—you stumbled—then you fell headlong. A black cloud fell from the sky—and covered you. I heard a wailing cry—I saw the Lord’s face darkened—and immediately afterwards the train of saints swept past me once more, with bent heads, beating their breasts. I cannot describe the extraordinary vividness of it! The succession of thoughts and images never paused; and when I woke, or seemed to wake, I found myself bathed in sweat and nearly fainting.”

一片死寂。

The scholastic began again, in still more rapid and troubled tones, to excuse himself. Mr. Helbeck might well think it presumption on his part to have repeated such a thing. He could only plead a strange pressure on his conscience—a sense of obligation. The fact was probably nothing—meant nothing. But if calamity came—if it meant calamity—and he had not delivered his message—would there not have been a burden on his soul?

Suddenly there was a sound. The handle of the drawing-room turned.

“Why, you are dark in here!” said Augustina. “What a wretched light that lamp gives!”

At the same moment the heavy curtain over the oriel window was drawn to one side, and a light figure entered the room.

The Jesuit made a step backwards. “Laura!” cried Helbeck in bewilderment.
“你从哪里来？”

“I was in the window watching the moon rise. Didn’t you know?”

She walked up to him, and without hesitation she did what she had never yet done before a spectator: she slipped her little hand into his. He looked down upon her, rather pale, his lips moving. Then withdrawing his hand, he quietly and proudly put his arm round her. She accepted the movement with equal pride, and without a word.

Augustina looked at them with discomfort—coughed, fumbled with her spectacles, and began to hunt for her knitting. The Jesuit, whiter and sicklier than before, murmured that he would go and rest after his journey, and with eyes steadily cast down he walked away.

“I don’t wonder!” thought Augustina, in an inward heat; “they really are too demonstrative!”

That night for the first time since her arrival at Bannisdale, Laura, instead of saying good-night as soon as the clock reached a quarter to ten, quietly walked beside Augustina to the chapel.

She knelt at some distance from Helbeck. But when the prayers, which were read by Mr. Williams, were over, and the tiny congregation was leaving the chapel, she felt herself drawn back. Helbeck did not speak, but in the darkness of the corridor he raised her hands and held them long against his lips. She quickly escaped from him, and without another word to anyone she was gone.

But an hour or two later, as she lay wakeful in her room above the study, she still heard the sound of continuous voices from below.

Helbeck and the scholastic!—plunged once more in that common stock of recollections and interests in which she had no part, linked and reconciled through all difference by that Catholic freemasonry of which she knew nothing. The impertinent zeal of the evening—the young man’s ill manners and hypocrisies—would be soon forgiven. In some ways Mr. Helbeck was more Jesuit than the Jesuits. He would not only excuse the audacity—was she quite sure that in his inmost heart he would not shrink before the warning?

“What chance have I?” she cried, in a sudden despair; and she wept long and miserably, oppressed by new terrors, new glimpses, as it were, of some hard or chilling reality that lay waiting for her in the dim corridors of life.

Next morning after breakfast, Helbeck and Mr. Williams disappeared. A light scaffolding had been placed in the chapel. Work was to begin.

Laura put on her hat, took a basket, and went into the garden to gather fresh flowers for the house. Along the edges of the bowling-green stood rows of sunflowers, a golden show against the deep bronze of the thick beech hedges that enclosed the ground. Laura was trying, without much success, to reach some of the top blossoms of a tall plant when Helbeck came upon her.

“Be as independent as you please,” he said laughing, “but you will never be able to gather sunflowers without me!”

In a moment her basket was filled. He looked down upon her.

“You should live here—in the bowling-green. It frames you—your white hat—your grey dress. Laura!”—his voice leapt—”do I do enough to make you happy?”

She flushed—turned her little face, and smiled at him—but rather sadly, rather pensively. Then she examined him in her turn. He looked jaded and tired. From want of sleep?—or merely from the daily fatigue of that long walk, foodless, to Whinthorpe for early Mass? That morning, as usual, by seven o’clock she had seen him crossing the park. A cheerless rain was falling from a grey sky. But she had never yet known him stopped by weather.

There was a quick association of ideas—and she said abruptly:

“Why did Mr. Williams say all that to you last night, do you suppose?”

Helbeck’s countenance changed. He sauntered on beside her, his hands in his pockets, frowning. But he did not reply, and she became impatient.

“I have been reading a French story this morning,” she said quickly. “There is a character in it—a priest. The author says of him that he had ‘une imagination faussée et troublée.'” She paused, then added with great vivacity—”I thought it applied to someone else—don’t you?”

The fold in Helbeck’s forehead deepened a little.

“Have you judged him already? I don’t know—I can’t take Williams, you see, quite as you take him. To me he is still the strange gifted boy I taught to draw—whom I had to protect from his brutal father. He has chosen the higher life, and will soon be a priest. He is therefore my superior. But at the same time I think I understand him and his character. I understand the kind of impulse—the impetuosity—that made him do and say what he did last night.”

“It was our engagement, of course, that he meant—by your fall—the black cloud that covered you?”

The impetuous directness was all Laura; so was the sensitive change in eye and lip. But Helbeck neither wavered, nor caressed her. He had a better instinct. He looked at her with a penetrating glance.

“I don’t think he quite knew what he meant. And you? Now I will carry the war into the enemy’s country! Were you quite kind—quite right in doing what you did last night? Foolish or no, he was speaking in a very intimate way—of things that he felt deeply. It must have given him great pain to be overheard.”

Her breath fluttered.

“It was quite an accident that I was there. But how could I help listening? I must know—I ought to know—what your Catholic friends think—what they say of me to you!”

She was conscious of a childish petulance. But it was as though she could not help herself.

“I wish you had not listened,” he said, with gentle steadiness. “Won’t you trust those things to me?”

“What power have I beside theirs?” she said, turning away her head. He saw the trembling of the soft throat, and bent over her.

“I only ask you, for both our sakes, not to test it too far!”

And taking her hand by force, he crushed it passionately in his own.

But she was only half appeased. Her mind, indeed, was in that miserable state when love finds its only pleasure in self-torment.

With a secret change of ground she asked him how he was going to spend the day. He answered, reluctantly, that there was a Diocesan Committee that would take the afternoon, and that the morning must be largely given to the preparation of papers.

“But you will come and look in upon me?—you will help me through?”

She raised her shoulders resentfully.

“And you have been, to Whinthorpe already!—Why do you go to Mass every morning?” she asked, looking up. “I know very few Catholics do. I wish you’d tell me.”

他看上去很尴尬。

“It has been my custom for a long time,” he said at last.

“但是， 为什么呢？=

“Inquisitive person!”

Her look of pain checked him. He observed her rather sadly and silently for a moment, then said:

“I will tell you, dear, of course, if you want to know. It is one of the obligations of the Third Order of St. Francis, to which I belong.”

“这意味着什么？”

He shortly explained. She cross-examined. He was forced to describe to her in detail all the main constitutions of the Third Order; its obligations as to fasting, attendance at Mass, and at the special meetings of the fraternity; its prescriptions of a rigid simplicity in life and dress; its prohibition of theatre-going.

She stood amazed. All her old notions of Catholics as gay people, who practised a free Sunday and allowed you to enjoy yourself, had been long overthrown by the Catholicism of Bannisdale. But this—this might be Daffady’s Methodism!

“So that is why you would not take us to Whinthorpe the other day to see that London company?”

“It was an unsuitable play,” he said hastily. “Theatres are not wholly forbidden us; but the exceptions must be few, and the plays such as a Catholic can see without harm to his conscience.”

“But I love acting!” she cried, almost with a sense of suffocation. “Whenever I could, I got papa to take me to the play. I shall always want to go.”

“There will be nothing to prevent you.”

“So that anything is good enough for those who are not tertiaries!” she cried, confronting him.

Her cheeks burned. Had there been any touch of spiritual arrogance in his tone?

“I think I shall not answer that,” he said, after a pause.

They walked on—she blindly holding herself as far as possible from him; he, with the mingled ardour and maladroitness of his character, longing and not quite venturing to cut the whole coil, and silence all this mood in her, by some masterfulness of love.

Suddenly she paused—she stepped to him—she laid her fingers on his arms—bright tears shone in her eyes.

“You can’t—you can’t belong to that—when we are married?”

“To the Third Order? But, dear!—there is nothing in it that conflicts with married life! It was devised specially for persons living in the world. You would not have me give up what has been my help and salvation for ten years?”

He spoke with great emotion. She trembled and hid her face against him.

“Oh! I could not bear it!” she said. “Can’t you realise how it would divide us? I should feel outside—a pariah. As it is, I seem to have nothing to do with half your life—there is a shut door between me and it.”

A flash of natural, of wholly irresistible feeling passed through him. He stooped and kissed her hair.

“Open the door and come in!” he said in a whisper that seemed to rise from his inmost soul.

She shook her head. They were both silent. The deep shade of the “wilderness” trees closed them in. There was a gentle melancholy in the autumn morning. The first leaves were dropping on the cobwebbed grass; and the clouds were low upon the fells.

Presently Laura raised herself. “Promise me you will never press me,” she said passionately; “don’t send anyone to me.”

他叹了口气。

“我承诺。”

One afternoon towards the end of Mr. Williams’s visit, Laura was walking along a high field-path that overlooked the whole valley of the Flent. Helbeck had gone to meet the Bishop on some urgent business; but the name of his Catholic affairs was legion.

The weather, after long days of golden mist, of veiled and stealing lights on stream and fell, had turned to rain and tumult. This afternoon, indeed, the rain had made a sullen pause. It had drawn back for an hour or two from the drenched valleys, even from the high peaks that stood violet-black against a space of rainy light. Yet still the sky was full of anger. The clouds, dark and jagged, rushed across the marsh lands before the northwest wind. And the colour of everything—of the moss, the peaks, the nearer crags and fields—was superbly rich and violent. The soaked woods of the park from which she had just emerged were almost black, and from their heart Laura could hear the river’s swollen voice pursuing her as she walked.

There was something in the afternoon that reminded her of her earliest impressions of Bannisdale and its fell country—of those rainy March winds that were blowing about her when she first alighted at the foot of the old tower.

The association made her tremble and catch her breath. It was not all joy—oh! far from it! The sweet common rapture of common love was not hers. Instinctively she felt something in her own lot akin to the wilder and more tragic aspects of this mountain land, to which she had turned from the beginning with a daughter’s yearning.

Yet the tragedy, if tragedy there were, was all from within, not from without. Augustina—though Laura guessed her mind well enough—complained no more. The marriage was fixed for November; the dispensation from the Bishop had been obtained. No lover could be more ardent, more tender, than Helbeck.

Why then this weariness—this overwhelming melancholy that seized her in all her solitary moments? Her nature had lost its buoyancy, its old gift for happiness.

The truth was that her will was tired out. Her whole soul thirsted to submit, and yet could not submit. Was it the mere spell of Catholic order and discipline, working upon her own restless and ill-ordered nature? It had so worked, indeed, from the beginning. She could recall—with trembling—many a strange moment in Helbeck’s presence, or in the chapel, when she had seemed to feel her whole self breaking up, dissolving in the grip of a power that was at once her foe and the bearer of infinite seduction. But always the will, the self, had won the victory, had delivered a final “不！” into which had rushed the whole energy of her being.

And now—if it were only possible to crush back that “No”—to beat down this resistance which, like an alien garrison, defended, as it were, a town that hated it; if she could only turn and knock—knock humbly—at that closed door in her lover’s life and heart. One touch!—one step!

Just as Helbeck could hardly trust himself to think of the joy of conquest, so she shrank bewildered before the fancied bliss of yielding.

To what awful or tender things would it admit her! That ebb and flow of mystical emotion she dimly saw in Helbeck, a life within a life;—all that is most intimate and touching in the struggle of the soul—all that strains and pierces the heart—the world to which these belong rose before her, secret, mysterious, “a city not made with hands,” now drawing, now repelling. Voices came from it to her that penetrated all the passion and the immaturity of her nature.

The mere imagination of what it would mean to surrender herself to Helbeck’s teaching in these strange and moving things—what it would be to approach them through the sweetness, the chiding, the training of his love—could shake and unnerve her.

What stood in the way?

Simply a revolt and repulsion that seemed to be more than and outside herself—something independent and unconquerable, of which she was the mere instrument.

Had the differences between her and Helbeck been differences of opinion, they would have melted like morning dew. But they went far deeper. Helbeck, indeed, was in his full maturity. He had been trained by Jesuit teachers; he had lived and thought; his mind had a framework. Had he ever felt a difficulty, he would have been ready, no doubt, with the answer of the schools. But he was governed by heart and imagination no less than Laura. A serviceable intelligence had been used simply to strengthen the claims of feeling and faith. Such as it was, however, it knew itself. It was at command.

But Laura!—Laura was the pure product of an environment. She represented forces of intelligence, of analysis, of criticism, of which in themselves she knew little or nothing, except so far as they affected all her modes of feeling. She felt as she had been born to feel, as she had been trained to feel. But when in this new conflict—a conflict of instincts, of the deepest tendencies of two natures—she tried to lay hold upon the rational life, to help herself by it and from it, it failed her everywhere. She had no tools, no weapons. The Catholic argument scandalised, exasperated her; but she could not meet it. And the personal prestige and fascination of her lover did but increase with her, as her feeling grew more troubled and excited, and her intellectual defence weaker.

Meanwhile to the force of temperament there was daily added the force of a number of childish prejudices and dislikes. She had come to Bannisdale prepared to hate all she saw there; and with the one supreme exception, hatred had grown at command. She was a creature of excess; of poignant and indelible impressions. The nuns, with their unintelligible virtues, and their very obvious bigotries and littlenesses; the slyness and absurdities of Father Bowles; the priestly claims of Father Leadham; the various superstitions and peculiarities of the many priests and religious who had passed through the house since she knew it—alas! she hated them all!—and did not know how she was to help hating them in the future. These Catholic figures were to her so many disagreeable automata, moved by springs she could not possibly conceive, and doing perpetually the most futile and foolish things. She knew, moreover, by a sure instinct, that she had been unwelcome to them from the first moment of her appearance, and that she was now a stumbling-block and a grievance to them all.

Was she—by submission—to give these people, so to speak, a right to meddle and dabble in her heart? Was she to be wept over by Sister Angela—to confess her sins to Father Bowles—still worse, to Father Leadham? As she asked herself the question, she shrank in sudden passion from the whole world of ideas concerned—from all those stifling notions of sin, penance, absolution, direction, as they were conventionalised in Catholic practice and chattered about by stupid and mindless people. In defiance of them, her whole nature stood like a charged weapon, ready to strike.

For she had been bred in that strong sense of personal dignity which is the modern substitute for the abasements and humiliations of faith. And with that sense of dignity went reserve—the intimate conviction that no feeling which is talked about, which can be observed and handled and measured by other people, is worth a rush. It was what seemed to her the spiritual intrusiveness of Catholicism, its perpetual uncovering of the soul—its disrespect for the secrets of personality—its humiliation of the will—that made it most odious in the eyes of this daughter of a modern world, which finds in the development and dignifying of human life its most characteristic faith.

There were many moments indeed in which the whole Catholic system appeared to Laura’s strained imagination as one vast 狩猎—an assemblage of hunters and their toils—against which the poor human spirit that was their quarry must somehow protect itself, with every possible wile or violence.

So that neither submission, nor a mere light tolerance and forgetting, were possible. Other girls, it seemed, married Catholics and made nothing of it—agreed pleasantly to differ all their lives. Her heart cried out! There could be no likeness between these Catholic husbands and Alan Helbeck.

In the first days of their engagement she had often said to herself: “I need have nothing to do with it!” or “Some things are so lovely!—I will only think of them.” In those hours beside the sea it had been so easy to be tolerant and kind. Helbeck was hers from morning till night. And she, so much younger, so weak and small and ignorant, had seemed to hold his life, with all its unexplored depths and strengths, in her hand.

And now———

She threw herself down on a rock that jutted from the wet grass, and gave herself up to the jealous pain that possessed her.

A few days more and Mr. Williams would be gone. There was some relief in that thought. That strange scene in the drawing-room—deep as all concerned had buried it in oblivious silence—had naturally made his whole visit an offence to her. In her passionate way she felt herself degraded by his very presence in the house. His eyes constantly dropt, especially in her presence and Augustina’s, his evident cold shrinking from the company of women—she thought of them with disgust and anger. For she said to herself that now she understood what they meant.

Of late she had been constantly busy with the books that stood to the right of Helbeck’s table. She could not keep herself away from them, although the signs of tender and familiar use they bore, were as thorns in her sore sense. Even his books were better friends to him than she! And especially had she been dipping into those “Lives of the Saints” that Helbeck read habitually day by day; of which he talked to young Williams with a minuteness of knowledge that he scarcely possessed on any other subject—knowledge that appeared in all the details of the chapel painting. And on one occasion, as she turned over the small, worn volumes of his Alban Butler, she had come upon a certain passage in the life of St. Charles Borromeo:

“Out of a most scrupulous love of purity … neither would he speak to any woman, not even to his pious aunt, or sisters, or any nun, but in sight of at least two persons, and in as few words as possible.”

The girl flung it down. Surrounded as she often was by priests—affronted by those downcast eyes of the scholastic—the passage came upon her as an insult. Her cheeks burnt. Instinctively she showed herself that evening more difficult and exacting than ever with the man who loved her, and could yet feed his mind on the virtues of St. Charles Borromeo.

Nevertheless, she was often puzzled by the manner and demeanour of the young Jesuit.

During his work at the chapel frescoes certain curious transformations seemed to have passed over him. Or was it merely the change of dress? While painting he wore a long holland blouse that covered the clerical coat, concealed the clumsy limbs and feet, and concentrated the eye of the spectator on the young beauty of the head. When a visitor entered he would look up for an instant flushed with work and ardour, then plunge again into what he was doing. Art had reclaimed him; Laura could almost have said the Jesuit had disappeared. And what an astonishing gift there was in those clumsy fingers! His daring delicacies of colour; his ways of using the brush, that seemed to leave no clue behind; the liquid shimmer and brilliancy of his work—Helbeck could only explain them by saying that he had once taken him as a lad of nineteen to see a loan exhibition at Manchester, and then to the gallery at Edinburgh,

“There were three artists that he fastened upon—Watteau!—I have seen him recoil from the subjects (he was already balancing whether he should become a religious) and then go back again and again to the pictures, feeding himself upon them. Then there were two or three Rembrandts, and two or three Tintorets. One Tintoret Entombment I remember—a small picture. I never could get him away from it. He told me once that it was like something painted in powdered gems and then dipped in air. I believe he got the expression from some book he was reading,” said Helbeck, with the good-humoured smile of one who does not himself indulge in the fineries of language…. “When we came home I borrowed a couple of pictures for him from a friend in Lancashire, who has good things. One was a Rembrandt—’The Casting-out of Hagar’—I have his copy of it in my room now—the other was a Tintoret sketch. He worked at them for days and weeks, pondering and copying them, bit by bit, till he was almost ill with excitement and enthusiasm. But you see the result in what he does.”

And Helbeck smiled upon the artist with the affectionate sympathy of an elder brother. He and Laura were standing together one morning at the west end of the chapel, while Williams, in his blouse and mounted on a high stool, was painting a dozen yards away.

“And then he gave it up!” said Laura under her breath. “Who can understand that?”

Helbeck hesitated a little. His face was crossed for a moment by the shadow of some thought that he did not communicate. Then he said, “He came—as I told you—to think that it was right and best for him to do so. An artist, darling, has to think of the Four Last Things, like anybody else!”

“The Four Last Things!” said Laura, startled. “What do you mean?”

“Death—Judgment—Heaven—and Hell.”

The words fell slowly from the half-whispering voice into the quiet darkness of the chapel. Laura looked up—Helbeck’s eyes, fixed upon the crucifix over the altar, seemed to receive thence a stem and secret message to which the whole man responded.

The girl moved restlessly away.

“Let us go and see what he is doing.”

As they approached, Williams turned to Helbeck—he seemed not to see Miss Fountain—and said a few troubled phrases that showed him wholly dissatisfied with his morning’s work. Beads of perspiration stood on his brow; his lips were pinched and feverish; his eyes unhappy. He pointed Helbeck to the figure he was engaged upon—a strange dream of St. Mary of Egypt, as a very old woman, clothed in the mantle of Zosimus—the lion who was to bury her, couchant at her feet. Helbeck looked into it; admired some points, criticised others. Williams got down from his stool, talked with a low-voiced volubility, an egotistical passion and disturbance that roused astonishment in Laura. Till then she had been acquainted only with the measured attitudes and levelled voice that the Jesuit learns from the “Regulae Modestiae” of his order. But for the first time she felt a certain sympathy with him.

Afterwards for some days the young man, so recently an invalid, could hardly be persuaded to take sufficient exercise or food. He was absorbed in his saint and in the next figure beyond her, that was already growing under his brush. St. Ursula, white robed and fair haired, was springing like a flower from the wall; her delicate youth shone beside the age and austerity, the penitence and emaciation, of St. Mary of Egypt. Both looked towards the altar; but St. Mary with a mystic sadness that both adored and quailed; St. Ursula with the rapture, the confidence, of a bride.

The artist could not be torn from his conception; and upon Laura too the spell of the work steadily grew. She would slip into the chapel at all hours, and watch; sometimes standing a little way from the painter, a black lace scarf thrown round her bright hair, sometimes sitting motionless with a book on her knee, which she did not read. When Helbeck was there conversation arose into which she was often drawn. And out of a real wish to please Helbeck, she would silence her own resentments, and force herself to be friendly. Insensibly Williams began to talk to her; and it would sometimes happen, when Helbeck went away for a time, that the cold reserve or 红褐色 of the Jesuit would melt wholly before the eagerness of the artist—when, with intervals of a brusque silence, he talked with the rapidity and force of a turbid stream on the imaginations and the memories embodied in his work. And on one occasion, when the painter was busy with the head of St. Ursula, Laura, who was talking to Helbeck a few yards away, turned suddenly and found those dark strange eyes, that as a rule evaded her, fixed steadily and intently upon her. Next day she fancied with a start of dislike that in the lines of St. Ursula’s brow, and in the arrangement of the hair, there was a certain resemblance to herself. But Helbeck did not notice it, and nothing was said.

At meals, too, conversation turned now more on art than on missions. Pictures seen by the two friends years before; Helbeck’s fading recollections of Florence and Rome; modern Catholic art as it was being developed in the Jesuit churches of the Continent: of these things Williams would talk, and talk eagerly. Sometimes Augustina would timidly introduce some subject of greater practical interest to the commonplace English Catholic. Mr. Williams would let it drop; and then Mrs. Fountain would sit silent and ill at ease, her head and hands twitching in a helpless bewildered way.

But in a moment came a change. After a certain Thursday when he was at work all day, the young man painted no more. Beyond St. Ursula, St. Eulalia of Saragossa, Virgin and Martyr, had been sketched in, with a strange force of line and some suggestions both of colour and symbolism that held Laura fascinated. But the sketch remained ghostlike on the wall. The high stool was removed; the blouse put away.

Thenceforward Mr. Williams—to Laura’s secret anger—spent hours in Helbeck’s study reading. His avoidance of her society and Mrs. Fountain’s was more marked than ever. His face, which in the first days at Bannisdale had begun to recover a certain boyish bloom, became again white and drawn. The eyes were scarcely ever seen; if, by some rare chance, the heavy lids did lift, the fire and brilliance of the gaze below were startling to the bystander. But for the most part he seemed to be wrapped in a dumb sickliness and pain; his person was even less cleanly, his clothes less cared for, than before. At table he hardly talked at all; never of painting, or of any topic connected with it.

Once or twice Laura caught Helbeck’s look fixed upon his guest in what seemed to her anxiety or perplexity. But when she carelessly asked him what might be wrong with Mr. Williams, the Squire gave a decided answer.

“He is ill—and we ought not to have allowed him to do this work. There must be complete rest till he goes.”

“Has he seen his father?” asked Laura.

“No. That is still hanging over him.”

“Does his father wish to see him?”

“No! But it is his duty to go.”

“Why? That he may enjoy a little more martyrdom?”

Helbeck laughed and captured her hand.

“What penalty do I exact for that?”

“It doesn’t deserve any,” she said quickly. “I don’t think it is for health he has given up his painting. I believe he is unhappy.”

“It may have revived old struggles,” said Helbeck, with a sigh that seemed to escape him against his will.

“Why doesn’t he give it all up,” she said with energy, “and be an artist?
That’s where his heart, his strength, lies.”

Helbeck’s manner changed and stiffened.

“You are entirely mistaken, dearest. His heart and his strength are in his vocation—in making himself a good Jesuit.”

She shook her head obstinately, with that rising breath of excitement which the slightest touch of difference was now apt to call up.

“I don’t think so!—and I have watched him. Suppose he 做了 give it all up? He could, of course, at any time.”

Helbeck tried to smile and change the subject. But Laura persisted. Till at last the Squire said with pain:

“Darling—I don’t think you know how these things sound in Catholic ears.”

“But I want to know. You see, I don’t understand anything about vows. I can’t imagine why that man can’t walk into a studio and leave his clerical coat behind him to-morrow. To me nothing seems easier. He is a human being, and free.”

Helbeck was silent, and began to put some letters in order that were lying on his table. Laura’s caprice only grew stronger.

“If he were to leave the Jesuits,” she said, “would you break with him?”

As Mr. Williams was safely in the park with Augustina, Laura had resumed her accustomed place in the low seat beside Helbeck’s writing-table. Augustina, for decorum’s sake, had her arm-chair on the further side of the fireplace, where she often dozed, knitted, and read the newspapers. But she left the betrothed a good deal alone, less from a natural feminine sympathy than because she fed herself day by day on the hope that, in spite of all, Alan would yet set himself in earnest to the task that was clearly his—the task of Laura’s conversion.

Helbeck showed no more readiness to answer her second inquiry than her first. He seemed to be absorbed in reading over a business letter.

Laura’s pride was roused. Her cheeks flushed, and she repeated her question, her mind filled all the time with that mingled dread and wilfulness that must have possessed poor Psyche when she raised the lamp.

“Well, no,” said Helbeck dryly, without lifting his eyes from his letter—”I don’t suppose that he would remain my friend, under such strange circumstances—or that he would wish it.”

“So you would cast him off?”

“Why will you start such uncomfortable topics, dear?” he said, half laughing. “What has poor Williams done that you should imagine such things?”

“I want to know what 您 would do if Mr. Williams—if any priest you know were to break his vows and leave the Church, what would you do?”

“Follow the judgment of the Church,” said Helbeck quietly.

“And give up your friend!”

“Friendship, darling, is a complex thing—it depends upon so much. But I am so tired of my letters! Your hat is in the hall. Won’t you come out?”

He rose, and bent over her tenderly, his hand on the table. In a flash she felt all the strange dignity, the ascetic strength of his personality; it was suggested this time by the mere details of dress—by the contrast between the worn and shabby coat, and the stern force of the lips, the refined individuality of the hand. She was filled anew with the sudden sense that she knew but half of him—a sudden terror of the future.

She lay back in her chair, meeting his eyes and trying to smile. But in truth she was quivering with impatience.

“I won’t move till I have my answer! Please tell me—would—would you regard him as a lost soul?”

“Dearest! I am neither Williams’s judge nor anyone else’s! Of course I must hold that a man who breaks the most solemn vows endangers his soul. What else do you expect of me?”

“What do you mean by ‘soul’? Have I a soul?—and what do you suppose is going to happen to it?”

The words were flung out with a concentrated passion—almost an anguish—that for the moment struck him dumb. They both grew pale; he looked at her steadily, and spoke her name, in a low appealing voice. But she took no notice; she rose, and, turning away from him, she leant against the mantelpiece, speaking with a choking eagerness that forced its way.

“You were in the chapel last night—very late. I know, for I heard the door open and shut. You must be unhappy, or you wouldn’t spend so much time praying. Are you unhappy about me? I know you don’t want to force me; but if, in time, I don’t agree with you—if it goes on all our lives—how can you help thinking that I shall be lost—lost eternally—separated from you? You would think it of Mr. Williams if he left the Church. I know you told me once about ignorance—invincible ignorance. But here there will be no ignorance. I shall have seen everything—heard everything—known everything. If living here doesn’t teach one, what could? And”—she paused, then resumed with even greater emphasis—”and as far as I can see I shall reject it all—wilfully, knowingly, deliberately. What will you say? What do you say now—to yourself—when—when you pray for me? What do you really think—what do you fear—what 必须 you fear? I ought to know.”

Helbeck looked at her without answering for a long moment. Her agitation, his painful silence, bore pitiful testimony to the strange, insurmountable reality of those facts of the spirit that stood like rocks in the stream of their love.

At last he held out his hands to her with that half-reproachful gesture he had often used towards her. “I fear nothing!—I hope everything. You never forbade me that. Will you leave my love no mysteries, Laura—no reserve? Nothing for you to discover and explore as time goes on?”

She trembled under the mingled remonstrance and passion of his tone. But she persisted. “It’s because—I feel—other things come before love. Tell me—I have a right to know. I shall never come first—quite first—shall I?”

She forced the saddest, proudest of smiles, as he took her reluctant hands.

And involuntarily her eyes travelled over the room, over the crucifix above the faldstool, the little altar to St. Joseph, the worn books upon his table. They were to her like the weapons and symbols of an enemy.

He made her no direct answer. His face was for a moment grave and set. Then he roused himself, kissed the hands he held, and resolutely began to talk of something else.

When a few minutes later he left her alone, she stood there quivering under the touch of power by which he had silenced her—under the angry sense that she was less and less able as the days went by to draw or drive him into argument. The more thorny her mood became, the more sadly did he seem to hide the treasures of the soul from her.

These memories, and many like them, were passing and repassing through
Laura’s mind as she sat listless and sad on the hillside.

When at last she shook them off, the light was failing over the western wall of mountains. She had an errand to do for Augustina in the village that lay half-way to the daffodil wood, and she sprang up, wondering whether there was still time for it before dark.

As she hurried on towards a stile that lay across the path, she saw a woman approaching on the further side.

“波莉！”

The figure addressed stood still a moment in astonishment, then ran to meet the speaker.

“Laura!—well, I’m sure!”

The two girls kissed each other. Laura looked gayly, wistfully, at her cousin.

“Polly—are you all very cross with me still?”

Polly hesitated and fenced. Laura sighed. But she looked at the stout red-faced woman with a peculiar flutter of pleasure. The air of the wild upland—all the primitive, homely facts of the farm, seemed to come about her again. She had left Bannisdale, choked with feeling, tired with thought. Polly’s broad speech and bouncing ways were welcome as a breeze in summer.

They sat down on the stile side by side. Laura gave up her errand, and they talked fast. Polly was all curiosity. When was Laura to be married, and what was she to wear?

“The plainest thing I can find,” said Laura indifferently. “Unless Augustina teases me into something I don’t want.” Polly inquired if it would be in church. “In a Catholic church,” said Laura with a shrug. “No flowers—no music. They just let you be married—that’s all.”

Polly’s-eyes jumped with amazement. “Why, I thowt they had everything so grand!”

“Not if you will go and marry a heretic like me,” said Laura. “Then they make you know your place.”

“But—but Laura! yo’re to be a Romanist too—for sure?” cried Polly in bewilderment.

“Do you think so?” said Laura. Her eyes sparkled. She was sitting on the edge of the stile, one small foot dangling. Polly’s rustic sense was once more vaguely struck by the strange mingling in the little figure of an extreme, an exquisite delicacy with some tough, incalculable element. Miss Fountain’s soft lightness seemed to offer no more resistance than a daffodil on its stalk. But approach her!—whether it was poor Hubert, or even——?

Polly looked and spoke her perplexity. She let Laura know that Miss Fountain’s conversion was assumed at Browhead Farm. Through her blundering though not unkindly talk, Laura gradually perceived indeed a score of disagreeable things. Mrs. Mason and her fanatical friend, Mr. Bayley, were both persuaded—so it seemed—that Miss Fountain had set her cap at the Squire from the beginning, ready at a moment’s notice to swallow the Scarlet Lady when required. And Catholic and Protestant alike were kind enough to say that she had made use of her cousin to draw on Mr. Helbeck. The neighbourhood, in fact, held her to be a calculating little minx, ripe for plots and Papistry, or anything else that might suit a daring game.

The girl gradually fell silent. Her head drooped. Her eyes looked at Polly askance and wistfully. She did not defend herself; but she showed the wound.

“Well, I’m sorry you don’t understand,” she said at last, while her voice trembled. “Perhaps you will some day. I don’t know. Anyway, will you please tell Cousin Elizabeth that I’m not going to be a Catholic? Perhaps that will comfort her a little.”

“But howiver are you goin to live wi Mr. Helbeck then?” asked Polly. Her loud surprise conveyed the image of Helbeck as it lay graven in the minds of the Browhead circle,—a sort of triple-crowned, black-browed tyrant, with all the wiles and torments of Rome in his pocket. A wife resist—defy? The Church knows how to deal with naughtiness of that kind.

劳拉笑了。

“We can but try. But now then,”—she bent forward and put her hands impulsively on Polly’s shoulders,—”tell me about everybody and everything. How’s Daffady? how’s the cow that was ill? how’re the calves? how’s Hubert?”

She laughed again, but there was moisture in her look. For the thousandth time, her heart told her that in this untoward marriage she was wrenching herself anew from her father and all his world.

Polly rather tossed her head at the mention of Hubert. She replied with some tartness that he was doing very well—nobody indeed could be doing better. Did Laura’s eyebrows go up the very slightest trifle? If so, the sister beat down the surprise. Hubert no doubt had been upset, and a bit wild, after—well, Laura might guess what! But that was all past now, long ago. There was a friend, a musical friend, a rescuer, who had appeared, in the shape of a young organist who had come to lead the Froswick Philharmonic Society. Hubert was living with him now; and the young man, of whom all Froswick thought a wonderful deal, was looking after him, and making him write his songs. Some of them were to be sung at a festival——

Laura clapped her hands.

“I told him!” she said gayly. “If he’ll only work, he’ll do. And he is keeping straight?”

Her look was keen and sisterly. She wished to show that she had forgotten and forgiven. But Polly resented it.

“Why shouldn’t he be keeping straight?” she asked. No doubt Laura had thought him just a ne’er do weel. But he was nothing of the sort—he was a bit wild and unruly, as young men are—”same as t’ colts afoor yo break ’em.” But Laura would have done much better for herself if she had stayed quietly with him that night at Braeside, and let him take her over the sands, as he wished to, instead of running away from him in that foolish way.

Polly spoke with significance—nay, with heat. Laura was first startled, then abashed.

“Do you think I made a ridiculous fuss?” she said humbly. “Perhaps I did. But if—if—” she spoke slowly, drawing patterns on the wood of the stile with her finger, “if I hadn’t seen him drunk once—I suppose I shouldn’t have been afraid.”

“Well, you’d no call to be afraid!” cried Polly. “Hubert vowed to me, as he hadna had a drop of onything. And after all, he’s a relation—an if you’d walked wi him, you’d not ha had telegrams sent aboot you to make aw th’ coontry taak!”

“Telegrams!” Laura stared. “Oh, I know—Mr. Helbeck telegraphed to the station-master—but it must have come after I’d left the station.”

“Aye—an t’ station-master sent word back to Mr. Helbeck! Perhaps you doan’t knaw onything aboot that!” exclaimed Polly triumphantly.

Laura turned rather pale.

“A telegram to Mr. Helbeck?”

Polly, surprised at so much ignorance, could not forego the sensation that it offered her. She bit her lip, but the lip would speak. So the story of the midnight telegram—as it had been told by that godly man Mr. Cawston of Braeside to that other godly man Mr. Bayley, perpetual curate of Browhead, and as by now it had gone all about the country-side—came piecemeal out.

“Oh! an at that Papist shop i’ th’ High Street—you remember that sickly-lukin fellow at the dance—they do say at they do taak shameful!” exclaimed Polly indignantly.

“What do they say?” said Laura in a low voice.

Polly hesitated. Then out of sheer nervousness she blundered into the harshest possible answer.

“Well, they said that Mr. Helbeck could do no different, that he did it to save his sister from knowing——”

“Knowing what?” said Laura.

Polly declared that she wasn’t just certain. “A set o’ slanderin backbitin tabbies as soom o’ them Catholics is!” But she believed they said that Mr. Helbeck had asked Miss Fountain to marry him out of kindness, to shut people’s mouths, and keep it from his sister——

“Keep what?” said Laura. Her eyes shone in her quivering proud face.

“Why, I suppose—at you’d been carryin on wi Hubert, and walkin aboot wi him aw neet,” said Polly reluctantly.

And she again insisted how much wiser it would have been if Laura had just gone quietly over the sands to Marsland. There, no doubt, she might have got a car straight away, and there might have been no talk whatever.

“Mightn’t there?” said Laura. Her little chin was propped in her hand. Her gaze swept the distant water of the estuary mouth, as it lay alternately dark and shining under the storm lights of the clouds.

“An I’ll juist warn yo o’ yan thing, Laura,” said Polly, with fresh energy. “There’s soom one at Bannisdale itsel, as spreads aw maks o’ tales. There’s a body theer, as is noa friend o’ yours.”

“Oh! Mrs. Denton,” said Laura languidly. “Of course.”

Then she fell silent. Not a word passed the small tightened lips. The eyes were fixed on distance or vacancy.

Polly began to be frightened. She had not meant any real harm, though perhaps there had been just a touch of malice in her revelations. Laura was going to marry a Papist; that was bad. But also she was going to marry into a sphere far out of the Masons’ ken; and she had made it very plain that Hubert and the likes of Hubert were not good enough for her. Polly was scandalised on religion’s account; but also a little jealous and sore, in a natural feminine way, on her own; the more so as Mr. Seaton had long since ceased to pay Sunday visits to the farm, and Polly had a sharp suspicion as to the when and why of that gentleman’s disillusionment. There had been a certain temptation to let the future mistress of Bannisdale know that the neighbourhood was not all whispering humbleness towards her.

But at bottom Polly was honest and kind. So when she saw Laura sit so palely still, she repented her. She implored that Laura would not “worrit” herself about such fooleries. And then she added:

“But I wonder at Mr. Helbeck didna juist tell yo himsel aboot that telegram!”

“Do you?” said Laura. Her eyes flashed. She got down from the stile.
“Good-bye, Polly! I must be going home.”

Suddenly Polly gripped her by the arm.

“Luke there!” she said in excitement. “Luke!—theer he goes! That’s Teddy—Teddy Williams! I knew as I had summat to tell you—and when you spoak o’ Hubert—it went oot o’ my head.”

Laura looked at her cousin first, in astonishment, and then at the dark figure walking on the road below—the straight white road that ran across the marsh, past the lonely forge of old Ben Williams, the wheelwright, to the foot of the tall “Scar,” opposite, where it turned seaward, and so vanished in the dimness of the coast. It was the Jesuit certainly. The two girls saw him plainly in the strong storm light. He was walking slowly with bent head, and seemed to be reading. His solitary form, black against the white of the road, made the only moving thing in the wide, rain-drenched landscape.

Laura instantly guessed that he had been paying his duty visit to his home. And Polly, it appeared, had been a witness of it.

For the cottage adjoining the wheelwright’s workshop and forge, where Edward Williams had been brought up, was now inhabited by his father and sister. The sister, Jenny, was an old friend of Polly Mason’s, who had indeed many young memories of the scholastic himself. They had been all children or schoolmates together.

And this afternoon, while she was in the parlour with Jenny, all of a sudden—voices and clamour in the forge outside! The son, the outcast son, had quietly presented himself to his father.

“Oh, an sic a to-do! His fadther wadna let him ben. ‘Naa,’ he says, ‘if thoo’s got owt to say, thoo may say it i’ th’ shop. Jenny doan’t want tha!’ An Jenny luked oot—an I just saw Teddy turn an speak to her—beggin her like, a bit masterfu too, aw t’ time—and she flounced back again—’Keep yor distance, will yer!’ an slammed to the door—an fell agen it, cryin. An sic a shoutin an hollerin frae the owd man! He made a gradely noise, he did—bit never a word fra Teddy—not as yo cud hear, I’ll uphowd yo! An at lasst—when Jenny an I opened t’ door again—juist a cranny like—theer he was, takin hissel off—his fadther screamin afther him—an he wi his Papish coat, an his head hangin as thoo there wor a load o’ peät on it—an his hands crossed—soa pious! Aye, theer he goes!—an he may goa!” cried Polly, her face flaming as it followed the Jesuit out of sight. “When a mon’s treated his aan mother that gate, it’s weary wark undoin it. Aye, soa ’tis, Mr. Teddy—soa ’tis!” And she raised her voice vindictively.

Laura’s lips curled.

“Do you think he cares—one rap? It was his duty to go and see his father—so he went. And now he’s all the more certain he’s on the road to heaven—because his father abused him, and his sister turned him out. He’s going to be a priest directly—and a missionary after that—and a holy martyr, too, if he gets his deserts. There’s always fever, or natives, handy. What do earth-worms like mothers and sisters matter to him?”

Polly stared. Even she, as she looked, as she heard, felt that a gulf opened—that a sick soul spoke.

“Oh! an I’d clean forgot,” she faltered—”as he must be stayin at
Bannisdale—as yo wad be seein him.”

“I see so many of them,” said Laura wearily. She took up her bag, that had been leaning against the stile. “Now, good-bye!”

Suddenly Polly’s eyes brimmed with tears. She flung an arm round the slim childish creature.

“Laura, whatever did you do it for? I doan’t believe as yo’re a bit happy i’ yor mind! Coom away!—we’se luke after you—we’re your aan kith an kin!”

Laura paused in Polly’s arm. Then she turned her wild face—the eyes half closed, the pale lips passionately smiling.

“I’ll come, Polly, when I’m dead—or my heart’s dead—not before!”

And, wrenching herself away, she ran down the path. Polly, with her clutch of Brahma eggs in her hand, that she was taking to the Bannisdale Bridge Farm, leant against the stile and cried.

“Alan! is it to-night you expect Father Leadham?”

“Yes,” said Helbeck.

“Have you told Laura?”

“I will remind her that we expect him. It is annoying that I must leave you to entertain him to-morrow.”

“Oh! we shall do very well,” said Augustina rather eagerly. “Alan, have you noticed Laura, yesterday and to-day? She doesn’t look strong.”

“I know,” said the Squire shortly. His eyes were fixed all the time on the little figure of Laura, as she sat listlessly in a sunny corner of the bowling-green, with a book on her knee.

Augustina, who had been leaning on his arm, went back to the house.
Helbeck advanced and threw himself down beside Laura.

“Little one—if you keep such pale cheeks—what am I to do?”

She looked down upon him with a languid smile.

“我没事。”

“That remark only fills up your misdoings! If I go down and get the pony carriage, will you drive with me through the park and tell me everything—一切—that has been troubling you the last few days?”

His voice was very low, his eyes all tenderness. He had been reproaching himself that he had so often of late avoided difficult discussions and thorny questions with her. Was she hurt, and did he deserve it?

“I will go driving with you,” she said slowly.

“Very well”—he sprang up. “I will be back in twenty minutes—with the pony.”

He left her, and she dreamed afresh over her book.

She was thinking of a luncheon at Whinthorpe, to which she had been taken, sorely against her will, to meet the Bishop. And the Bishop had treated her with a singular and slighting coldness. There was no blinking the fact in the least. Other people had noticed it. Helbeck had been pale with wrath and distress. As far as she could remember, she had laughed and talked a good deal.

Well, what wonder?—if they thought her just a fast ill-conducted girl, who had worked upon Mr. Helbeck’s pity and softness of heart?

Suddenly she put out her hand restlessly to pluck at the hedge beside her. She had been stung by the memory of herself—under the Squire’s window, in the dawn. She saw herself—helpless, and asleep, the tired truant come back to the feet of her master. When he found her so, what could he do but pity her?—be moved, perhaps beyond bounds, by the goodness of a generous nature?

Next, something stronger than this doubt touched the lips with a flying
smile—shy and lovely. But she was far from happy. Since her talk with
Polly especially, her pride was stabbed and tormented in all directions.
And her nature was of the proudest.

Where could she feel secure? In Helbeck’s heart? But in the inmost shrine of that heart she felt the brooding of a majestic and exacting power that knew her not. Her jealousy—her fear—grew day by day.

And as to the rest, her imagination was full of the most feverish and fantastic shapes. Since her talk with Polly the world had seemed to her a mere host of buzzing enemies. All the persons concerned passed through her fancy with the mask and strut of caricature. The little mole on Sister Angela’s nose—the slightly drooping eyelid that marred the Reverend Mother’s left cheek—the nasal twang of the orphans’ singing—Father Bowles pouncing on a fly—Father Leadham’s stately ways—she made a mock or an offence out of them all, bitterly chattering and drawing pictures with herself, like a child with a grievance.

And then on the top of these feelings and exaggerations of the child, would return the bewildering, the ever-increasing trouble of the woman.

她跳了起来。

“If I could—if I 可以! Then it would be we two together—against the rest. Else—how shall I be his wife at all?”

She ran into the study. There on the shelf beside Helbeck’s table stood a little Manual of Catholic Instruction, that she knew well. She turned over the pages, till she came to the sections dealing with the reception of converts.

How often she had pored over them! Now she pored over them again, twisting her lips, knitting her white brows.

“No adult baptized Protestant (‘Am I a Protestant?—I am baptized!’) is considered to be a convert to the Catholic Church until he is received into the Church according to the prescribed rite (‘There!—it’s the broken glass on the wall.—But if one could just slip in—without fuss or noise?’) … You must apply to a Catholic priest, who will judge of your dispositions, and of your knowledge of the Catholic faith. He will give you further instruction, and explain your duties, and how you have to act. When he is satisfied (‘Father Leadham!—satisfied with me!’), you go to the altar or to the sacristy, or other place convenient for your reception. The priest who is with you says certain prayers appointed by the Church; you in the meantime kneel down and pray silently (‘I prayed when papa died.'”—She looked up, her face trembling.—”Else?—Yes once!—that night when I went in to prayers.) ‘You will then read or repeat aloud after the priest the Profession of Faith, either the Creed of Pope Pius IV’—(That’s—let me see!—that’s the Creed of the Council of Trent; there’s a note about it in one of papa’s books.” She recalled it, frowning: “I often think that we of the Liberal Tradition have cause to be thankful that the Tridentine Catholics dug the gulf between them and the modern world so deep. Otherwise, now that their claws are all pared, and only the honey and fairy tales remain, there would be no chance at all for the poor rational life.”)

She drew a long breath, taking a momentary pleasure in the strong words, as they passed through her memory, and then bruised by them.

“The priest will now release you from the ban and censures of the Church, and will so receive you into the True Fold. If you do not yourself say the Confiteor, you will do well to repeat in a low voice, with sorrow of heart, those words of the penitent in the Gospel: ‘O God, be merciful to me a sinner!’ He will then administer to you baptism under condition (子条件)…. Being now baptized and received into the Church, you will go and kneel in the Confessional or other appointed place in the church to make your confession, and to receive from the priest the sacramental absolution. While receiving absolution you must renew your sorrow and hatred of sin, and your resolution to amend, making a sincere Act of Contrition.”

Then, as the book was dropping from her hand, a few paragraphs further on her eyes caught the words:

“If we are not able to remember the exact number of our sins, it is enough to state the probable number to the best of our recollection and judgment, saying: ‘I have committed that sin about so many times a day, a week, or a month.’ Indeed, we are bound to reveal our conscience to the priest as we know it ourselves, there and then stating the things certain as certain, those doubtful as doubtful, and the probable number as probable.”

She threw away the book. She crouched in her chair beside Helbeck’s table, her small face buried despairingly in her hands. “I can’t—I can’t! I would if I could—I can’t!”

Through the shiver of an invincible repulsion that held her spoke a hundred things—things inherited, things died for, things wrought out by the moral experience of generations. But she could not analyse them. All she knew were the two words—”I can’t.”

The little pony took them merrily through the gay October woods. Autumn was at its cheerfullest. The crisp leaves under foot, the tonic earth smells in the air, the wet ivy shining in the sun, the growing lightness and strength of the trees as the gold or red leaf thinned and the free branching of the great oaks or ashes came into sight—all these belonged to the autumn which sings and vibrates, and can in a flash disperse and drive away the weeping and melancholy autumn.

Laura’s bloom revived. Her hair, blown about her, glowed and shone even amid the gold of the woods. Her soft lips, her eyes called back their fire. Helbeck looked at her in a delight mingled with pain, counting the weeks silently till she became his very own. Only five now before Advent; and in the fifth the Church would give her to him, grudgingly indeed, with scant ceremony and festivity, like a mother half grieved, still with her blessing, which must content him. And beyond? The strong man—stern with himself and his own passion, all the more that the adored one was under the protection of his roof, and yielded thereby to his sight and wooing more freely than a girl in her betrothal is commonly yielded to her lover—dared hardly in her presence evoke the thrill of that thought. Instinctively he knew, through the restraints that parted them, that Laura was pure woman, a creature ripe for the subtleties and poetries of passion. Would not all difficulties find their solvent—melt in a golden air—when once they had passed into the freedom and confidence of marriage?

Meanwhile the difficulties were all plain to him—more plain, indeed, than ever. He could not flatter himself that she looked any more kindly on his faith or his friends. And his friends—or some of them—were, to say the truth, pressing him hard. Father Leadham even, his director, upon whom during the earlier stages of their correspondence on the matter Helbeck seemed to have impressed his own waiting view with success, had lately become more exacting and more peremptory. The Squire was uncomfortable at the thought of his impending visit. It was hardly wise—had better have been deferred. Laura’s quick, shrinking look when it was announced had not been lost upon her lover. Father Leadham should be convinced—must be convinced—that all would be imperilled—nay, lost—by haste. Yet unconsciously Helbeck himself was wavering—was changing ground.

He had come out, indeed, determined somehow to break down the barrier he felt rising between them. But it was not easy. They talked for long of the most obvious and mundane things. There were salmon in the Greet this month, and Helbeck had been waging noble war with them in the intervals of much business, with Laura often beside him, to join in the madness of the “rushes” down stream, to watch the fine strength of her lover’s wrist, to shrink from the gaffing, and to count the spoil. The shooting days at Bannisdale were almost done, since the land had dwindled to a couple of thousand acres, much of it on the moss. But there were still two or three poor coverts along the upper edge of the park, where the old Irish keeper and woodman, Tim Murphy, cherished and counted the few score pheasants that provided a little modest November sport. And Helbeck, tying the pony to a tree, went up now with Laura to walk round the woods, showing in all his comments and calculations a great deal of shrewd woodcraft and beastcraft, enough to prove at any rate that the Esau of his race—feras consumere nati, to borrow the emendation of Mr. Fielding—had not yet been wholly cast out by the Jacob of a mystical piety.

Laura tripped and climbed, applauded by his eye, helped by his hand. But though her colour came back, her spirits were still to seek. She was often silent, and he hardly ever spoke to her without feeling a start run through the hand he held.

His grey eye tried to read her, but in vain. At last he wooed her from the fell-side where they were scrambling. “Come down to the river and rest.”

Hand in hand they descended the steep slope to that rock-seat where he had found her on the morning of Easter Sunday. The great thorn which overhung it was then in bud; now the berries which covered the tree were already reddening to winter. Before her spread the silver-river, running to lose itself in the rocky bosom of that towering scar which closed the distance, whereon, too, all the wealth of the woods on either hand converged—the woods that hid the outer country, and all that was not Bannisdale and Helbeck’s.

To-day, however, Laura felt no young passion of pleasure in the beauty at her feet. She was ill at ease, and her look fled his as he glanced up to her from the turf where he had thrown himself.

“Do you like me to read your books?” she said abruptly, her question swooping hawk-like upon his and driving it off the field.

He paused—to consider, and to smile.

“I don’t know. I believe you read them perversely!”

“I know what you read this morning. Do you—do you think St. Francis
Borgia was a very admirable person?”

“Well, I got a good deal of edification out of him,” said Helbeck quietly.

“Did you? Would you be like him if you could? Do you remember when his wife was very ill, and he was praying for her, he heard a voice—do you remember?”

“Go on,” said Helbeck, nodding.

“And the voice said, ‘If thou wouldst have the life of the Duchess prolonged, it shall be granted; but it is not expedient for thee’—’你,’ mind—not her! When he heard this, he was penetrated by a most tender love of God, and burst into tears. Then he asked God to do as He pleased with the lives of his wife and his children and himself. He gave up—I suppose he gave up—praying for her. She became much worse and died, leaving him a widower at the age of thirty-six. Afterwards—please don’t interrupt!—in the space of three years, he disposed somehow of all his eight children—some of them I reckoned must be quite babies—took the vows, became a Jesuit, and went to Rome. Do you approve of all that?”

Helbeck reddened. “It was a time of hard fighting for the Church,” he said gravely, after a pause, “and the Jesuits were the advance guard. In such days a man may be called by God to special acts and special sacrifices.”

“So you do approve? Papa was a member of an Ethical Society at Cambridge. They used sometimes to discuss special things—whether they were right or wrong. I wonder what they would have said to St. Francis Borgia?”

Helbeck smiled.

“Mercifully, darling, the ideals of the Catholic Church do not depend upon the votes of Ethical Societies!”

He turned his handsome head towards her. His tone was perfectly gentle, but behind it she perceived the breathing of a contempt before which she first recoiled—then sprang in revolt.

“As for me,” she said, panting a little, “when I finished the Life this morning in your room, I felt like Ivan in Browning’s poem—do you recollect?—about the mother who threw her children one by one to the wolves, to save her wretched self? I would like to have dropped the axe on St. Francis Borgia’s neck—just one—little—clean cut!—while he was saying his prayers, and enjoying his burning love, and all the rest of it!”

Helbeck was silent, nor could she see his face, which was again turned from her towards the river. The eager feverish voice went on:

“Do you know that’s the kind of thing you read always—always—day after day? And it’s just the same now! That girl of twenty-three, Augustina was talking of, who is going into a convent, and her mother only died last year, and there are six younger brothers and sisters, and her father says it will break his heart—她 must have been reading about St. Francis Borgia. Perhaps she felt ‘burning love’ and had ‘floods of tears.’ But Ivan with his axe—that’s the person I’d bring in, if I could!”

Still not a word from the man beside her. She hesitated a moment—felt a sob of excitement in her throat—bent forward and touched his shoulder.

“Suppose—suppose I were to be ill—dying—and the voice came, ‘Let her go! She is in your way; it would be better for you she should die’—would you just let go?—see me drop, drop, drop, through all eternity, to make your soul safe?”

“Laura!” cried a strong voice. And, with a spring, Helbeck was beside her, capturing both her cold hands in one of his, a mingled tenderness and wrath flashing from him before which she shrank. But though she drew away from him—her small face so white below the broad black hat!—she was not quelled. Before he could speak, she had said in sharp separate words, hardly above a whisper:

“It is that horrible egotism of religion that poisons everything! And if—if one shared it, well and good, one might make terms with it, like a wild thing one had tamed. But outside it, and at war with it, what can one do but hate—hate—恨—it!”

“My God!” he said in bewilderment, “where am I to begin?”

He stared at her with a passionate amazement. Never before had she shown such forces of personality, or been able to express herself with an utterance so mature and resonant. Her stature had grown before his eyes. In the little frowning figure there was something newly, tragically fine. The man for the first time felt his match. His own hidden self rose at last to the struggle with a kind of angry joy, eager at once to conquer the woman and to pierce the sceptic.

“Listen to me, Laura!” he said, bending over her. “That was more than I can bear—that calls me out of my tent. I have tried to keep my poor self out of sight, but it has rights. You have challenged it. Will you take the consequences?”

She trembled before the pale concentration of his face and bent her head.

“I will tell you,” he said in a low determined voice, “the only story that a man truly knows—the story of his own soul. You shall know—what you hate.”

And, after a pause of thought, Helbeck made one of the great efforts of his life.

He did not fully know indeed what it was that he had undertaken, till the wave of emotion had gathered through all the inmost chambers of memory, and was bearing outward in one great tide the secret nobilities, the hidden poetries, the unconscious weaknesses, of a nature no less narrow than profound, no less full of enmities than of loves.

But gradually from hurried or broken beginnings the narrative rose to clearness and to strength.

The first impressions of a lonely childhood; the first workings of the family history upon his boyish sense, like the faint, perpetual touches of an unseen hand moulding the will and the character; the picture of his patient mother on her sofa, surrounded with her little religious books, twisted and tormented, yet always smiling; his early collisions with his morose and half-educated father—he passed from these to the days of his first Communion, the beginnings of the personal life. “But I had very little fervour then, such as many boys feel. I did not doubt—I would not have shown any disrespect to my religion for the world, mostly, I think, from family pride—but I felt no ardour, and did not pretend any. My mother sometimes shed tears over it, and was comforted by her old confessor—so she told me when she was dying—who used to say to her: ‘Feeling is good, but obedience is better. He obeys;’ for I did all my religious duties without difficulty. Then at thirteen I was sent to Stonyhurst. And there, after a while, God began His work in me.”

He paused a moment; and when he resumed, his voice shook:

“Among the masters there was a certain Father Lewin. He took an affection for me, and I for him. He was even then a dying man, but he accomplished more, and was more severe to himself, than any man in health I ever knew. So long as he lived, he made the path of religion easy to me. He was the supernatural life before my eyes. I had only to open them and see. The only difference between us was that I began—first out of love for him, I suppose—to have a great wish to become a Jesuit; whereas he was against it—he thought there were too many special claims upon me here. Then, when I was eighteen, he died. I had seen him the day before, when there seemed to be no danger, or they concealed it from me. But in the night I was called, too late to hear him speak; he was already in his agony. The sight terrified me. I had expected something much more consoling—more beautiful. For a long time I could not shake off the impression, the misery of it.”

He was silent again for a minute. He still held Laura’s hands close, as though there was something in their touch that spurred him on.

“After his death I got my father’s leave to go and study at Louvain. I passed there the most wretched years of my life. Father Lewin’s death had thrown me into an extraordinary dejection, which seemed to have taken from me all the joy of my faith; but at Louvain I came very near to losing it altogether. It came, I think, from the reading of some French sceptical books the first year I was there; but I went through a horror and anguish. Often I used to wander for a whole day along the Scheldt, or across lonely fields where no one could see me, lost in what seemed to me a fight with devils. The most horrible blasphemies—the most subtle, the most venomous thoughts—ah! well—by God’s grace, I never gave up Confession and Communion—at long intervals, indeed—but still I held to them. The old Passionist father, my director, did not understand much about me. I seemed, indeed, to have no friends. I lived shut up with my own thoughts. The only comfort and relief I got was from painting. I loved the studio where I worked, poor as my own attempts were. It seemed often to be the only thing between me and madness…. Well, the first relief came in a strange way. I was visiting one of the professors, an old Canon of the Cathedral, on a June evening. The Bishop of the See was very ill, and while I was with the Canon word came round to summon the Chapter to assist at the administration of the last Sacraments, and to hear the sick man’s Profession of Faith. The old Canon had been good to me. I don’t know whether he suspected what was wrong with me. At any rate, he laid a kind hand on my arm. ‘Come with me,’ he said; and I went with him into the Bishop’s residence. I can see the old house now—the black panelled stairs and passages, and the shadow of the great church outside.

“In the Bishop’s room were gathered all the canons in their white robes; there was an altar blazing with lights, the windows were wide open to the dusk, and the cathedral bell was tolling. We all knelt, and Monseigneur received the Viaticum. He was fully vested. I could just see his venerable white head on the pillow. After the Communion one of the canons knelt by him and recited the Creed of Pope Pius IV.”

Laura started. But Helbeck did not notice the sudden tremulous movement of the hands lying in his. He was sitting rigidly upright, the eyes half closed, his mind busy with the past.

“And as he recited it, the bands that held my own heart seemed to break. I had not been able to approach any clause of that creed for months without danger of blasphemy; and now—it was like a bird escaped from the nets. The snare is broken—and we are delivered! The dying man raised his voice in a last effort; he repeated the oath with which the Creed ends. The Gospels were handed to him; he kissed them with fervour. ‘Sic me Deus adjuvet, et Sancta Dei Evangelia.’ ‘So may God help me, and His Holy Gospels!’ I joined in the words mentally, overcome with joy. Before me, as in a vision, had risen the majesty and glory of the Catholic Church; I felt her foundations once more under my feet.”

He drew a long breath. Then he turned. Laura felt his eyes upon her, as though in doubt. She herself neither moved nor spoke; she was all hearing, absorbed in a passionate prescience of things more vital yet to come.

“Laura!”—his voice dropped—”I want you to know it all, to understand me through and through. I will try that there shall not be a word to offend you. That scene I have described to you was for me only the beginning of another apostasy. I had no longer the excuse of doubt. I believed and trembled. But for two years after that, I was every day on the brink of ruining my own soul—and another’s. The first, the only woman I ever loved before I saw you, Laura, I loved in defiance of all law—God’s or man’s. If she had struggled one heartbeat less, if God had let me wander one hair’s breadth further from His hand, we had both made shipwreck—hopeless, eternal shipwreck. Laura, my little Laura, am I hurting you so?”

She gave a little sob, and mutely, with shut eyes, she raised her face towards him. He stooped and very tenderly and gravely kissed her cheek.

“But God’s mercy did not fail!” he said or rather murmured. “At the last moment that woman—God rest her soul!—God bless her for ever!——”

He took off his hat, and bent forward silently for a moment.

—”She died, Laura, more than ten years ago!—At the last moment she saved both herself and me. She sent for one of my old Jesuit masters at Stonyhurst, a man who had been a great friend of Father Lewin’s and happened to be at that moment in Brussels. He came. He brought me her last farewell, and he asked me to go back with him that evening to join a retreat that he was holding in one of the houses of the order near Brussels. I went in a sullen state, stunned and for the moment submissive.

“But the retreat was agony. I could take part in nothing. I neglected the prescribed hours and duties; it was as though my mind could not take them in, and I soon saw that I was disturbing others.

“One evening—I was by myself in the garden at recreation hour—the father who was holding the retreat came up to me, and sternly asked me to withdraw at once. I looked at him. ‘Will you give me one more day?’ I said. He agreed. He seemed touched. I must have appeared to him a miserable creature.

“Next day this same father was conducting a meditation—on ‘the condescension of Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament.’ I was kneeling, half stupefied, when I heard him tell a story of the Curé d’Ars. After the procession of Corpus Christi, which was very long and fatiguing, someone pressed the Curé to take food. ‘I want nothing,’ he said. ‘How could I be tired? I was bearing Him who bears me!’ ‘My brothers,’ said Father Stuart, turning to the altar, ‘the Lord who bore the sin of the whole world on the Cross, who opens the arms of His mercy now to each separate sinful soul, is 那里. He beseeches you by me, “Choose, My children, between the world and Me, between sin and Me, between Hell and Me. Your souls are Mine: I bought them with anguish and tears. Why will ye now hold them back from Me—wherefore will ye die?”‘

“My whole being seemed to be shaken by these words. But I instantly thought of Marie. I said to myself, ‘She is alone—perhaps in despair. How can I save myself, wretched tempter and coward that I am, and leave her in remorse and grief?’ And then it seemed to me as though a Voice came from the altar itself, so sweet and penetrating that it overpowered the voice of the preacher and the movements of my companions. I heard nothing in the chapel but It alone. ‘She is saved!’ It said—and again and again, as though in joy, ‘She is saved—saved!’

“That night I crept to the foot of the crucifix in my little cell. ‘Elegi, elegi: renuntio!‘—I have chosen: I renounce.’ All night long those alternate words seemed to be wrung from me.”

There was deep silence. Helbeck knelt on the grass beside Laura and took her hands afresh.

“Laura, since that night I have been my Lord’s. It seemed to me that He had come Himself—come from His cross—to raise two souls from the depths of Hell. Marie went into a convent, and died in peace and blessedness; I came home here, to do my duty if I could—and save my soul. That seems to you a mere selfish bargain with God—an ‘egotism’—that you hate. But look at the root of it. Is the world under sin—and has a God died for it? All my nature—my intellect, my heart, my will, answer ‘Yes.’ But if a God died, and must die—cruelly, hideously, at the hands of His creatures—to satisfy eternal justice, what must that sin be that demands the Crucifixion? Of what revolt, what ruin is not the body capable? I knew—for I had gone down into the depths. Is any chastisement too heavy, any restraint too harsh, if it keep us from the sin for which our Lord must die? And if He died, are we not His from the first moment of our birth—His first of all? Is it a selfish bargain to yield Him what He purchased at such a cost, to take care that our just debt to Him is paid—so far as our miserable humanity can pay it. All these mortifications, and penances, and self-denials that you hate so, that make the saints so odious in your eyes, spring from two great facts—Sin and the Crucifixion. But, Laura, are they true？“

He spoke in a low, calm voice, yet Laura knew well that his life was poured into each word. She herself did not, could not, speak. But it seemed to her strangely that some spring within her was broken—some great decision had been taken, by whom she could not tell.

He looked with alarm at her pallor and silence.

“Laura, those are the hard and awful—to us Catholics, the majestic—facts on which our religion stands. Accept them, and nothing else is really difficult. Miracles, the protection of the saints, the mysteries of the sacraments, the place that Catholics give to Our Lady, the support of an infallible Church—what so easy and natural if 这些 be true?… Sin and its Divine Victim, penance, regulation of life, death, judgment—Catholic thought moves perpetually from one of these ideas to another. As to many other thoughts and beliefs, it is free to us as to other men to take or leave, to think or not to think. The Church, like a tender mother, offers to her children an innumerable variety of holy aids, consolations, encouragements. These may or may not be of faith. The Crucifix is the Catholic Faith. In that the Catholic sees the Love that brought a God to die, the Sin that infects his own soul. To requite that love, to purge that sin there lies the whole task of the Catholic life.”

He broke off again, anxiously studying the drooping face so near to him. Then gently he put his arm round her, and drew her to him till her brow rested against his shoulder.

“Laura, does it seem very hard—very awful—to you?”

She moved imperceptibly, but she did not speak.

“It may well. The way is strait! But, Laura, you see it from without—I from within. Won’t you take my word for the sweetness, the reward, and the mercifulness of God’s dealings with our souls?” He drew a long agitated breath. “Take my own case—take our love. You remember, Laura, when you sat here on Easter Sunday? I came from Communion and I found you here. You disliked and despised my faith and me. But as you sat here, I loved you—my eyes were first opened. The night of the dance, when you went upstairs, I took my own heart and offered it. You did not love me then: how could I dream you ever would? The sacrifice was mine; I tried to yield it. But it was not His will. I made my struggle—you made yours. He drew us to each other. Then——”

He faltered, looked down upon her in doubt.

“Since then, Laura, so many strange things have happened! Who was I that I should teach anybody? I shrank from laying the smallest touch on your freedom. I thought, ‘Gradually, of her own will, she will come nearer. The Truth will plead for itself.’ My duty is to trust, and wait. But, Laura, what have I seen in you? Not indifference—not contempt—never! But a long storm, a trouble, a conflict, that has filled me with confusion—overthrown all my own hopes and plans. Laura, my love, my sweet, why does our Faith hurt you so much if it means nothing to you? Is there not already some tenderness”—his voice dropped—”behind the scorn? Could it torment you if—if it had not gained some footing in your heart? Laura, speak to me!”

She slowly drew away from him. Gently she shook her head. Her eyes were full of tears.

But the strange look of power—almost of triumph—on Helbeck’s face remained unaltered. She shrank before it.

“Laura, you don’t know yourself! But no matter! Only, will you forgive me if you feel a change in me? Till now I have shrunk from fighting you. It seemed to me that an ugly habit of words might easily grow up that would poison all our future. But now I feel in it something more than words. If you challenge, Laura, I shall meet it! If you strike, I shall return it.”

He took her hands once more. His bright eye looked for—demanded an answer. Her own personality, for all its daring, wavered and fainted before the attacking force of his.

But Helbeck received no assurance of it. She showed none of that girlish yielding which would have been so natural and so delightful to her lover. Without any direct answer to his appeal or his threat, she lifted to him a look that was far from easy to read—a look of passionate sadness and of pure love. Her delicate face seemed to float towards him, and her lips breathed.

“I was not worthy that you should tell me a word. But—” It was some time before she could go on. Then she said with sudden haste, the colour rushing back into her cheeks, “It is the most sacred honour that was ever done me. I thank—thank—thank you!”

And with her eyes still fixed upon his countenance, and all those deep traces that the last half hour had left upon it, she raised his hand and pressed her soft quivering mouth upon it.

Never had Helbeck been filled with such a tender and hopeful joy as in the hours that followed this scene between them. Father Leadham arrived in time for dinner. Laura treated him with a gentleness, even a sweetness, that from the first moment filled the Jesuit with a secret astonishment. She was very pale; her exhaustion was evident.

But Helbeck silenced his sister; and he surrounded Laura with a devotion that had few words, that never made her conspicuous, and yet was more than she could bear.

Augustina insisted on her going to bed early. Helbeck went upstairs with her to the first landing, to light her candle.

Nothing stirred in the old house. Father Leadham and Augustina were in the drawing-room. They two stood alone among the shadows of the panelling, the solitary candle shining on her golden hair and white dress.

“I have something to say to you, Laura,” said Helbeck in a disturbed voice.

她抬头。

“I can’t save the Romney, dear. I’ve tried my very best. Will you forgive me?”

She smiled, and put her hand timidly on his shoulder.

“Ask her, rather! I know you tried. Good-night.”

And then suddenly, to his astonishment, she threw both her arms round his neck, and, like a child that nestles to another in penitence or for protection, she kissed his breast passionately, repeatedly.

“Laura, this can’t be borne! Look up, beloved! Why should my coat be so blessed?” he said, half laughing, yet deeply moved, as he bent above her.

She disengaged herself, and, as she mounted the stairs, she waved her hand to him. As she passed out of his sight she was a vision of gentleness. The woman had suddenly blossomed from the girl. When Helbeck descended the stairs after she had vanished, his heart beat with a happiness he had never yet known.

And she, when she reached her own room, she let her arms drop rigidly by her side. “It would be a crime—a 犯罪—to marry him,” she said, with a dull resolve that was beyond weeping.

Helbeck and Father Leadham sat long together after Augustina had retired. There was an argument between them in which the Jesuit at last won the victory. Helbeck was persuaded to a certain course against his judgment—to some extent against his conscience.

Next morning the Squire left Bannisdale early. He was to be away two days on important business. Before he left he reluctantly told his sister that the Romney would probably be removed before his return, by the dealer to whom it had been sold. Laura did not appear at breakfast, and Helbeck left a written word of farewell, that Augustina delivered.

Meantime Father Leadham remained as the guest of the ladies. In the afternoon he joined Miss Fountain in the garden, and they walked up and down the bowling-green for some time together. Augustina, in the deep window of the drawing-room, was excitedly aware of the fact.

When the two companions came in, Father Leadham after a time rejoined Mrs. Fountain. She looked at him with eagerness. But his fine and scholarly face was more discomposed than she had ever seen it. And the few words that he said to her were more than enough.

Laura meanwhile went to her own room, and shut herself up there. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes angry. “He promised me!” she said, as she sat down to her writing-table.

But she could not stay there. She got up and walked restlessly about the room. After half an hour’s fruitless conversation, Father Leadham had been betrayed into an expression—hardly that—a shade of expression, which had set the girl’s nature aflame. What it meant was, “So this—is your answer—to the chivalry of Mr. Helbeck’s behaviour—to the delicacy which could go to such lengths in protecting a young lady from her own folly?” The meaning was conveyed by a look—an inflection—hardly a phrase. But Laura understood it perfectly; and when Father Leadham returned to Mrs. Fountain he guiltily knew what he had done, and, being a man in general of great tact and finesse, he hardly knew whom to blame most, himself, or the girl who had imperceptibly and yet deeply provoked him.

That evening Laura told her stepmother that she must go up to London the following day, by the early afternoon train, on some shopping business, and would stay the night with her friend Molly Friedland. Augustina fretfully acquiesced; and the evening was spent by Mrs. Fountain at any rate, in trying to console herself by much broken talk of frocks and winter fashions, while Laura gave occasional answers, and Father Leadham on a distant sofa buried himself in the “Tablet.”

“走了！”

The word was Laura’s. She had been busy in her room, and had come hurriedly downstairs to fetch her work-bag from the drawing-room. As she crossed the threshold, she saw that the picture had been taken down. Indeed, the van containing it was just driving through the park.

White and faltering, the girl came up to the wall whence the beautiful lady had just been removed, and leant her head against it. She raised her hand to her eyes. “Good-bye,” said the inner sense—”Good-bye!” And the strange link which from the first moment almost had seemed to exist between that radiant daughter of Bannisdale and herself snapped and fell away, carrying how much else with it!

About an hour before Laura’s departure there was a loud knock at her door, and Mrs. Denton appeared. The woman was pale with rage. Mrs. Fountain, in much trepidation, had just given her notice, and the housekeeper had not been slow to guess, from what quarter the blow had fallen.

Laura turned round bewildered. But she was too late to stop the outbreak. In the course of five minutes’ violent speech Mrs. Denton wiped out the grievances of six months; she hurled the gossip of a country-side on Laura’s head; and in her own opinion she finally avenged the cause of the Church and of female decorum upon the little infidel adventuress that had stolen away the wits and conscience of the Squire.

Miss Fountain, after’ a first impatient murmur, “I might have remembered!”—stood without a word, with eyes cast down, and a little scornful smile on her colourless lips. When at last she had shut the door on her assailant, a great quivering sigh rose from the girl’s breast. Was it the last touch? But she said nothing. She brushed away a tear that had unconsciously risen, and went back to her packing.

“Just wait a moment!” said Miss Fountain to old Wilson, who was driving her across the bridge on her way to the station. “I want to get a bunch of those berries by the water. Take the pony up the hill. I’ll join you at the top.”

Old Wilson drove on. Laura climbed a stile and slipped down to the waterside.

The river, full with autumn rain, came foaming down. The leaf was falling fast. Through the woods on the further bank she could just distinguish a gable of the old house.

A moan broke from her. She stooped and buried her face in the grass—his grass.

When she returned to the road, she looked for the letter-box in the wall of the bridge, and, walking up to it, she dropped into it two letters. Then she stood a moment with bent brows. Had she made all arrangements for Augustina?

But she dared not let herself think of the morrow. She set her face to the hill—trudging steadily up the wet, solitary road. Once—twice—she turned to look. Then the high trees that arched over the top of the hill received the little form; she disappeared into their shadow.

“My dear, where are the girls?”

The speaker was Dr. Friedland, the only intimate friend Stephen Fountain had ever made at Cambridge. The person addressed was Dr. Friedland’s wife.

On hearing her husband’s question, that lady’s gentle and benevolent countenance emerged from the folds of a newspaper. It was the “first mild day of March,” and she and her husband had been enjoying an after-breakfast chat in the garden of a Cambridge villa.

“Molly is arranging the flowers; Laura has had a long letter from Mrs.
Fountain, and is now, I believe, gone to answer it.”

“Then I shan’t enjoy my lunch,” said Dr. Friedland pensively.

He was an elderly gentleman, with a short beard and moustache turning to white, particularly black eyes, and a handsome brow. His wife had put a rug over his shoulders, and another over his knees, before she allowed him the “Times” and a cigarette. Amid the ample folds of these draperies, he had a Jove-like and benignant air.

His wife inquired what difference Miss Fountain’s correspondence would or could make to her host’s luncheon.

“Because she won’t eat any,” said the doctor, with a sigh, “and I find it infectious.”

Mrs. Friedland laid down her newspaper.

“There is no doubt she is worried—about Mrs. Fountain.”

“E tutti quanti” said the doctor, humming a tune. “My dear, it is surprising what an admiration I find myself possessed of for Sir John Pringle.”

“Sir John Pringle?” said the lady, in bewilderment.

“Bozzy, my dear—the great Bozzy—amid the experiments of his youth, turned Catholic. His distracted relations deputed Sir John Pringle to deal with him. That great lawyer pointed out the worldly disadvantages of the step. Bozzy pleaded his immortal soul. Whereupon Sir John observed with warmth that anyone possessing a particle of gentlemanly spirit would sooner be damned to all eternity than give his relations so much trouble as Bozzy was giving his!”

“The application is not clear,” said Mrs. Friedland.

“No,” said the doctor, stretching his legs and puffing at his cigarette; “but when you speak of Laura, and tell me she is writing to Bannisdale, I find a comfort in Sir John Pringle.”

“It would be more to the purpose if Laura did!” exclaimed Mrs. Friedland.

The doctor shook his head, and fell into a reverie. Presently he asked:

“You think Mrs. Fountain is really worse?”

“Laura is sure of it. And the difficulty is, what is she to do? If she goes to Bannisdale, she exiles Mr. Helbeck. Yet, if his sister is really in danger, Mr. Helbeck naturally will desire to be at home.”

“And they can’t meet?”

“Under the same roof—and the old conditions? Heaven forbid!” said Mrs.
Friedland.

“Risk it!” said the doctor, violently slapping his fist on the little garden table that held his box of cigarettes.

“约翰！”

“My dear—don’t be a hypocrite! You and I know well enough what’s wrong with that child.”

“Perhaps.” The lady’s eyes filled with tears. “But you forget that by all accounts Mr. Helbeck is an altered man. From something Laura said to Molly last week, it seems that Mrs. Fountain even is now quite afraid of him—as she used to be.”

“If she would only die—good lady!—her brother might go to his own place,” said the doctor impatiently.

“To the Jesuits?”

医生点点头。

“Did he actually tell you that was his intention?”

“No. But I guessed. And that Trinity man Leadham, who went over, gave me to understand the other day what the end would probably be. But not while his sister lives.”

“I should hope not!” said Mrs. Friedland.

After a pause, she turned to her husband.

“John! you know you liked him!”

“If you mean by that, my dear, that I showed a deplorable weakness in dealing with him, my conscience supports you!” said the doctor; “but I would have you remember that for a person of my quiet habits, to have a gentleman pale as death in your study, demanding his lady-love—you knowing all the time that the lady-love is upstairs—and only one elderly man between them—is an agitating situation.”

“Poor Laura!—poor Mr. Helbeck!” murmured Mrs. Friedland. The agony of the man, the resolution of the girl, stood out sharply from the medley of the past.

“All very well, my dear—all very well. But you showed a pusillanimity on that occasion that I scorn to qualify. You were afraid of that child—positively afraid of her. I could have dealt with her in a twinkling, if you’d left her to me.”

“What would you have said to her?” inquired Mrs. Friedland gently.

“How can there be any possible doubt what I should have said to her?” said the doctor, slapping his knee. “‘My dear, you love him—ERGO, marry him!’ That first and foremost. ‘And as to those other trifles, what have you to do with them? Look over them—look round them! Rise, my dear, to your proper dignity and destiny—have a right and natural pride—in the rock that bore you! You, a child of the Greater Church—of an Authority of which all other authorities are the mere caricature—why all this humiliation, these misgivings—this turmoil? Take a serener—take a loftier view!’ Ah! if I could evoke Fountain for one hour!”

The doctor bent forward, his hands hanging over his knees, his lips moving without sound, under the sentences his brain was forming. This habit of silent rhetoric represented a curious compromise between a natural impetuosity of temperament, and the caution of scientific research. His wife watched him with a loving, half-amused eye.

“And what, pray, could Mr. Fountain do, John, but make matters ten times worse?”

“Do!—who wants him to do anything? But ten years ago he might have done something. Listen to me, Jane!” He seized his wife’s arm. “He makes Laura a child of Knowledge, a child of Freedom, a child of Revolution—without an ounce of training to fit her for the part. It is like an heir—flung to the gypsies. Then you put her to the test—sorely—conspicuously. And she stands fast—she does not yield—it is not in her blood, scarcely in her power, to yield. But it is a blind instinct carried through at what a cost! You might have equipped and fortified her. You did neither. You trusted everything to the passionate loyalty of the woman. And it does not fail you. But——!”

The doctor shook his head, long and slowly. Mrs. Friedland quietly replaced the rugs which had gone wandering, in the energy of these remarks.

“You see, Jane, if it’s true—’ne croit qui veut’—it’s still more true, ‘ne doute qui veut!’ To doubt—doubt wholesomely, cheerfully, fruitfully—why, my dear, there’s no harder task in the world! And a woman, who thinks with her heart—who can’t stand on her own feet as a man can—you remove her from all her normal shelters and supports—you expect her to fling a ‘No!’ in the face of half her natural friends—and then you are too indolent or too fastidious to train the poor child for her work!—Fountain took Laura out of her generation, and gave her nothing in return. Did he read with her—share his mind with her? Never! He was indolent;-she was wilful; so the thing slid. But all the time he made a partisan of her—he expected her to echo his hates and his prejudice—he stamped himself and his cause deep into her affections——

“And then, my dear, she must needs fall in love with this man, this Catholic! Catholicism at its best—worse luck! No mean or puerile type, with all its fetishisms and unreasons on its head—no!—a type sprung from the finest English blood, disciplined by heroic memories, by the persecution and hardships of the Penal Laws. What happens? Why, of course the girl’s imagination goes over! Her father in her—her temperament—stand in the way of anything more. But where is she to look for self-respect, for peace of mind? She feels herself an infidel—a moral outcast. She trembles before the claims of this great visible system. Her reason refuses them—but why? She cannot tell. For Heaven’s sake, why do we leave our children’s minds empty like this? If you believe, my good friend, Educate! And if you doubt, still more—Educate! Educate!”

The doctor rose in his might, tossed his rugs from him, and began to pace a sheltered path, leaning on his wife’s arm.

Mrs. Friedland looked at him slyly, and laughed.

“So if Laura had been learned, she might have been happy?—John!—what a paradox!”

“Not mine then!—but the Almighty’s—who seems to have included a mind in this odd bundle that makes up Laura. What! You set a woman to fight for ideas, and then deny her all knowledge of what they mean. Happy! Of course she might have been happy. She might have made her Catholic respect her. He offered her terms—she might have accepted them with a free and equal mind. There would have been none, anyway, of this moral doubt—this bogeyfication of things she don’t understand! Ah! here she comes. Now just look at her, Jane! What’s your housekeeping after? She’s lost half a stone this month if she’s lost an ounce.”

And the doctor standing still peered discontentedly through his spectacles at the advancing figure.

Laura approached slowly, with her hands behind her, looking on her way at the daffodils and tulips just opening in the garden border.

“Pater!—Molly says you and Mater are to come in. It’s March and not May, you’ll please to remember.”

She came up to them with the airs of a daughter, put a flower in Mrs. Friedland’s dress—ran for one of the discarded rugs, and draped it again round the doctor’s ample shoulders. Her manner to the two elderly folk was much softer and freer than it had ever been in the days of her old acquaintance with them. A wistful gratitude played through it, revealing a new Laura—a Laura that had passed, in these five months through deep waters, and had been forced, in spite of pride, to throw herself upon the friendly and saving hands held out to her.

They on their side looked at her with a tender concern, which tried to disguise itself in chat. The doctor hooked his arm through hers, and made her examine the garden.

“Look at these Lent lilies, Miss Laura. They will be out in two days at most.”

Laura bent over them, then suddenly drew herself erect. The doctor felt the stiffening of the little arm.

“I suppose you had sheets of them in the north,” he said innocently, as he poked a stone away from the head of an emerging hyacinth.

“Yes—a great many.” She looked absently straight before her, taking no more notice of the flowers.

“Well—and Mrs. Fountain? Are you really anxious?”

这个女孩犹豫了。

“She is ill—quite ill. I ought to see her somehow.”

“Well, my dear, go!” He looked round upon her with a cheerful decision.

“No—that isn’t possible,” she said quietly. “But I might stay somewhere near. She must have lost a great deal of strength since Christmas.”

At Christmas and for some time afterwards, she and Mrs. Fountain had been at St. Leonard’s together. In fact, it was little more than a fortnight since Laura had parted from her stepmother, who had shown a piteous unwillingness to go back alone to Bannisdale.

The garden door opened and shut; a white-capped servant came along the path. A gentleman—for Miss Fountain.

“For me?” The girl’s cheek flushed involuntarily. “Why, Pater—who is it?”

For behind the servant came the gentleman—a tall and comely youth, with narrow blue eyes, a square chin, and a very conscious smile. He was well dressed in a dark serge suit, and showed a great deal of white cuff, and a conspicuous watch-chain, as he took off his hat.

“Hubert!”

Laura advanced to him, with a face of astonishment, and held out her hand.

Mason greeted her with a mixture of confusion and assurance, glancing behind her at the Friedlands all the time. “Well, I was here on some business—and I thought I’d look you up, don’t you know?”

“My cousin, Hubert Mason,” said Laura, turning to the old people.

Friedland lifted his wide-awake. Mrs. Friedland, whose gentle face could be all criticism, eyed him quietly, and shook hands perfunctorily. A few nothings passed on the weather and the spring. Suddenly Mason said:

“Would you take a walk with me, Miss Laura?”

After a momentary hesitation, she assented, and went into the house for her walking things. Mason hurriedly approached the doctor.

“Why, she looks—she looks as if you could blow her away!” he cried, staring into the doctor’s face, while his own flushed.

“Miss Fountain’s health has not been strong this winter,” said the doctor gravely, his spectacled eyes travelling up and down Mason’s tall figure. “You, I suppose, became acquainted with her in Westmoreland?”

“Acquainted with her!” The young man checked himself, flushed still redder, then resumed. “Well, we’re cousins, you see—though of course I don’t mean to say that we’re her sort—you understand?”

“Miss Fountain is ready,” said Mrs. Friedland.

Mason looked round, saw the little figure in the doorway, and hastily saluting the Friedlands, took his leave.

“My dear,” said the doctor anxiously, laying hold on his wife’s arm, “should we have asked him to lunch?”

His wife smiled.

“By no means. That’s Laura’s business.”

“Well, but, Jane—Jane! had you realised that young man?”

“Oh dear, yes,” said Mrs. Friedland. “Don’t excite yourself, John.”

“Laura—gone out with a young man,” said the doctor, musing. “I have been waiting for that all the winter—and he’s extremely good-looking, Jane.”

Mrs. Friedland lost patience.

“John! I really can’t talk to you, if you’re as dense as that.”

“Talk to me!” cried the doctor—”why, you unreasonable woman, you haven’t vouchsafed me a single word!”

“Well, and why should I?” said Mrs. Friedland provokingly.

Half an hour passed away. Mason and Laura were sitting in the garden of
三位一体。

Up till now, Laura had no very clear idea of what they had been talking about. Mason, it appeared, had been granted three days’ holiday by his employers, and had made use of it to come to Cambridge and present a letter of introduction from his old teacher, Castle, the Whinthorpe organist, to a famous Cambridge musician. But, at first, he was far more anxious to discuss Laura’s affairs than to explain his own; and Laura had found it no easy matter to keep him at arm’s length. For nine months, Mason had brooded, gossiped, and excused himself; now, conscious of being somehow a fine fellow again, he had come boldly to play the cousin—perhaps something more. He offered now a few words of stammering apology on the subject of his letter to Laura after the announcement of her engagement. She received them in silence; and the matter dropped.

As to his moral recovery, and material prospects, his manners and appearance were enough. A fledgeling ambition, conscious of new aims and chances, revealed itself in all he said. The turbid elements in the character were settling down; the permanent lines of it, strong, vulgar, self-complacent, emerged.

Here, indeed, was a successful man in the making. Once or twice the girl’s beautiful eyes opened suddenly, and then sank again. Before her rose the rocky chasm of the Greet; the sound of the water was in her ears—the boyish tones of remorse, of entreaty.

“And you know I’ll make some money out of my songs before long—see if I don’t! I took some of em to the Professor this morning—and, my word, didn’t he like em! Why, I couldn’t repeat the things he said—you’d think I was bluffing!”

Strange gift!—”settling unaware”—on this rude nature and poor intelligence! But Laura looked up eagerly. Here she softened; here was the bridge between them. And when he spoke of his new friend, the young musical apostle who had reclaimed him, there was a note which pleased her. She began to smile upon him more freely; the sadness of her little face grew sweet.

And suddenly the young man stopped and looked at her. He reddened; and she flushed too, not knowing why.

“Well, that’s where ’tis,” he said, moving towards her on the seat. “I’m going to get on. I told you I was, long ago, and it’s come true. My salary’ll be a decent figure before this year’s out, and I’m certain I’ll make something out of the songs. Then there’s my share of the farm. Mother don’t give me more than she’s obliged; but it’s a tidy bit sometimes. Laura!—look here!—I know there’s nothing in the way now. You were a plucky girl, you were, to throw that up. I always said so—I didn’t care what people thought. Well, but now—you’re free—and I’m a better sort—won’t you give a fellow a chance?”

Midway, his new self-confidence left him. She sat there so silent, so delicately white! He had but to put out his hand to grasp her; and he dared, not move a finger. He stared at her, breathless and open-mouthed.

But she did not take it tragically at all. After a moment, she began to laugh, and shook her head.

“Do you mean that you want me to marry you, Hubert? Oh! you’d so soon be tired of that!—You don’t know anything about me, really—we shouldn’t suit each other at all.”

His face fell. He drew sullenly away from her, and bending forward, began to poke at the grass with his stick.

“I see how ’tis. I’m not good enough for you—and I don’t suppose I ever shall be.”

She looked at him with a smiling compassion.

“I’m not in love with you, Mr. Hubert—that’s all.”

“No—you’ve never got over them things that happened up at Whinthorpe,” he said roughly. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you though. Why did you give me the slip that night?”

He looked up. But in spite of his bravado, he reddened again, deeply.

“Well—you hadn’t exactly commended yourself as an escort, had you?” she said lightly. But her tone pricked.

“I hadn’t had a drop of anything,” he declared hotly; “and I’d have looked after you, and stopped a deal of gossip. You hurt my feelings pretty badly. I can tell you.”

“Did I?—Well, as you hurt mine on the first occasion, let’s cry quits.”

He was silent for a little, throwing furtive glances at her from time to time. She was wonderfully thin and fragile, but wonderfully pretty, as she sat there under the cedar.

At last he said, with a grumbling note:

“I wish you wouldn’t look so thin and dowie-like, as we say up at home—you’ve no cause to fret, I’m sure.”

The temper of twenty-one gave way. Laura sat up—nay, rose.

“Will you please come and look at the sights?—or shall I go home?”

He looked up at her flashing face, and stuck to his seat.

“I say—Miss Laura—you don’t know how you bowl a fellow over!”

The expression of his handsome countenance—so childish still through all its athlete’s force—propitiated her. And yet she felt instinctively that his fancy for her no longer went so deep as it had once done.

Well!—she was glad; of course she was glad.

“Oh! you’re not so very much to be pitied,” she said; but her hand lighted a moment kindly and shyly on the young man’s arm. “Now, if you wouldn’t talk about these things, Hubert—do you know what I should be doing?—I should be asking you to do me a service.”

His manner changed—became businesslike and mannish at once.

“Then you’ll please sit down again—and tell me what it is,” he said.

She obeyed. He crossed his knees, and listened.

But she had some difficulty in putting it. At last she said, looking away from him:

“Do you think, if I proposed it, your mother could bear to have me on a visit to the farm?”

“Mother!—you!” he said in astonishment. A hundred notions blazed up in his mind. What on earth did she want to be in those parts again for?

“My stepmother is very unwell,” she said hurriedly. “It—well, it troubles me not to see her. But I can’t go to Bannisdale. If your mother doesn’t hate me now, as she did last summer—perhaps—she and Polly would take me in for a while?”

He frowned over it—taking the airs of the relative and the counsellor.

“Mother didn’t say much—well—about your affair. But Polly says she’s never spoken again you since. But I expect—you know what she’d be afraid of?”

He nodded sagaciously.

“I can’t imagine,” said Laura, instantly. But the stiffening of her slight frame betrayed her.

“Why, of course—Miss Laura—you see she’d be afraid of its coming on again.”

There was silence. The broad rim of Laura’s velvet hat hid her face.
Hubert began to be uncomfortable.

“I don’t say as she’d have cause to,” he said slowly; “but——”

Laura suddenly laughed, and Mason opened his eyes in astonishment. Such a strange little dry sound!

“Of course, if your mother were to think such things and to say them to me—every time I went to Bannisdale, I couldn’t stay. But I want to see Augustina very, 非常 much.” Her voice wavered. “And I could easily go to her—if I were close by—when she was alone. And of course I should be no expense. Your mother knows I have my own money.”

Hubert nodded. He was trying hard to read her face, but—what the deuce made girls so close? His countenance brightened however.

“All right. I’ll see to it—I’ll manage it—you wait.”

“Ah! but stop a minute.” Her smile shone out from the shadow of the hat.
“If I go there’s a condition. While I’m there, you mustn’t come.”

The young fellow flung away from her with a passionate exclamation, and her smile dropped—lost itself in a sweet distress, unlike the old wild Laura.

“I seem to be falling out with you all the time,” she said in haste—”and I don’t want to a bit! But indeed—it will be much better. You see, if you were to be coming over to pay visits to me—you would think it your duty to make love to me!”

“Well—and if I did?” he said fiercely.

“It would only put off the time of our making real friends. And—and—I do care very much for papa’s people.”

The tears leapt to her eyes for the first time. She held out her ungloved hand.

Reluctantly, and without looking at her, he took it. The touch of it roused a tempest in him. He crushed it and threw it away from him.

“Oh! if you’d never seen that man!” he groaned.

She got up without a word, and presently they were walking through the “backs,” and she was gradually taming and appeasing him. By the time they reached the street gate of King’s he was again in the full tide of musical talk and boasting, quite aware besides that his good looks and his magnificent physique drew the attention of the passers-by.

“Why, they’re a poor lot—these ‘Varsity men!” he said once contemptuously, as they passed a group of rather weedy undergraduates—”I could throw ten of em at one go!”

And perpetually he talked of money, the cost of his lodgings, of his railway fare, the swindling ways of the south. After all, the painful habits of generations had not run to waste; the mother began to show in the son.

In the street they parted. As he was saying good-bye to her, his look suddenly changed.

“I say!—that’s the girl I travelled down with yesterday! And, by Jove! she knew me!”

And with a last nod to Laura, he darted after a tall woman who had thrown him a glance from the further pavement. Laura recognised the smart and buxom daughter of a Cambridge tradesman, a young lady whose hair, shoulders, millinery, and repartees were all equally pronounced.

Miss Fountain smiled, and turned away. But in the act of doing so, she came to a sudden stop. A face had arrested her—she stood bewildered.

A man walking in the road came towards her.

“I see that you recognise me, Miss Fountain!”

The ambiguous voice—the dark, delicate face—the clumsy gait—she knew them all. But—she stared in utter astonishment. The man who addressed her wore a short round coat and soft hat; a new beard covered his chin; his flannel shirt was loosely tied at the throat by a silk handkerchief. And over all the same air of personal slovenliness and ill-breeding.

“You didn’t expect to see me in this dress, Miss Fountain? Let me walk a few steps with you, if I may. You perhaps hadn’t heard that I had left the Jesuits—and ceased indeed to be a Catholic.”

Her mind whirled, as she recognised the scholastic. She saw the study at
Bannisdale—and Helbeck bending over her.

“No, indeed—I had not heard,” she stammered, as they walked on. “Was it long ago?”

“Only a couple of months. The crisis came in January——”

And he broke out into a flood of autobiography. Already at Bannisdale he had been in confusion of mind—the voices of art and liberty calling to him each hour more loudly—his loyalty to Helbeck, to his boyish ideals, to his Jesuit training, holding him back.

“I believe, Miss Fountain”—the colour rushed into his womanish cheek—”you overheard us that evening—you know what I owe to that admirable, that extraordinary man. May I be frank? We have both been through deep waters!”

The girl’s face grew rigid. Involuntarily she put a wider space between herself and him. But he did not notice.

“It will be no news to you, Miss Fountain, that Mr. Helbeck’s engagement troubled his Catholic friends. I chose to take it morbidly to heart—I ventured that—that most presumptuous attack upon him.” He laughed, with an affected note that made her think him odious. “But you were soon avenged. You little know, Miss Fountain, what an influence your presence at Bannisdale had upon me. It—well! it was like a rebel army, perpetually there, to help—to support, the rebel in myself. I saw the struggle—the protest in you. My own grew fiercer. Oh! those days of painting!—and always the stabbing thought, never again! I must confess even the passionate delight this has given me—the irreligious ideas it has excited. All my religious habits lost power—I could not meditate—I was always thinking of the problem of my work. Clearly I must never touch, a brush again.—For I was very soon to take orders—then to go out to missionary work. Well, I put the painting aside—I trampled on myself—I went to see my father and sister, and rejoiced in the humiliations they put upon me. Mr. Helbeck was all kindness, but he was naturally the last person I could confide in. Then, Miss Fountain, I went back, back to the Jesuit routine——”

He paused, looking instinctively for a glance from her. But she gave him none.

“And in three weeks it broke down under me for ever. I gave it up. I am a free man. Of the wrench I say nothing.” He drew himself up with a shudder, which seemed to her theatrical. “There are sufferings one must not talk of. The Society have not been ungenerous. They actually gave me a little money. But, of course, for all my Catholic friends it is like death. They know me no more.”

Then for the first time his companion turned towards him. Her eyelids lifted. Her lips framed rather than spoke the words, “Mr. Helbeck?”

“Ah! Mr. Helbeck—I am not mistaken, Miss Fountain, in thinking that I may now speak of Mr. Helbeck with more freedom?”

“My engagement with Mr. Helbeck is broken off,” she said coldly. “But you were saying something of yourself?”

A momentary expression of dislike and disappointment crossed his face. He was of a soft, sensuous temperament, and had expected a good deal of sympathy from Miss Fountain.

“Mr. Helbeck has done what all of us might expect,” he said, not without a betraying sharpness. “He has cast me off in the sternest way. Henceforth he knows me no more. Bannisdale is closed to me. But, indeed, the news from that quarter fills me with alarm.”

Laura looked up again eagerly, involuntarily.

“Mr. Helbeck, by all accounts, grows more and more extreme—more and more solitary.—But of course your stepmother will have kept you informed. It was always to be foreseen. What was once a beautiful devotion, has become, with years—and, I suppose, opposition—a stern unbending passion—may not one say, a gloomy bigotry?”

He sighed delicately. Through the girl’s stormy sense there ran a dumb rush of thoughts—”Insolent! ungrateful! He wounds the heart that loved him—and then dares to discuss—to blame!”

But before she could find something to say aloud, her companion resumed.

“But I must not complain. I was honoured by a superior man’s friendship. He has withdrawn it. He has the right.—Now I must look to the future. You will, I think, be glad to hear that I am not in that destitute condition which generally awaits the Catholic deserter. My prospects indeed seem to be secured.”

And with a vanity which did not escape her, he described the overtures that had been made to him by the editor of a periodical which was to represent “the new mystical school”—he spoke familiarly of great artists, and especially French ones, murdering the French names in a way that at once hurt the girl’s ears, and pleased her secret spite against him—he threw in a critic or two without the Mr.—and he casually mentioned a few lords as persons on whom genius and necessity could rely.

All this in a confidential and appealing tone, which he no doubt imagined to be most suitable to women, especially young women. Laura thought it impertinent and unbecoming, and longed to be rid of him. At last the turning to the Friedlands’ house appeared. She stood still, and stiffly wished him good-bye.

But he retained her hand and pressed it ardently.

“Oh! Miss Fountain—we have both suffered!”

The girl could hardly pacify herself enough to go in. Again and again she found a pleasure in those words of her French novel that she had repeated to Helbeck long ago: “Imagination faussée et troublée—faussée et troublée设立的区域办事处外，我们在美国也开设了办事处，以便我们为当地客户提供更多的支持。“

No delicacy—no modesty—no compunction! Her own poor heart flew to Bannisdale. She thought of all that the Squire had suffered in this man’s cause. Outrage—popular hatred—her own protests and petulances,—all met with so unbending a dignity, so inviolable a fidelity, both to his friend and to his Church! She recalled that scarred brow—that kind and brotherly affection—that passionate sympathy which had made the heir of one of the most ancient names in England the intimate counsellor and protector of the wheelwright’s son.

Popinjay!—renegade!—to come to her talking of “bigotry”—without a breath of true tenderness or natural remorse. Williams had done that which she had angrily maintained in that bygone debate with Helbeck he had every right to do. And she had nothing but condemnation. She walked up and down the shady road, her eyes blinded with tears. One more blow upon the heart that she herself had smitten so hard! Sympathy for this new pain took her back to every incident of the old—to every detail of that hideous week which had followed upon her flight.

How had she lived through it? Those letters—that distant voice in Dr.
Friedland’s study—her own piteous craving——

For the thousandth time, with the old dreary conviction, she said to herself that she had done right—terribly, incredibly right.

But all the while, she seemed to be sitting beside him in his study—laying her cheek upon his hand—eagerly comforting him for this last sorrow. His inexorable breach with Williams—well! it was part of his character—she would not have it otherwise. All that had angered her as imagination, was now natural and dignified as reality. Her thoughts proudly defended it. Let him be rigorous towards others if he pleased—he had been first king and master of himself.

Next day Molly Friedland and Laura went to London for the day. Laura was taking music lessons, as one means of driving time a little quicker; and there was shopping to be done both for the household and for themselves.

In the afternoon, as the girls were in Sloane Street together, Laura suddenly asked Molly to meet her in an hour at a friend’s house, where they were to have tea. “I have something I want to do by myself.” Molly asked no questions, and they parted.

A few minutes later, Laura stepped into the church of the Brompton
Oratory. It was a Saturday afternoon, and Benediction was about to begin.

She drew down her thick veil, and took a seat near the door. The great heavy church was still nearly dark, save for a dim light in the sanctuary. But it was slowly filling with people, and she watched the congregation.

In front of her was a stout and fashionably dressed young man with an eyeglass and stick—evidently a stranger. He sat stolid and motionless, one knee crossed over the other, scrutinising everything that went on as though he had been at the play. Presently, a great many men began to stream in, most of them bald and grey, but some young fellows, who dropped eagerly on their knees as they entered, and rose reluctantly. Nuns in black hoods and habits would come briskly up, kneel and say a prayer, then go out again. Or sometimes they brought schools—girls, two and two—and ranged them decorously for the service. An elderly man, of the workman class, appeared with his small son, and sat in front of Laura. The child played tricks; the man drew it tenderly within his arm, and kept it quiet, while he himself told his beads. Then a girl with wild eyes and touzled hair, probably Irish, with her baby in her arms, sat down at the end of Laura’s seat, stared round her for a few minutes, dropped to the altar, and went away. And all the time smartly dressed ladies came and went incessantly, knelt at side altars, crossed themselves, said a few rapid prayers, or disappeared into the mysteries of side aisles behind screens and barriers—going no doubt to confession.

There was an extraordinary life in it all. Here was no languid acceptance of a respectable habit. Something was eagerly wanted—diligently sought.

Laura looked round her, with a sigh from her inmost heart. But the vast church seemed to her ugly and inhuman. She remembered a saying of her father’s as to its “vicious Roman style”—the “tomb of the Italian mind.”

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Ah!—Suddenly a dim surpliced figure in the distance, and lights springing like stars in the apse. Presently the high altar, in a soft glow, shone out upon the dark church. All was still silent; the sanctuary spoke in light.

For a few minutes. Then this exquisite and magical effect broke up. The lighting spread through the church, became commonplace, showed the pompous lines of capital and cornice, the bad sculpture in the niches. A procession entered, and the service began.

Laura dropped on her knees. But she was no longer in London, in the Oratory church. She was far away, in the chapel of an old northern house, where the walls glowed with strange figures, and a dark crucifix hovered austerely above the altar. She saw the small scattered congregation; Father Bowles’s grey head and blanched, weak face; Augustina in her long widow’s veil; the Squire in his corner. The same words were being said there now, at this same hour. She looked at her watch, then hid her eyes again, tortured with a sick yearning.

But when she came out, twenty minutes later, her step was more alert. For a little while, she had been almost happy.

That night, after the returned travellers had finished their supper, the doctor was in a talking mood. He had an old friend with him a thinker and historian like himself. Both of them had lately come across “Leadham of Trinity”—the convert and Jesuit, who was now engaged upon an important Catholic memoir, and was settled for a time, within reach of Cambridge libraries.

“You knew Father Leadham in the north, Miss Laura?” asked the doctor, as the girls came into the drawing-room.

Laura started.

“I saw him two or three times,” she said, as she made her way to the warm but dark corner near the fire. “Is he in Cambridge?”

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“Come to embrace us all—breathing benediction on learning and on science! There has been a Catholic Congress somewhere.”—He looked at his friend. “That will show us the way!”

The friend—a small, lively-eyed, black-bearded man, just returned from some theological work in a German university—threw back his head and laughed good-humouredly.

The talk turned on Catholic learning old and new; on the assumptions and limitations of it; on the forms taken by the most recent Catholic Apologetic; and so, like a vessel descending a great river, passed out at last, steered by Friedland, among the breakers of first principles.

As a rule the doctor talked in paradox and ellipse. He threw his sentences into air, and let them find their feet as they could.

But to-day, unconsciously, his talk took a tone that was rare with him—became prophetical, pontifical—assumed a note of unction. And often, as Molly noticed, with a slight instinctive gesture—a fatherly turning towards that golden spot made by Laura’s hair among the shadows.

His friend fell silent after a while—watching Friedland with small sharp
eyes. He had come there to discuss a new edition of Sidonius
Apollinaris,—was himself one of the driest and acutest of investigators.
All this talk for babes seemed to him the merest waste of time.

Friedland, however, with a curious feeling, let himself be carried away by it.

A little Catholic manual of Church history had fallen into his hands that morning. His fingers played with it as it lay on the table, and with the pages of a magazine beside it that contained an article by Father Leadham.

No doubt some common element in the two had roused him.——

“The Catholic war with history,” he said, “is perennial! History, in fact, is the great rationalist; and the Catholic conscience is scandalised by her. And so we have these pitiful little books—” he laid his hand on the volume beside him—”which simply expunge history, or make it afresh. And we have a piece of Jesuit 辩解书, like this paper of Leadham’s—so charming, in a sense, so scholarly! And yet one feels through it a cry of the soul—the Catholic arraignment of history, that she is what she is!”

“You’ll find it in Newman—often,” said the black-bearded man suddenly—and he ran through a list of passages, rapidly, in the student’s way.

“Ah! Newman!” said Friedland with vivacity. “This morning I read over that sermon of his he delivered to the Oscott Synod, after the re-establishment of the Hierarchy—you remember it, Dalton?—What a flow and thunder in the sentences!—what an elevation in the thought! Who would not rather lament with Newman, than exult with Froude?—But here again, it is history that is the rationalist—not we poor historians!

“… Why was England lost to the Church? Because Henry was a villain?—because the Tudor bishops were slaves and poltroons? Does Leadham, or any other rational man really think so?”

The little black man nodded. He did not think it worth while to speak.

But Friedland went on enlarging, with his hand on his Molly’s head—looking into her quiet eyes.

“… The fact is, the Catholic, who is in love with his Church, 不能 let himself realise truly what the Home of the Renaissance meant: But turn your back on all the Protestant crew—even on Erasmus. Ask only those Catholic witnesses who were at the fountain-head, who saw the truth face to face. And then—ponder a little, what it was that really happened in those forty-five years of Elizabeth….

“Can Leadham, can anyone deny that the nation rose in them to the full stature of its manhood—to a buoyant and fruitful maturity? And more—if it had not been for some profound movement of the national life,—some irresistible revolt of the common intelligence, the common conscience—does anyone suppose that the whims and violences of any trumpery king could have broken the links with Rome?—that such a life and death as More’s could have fallen barren on English hearts? Never!—How shallow are all the official explanations—how deep down lies the truth!”

Out of the monologues that followed, broken often by the impatience or the eagerness of Dalton, Molly, at least, who worked much with her father, remembered fragments like the following:

“… The figure of the Church,—spouse or captive, bride or martyr,—as she has become personified in Catholic imagination, is surely among the greatest, the most ravishing, of human conceptions. It ranks with the image of ‘Jahve’s Servant’ in the poetry of Israel. And yet behind her, as she moves through history, the modern sees the rising of something more majestic still—the free human spirit, in its contact with the infinite sources of things!—the Jerusalem which is the mother of us all—the Greater, the Diviner Church…. Into her Ursula-robe all lesser forms are gathered. But she is not only a maternal, a generative power—she is chastisement and convulsion.

“… Look back again to that great rising of the North against the South, that we call the Reformation.—Catholicism of course is saved with the rest.—One may almost say that Newman’s own type is made possible—all that touches and charms us in English Catholics has its birth, because York, Canterbury, and Salisbury are lost to the Mass.

“And abroad?—I always find a sombre fascination in the spectacle of the Tridentine reform. The Church in her stern repentance breaks all her toys, burns all her books! She shakes herself free from Guicciardini’s ‘herd of wretches.’ She shuts her gates on the knowledge and the freedom that have rent her—and within her strengthened walls she sits, pondering on judgment to come. In so far as her submission is incomplete, she is raising new reckonings against herself every hour.—But for the moment the moralising influence of the lay intelligence has saved her—a new strength flows through her old veins.

“… And so with scholarship.—The great fabric of Gallican and Benedictine learning rises into being, under the hammer blows of a hostile research. The Catholics of Germany, says Renan, are particularly distinguished for acuteness and breadth of ideas. Why? Because of the ‘perpetual contact of Protestant criticism.’—

“… More and more we shall come to see that it is the World that is the salt of the Church! She owes far more to her enemies than to any of her canonised saints. One may almost say that she lives on what the World can spare her of its virtues.”

Laura, in her dark corner, had almost disappeared from sight. Molly, the soft, round-faced, spectacled Molly, turned now and then from her friend to her father. She would give Friedland sometimes a gentle restraining touch—her lips shaped themselves, as though she said, “Take care!”

And gradually Friedland fell upon things more intimate—the old topics of the relation between Catholicism and the will, Catholicism and conscience.

“… I often think we should be the better for some chair of ‘The Inner Life,’ at an English University!” he said presently, with a smile at Molly.—”What does the ordinary Protestant know of all those treasures of spiritual experience which Catholicism has secreted for centuries? 那里 is the debt of debts that we all owe to the Catholic Church.

“Well!—Some day, no doubt, we shall all be able to make a richer use of what she has so abundantly to give.—

“At present what one sees going on in the modern world is a vast transformation of moral ideas, which for the moment holds the field. Beside the older ethical fabric—the fabric that the Church built up out of Greek and Jewish material—a new is rising. We think a hundred things unlawful that a Catholic permits; on the other hand, a hundred prohibitions of the older faith have lost their force. And at the same time, for half our race, the old terrors and eschatologies are no more. We fear evil for quite different reasons; we think of it in quite different ways. And the net result in the best moderns is at once a great elaboration of conscience—and an almost intoxicating sense of freedom.—

“Here, no doubt, it is the personal abjection of Catholicism, that jars upon us most—that divides it deepest from the modern spirit.—Molly!—don’t frown!—Abjection is a Catholic word—essentially a Catholic temper. It means the ugliest and the loveliest things. It covers the most various types—from the nauseous hysteria of a Margaret Mary Alacoque, to the exquisite beauty of the 仿制…. And it derives its chief force, for good and evil, from the belief in the Mass. There again, how little the Protestant understands what he reviles! In one sense he understands it well enough. Catholicism would have disappeared long ago but for the Mass. Marvellous indestructible belief!—that brings God to Man, that satisfies the deepest emotions of the human heart!—

“What will the religion of the free mind discover to put in its place? Something, it must find. For the hold of Catholicism—or its analogues—upon the guiding forces of Christendom is irretrievably broken. And yet the needs of the soul remain the same….

“Some compensation, no doubt, we shall reap from that added sense of power and wealth, which the change in the root ideas of life has brought with it for many people. Humanity has walked for centuries under the shadow of the Fall, with all that it involves. Now, a precisely opposite conception is slowly incorporating itself with all the forms of European thought. It is the disappearance—the rise—of a world. At the beginning of the century, Coleridge foresaw it.

“… The transformation affects the whole of personality! The mass of men who read and think, and lead straight lives to-day, are often conscious of a dignity and range their fathers never knew. The spiritual stature of civilised man has risen—like his physical stature! We walk to-day a nobler earth. We come—not as outcasts, but as sons and freemen, into the House of God.—But all the secrets and formulae of a new mystical union have to be worked out. And so long as pain and death remain, humanity will always be at heart a mystic!”

Gradually, as the old man touched these more penetrating and personal matters, the head among the shadows had emerged. The beautiful eyes, so full—unconsciously full—of sad and torturing thought, rested upon the speaker. Friedland became sensitively conscious of them. The grey-haired scholar was in truth one of the most religious of men and optimists. The negations of his talk began to trouble him—in sight of this young grief and passion. He drew upon all that his heart could find to say of things fruitful and consoling. After the liberating joys of battle, he must needs follow the perennial human instinct and build anew the “Civitas Dei.”

When Friedland and his wife were left alone, Friedland said with timidity:

“Jane, I played the preacher to-night, and preaching is foolishness. But I would willingly brace that poor child’s mind a little. And it seemed to me she listened.”

Mrs. Friedland laughed under her breath—the saddest laugh.

“Do you know what the child was doing this afternoon?”

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“She went to the Oratory—to Benediction.” Friedland looked up startled—then understood—raised his hands and let them drop despairingly.

“Missie—are yo ben?”

The outer door of Browhead Farm was pushed inwards, and old Daffady’s head and face appeared.

“Come in, Daffady—please come in!”

Miss Fountain’s tone was of the friendliest. The cow-man obeyed her. He came in, holding his battered hat in his hand.

“Missie—A thowt I’d tell yo as t’ rain had cleared oop—yo cud take a bit air verra weel, if yo felt to wish it.”

Laura turned a pale but smiling face towards him. She had been passing through a week of illness, owing perhaps to the April bleakness of this high fell, and old Daffady was much concerned. They had made friends from the first days of her acquaintance with the farm. And during these April weeks since she had been the guest of her cousins, Daffady had shown her a hundred quaint attentions. The rugged old cow-man who now divided with Mrs. Mason the management of the farm was half amused, half scandalised, by what seemed to him the delicate uselessness of Miss Fountain. “I’m towd as doon i’ Lunnon town, yo’ll find scores o’ this mak”—he would say to his intimate the old shepherd—”what th’ Awmighty med em for, bets me. Now Miss Polly, she can sarve t’ beese”—(by which the old North Countryman meant “cattle”)—”and mek a hot mash for t’ cawves, an cook an milk, an ivery oother soart o’ thing as t’ Lord give us t’ wimmen for—bit Missie!—yo’ve nobbut to luke ut her ‘ands. Nobbut what theer’s soomat endearin i’ these yoong flibberties—yo conno let em want for owt—bit it’s the use of em worrits me above a bit.”

Certainly all that old Daffady could do to supply the girl’s wants was done. Whether it was a continuous supply of peat for the fire in these chilly April days; or a newspaper from the town; or a bundle of daffodils from the wood below—some signs of a fatherly mind he was always showing towards this little drone in the hive. And Laura delighted in him—racked her brains to keep him talking by the fireside.

“Well, Daffady, I’ll take your advice.—I’m hungering to be out again.
But come in a bit first. When do you think the mistress will be back?”

Daffady awkwardly established himself just inside the door, looking first to see that his great nailed boots were making no unseemly marks upon the flags.

Laura was alone in the house. Mrs. Mason and Polly were gone to Whinthorpe, where they had some small sales to make. Mrs. Mason moreover was discontented with the terms under which she sold her milk; and there were inquiries to be made as to another factor, and perhaps a new bargain to be struck.

“Oh, the missis woan’t be heäm till dark,” said Daffady. “She’s not yan to do her business i’ haäste. She’ll see to ‘t aa hersen. An she’s reet there. Them as ladles their wits oot o’ other foak’s brains gits nobbut middlin sarved.”

“You don’t seem to miss Mr. Hubert very much?” said Laura, with a laughing look.

Daffady scratched his head.

“Noa—they say he’s doin wonnerfu well, deän i’ Froswick, an I’m juist glad on ‘t; for he wasna yan for work.”

“Why, Daffady, they say now he’s killing himself with work!”

Daffady grinned—a cautious grin.

“They’ll deave yo, down i’ th’ town, wi their noise.—Yo’d think they were warked to deäth.—Bit, yo can see for yorsen. Why, a farmin mon mut be allus agate: in t’ mornin, what wi’ cawves to serve, an t’ coos to feed, an t’ horses to fodder, yo’re fair run aff your legs. Bit down i’ Whinthorpe—or Froswick ayder, fer it’s noa odds—why, theer’s nowt stirrin for a yoong mon. If cat’s loose, that’s aboot what!”

Laura’s face lit up. Very few things now had power to please her but
Daffady’s dialect, and Daffady’s scorns.

“And so all the world is idle but you farm people?”

“A doan’t say egsackly idle,” said Daffady, with a good-humoured tolerance.

“But the factory-hands, Daffady?”

“O!—a little stannin an twiddlin!” said Daffady contemptuously—”I allus ses they pays em abuve a bit.”

“But the miners?—come, Daffady!”

“I’m not stannin to it aw roond,” said Daffady patiently—”I laid it down i’ th’ general.”

“And all the people, who work with their heads, Daffady, like—like my papa?”

The girl smiled softly, and turned her slim neck to look at the old man. She was charmingly pretty so, among the shadows of the farm kitchen—but very touching—as the old man dimly felt. The change in her that worked so uncomfortably upon his rustic feelings went far deeper than any mere aspect of health or sickness. The spectator felt beside her a ghostly presence—that “sad sister, Pain”—stealing her youth away, smile as she might.

“I doan’t knaw aboot them, Missie—nor aboot yor fadther—thoo I’ll uphod tha Muster Stephen was a terr’ble cliver mon. Bit if yo doan’t bring a gude yed wi yo to th’ farmin yo may let it alane.—When th’ owd measter here was deein, Mr. Hubert was verra down-hearted yo understan, an verra wishfa to say soomat frendly to th’ owd man, noo it had coom to th’ lasst of im. ‘Fadther’—he ses—’dear fadther—is there nowt I could do fer tha?’—’Aye, lad’—ses th’ owd un—’gie me thy yed, an tak mine—thine is gude enoof to be buried wi.’ An at that he shet his mouth, and deed.”

Daffady told his story with relish. His contempt for Hubert was of many years’ standing. Laura lifted her eyebrows.

“That was sharp, for the last word. I don’t think you should stick pins when you’re dying—垂死!”—she repeated the word with a passionate energy—”going quite away—for ever.” Then, with a sudden change of tone—”Can I have the cart to-morrow, Daffady?”

Daffady, who had been piling the fire with fresh peat, paused and looked down upon her. His long, lank face, his weather-stained clothes, his great, twisted hand were all of the same colour—the colour of wintry grass and lichened rock. But his eyes were bright and blue, and a vivid streak of white hair fell across his high forehead. As the girl asked her question, the old man’s air of fatherly concern became more marked.

“Mut yo goa, missie? It did yo noa gude lasst time.”

“Yes, I must go. I think so—I hope so!”—She checked herself. “But I’ll wrap up.”

“Mrs. Fountain’s nobbut sadly, I unnerstan?”

“She’s rather better again. But I must go to-morrow. Daffady, Cousin
Elizabeth won’t forget to bring up the letters?”

“I niver knew her du sich a thing as thattens,” said Daffady, with caution.

“And do you happen to know whether Mr. Bayley is coming to supper?”

“T’ minister’ll mebbe coom if t’ weather hods up.”

“Daffady—do you think—that when you don’t agree with people about religion—it’s right and proper to sit every night—and tear them to pieces?”

The colour had suddenly flooded her pale face—her attitude had thrown off languor.

Daffady showed embarrassment.

“Well, noa, missie—Aa doan’t hod—mysen—wi personalities. Yo mun wrastle wi t’ sin—an gaa saftly by t’ sinner.”

“Sin!” she said scornfully.

Daffady was quelled.

“I’ve allus thowt mysen,” he said hastily, “as we’d a dëal to larn from Romanists i’ soom ways. Noo, their noshun o’ Purgatory—I daurna say a word for ‘t when t’ minister’s taakin, for there’s noa warrant for ‘t i’ Scriptur, as I can mek oot—bit I’ll uphod yo, it’s juist handy! Aa’ve often thowt so, i’ my aan preachin. Heaven an hell are verra well for t’ foak as are ower good, or ower bad; bit t’ moast o’ foak—are juist a mish-mash.”

He shook his head slowly, and then ventured a glance at Miss Fountain to see whether he had appeased her.

Laura seemed to rouse herself with an effort from some thoughts of her own.

“Daffady—how the sun’s shining! I’ll go out. Daffady, you’re very kind and nice to me—I wonder why?”

She laid one of the hands that seemed to the cow-man so absurd upon his arm, and smiled at him. The old man reddened and grunted. She sprang up with a laugh; and the kitchen was instantly filled by a whirlwind of barks from Fricka, who at last foresaw a walk.

Laura took her way up the fell. She climbed the hill above the farm, and then descended slowly upon a sheltered corner that held the old Browhead Chapel, whereof the fanatical Mr. Bayley—worse luck!—was the curate in charge.

She gave a wide berth to the vicarage, which with two or three cottages, embowered in larches and cherry-trees, lay immediately below the chapel. She descended upon the chapel from the fell, which lay wild about it and above it; she opened a little gate into the tiny churchyard, and found a sunny rock to sit on, while Fricka rushed about barking at the tits and the linnets.

Under the April sun and the light wind, the girl gave a sigh of pleasure. It was a spot she loved. The old chapel stood high on the side of a more inland valley that descended not to the sea, but to the Greet—a green open vale, made glorious at its upper end by the overpeering heads of great mountains, and falling softly through many folds and involutions to the woods of the Greet—the woods of Bannisdale.

So blithe and shining it was, on this April day! The course of the bright twisting stream was dimmed here and there by mists of fruit blossom. For the damson trees were all out, patterning the valleys,—marking the bounds of orchard and field, of stream and road. Each with its larch clump, the grey and white farms lay scattered on the pale green of the pastures; on either side of the valley the limestone pushed upward, through the grassy slopes of the fells, and made long edges and “scars” against the sky; while down by the river hummed the old mill where Laura had danced, a year before.

It was Westmoreland in its remoter, gentler aspect—Westmoreland far away from the dust of coaches and hotels—an untouched pastoral land, enwrought with a charm and sweetness none can know but those who love and linger. Its hues and lines are all sober and very simple. In these outlying fell districts, there is no splendour of colour, no majesty of peak or precipice. The mountain-land is at its homeliest—though still wild and free as the birds that flash about its streams. The purest radiance of cool sunlight floods it on an April day; there are pale subtleties of grey and purple in the rocks, in the shadows, in the distances, on which the eye may feed perpetually; and in the woods and bents a never-ceasing pageantry of flowers.

And what beauty in the little chapel-yard itself! Below it the ground ran down steeply to the village and the river, and at its edge—out of its loose boundary wall—rose a clump of Scotch firs, drawn in a grand Italian manner upon the delicacy of the scene beyond. Close to them a huge wild cherry thrust out its white boughs, not yet in their full splendour, and through their openings the distant blues of fell and sky wavered and shimmered as the wind played with the tree. And all round, among the humble nameless graves, the silkiest, finest grass—grass that gives a kind of quality, as of long and exquisite descent, to thousands of Westmoreland fields—grass that is the natural mother of flowers, and the sister of all clear streams. Daffodils grew in it now, though the daffodil hour was waning. A little faded but still lovely, they ran dancing in and out of the graves—up to the walls of the chapel itself—a foam of blossom breaking on the grey rock of the church.

Generations ago, when the fells were roadless and these valleys hardly peopled, the monks of a great priory church on the neighbouring coast built here this little pilgrimage chapel, on the highest point of a long and desolate track connecting the inland towns with the great abbeys of the coast, and with all the western seaboard. Fields had been enclosed and farms had risen about it; but still the little church was one of the loneliest and remotest of fanes. So lonely and remote that the violent hand of Puritanism had almost passed it by, had been content at least with a rough blow or two, defacing, not destroying. Above the moth-eaten table that replaced the ancient altar there still rose a window that breathed the very 秘密 of the old faith—a window of radiant fragments, piercing the twilight of the little church with strange uncomprehended things—images that linked the humble chapel and its worshippers with the great European story, with Chartres and Amiens, with Toledo and Rome.

For here, under a roof shaken every Sunday by Mr. Bayley’s thunders, there stood a golden St. Anthony, a virginal St. Margaret. And all round them, in a ruined confusion, dim sacramental scenes—that flamed into jewels as the light smote them! In one corner a priest raised the Host. His delicate gold-patterned vestments, his tonsured head, and the monstrance in his hands, tormented the curate’s eyes every Sunday as he began, robed in his black Genevan gown, to read the Commandments. And in the very centre of the stone tracery, a woman lifted herself in bed to receive the Holy Oil—so pale, so eager still, after all these centuries! Her white face spoke week by week to the dalesfolk as they sat in their high pews. Many a rough countrywoman, old perhaps, and crushed by toil and child-bearing, had wondered over her, had felt a sister in her, had loved her secretly.

But the children’s dreams followed St. Anthony rather—the kind, sly old man, with the belled staff, up which his pig was climbing.

Laura haunted the little place.

She could not be made to go when Mr. Bayley preached; but on week-days she would get the key from the schoolmistress, and hang over the old pews, puzzling out the window—or trying to decipher some of the other Popish fragments that the church contained. Sometimes she would sit rigid, in a dream that took all the young roundness from her face. But it was like the Oratory church, and Benediction. It brought her somehow near to Helbeck, and to Bannisdale.

To-day, however, she could not tear herself from the breeze and the sun. She sat among the daffodils, in a sort of sad delight, wondering sometimes at the veil that had dropped between her and beauty—dulling and darkening all things.

Surely Cousin Elizabeth would bring a letter from Augustina. Every day she had been expecting it. This was the beginning of the second week after Easter. All the Easter functions at Bannisdale must now be over; the opening of the new orphanage to boot; and the gathering of Catholic gentry to meet the Bishop—in that dreary, neglected house! Augustina, indeed, knew nothing of these things—except from the reports that might be brought to her by the visitors to her sick room. Bannisdale had now no hostess. Mr. Helbeck kept the house as best he could.

Was it not three weeks and more, now, that Laura had been at the farm? And only two visits to Bannisdale! For the Squire, by Augustina’s wish, and against the girl’s own judgment, knew nothing of her presence in the neighbourhood, and she could only see her stepmother on days when Augustina could be certain that her brother was away. During part of Passion week, all Holy week, and half Easter week, priests had been staying in the house—or the orphanage ceremony had detained the Squire. But by now, surely, he had gone to London on some postponed business. That was what Mrs. Fountain expected. The girl hungered for her letter.

Poor Augustina! The heart malady had been developing rapidly. She was very ill, and Laura thought unhappy.

And yet, when the first shock of it was over—in spite of the bewilderment and grief she suffered in losing her companion—Mrs. Fountain had been quite willing to recognise and accept the situation which had been created by Laura’s violent action. She wailed over the countermanded gowns and furnishings; but she was in truth relieved. “Now we know where we are again,” she had said both to herself and Father Bowles. That strange topsy—turveydom of things was over. She was no more tormented with anxieties; and she moved again with personal ease and comfort about her old home.

Poor Alan of course felt it dreadfully. And Laura could not come to Bannisdale for a long, long time. But Mrs. Fountain could go to her—several times a year. And the Sisters were very good, and chatty. Oh no, it was best—much best!

But now—whether it came from physical weakening or no—Mrs. Fountain was always miserable, always complaining. She spoke of her brother perpetually. Yet when he was with her, she thought him hard and cold. It was evident to Laura that she feared him; that she was never at ease with him. Merely to speak of those increased austerities of his, which had marked the Lent of this year, troubled and frightened her.

Often, too, she would lie and look at Laura with an expression of dry bitterness and resentment, without speaking. It was as though she were equally angry with the passion which had changed her brother—and with Laura’s strength in breaking from it.

Laura moved her seat a little. Between the wild cherry and the firs was a patch of deep blue distance. Those were his woods. But the house, was hidden by the hills.

“Somehow I have got to live!” she said to herself suddenly, with a violent trembling.

But how? For she bore two griefs. The grief for him, of which she never let a word pass her lips, was perhaps the strongest among the forces that were destroying her. She knew well that she had torn the heart that loved her—that she had set free a hundred dark and morbid forces in Helbeck’s life.

But it was because she had realised, by the insight of a moment, the madness of what they had done, the gulf to which they were rushing—because, at one and the same instant, there had been revealed to her the fatality under which she must still resist, and he must become gradually, inevitably, her persecutor, and her tyrant!

Amid the emotion, the overwhelming impressions of his story of himself, that conviction had risen in her inmost being—a strange inexorable voice of judgment—bidding her go! In a flash, she had seen the wretched future years—the daily struggle—the aspect of violence, even of horror, that his pursuit of her, his pressure upon her will, might assume—the sharpening of all those wild forces in her own nature.

She was broken with the anguish of separation—and how she had been able to do what she had done, she did not know. But the inner voice persisted—that for the first time, amid the selfish, or passionate, or joy-seeking impulses of her youth, she had obeyed a higher law. The moral realities of the whole case closed her in. She saw no way out—no way in which, so far as her last act was concerned, she could have bettered or changed the deed. She had done it for him, first of all. He must be delivered from her. And she must have room to breathe, without making of her struggle for liberty a hideous struggle with him, and with love.

Well, but—comfort!—where was it to be had? The girl’s sensuous craving nature fought like a tortured thing in the grasp laid upon it. How was it possible to go on suffering like this? She turned impatiently to one thought after another.

Beauty? Nature? Last year, yes! But now! That past physical ecstasy—in spring—in flowing water—in flowers—in light and colour—where was it gone? Let these tears—these helpless tears—make answer!

Music?—books?—the books that “make incomparable old maids”—friends?
The thought of the Friedlands made her realise that she could still love.
But after all—how little!—against how much!

Religion? All religion need not be as Alan Helbeck’s. There was religion as the Friedlands understood it—a faith convinced of God, and of a meaning for human life, trusting the “larger hope” that springs out of the daily struggle of conscience, and the garnered experience of feeling. Both in Friedland and his wife, there breathed a true spiritual dignity and peace.

But Laura was not affected by this fact in the least. She put away the suggestions of it with impatience. Her father had not been so. Now that she had lost her lover, she clung the more fiercely to her father. And there had been no anodynes for him.

… Oh if the sun—the useless sun—would only go—and Cousin Elizabeth would come back—and bring that letter! Yes, one little pale joy there was still—for a few weeks or months. The craving for the bare rooms of Bannisdale possessed her—for that shadow-happiness of entering his house as he quitted it—walking its old boards unknown to him—touching the cushions and chairs in Augustina’s room that he would touch, perhaps that very same night, or on the morrow!

Till Augustina’s death.—Then both for Laura and for Helbeck—an
Unknown—before which the girl shut her eyes.

There was company that night in the farm kitchen. Mr. Bayley, the more than evangelical curate, came to tea.

He was a little man, with a small sharp anaemic face buried in red hair. It was two or three years of mission work, first in Mexico, and then at Lima as the envoy of one of the most thoroughgoing of Protestant societies, that had given him his strangely vivid notions of the place of Romanism among the world’s forces. At no moment in this experience can he have had a grain of personal success. Lima, apparently, is of all towns in the universe the town where the beard of Protestantism is least worth the shaving—to quote a northern proverb. At any rate, Mr. Bayley returned to his native land at fifty with a permanent twist of brain. Hence these preposterous sermons in the fell chapel; this eager nosing out and tracking down of every scent of Popery; this fanatical satisfaction in such a kindred soul as that of Elizabeth Mason. Some mild Ritualism at Whinthorpe had given him occupation for years; and as for Bannisdale, he and the Masons between them had raised the most causeless of storms about Mr. Helbeck and his doings, from the beginning; they had kept up for years the most rancorous memory of the Williams affair; they had made the owner of the old Hall the bogey of a country-side.

Laura knew it well. She never spoke to the little red man if she could help it. What pleased her was to make Daffady talk of him—Daffady, whose contempt as a “Methody” for “paid priests” made him a sure ally.

“Why, he taaks i’ church as thoo God Awmighty were on the pulpit stairs—gi-en him his worrds!” said the cow-man, with the natural distaste of all preachers for diatribes not their own; and Laura, when she wandered the fields with him, would drive him on to say more and worse.

Mr. Bayley, on the other hand, had found a new pleasure in his visits to the farm-since Miss Fountain’s arrival. The young lady had escaped indeed from the evil thing—so as by fire. But she was far too pale and thin; she showed too many regrets. Moreover she was not willing to talk of Mr. Helbeck with his enemies. Indeed, she turned her back rigorously on any attempt to make her do so.

So all that was left to the two cronies was to sit night after night, talking to each other in the hot hope that Miss Fountain might be reached thereby and strengthened—that even Mrs. Fountain and that distant black brood of Bannisdale might in some indirect way be brought within the saving-power of the Gospel.

Strange fragments of this talk floated through the kitchen.—

“Oh, my dear friend!—forbidding to marry is a doctrine of 鬼子!—Now
Lima, as I have often told you, is a city of convents——”

There was a sudden grinding of chairs on the flagged floor. The grey head and the red approached each other; the nightly shudder began; while the girls chattered and coughed as loudly as they dared.

“No—a woan’t—a conno believe ‘t!” Mrs. Mason would say at last, throwing herself back against her chair with very red cheeks. And Daffady would look round furtively, trying to hear.

But sometimes the curate would try to propitiate the young ladies. He made himself gentle; he raised the most delicate difficulties. He had, for instance, a very strange compassion for the Saints. “I hold it,” he said—with an eye on Miss Fountain—”to be clearly demonstrable that the Invocation of Saints is, of all things, most lamentably injurious to the Saints themselves!”

“Hoo can he knaw?” said Polly to Laura, open-mouthed.

But Mrs. Mason frowned.

“A doan’t hod wi Saints whativer,” she said violently. “So A doan’t fash mysel aboot em!”

Daffady sometimes would be drawn into these diversions, as he sat smoking on the settle. And then out of a natural slyness—perhaps on these latter occasions, from a secret sympathy for “missie”—he would often devote himself to proving the solidarity of all “church priests,” Establishments, and prelatical Christians generally. Father Bowles might be in a “parlish” state; but as to all supporters of bishops and the heathenish custom of fixed prayers—whether they wore black gowns or no—”a man mut hae his doots.”

Never had Daffady been so successful with his shafts as on this particular evening. Mrs. Mason grew redder and redder; her large face alternately flamed and darkened in the firelight. In the middle the girls tried to escape into the parlour. But she shouted imperiously after them.

“Polly—Laura—what art tha aboot? Coom back at yance. I’ll not ha sickly foak sittin wi’oot a fire!”

They came back sheepishly. And when they were once more settled as audience, the mistress—who was by this time fanning herself tempestuously with the Whinthorpe paper—launched her last word:

“Daffady—thoo’s naa call to lay doon t’ law, on sic matters at aw. Mappen tha’ll recolleck t’ Bible—headstrong as tha art i’ thy aan conceit. Bit t’ Bible says ‘How can he get wisdom that holdeth the plough—whose taak is o’ bullocks?’ Aa coom on that yestherday—an A’ve bin sair exercised aboot thy preachin ever sen!”

Daffady held his peace.

The clergyman departed, and Daffady went out to the cattle. Laura had not given the red-haired man her hand. She had found it necessary to carry her work upstairs, at the precise moment of his departure. But when he was safely off the premises she came down again to say good-night to her cousins.

Oh! they had not been unkind to her these last weeks. Far from it. Mrs. Mason had felt a fierce triumph—she knew—in her broken engagement. Probably at first Cousin Elizabeth had only acquiesced in Hubert’s demand that Miss Fountain should be asked to stay at the farm, out of an ugly wish to see the girl’s discomfiture for herself. And she had not been able to forego the joy of bullying Mr. Helbeck’s late betrothed through Mr. Bayley’s mouth.

Nevertheless, when this dwindled ghostly Laura appeared, and began to flit through the low-ceiled room and dark passages of the farm—carefully avoiding any talk about herself or her story—always cheerful, self-possessed, elusive—the elder woman began after a little to have strange stirrings of soul towards her. The girl’s invincible silence, taken with those physical signs of a consuming pain that were beyond her concealment, worked upon a nature that, as far as all personal life and emotion were concerned, was no less strong and silent. Polly saw with astonishment that fires were lit in the parlour at odd times—that Laura might read or practise. She was amazed to watch her mother put out some little delicacy at tea or supper that Laura might be made to eat.

And yet!—after all these amenities, Mr. Bayley would still be asked to supper, and Laura would still be pelted and harried from supper-time till bed.

To-night when Laura returned, Mrs. Mason was in a muttering and stormy
mood. Daffady had angered her sorely. Laura, moreover, had a letter from
Bannisdale, and since it came there had been passing lights in Miss
Fountain’s eyes, and passing reds on her pale cheeks.

As the girl approached her cousin, Mrs. Mason turned upon her abruptly.

“Dostha want the cart to-morrow? Daffady said soomat aboot it.”

“If it could be spared.”

Mrs. Mason looked at her fixedly.

“If Aa was thoo,” she said, “Aa’d not flutter ony more roond 这 can’le!”

Laura shrank as though her cousin had struck her. But she controlled herself.

“Do you forget my stepmother’s state, Cousin Elizabeth?”

“Oh!—yo’ con aw mak much o’ what suits tha!” cried the mistress, as she walked fiercely to the outer door and locked it noisily from the great key-bunch hanging at her girdle.

The girl’s eyes showed a look of flame. Then her head seemed to swim. She put her hand to her brow, and walked weakly across the kitchen to the door of the stairs.

“Mother!” cried Polly, in indignation; and she sprang after Laura. But Laura waved her back imperiously, and almost immediately they heard her door shut upstairs.

An hour later Laura was lying sleepless in her bed. It was a clear cold night—a spring frost after the rain. The moon shone through the white blind, on the old four-poster, on Laura’s golden hair spread on the pillow, on the great meal-ark which barred the chimney, on the rude walls and woodwork of the room.

Her arms were thrown behind her head, supporting it. Nothing moved in the house, or the room—the only sound was the rustling of a mouse in one corner.

A door opened on a sudden. There was a step in the passage, and someone knocked at her door.

“进来吧。”

On the threshold stood Mrs. Mason in a cotton bedgown and petticoat, her grey locks in confusion about her massive face and piercing eyes.

She closed the door, and came to the bedside.

“Laura!—Aa’ve coom to ast thy pardon!”

Laura raised herself on one arm, and looked at the apparition with amazement.

“Mebbe A’ve doon wrang.—We shouldna quench the smoakin flax. Soa theer’s my han, child—if thoo can teäk it.”

The old woman held out her hand. There was an indescribable sound in her voice, as of deep waters welling up.

Laura fell back on her pillows—the whitest, fragilest creature—under the shadows of the old bed. She opened her delicate arms. “Suppose you kiss me, Cousin Elizabeth!”

The elder woman stooped clumsily. The girl linked her arms round her neck and kissed her warmly, repeatedly, feeling through all her motherless sense the satisfaction of a long hunger in the contact of the old face and ample bosom.

The reserve of both forbade anything more. Mrs. Mason tucked in the small figure—lingered a little—said, “Laura, th’art not coald—nor sick?”—and when Laura answered cheerfully, the mistress went.

The girl’s eyes were wet for a while; her heart beat fast. There had been few affections in her short life—far too few. Her nature gave itself with a fatal prodigality, or not at all. And now—what was there left to give?

But she slept more peacefully for Mrs. Mason’s visit—with Augustina’s letter of summons under her hand.

The day was still young when Laura reached Bannisdale.

Never had the house looked so desolate. Dust lay on the oaken boards and tables of the hall. There was no fire on the great hearth, and the blinds in the oriel windows were still mostly drawn. But the remains of yesterday’s fire were visible yet, and a dirty duster and pan adorned the Squire’s chair.

The Irishwoman with a half-crippled husband, who had replaced Mrs. Denton, was clearly incompetent. Mrs. Denton at least had been orderly and clean. The girl’s heart smote her with a fresh pang as she made her way upstairs.

She found Augustina no worse; and in her room there was always comfort, and even brightness. She had a good nurse; a Catholic “Sister” from London, of a kind and cheerful type, that Laura herself could not dislike; and whatever working power there was in the household was concentrated on her service.

Miss Fountain took off her things, and settled in for the day. Augustina chattered incessantly, except when her weakness threw her into long dozes, mingled often, Laura thought, with slight wandering. Her wish evidently was to be always talking of her brother; but in this she checked herself whenever she could, as though controlled by some resolution of her own, or some advice from another.

Yet in the end she said a great deal about him. She spoke of the last weeks of Lent, of the priests who had been staying in the house; of the kindness that had been shown her. That wonderful network of spiritual care and attentions—like a special system of courtesy having its own rules and etiquette—with which Catholicism surrounds the dying, had been drawn about the poor little widow. During the last few weeks Mass had been said several times in her room; Father Leadham had given her Communion every day in Easter week; on Easter Sunday the children from the orphanage had come to sing to her; that Roman palm over the bed was brought her by Alan himself. The statuette of St. Joseph, too, was his gift.

So she lay and talked through the day, cheerfully enough. She did not want to hear of Cambridge or the Friedlands, still less of the farm. Her whole interest now was centred in her own state, and in the Catholic joys and duties which it still permitted. She never spoke of her husband; Laura bitterly noted it.

But there were moments when she watched her stepdaughter, and once when the Sister had left them she laid her hand on Laura’s arm and whispered:

“Oh! Laura—he has grown so much greyer—since—since October.”

The girl said nothing. Augustina closed her eyes, and said with much
twitching and agitation, “When—when I am gone, he will go to the
Jesuits—I know he will. The place will come to our cousin, Richard
Helbeck. He has plenty of money—it will be very different some day.”

“Did—did Father Leadham tell you that?” said Laura, after a while.

“Yes. He admitted it. He said they had twice dissuaded him in former years. But now—when I’m gone—it’ll be allowed.”

Suddenly Augustina opened her eyes. “Laura! where are you?” Her little crooked face worked with tears. “I’m glad!—We ought all to be glad. I don’t—I don’t believe he ever has a happy moment!”

She began to weep piteously. Laura tried to console her, putting her cheek to hers, with inarticulate soothing words. But Augustina turned away from her—almost in irritation.

The girl’s heart was wrung at every turn. She lingered, however, till the last minute—almost till the April dark had fallen.

When she reached the hall again, she stood a moment looking round its cold and gloom. First, with a start, she noticed a pile of torn envelopes and papers lying on a table, which had escaped her in the morning. The Squire must have thrown them down there in the early morning, just before starting on his journey. The small fact gave her a throb of strange joy—brought back the living presence. Then she noticed that the study door was open.

A temptation seized her—drove her before it. Silence and solitude possessed the house. The servants were far away in the long rambling basement. Augustina was asleep with her nurse beside her.

Laura went noiselessly across the hall. She pushed the door—she looked round his room.

No change. The books, the crucifix, the pictures, all as before. But the old walls, and wainscots, the air of the room, seemed still to hold the winter. They struck chill.

The same pile of books in daily use upon his table—a few little manuals and reprints—”The Spiritual Combat,” the “Imitation,” some sermons—the volume of “Acta Sanctorum” for the month.

She could not tear herself from them. Trembling, she hung over them, and her fingers blindly opened a little book which lay on the top. It fell apart at a place which had been marked—freshly marked, it seemed to her. A few lines had been scored in pencil, with a date beside them. She looked closer and read the date of the foregoing Easter Eve. And the passage with its scored lines ran thus:

“Drive far from us the crowd of evil spirits who strive to approach us; unloose the too firm hold of earthly things; untie with Thy gentle and wounded hands the fibres of our hearts that cling so fast round human affections; let our weary head rest on Thy bosom till the struggle is over, and our cold form falls back—dust and ashes.”

She stood a moment—looking down upon the book—feeling life one throb of anguish. Then wildly she stooped and kissed the pages. Dropping on her knees too, she kissed the arm of the chair, the place where his hand would rest.

No one came—the solitude held. Gradually she got the better of her misery. She rose, replaced the book, and went.

The following night, very late, Laura again lay sleepless. But April was blowing and plashing outside. The high fell and the lonely farm seemed to lie in the very track of the storms, as they rushed from the south-west across the open moss to beat themselves upon the mountains.

But the moon shone sometimes, and then the girl’s restlessness would remind her of the open fell-side, of pale lights upon the distant sea, of cool blasts whirling among the old thorns and junipers, and she would long to be up and away—escaped from this prison where she could not sleep.

How the wind could drop at times—to what an utter and treacherous silence! And what strange, misleading sounds the silence brought with it!

She sat up in bed. Surely someone had opened the further gate—the gate from the lane? But the wind surged in again, and she had to strain her ears. Nothing. Yes!—wheels and hoofs! a carriage of some sort approaching.

A sudden thought came to her. The dog-cart—it seemed to be such by the sound—drew up at the farm door, and a man descended. She heard the reins thrown over the horse’s back, then the groping for the knocker, and at last blows loud and clear, startling the night.

Mrs. Mason’s window was thrown open next, and her voice came out imperiously—”What is it?”

Laura’s life seemed to hang on the answer.

“Will you please tell Miss Fountain that her stepmother is in great danger, and asks her to come at once.”

She leapt from her bed, but must needs wait—turned again to stone—for the next word. It came after a pause.

“And wha’s the message from?”

“Kindly tell her that Mr. Helbeck is here with the dog-cart.”

The window closed. Laura slipped into her clothes, and by the time Mrs.
Mason emerged the girl was already in the passage.

“I heard,” she said briefly. “Let us go down.”

Mrs. Mason, pale and frowning, led the way. She undid the heavy bars and lock, and for the first time in her life stood confronted—on her own threshold—with the Papist Squire of Bannisdale.

Mr. Helbeck greeted her ceremoniously. But his black eyes, so deep-set and cavernous in his strong-boned face, did not seem to notice her. They ran past her to that small shadow in the background.

“Are you ready?” he said, addressing the shadow.

“One moment, please,” said Laura. She was tying a thick veil round her hat, and struggling with the fastenings of her cloak.

Mrs. Mason looked from one to another like a baffled lioness. But to let them go without a word was beyond her. She turned to the Squire.

“Misther Helbeck!—yo’ll tell me on your conscience—as it’s reet and just—afther aw that’s passt—’at this yoong woman should go wi yo?”

Laura shivered with rage and shame. Her fingers hastened. Mr. Helbeck showed no emotion whatever.

“Mrs. Fountain is dying,” he said briefly; and again his eye—anxious, imperious—sought for the girl. She came hastily forward from the shadows of the kitchen.

Mr. Helbeck mounted the cart, and held out his hand to her.

“Have you got a shawl? The wind is very keen!” He spoke with the careful courtesy one uses to a stranger.

“Thank you—I am all right. Please let us go! Cousin Elizabeth!” Laura threw herself backwards a moment, as the cart began to move, and kissed her hand.

Mrs. Mason made no sign. She watched the cart, slowly picking its way over the rough ground of the farm-yard, till it turned the corner of the big barn and disappeared in the gusty darkness.

Then she turned housewards. She put down her guttering candle on the great oak table of the kitchen, and sank herself upon the settle.

“Soa—that’s him!” she said to herself; and her peasant mind in a dull heat, like that of the peat fire beside her, went wandering back over the hatreds of twenty years.

As the dog-cart reached the turning of the lane, Mr. Helbeck said to his companion:

“Would you kindly take the cart through? I must shut the gate.”

He jumped down. Laura with some difficulty—for the high wind coming from the fell increased her general confusion of brain—passed the gate and took the pony safely down a rocky piece of road beyond.

His first act in rejoining her was to wrap the rugs which he had brought more closely about her.

“I had no idea in coming,” he said—”that the wind was so keen. Now we face it.”

He spoke precisely in the same voice that he might have used, say, to Polly Mason had she been confided to him for a night journey. But as he arranged the rug, his hand for an instant had brushed Laura’s; and when she gave him the reins, she leant back hardly able to breathe.

With a passionate effort of will, she summoned a composure to match his own.

“When did the change come?” she asked him.

“About eight o’clock. Then it was she told me you were here. We thought at first of sending over a messenger in the morning. But finally my sister begged me to come at once.”

“Is there immediate danger?” The girlish voice must needs tremble.

“I trust we shall still find her,” he said gently—”but her nurses were greatly alarmed.”

“And was there—much suffering?”

She pressed her hands together under the coverings that sheltered them, in a quick anguish. Oh! had she thought enough, cared enough, for Augustina!

As she spoke the horse gave a sudden swerve, as though Mr. Helbeck had pulled the rein involuntarily. They bumped over a large stone, and the Squire hastily excused himself for bad driving. Then he answered her question. As far as he or the Sister could judge there was little active suffering. But the weakness had increased rapidly that afternoon, and the breathing was much harassed.

He went on to describe exactly how he had left the poor patient, giving the details with a careful minuteness. At the same moment that he had started for Miss Fountain, old Wilson had gone to Whinthorpe for the doctor. The Reverend Mother was there; and the nurses—kind and efficient women—were doing all that could be done.

He spoke in a voice that seemed to have no colour or emphasis. One who did not know him might have thought he gave his report entirely without emotion—that his sister’s coming death did not affect him.

Laura longed to ask whether Father Bowles was there, whether the Last Sacraments had been given. But she did not dare. That question seemed to belong to a world that was for ever sealed between them. And he volunteered nothing.

They entered on a steep descent to the main road. The wind came in fierce gusts—so that Laura had to hold her hat on with both hands. The carriage lamps wavered wildly on the great junipers and hollies, the clumps of blossoming gorse, that sprinkled the mountain; sometimes in a pause of the wind, there would be a roar of water, or a rush of startled sheep. Tumult had taken possession of the fells no less than of the girl’s heart.

Once she was thrown against the Squire’s shoulder, and murmured a hurried “I beg your pardon.” And at the same moment an image of their parting on the stairs at Bannisdale rose on the dark. She saw his tall head bending—herself kissing the breast of his coat.

At last they came out above the great prospect of moss and mountain. There was just moon enough to see it by; though night and storm held the vast open cup, across which the clouds came racing—beating up from the coast and the south-west. Ghostly light touched the river courses here and there, and showed the distant portal of the sea. Through the cloud and wind and darkness breathed a great Nature-voice, a voice of power and infinite freedom. Laura suddenly, in a dim passionate way, thought of the words “to cease upon the midnight with no pain.” If life could just cease, here, in the wild dark, while, for the last time in their lives, they were once more alone together!—while in this little cart, on this lonely road, she was still his charge and care—dependent on his man’s strength, delivered over to him, and him only—out of all the world.

When they reached the lower road the pony quickened his pace, and the wind was less boisterous. The silence between them, which had been natural enough in the high and deafening blasts of the fell, began to be itself a speech. The Squire broke it.

“I am glad to hear that your cousin is doing so well at Froswick,” he said, with formal courtesy.

Laura made a fitting reply, and they talked a little of the chances of business, and the growth of Froswick. Then the silence closed again.

Presently, as the road passed between stone walls, with a grass strip on either side, two dark forms shot up in front of them. The pony shied violently. Had they been still travelling on the edge of the steep grass slope which had stretched below them for a mile or so after their exit from the lane, they must have upset. As it was, Laura was pitched against the railing of the dog-cart, and as she instinctively grasped it to save herself, her wrist was painfully twisted.

“You are hurt!” said Helbeck, pulling up the pony.

The first cry of pain had been beyond her control. But she would have died rather than permit another.

“It is nothing,” she said, “really nothing! What was the matter?”

“A mare and her foal, as far as I can see,” said Helbeck, looking behind him. “How careless of the farm people!” he added angrily.

“Oh! they must have strayed,” said Laura faintly. All her will was struggling with this swimming brain—it should not overpower her.

The tinkling of a small burn could be heard beside the road. Helbeck jumped down. “Don’t be afraid; the pony is really quite quiet—he’ll stand.”

In a second or two he was back—and just in time. Laura knew well the touch of the little horn cup he put into her cold hand. Many and many a time, in the scrambles of their summer walks, had he revived her from it.

She drank eagerly. When he mounted the carriage again, some strange instinct told her that he was not the same. She divined—she was sure of an agitation in him which at once calmed her own.

She quickly assured him that she was much better, that the pain was fast subsiding. Then she begged him to hurry on. She even forced herself to smile and talk.

“It was very ghostly, wasn’t it? Daffady, our old cow-man, will never believe they were real horses. He has a story of a bogle in this road—a horse-bogle, too—that makes one creep.”

“Oh! I know that story,” said Helbeck. “It used to be told of several roads about here. Old Wilson once said to me, ‘When Aa wor yoong, ivery field an ivery lane wor fu o’ bogles!’ It is strange how the old tales have died out, while a brand new one, like our own ghost story, has grown up.”

Laura murmured a “Yes.” Had he forgotten who was once the ghost?

Silence fell again—a silence in which each heart could almost hear the other beat. Oh! how wicked—wicked—would she be if she had come meddling with his life again, of her own free will!

Here at last was the bridge, and the Bannisdale gate. Laura shut her eyes, and reckoned up the minutes that remained. Then, as they sped up the park, she wrestled indignantly with herself. She was outraged by her own callousness towards this death in front of her. “Oh! let me think of her! Let me be good to her!” she cried, in dumb appeal to some power beyond herself. She recalled her father. She tried with all her young strength to forget the man beside her—and those piteous facts that lay between them.

In Augustina’s room—darkness—except for one shaded light. The doors were all open, that the poor tormented lungs might breathe.

Laura went in softly, the Squire following. A nurse rose.

“She has rallied wonderfully,” she said in a cheerful whisper, as she approached them, finger on lip.

“Laura!” said a sighing voice.

It came from a deep old-fashioned chair, in which sat Mrs. Fountain, propped by many pillows.

Laura went up to her, and dropping on a stool beside her, the girl tenderly caressed the wasted hand that had itself no strength to move towards her.

In the few hours since Laura had last seen her, a great change had passed over Mrs. Fountain. Her little face, usually so red, had blanched to parchment white, and the nervous twitching of the head, in the general failure of strength, had almost ceased. She lay stilled and refined under the touch of death; and the sweetness of her blue eyes had grown more conscious and more noble.

“Laura—I’m a little better. But you mustn’t go again. Alan—she must stay!”

She tried to turn her head to him, appealing. The Squire came forward.

“Everything is ready for Miss Fountain, dear—if she will be good enough to stay. Nurse will provide—and we will send over for any luggage in the morning.”

At those words “Miss Fountain,” a slight movement passed over the sister’s face.

“Laura!” she said feebly.

“Yes, Augustina—I will stay. I won’t leave you again.”

“Your father did wish it, didn’t he?”

The mention of her father so startled Laura that the tears rushed to her eyes, and she dropped her face for a moment on Mrs. Fountain’s hand. When she lifted it she was no longer conscious that Helbeck stood behind his sister’s chair, looking down upon them both.

“Yes—always, dear. Do you remember what a good nurse he was?—so much better than I?”

Her face shone through the tears that bedewed it. Already the emotion of her drive—the last battles with the wind—had for the moment restored the brilliancy of eye and cheek. Even Augustina’s dim sight was held by her, and by the tumbled gold of her hair as it caught the candle-light.

But the name which had given Laura a thrill of joy had roused a disturbed and troubled echo in Mrs. Fountain.

She looked miserably at her brother and asked for her beads. He put them across her hand, and then, bending over her chair, he said a “Hail Mary” and an “Our Father,” in which she faintly joined.

“And Alan—will Father Leadham come to-morrow?”

“Without fail.”

A little later Laura was in her old room with Sister Rosa. The doctor had paid his visit. But for the moment the collapse of the afternoon had been arrested; Mrs. Fountain was in no urgent danger.

“Now then,” said the nurse cheerily, when Miss Fountain had been supplied with all necessaries for sleep, “let us look at that arm, please.”

Laura turned in surprise.

“Mr. Helbeck tells me you wrenched your wrist on the drive. He thought you would perhaps allow me to treat it.”

Laura submitted. It was indeed nearly helpless and much swollen, though she had been hardly conscious of it since the little accident happened. The brisk, black-eyed Sister had soon put a comforting bandage round it, chattering all the time of Mrs. Fountain and the ups and downs of the illness.

“She missed you very much after you went yesterday. But now, I suppose, you will stay? It won’t be long, poor lady!”

The Sister gave a little professional sigh, and Laura, of course, repeated that she must certainly stay. As the Sister broke off the cotton with which she had been stitching the bandage, she stole a curious glance at her patient. She had not frequented the orphanage in her off-time for nothing; and she was perfectly aware of the anxiety with which the Catholic friends of Bannisdale must needs view the re-entry of Miss Fountain. Sister Rosa, who spoke French readily, wondered whether it had not been after all “réculer pour mieux sauter.”

After a first restless sleep of sheer fatigue, Laura found herself sitting up in bed struggling with a sense of horrible desolation. Augustina was dead—Mr. Helbeck was gone, was a Jesuit—and she herself was left alone in the old house, weeping—with no one, not a living soul, to hear. That was the impression; and it was long before she could disentangle truth from nightmare.

When she lay down again, sleep was banished. She lit a candle and waited for the dawn. There in the flickering light were the old tapestries—the princess stepping into her boat, Diana ranging through the wood. Nothing was changed in the room or its furniture. But the Laura who had fretted or dreamed there; who had written her first letter to Molly Friedland from that table; who had dressed for her lover’s eye before that rickety glass; who had been angry or sullen, or madly happy there—why, the Laura who now for the second time watched the spring dawn through that diamond-paned window looked back upon her as the figures in Rossetti’s strange picture meet the ghosts of their old selves—with the same sense of immeasurable, irrevocable distance. What childish follies and impertinences!—what misunderstanding of others, and misreckoning of the things that most concerned her—what blind drifting—what inevitable shipwreck!

Ah! this aching of the whole being, physical and moral,—again she asked herself, only with a wilder impatience, how long it could be borne.

The wind had fallen, but in the pause of the dawn the river spoke with the hills. The light mounted quickly. Soon the first glint of sun came through the curtains. Laura extinguished her candle, and went to let in the day. As on that first morning, she stood in the window, following with her eye the foaming curves of the Greet, or the last streaks of snow upon the hills, or the daffodil stars in the grass.

Hush!—what time was it? She ran for her watch. Nearly seven.

She wrapped a shawl about her, and went back to her post, straining to see the path on the further side of the river through the mists that still hung about it. Suddenly her head dropped upon her hands. One sob forced its way. Helbeck had passed.

For some three weeks, after this April night, the old house of Bannisdale was the scene of one of those dramas of life and death which depend, not upon external incident, but upon the inner realities of the heart, its inextinguishable affections, hopes, and agonies.

Helbeck and Laura were once more during this time brought into close and intimate contact by the claims of a common humanity. They were united by the common effort to soften the last journey for Augustina, by all the little tendernesses and cares that a sick room imposes, by the pities and charities, the small renascent hopes and fears of each successive day and night.

But all the while, how deeply were they divided!—how sharp was the clash between the reviving strength of passion, which could not but feed itself on the daily sight and contact of the beloved person, and those facts of character and individuality which held them separated!—facts which are always, and in all cases, the true facts of this world.

In Helbeck the shock of Laura’s October flight had worked with profound and transforming power. After those first desperate days in which he had merely sought to recover her, to break down her determination, or to understand if he could the grounds on which she had acted, a new conception of his own life and the meaning of it had taken possession of him. He fell into the profoundest humiliation and self-abasement, denouncing himself as a traitor to his faith, who out of mere self-delusion, and a lawless love of ease, had endangered his own obedience, and neglected the plain task laid upon him. That fear of proselytism, that humble dread of his own influence, which had once determined his whole attitude towards those about him, began now to seem to him mere wretched cowardice and self-will—the caprice of the servant who tries to better his master’s instructions.

But now I cast that finer sense
And sorer shame aside;
Such dread of sin was indolence,
Such aim at heaven was pride.

Again and again he said to himself that if he had struck at once for the Church and for the Faith at the moment when Laura’s young heart was first opened to him, when under the earliest influences of her love for him—how could he doubt that she had loved him!—her nature was still plastic, still capable of being won to God, as it were, by a 主政变—might not—would not—all have been well? But no!—he must needs believe that God had given her to him for ever, that there was room for all the gradual softening, the imperceptible approaches by which he had hoped to win her. It had seemed to him the process could not be too gentle, too indulgent. And meanwhile the will and mind that might have been captured at a rush had time to harden—the forces of revolt to gather.

What wonder? Oh! blind—infatuate! How could he have hoped to bring her, still untouched, within the circle of his Catholic life, into contact with its secrets and its renunciations, without recoil on her part, without risk of what had actually happened? The strict regulation of every hour, every habit, every thought, at which he aimed as a Catholic—what 可以 it seem to her but a dreary and forbidding tyranny?—to her who had no clue to it, who was still left free, though she loved him, to judge his faith coldly from outside? And when at last he had begun to drop hesitation, to change his tone—then, it was too late!

Tyranny! She had used that word once or twice, in that first letter which had reached him on the evening of her flight, and in a subsequent one. Not of anything that had been, apparently—but of that which might be. It had wounded him to the very quick.

And yet, in truth, the course of his present thoughts—plainly interpreted—meant little else than this—that if, at the right moment, he had coerced her with success, they might both have been happy.

Later on he had seen his own self-judgment reflected in the faces, the consolations, of his few intimate friends. Father Leadham, for instance—whose letters had been his chief support during a period of dumb agony when he had felt himself more than once on the brink of some morbid trouble of brain.

“I found her adamant,” said Father Leadham. “Never was I so powerless with any human soul. She would not discuss anything. She would only say that she was born in freedom—and free she would remain. All that I urged upon her implied beliefs in which she had not been brought up, which were not her father’s and were not hers. Nor on closer experience had she been any more drawn to them—quite the contrary; whatever—and there, poor child! her eyes filled with tears—whatever she might feel towards those who held them. She said fiercely that you had never argued with her or persuaded her—or perhaps only once; that you had promised—this with an indignant look at me—that there should be no pressure upon her. And I could but feel sadly, dear friend, that you only, under our Blessed Lord, could have influenced her; and that you, by some deplorable mistake of judgment, had been led to feel that it was wrong to do so. And if ever, I will even venture to say, violence—spiritual violence, the violence that taketh by storm—could have been justified, it would have been in this case. Her affections were all yours; she was, but for you and her stepmother, alone in the world; and amid all her charms and gifts, a soul more starved and destitute I never met with. May our Lord and His Immaculate Mother strengthen you to bear your sorrow! For your friends, there are and must be consolations in this catastrophe. The cross that such a marriage would have laid upon you must have been heavy indeed.”

Harassed by such thoughts and memories Helbeck passed through these strange, these miserable days—when he and Laura were once more under the same roof, living the same household life. Like Laura, he clung to every hour; like Laura, he found it almost more than he could bear. He suffered now with a fierceness, a moroseness, unknown to him of old. Every permitted mortification that could torment the body or humble the mind he brought into play during these weeks, and still could not prevent himself from feeling every sound of Laura’s voice and every rustle of her dress as a rough touch upon a sore.

What was in her mind all the time—behind those clear indomitable eyes? He dared not let himself think of the signs of grief that were written so plainly on her delicate face and frame. One day he found himself looking at her from a distance in a passionate bewilderment. So white—so sad! For what? What was this freedom, this atrocious freedom—that a creature so fragile, so unfit to wield it, had yet claimed so fatally? His thoughts fell back to Stephen Fountain, cursing an influence at once so intangible and so strong.

It was some relief that they were in no risk of 座谈沟通，特特 outside Augustina’s sick room. One or other of the nurses was always present at meals. And on the day after Laura’s arrival Father Leadham appeared and stayed for ten days.

The relations of the Jesuit towards Miss Fountain during this time were curious. It was plain to Helbeck that Father Leadham treated the girl with a new respect, and that she on her side showed herself much more at ease with him than she had used to be. It was as though they had tested each other, with the result that each had found in the other something nobler and sincerer than they had expected to find. Laura might be spiritually destitute; but it was evident that since his conversation with her, Father Leadham had realised for the first time the “charms and gifts” which might be supposed to have captured Mr. Helbeck.

So that when they met at meals, or in the invalid’s room, the Jesuit showed Miss Fountain a very courteous attention. He was fresh from Cambridge; he brought her gossip of her friends and acquaintances; he said pleasant things of the Friedlands. She talked in return with an ease that astonished Helbeck and his sister. She seemed to both to have grown years older.

It was the same with all the other Catholic haunters of the house. For the first time she discovered how to get on with the Reverend Mother, even with Sister Angela—how not to find Father Bowles himself too wearisome. She moved among them with a dignity, perhaps an indifference, that changed her wholly.

Once, when she had been chatting in the friendliest way with the Reverend Mother, she paused for a moment in the passage outside Augustina’s room, amazed at herself.

It was liberty, no doubt—this strange and desolate liberty in which she stood, that made the contrast. By some obscure association she fell on the words that Helbeck had once quoted to her—how differently! “My soul is escaped like a bird out of the snare of the fowler; the snare is broken, and we are delivered.”

“Ah! but the bird’s wings are broken and its breast pierced. What can it do with its poor freedom?” she said to herself, in a passion of tears.

Meanwhile, she realised the force of the saying that Catholicism is the faith to die in.

The concentration of all these Catholic minds upon the dying of Augustina, the busy fraternal help evoked by every stage of her 通过dolorosa, was indeed marvellous to see. “It is a work of art,” Laura thought, with that new power of observation which had developed in her. “It is—it must be—the most wonderful thing of its sort in the world!”

For it was no mere haphazard series of feelings or kindnesses. It was an act—a function—this “good death” on which the sufferer and those who assisted her were equally bent. Something had to be done, a process to be gone through; and everyone was anxiously bent upon doing it in the right, the prescribed, way—upon omitting nothing. The physical fact, indeed, became comparatively unimportant, except as the evoking cause of certain symbolisms—nay, certain actual and direct contacts between earth and heaven, which were the distraction of death itself—which took precedence of it, and reduced it to insignificance.

When Father Leadham left, Father Bowles came to stay in the house, and Communion was given to Mrs. Fountain every day. Two or three times a week, also, Mass was said in her room. Laura assisted once or twice at these scenes—the blaze of lights and flowers in the old panelled room—the altar adorned with splendid fittings brought from the chapel below—the small, blanched face in the depths of the great tapestried bed—the priest bending over it.

On one of these occasions, in the early morning, when the candles on the altar were almost effaced by the first brilliance of a May day, Laura stole away from the darkened room where Mrs. Fountain lay soothed and sleeping, and stood for long at an open window overlooking the wild valley outside.

She was stifled by the scent of flowers and burning wax; still more, mentally oppressed. The leaping river, the wide circuit of the fells, the blowing of the May wind!—to them, in a great reaction, the girl gave back her soul, passionately resting in them. They were no longer a joy and intoxication. But the veil lifted between her and them. They became a sanctuary and refuge.

From the Martha of the old faith, so careful and troubled about many things—sins and penances, creeds and sacraments, the miraculous hauntings of words and objects, of water and wafer, of fragments of bone and stuff, of scapulars and medals, of crucifixes and indulgences—her mind turned to this Mary of a tameless and patient nature, listening and loving in the sunlight.

Only, indeed, to destroy her own fancy as soon as woven! Nature was pain and combat, too, no less than Faith. But here, at least, was no jealous lesson to be learnt; no exclusions, no conditions. Her rivers were deep and clear for all; her “generous sun” was lit for all. What she promised she gave. Without any preliminary 信条, her colours glowed, her breezes blew for the unhappy. Oh! such a purple shadow on the fells—such a red glory of the oak twigs in front of it—such a white sparkle of the Greet, parting the valley!

What need of any other sacrament or sign than these—this beauty and bounty of the continuing world? Indeed, Friedland had once said to her, “The joy that Catholics feel in the sacrament, the plain believer in God will get day by day out of the simplest things—out of a gleam on the hills—a purple in the distance—a light on the river; still more out of any tender or heroic action.”

She thought very wistfully of her old friend and his talk; but here also with a strange sense of distance, of independence. How the river dashed and raced! There had been wild nights of rain amid this May beauty, and the stream was high. Day by day, of late, she had made it her comrade. Whenever she left Augustina it was always to wander beside it, or to sit above it, cradled and lost in that full triumphant song it went uttering to the spring.

But there was a third person in the play, by no means so passive an actor as Laura was wont to imagine her.

There is often a marvellous education in such a tedious parting with the world as Augustina was enduring. If the physical conditions allow it, the soul of the feeblest will acquire a new dignity, and perceptions more to the point. As she lay looking at the persons who surrounded her, Augustina passed without an effort, and yet wonderfully, as it seemed to her, into a new stage of thought and desire about them. A fresh, an eager ambition sprang up in her, partly of the woman, partly of the believer. She had been blind; now she saw. She felt the power of her weakness, and she would seize it.

Meanwhile, she made a rally which astonished all the doctors. Towards the end of the second week in May she had recovered strength so far that on several occasions she was carried down the chapel passage to the garden, and placed in a sheltered corner of the beech hedge, where she could see the bright turf of the bowling-green and the distant trees of the “Wilderness.”

One afternoon Helbeck came out to sit with her. He was no sooner there than she became so restless that he asked her if he should recall Sister Rosa, who had retired to a distant patch of shade.

“No—no! Alan, I want to say something. Will you raise my pillow a little?”

He did so, and she looked at him for a moment with her haunting blue eyes, without speaking. But at last she said:

“Where is Laura?”

“Indoors, I believe.”

“Don’t call her. I have been talking to her, Alan, about—about what she means to do.”

“Did she tell you her plans?”

He spoke very calmly, holding his sister’s hand.

“She doesn’t seem to have any. The Friedlands have offered her a home, of course. Alan!—will you put your ear down to me?”

He stooped, and she whispered brokenly, holding him several times when he would have drawn back.

But at last he released himself. A flush had stolen over his fine and sharpened features.

“My dear sister, if it were so—what difference can it make?”

He spoke with a quick interrogation. But his glance had an intensity, it expressed a determination, which made her cry out—

“Alan—if she gave way?”

“She will 决不要 give way. She has more self-control; but her mind is in precisely the same bitter and envenomed state. Indeed, she has grown more fixed, more convinced. The influence of her Cambridge friends has been decisive. Every day I feel for what she has to bear and put up with—poor child!—in this house.”

“It can’t be for long,” said Augustina with tears; and she lay for a while, pondering, and gathering force. But presently she made her brother stoop to her again.

“Alan—please listen to me! If Laura 做了 become a Catholic—is there anything in the way—anything you can’t undo?”

He raised himself quickly. He would have suffered these questions from no one else. The stern and irritable temper that he inherited from his father had gained fast upon the old self-control since the events of October. Even now, with Augustina, he was short.

“I shall take no vows, dear, before the time. But it would please me—it would console me—if you would put all these things out of your head. I see the will of God very plainly. Let us submit to it.”

“It hurts me so—to see you suffer!” she said, looking at him piteously.

He bent over the grass, struggling for composure.

“I shall have something else to do before long,” he said in a low voice, “than to consider my own happiness.”

She was framing another question, when there was a sound of footsteps on the gravel behind them.

Augustina exclaimed, with the agitation of weakness, “Don’t let any visitors come!” Helbeck looked a moment in astonishment, then his face cleared.

“Augustina!—it is the relic—from the Carmelite nuns. I recognise their
Confessor.”

Augustina clasped her hands; and Sister Rosa, obeying Helbeck’s signal, came quickly over to her. Mr. Helbeck bared his head and walked over the grass to meet the strange priest, who was carrying a small leather box.

Soon there was a happy group round Augustina’s couch. The Confessor who had brought this precious relic of St. John of the Cross had opened the case, and placed the small and delicate reliquary that it contained in Mrs. Fountain’s hands. She lay clasping it to her breast, too weak to speak, but flushed with joy. The priest, a southern-eyed kindly man, with an astonishing flow of soft pietistic talk, sat beside her, speaking soothingly of the many marvels of cure or conversion that had been wrought by the treasure she held. He was going on to hold a retreat at a convent of the order near Froswick, and would return, he said, by Bannisdale in a week’s time, to reclaim his charge. The nuns, he repeated with gentle emphasis, had never done such an honour to any sick person before. But for Mr. Helbeck’s sister nothing was too much. And a novena had already been started at the convent. The nuns were praying—praying hard that the relic might do its holy work.

He was still talking when there was a step and a sound of low singing behind the beech hedge. The garden was so divided by gigantic hedges of the eighteenth century, which formed a kind of Greek cross in its centre, that many different actions or conversations might be taking place in it without knowing anything one of the other. Laura, who had been away for an hour, was not aware that Augustina was in the garden till she came through a little tunnel in the hedge, and saw the group.

The priest looked up, startled by the appearance of the young lady. Laura had marked the outburst of warm weather by the donning of a white dress and her summer hat. In one hand she held a bunch of lilac that she had been gathering for her stepmother; in the other a volume of a French life of St. Theresa that she had taken an hour before from Augustina’s table. In anticipation of the great favor promised her by the Carmelite nuns, Augustina had been listening feebly from time to time to her brother’s reading from the biography of the greatest of Carmelite saints and founders.

“Laura!” said Mrs. Fountain faintly.

Helbeck’s expression changed. He bent over his sister, and said in a low decided voice, “Will you give me the relic, dear? I will return it to its case.”

“Oh, no, Alan,” she said imploringly. “Laura, do you know what those kind dear nuns have done? They have sent me their relic. And I feel so much better already—so relieved!” Mrs. Fountain raised the little case and kissed it fervently. Then she held it out for Laura to see.

The girl bent over it in silence.

“它是什么？” 她说。

“It is a relic of St. John of the Cross,” said the priest opposite, glancing curiously at Miss Fountain, “It once belonged to the treasury of the Cathedral of Seville, and was stolen during the great war. But it has been now formally conveyed to our community by the Archbishop and Chapter.”

“Wasn’t it kind of the dear nuns, Laura?” said Augustina fervently.

“I—I suppose so,” said Laura, in a low embarrassed voice. Helbeck, who was watching her, saw that she could hardly restrain the shudder of repulsion that ran through her.

Her extraordinary answer threw a silence on the party. The tears started to the sick woman’s eyes. The priest rose to take his leave. Mrs. Fountain asked him for an absolution and a blessing. He gave them, coldly bowed to Laura, shook hands with Sister Rosa, and took his departure, Helbeck conducting him.

“Oh, Laura!” said Mrs. Fountain reproachfully. The girl’s lips were quite white. She knelt down by her stepmother and kissed her hand.

“Dear, I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world! It was something I had been reading—it—it seemed to me horrible!—just for a moment. Of course I’m glad it comforts you, poor darling!—of course—of course, I am!”

Mrs. Fountain was instantly appeased—for herself.

“But Alan felt it so,” she said restlessly, as she closed her eyes—”what you said. I saw his face.”

It was time for the invalid to be moved, and Sister Rosa had gone for help. Laura was left for a moment kneeling by her stepmother. No one could see her; the penitence and pain in the girl’s feeling showed in her pallor, her pitiful dropping lip.

Helbeck was heard returning. Laura looked up. Instinctively she rose and proudly drew herself together. Never yet had she seen that face so changed. It breathed the sternest, most concentrated anger—a storm of feeling that, in spite of the absolute silence that held it in curb, yet so communicated itself to her that her heart seemed to fail in her breast.

A few minutes later Miss Fountain, having gathered together a few scattered possessions of the invalid, was passing through the chapel passage. A step approached from the hall, and Helbeck confronted her.

“Miss Fountain—may I ask you a kindness?”

What a tone of steel! Her shoulders straightened—her look met his in a common flash.

“Augustina is weak. Spare her discussion—the sort of discussion with which, no doubt, your Cambridge life makes you familiar. It can do nothing here, and “—he paused, only to resume unflinchingly—”the dying should not be disturbed.”

Laura wavered in the dark passage like one mortally struck. His pose as the protector of his sister—the utter distance and alienation of his tone—unjust!—incredible!

“I discussed nothing,” she said, breathing fast.

“You might be drawn to do so,” he said coldly. “Your contempt for the practices that sustain and console Catholics is so strong that no one can mistake the difficulty you have in concealing it. But I would ask you to conceal it for her sake.”

“I thank you,” she said quietly, as she swept past him. “But you ，那恭喜你， mistaken.”

She walked away from him and mounted the stairs without another word.

Laura sat crouched and rigid in her own room. How had it happened, this horrible thing?—this break-down of the last vestiges and relics of the old relation—this rushing in of a temper and a hostility that stunned her!

She looked at the book on her knee. Then she remembered. In the “Wilderness” she had been reading that hideous account which appears in all the longer biographies, of the mutilation of St. Theresa’s body three years after her death by some relic-hunting friars from Avila. In a ruthless haste, these pious thieves had lifted the poor embalmed corpse from its resting-place at Alba; they had cut the old woman’s arm from the shoulder; they had left it behind in the rifled coffin, and then hastily huddling up the body, they had fled southwards with their booty, while the poor nuns, who had loved and buried their dead “mother,” who had been shut by a trick into their own choir while the awful thing was done, were still singing the office, ignorant and happy.

The girl had read the story with sickening. Then Augustina had held up to her the relic case, with that shrivelled horror inside it. A finger, was it? or a portion of one. Perhaps torn from some poor helpless one in the same way. And to such aids and helps must a human heart come in dying!

She had not been quick enough to master herself. Oh! that was wrong—very wrong. But had it deserved a stroke so cruel—so unjust?

Oh! miserable, miserable religion! Her wild nature rose against it—accused—denounced it.

That night Augustina was marvellously well. She lay with the relic case beside her in a constant happiness.

“Oh, Laura! Laura, dear!—even you must see what it has done for me!”

So she whispered, when Sister Rosa had withdrawn into the next room and she and Laura were left together.

“I am so glad,” said the girl gently, “so very glad.”

“You are so dreadfully pale, Laura!”

Laura said nothing. She raised the poor hand she held, and laid it softly against her cheek. Augustina looked at her wistfully. Gradually her resolution rose.

“Laura, I must say it—God tells me to say it!”

“What! dear Augustina?”

“Laura—you could save Alan!—you could alter his whole life. And you are breaking his heart!”

Laura stared at her, letting the hand slowly drop upon the bed. What was happening in this strange, strange world?

“Laura, come here!—I can’t bear it. He suffers so! You don’t see it, but I do. He has the look of my father when my mother died. I know that he will go to the Jesuits. They will quiet him, and pray for him—and prayer saves you. But you, Laura—您 might save him another way—oh! I must call it a happier way.” She looked up piteously to the crucifix that hung on the wall opposite. “You thought me unkind when you were engaged—I know you did. I didn’t know what to think—I was so upset by it all. But, oh! how I have prayed since I came back that he might marry, and have children,—and a little happiness. He is not forty yet—and he has had a hard life. How he will be missed here, too! Who can ever take his place? Why, he has made it all! And he loves his work. Of course I see that—now—he thinks it a sin—what happened last year—your engagement. But all the same, he can’t tear his heart away from you. I can’t understand it. It seems to me almost terrible—to love as he loves you.”

“Dear Augustina, don’t—don’t say such things.” The girl fell on her knees beside her stepmother. Her pride was broken; her face convulsed. “Why, you don’t know, dear! He has lost all love for me. He says hard things to me even. He judges me like—like a stranger.” She looked at Augustina imploringly through her tears.

“Did he scold you just now about the relic? But it was 因为 it was you. Nobody else could have made him angry about such a thing. Why, he would have just laughed and pitied them!—you know he would. But you—oh, Laura, you torture him!”

Laura hid her face, shaking with the sobs she tried to control. Her heart melted within her. She thought of that marked book upon his table.

“And Laura,” said the sighing thread of a voice, “how 能够 you be wiser than all the Church?—all these generations? Just think, dear!—you against the Saints and the Fathers, and the holy martyrs and confessors, from our Lord’s time till now! Oh! your poor father. I know. But he never came near the faith, Laura—how could he judge? It was not offered to him. That was my wicked fault. If I had been faithful I might have gained my husband. But Laura”—the voice grew so eager and sharp—”we judge no one. We must believe for ourselves the Church is the only way. But God is so merciful! But you—it is offered to you, Laura. And Alan’s love with it. Just so little on your part—the Church is so tender, so indulgent! She does not expect a perfect faith all at once. One must just make the step blindly—服从—throw oneself into her arms. Father Leadham said so to me one day—-not minding what one thinks and believes—not looking at oneself—just obeying—and it will all come!”

But Laura could not speak. Little Augustina, full of a pleading, an apostolic strength, looked at her tenderly.

“He hardly sleeps, Laura. As I lie awake, I hear him moving about at all hours. I said to Father Leadham the other day—’his heart is broken. When you take him, he will be able to do what you tell him, perhaps. But—for this world—it will be like a dead man.’ And Father Leadham did not deny it. He 知道 it is true.”

And thus, so long as her poor strength lasted, Augustina lay and whispered—reporting all the piteous history of those winter months—things that Laura had never heard and never dreamed—a tale of grief so profound and touching that, by the time it ended, every landmark was uprooted in the girl’s soul, and she was drifting on a vast tide of pity and passion, whither she knew not.

The next day there was no outing for Augustina. The south-west wind was again let loose upon the valley and the moss, with violent rain from the sea. In the grass the daffodils lay all faded and brown. But the bluebells were marching fast over the copses—as though they sprang in the traces of the rain.

Laura sat working beside Augustina, or reading to her, from morning till dark. Mr. Helbeck had gone into Whinthorpe as usual before breakfast, and was not expected home till the evening. Mrs. Fountain was perhaps more restless and oppressed than she had been the day before. But she would hardly admit it. She lay with the relic beside her, and took the most hopeful view possible of all her symptoms.

Miss Fountain herself that day was in singular beauty. The dark circles round her eyes did but increase their brilliance; the hot fire in Augustina’s rooms made her cheeks glow; and the bright blue cotton of her dress had been specially chosen by Molly Friedland to set off the gold of her hair.

She was gay too, to Augustina’s astonishment. She told stories of Daffady and the farm; she gossiped with Sister Rosa; she alternately teased and coaxed Fricka. Sister Rosa had been a little cool to her at first after the affair of the relic. But Miss Fountain was so charming this afternoon, so sweet to her stepmother, so amiable to other people, that the little nurse could not resist her.

And at regular intervals she would walk to the window, and report to
Augustina the steady rising of the river.

“It has flooded all that flat bank opposite the first seat—and of that cattle-rail, that bar—what do you call it?—just at the bend—you can only see the very top line. And such a current under the otter cliff! It’s splendid, Augustina!—it’s magnificent!”

And she would turn her flushed face to her stepmother in a kind of triumph.

“It will wash away the wooden bridge if it goes on,” said Augustina plaintively, “and destroy all the flowers.”

But Laura seemed to exult in it. If it had not been for the curb of Mrs. Fountain’s weakness she could not have kept still at all as the evening drew on, and the roar of the water became continuously audible even in this high room. And yet every now and then it might perhaps have been thought that she was troubled or annoyed by the sound—that it prevented her from hearing something else.

Mrs. Fountain did not know how to read her. Once, when they were alone, she tried to reopen the subject of the night before. But Laura would not even allow it to be approached. To-day she had the lightest, softest ways of resistance. But they were enough.

Mrs. Fountain could only sigh and yield.

Towards seven o’clock she began to fidget about her brother. “He certainly meant to be home for dinner,” she said several times, with increasing peevishness.

“I am going to have dinner here!” said Laura, smiling.

“Why?” said Augustina, astonished.

“Oh! let me, dear. Mr. Helbeck is sure to be late. And Sister Rosa will look after him. Teaching Fricka has made me as hungry as that!”—and she opened her hands wide, as a child measures.

Augustina looked at her sadly, but said nothing. She remembered that the night before, too, Laura, would not go downstairs.

The little meal went gayly. Just as it was over, and while Laura was still chattering to her stepmother as she had not chattered for months, a step was heard in the passage.

“Ah! there is Alan!” cried Mrs. Fountain.

The Squire came in tired and mud-stained. Even his hair shone with rain, and his clothes were wet through.

“I must not come too near you,” he said, standing beside the door.

Mrs. Fountain bade him dress, get some dinner, and come back to her. As she spoke, she saw him peering through the shadows of the room. She too looked round. Laura was gone.

“At the first sound of his step!” thought Augustina. And she wept a little, but so secretly that even Sister Rosa did not discover it. Her ambition—her poor ambition—was for herself alone. What chance had it?—alas! Never since Stephen’s death surely had Augustina seen Laura shed such tears as she had shed the night before. But no words, no promises—nothing! And where, now, was any sign of it?

She drew out her beads for comfort. And so, sighing and praying, she fell asleep.

After supper Helbeck was in the hall smoking. He was half abashed that he should find so much comfort in his pipe, and that he should dread so much the prospect of giving it up.

His thoughts, however, were black enough—black as the windy darkness outside.

A step on the stairs—at which his breath leapt. Miss Fountain, in her white evening dress, was descending.

“May I speak to you, Mr. Helbeck?”

He flung down his pipe and approached her. She stood a little above him on one of the lower steps; and instantly he felt that she came in gentleness.

An agitation he could barely control took possession of him. All day long he had been scourging himself for the incident of the night before. They had not met since. He looked at her now humbly—with a deep sadness—and waited for what she had to say.

“Shall we go into the drawing-room? Is there a light?”

“We will take one.”

He lifted a lamp, and she led the way. Without another word, she opened the door into the deserted room. Nobody had entered it since the orphanage function, when some extra service had been hastily brought in to make the house habitable. The mass of the furniture was gathered into the centre of the carpet, with a few tattered sheets flung across it. The gap made by the lost Romney spoke from the wall, and the windows stood uncurtained to the night.

Laura, however, found a chair and sank into it. He put down the lamp, and stood expectant.

They were almost in their old positions. How to find strength and voice!
That room breathed memories.

When she did speak, however, her intonation was peculiarly firm and clear.

“You gave me a rebuke last night, Mr. Helbeck—and I deserved it!”

He made a sudden movement—a movement which seemed to trouble her.

“No!—don’t!”—she raised her hand involuntarily—”don’t please say anything to make it easier for me. I gave you great pain. You were right—oh! quite right—to express it. But you know——”

她突然断了。

“You know, I can’t talk—if you stand there like that! Won’t you come here, and sit down”—she pointed to a chair near her—”as if we were friends still? We can be friends, can’t we? We ought to be for Augustina’s sake. And I very much want to discuss with you—seriously—what I have to say.”

He obeyed her. He came to sit beside her, recovering his composure—bending forward that he might give her his best attention.

She paused a moment—knitting her brows.

“I thought afterwards, a long time, of what had happened. I talked, too, to Augustina. She was much distressed—she appealed to me. And I saw a great deal of force in what she said. She pointed out that it was absurd for me to judge before I knew; that I never—never—had been willing to know; that everything—even the Catholic Church”—she smiled faintly—”takes some learning. She pleaded with me—and what she said touched me very much. I do not know how long I may have to stay in your house—and with her. I would not willingly cause you pain. I would gladly 理解, at least, more than I do—I should like to learn—to be instructed. Would—would Father Leadham, do you think, take the trouble to correspond with me—to point me out the books, for instance, that I might read?”

Helbeck’s black eyes fastened themselves upon her.

“You—you would like to correspond with Father Leadham?” he repeated, in stupefaction.

She nodded. Involuntarily she began a little angry beating with her foot that he knew well. It was always the protest of her pride, when she could not prevent the tears from showing themselves.

He controlled himself. He turned his chair so as to come within an easy talking distance.

“Will you pardon me,” he said quietly, “if I ask for more information?
Did you only determine on this last night?”

“我认同。”

他犹豫了。

“It is a serious step, Miss Fountain! You should not take it only from pity for Augustina—only from a wish to give her comfort in dying!”

She turned away her face a little. That penetrating look pierced too deeply. “Are there not many motives?” she said, rather hoarsely—”many ways? I want to give Augustina a happiness—and—and to satisfy many questions of my own. Father Leadham is bound to teach, is he not, as a priest? He could lose nothing by it.”

“Certainly he is bound,” said Helbeck.

He dropped his head, and stared at the carpet, thinking.

“He would recommend you some books, of course.”

The same remembrance flew through both. Absently and involuntarily, Helbeck shook his head, with a sad lifting of the eyebrows. The colour rushed into Laura’s cheeks.

“It must be something very simple,” she said hurriedly. “Not ‘Lives of the Saints,’ I think, and not ‘Catechisms’ or ‘Outlines.’ Just a building up from the beginning by somebody—who found it hard, 非常 hard, to believe—and yet did believe. But Father Leadham will know—of course he would know.”

Helbeck was silent. It suddenly appeared to him the strangest, the most incredible conversation. He felt the rise of a mad emotion—the beating in his breast choked him.

Laura rose, and he heard her say in low and wavering tones:

“Then I will write to him to-morrow—if you think I may.”

He sprang to his feet, and as she passed him the fountains of his being broke up. With a wild gesture he caught her in his arms.

“劳拉！”

It was not the cry of his first love for her. It was a cry under which she shuddered. But she submitted at once. Nay, with a womanly tenderness—how unlike that old shrinking Laura—she threw her arm round his neck, she buried her little head in his breast.

“Oh, how long you were in understanding!” she said with a deep sigh. “How long!”

“Laura!—what does it mean?—my head turns!”

“It means—it means—that you shall never—never again speak to me as you did yesterday; that either you must love me or—well, I must just die!” she gave a little sharp sobbing laugh. “I have tried other things—and they can’t—they can’t be borne. And if you can’t love me unless I am a Catholic—now, I know you wouldn’t—I must just be a Catholic—if any power in the world can make me one. Why, Father Leadham can persuade me—he must!” She drew away from him, holding him, almost fiercely, by her two small hands. “I am nothing but an ignorant, foolish girl. And he has persuaded so many wise people—you have often told me. Oh, he must—he must persuade me!”

She hid herself again on his breast. Then she looked up, feeling the tears on his cheek.

“But you’ll be very, very patient with me—won’t you? Oh! I’m so dead to all those things! But if I say whatever you want me to say—if I do what is required of me—you won’t ask me too many questions—you won’t press me too hard? You’ll trust to my being yours—to my growing into your heart? Oh! how did I ever bear the agony of tearing myself away!”

It was an ecstasy—a triumph. But it seemed to him afterwards in looking back upon it, that all through it was also an anguish! The revelation of the woman’s nature, of all that had lived and burned in it since he last held her in his arms, brought with it for both of them such sharp pains of expansion, such an agony of experience and growth.

Very soon, however, she grew calmer. She tried to tell him what had happened to her since that black October day. But conversation was not altogether easy. She had to rush over many an hour and many a thought—dreading to remember. And again and again he could not rid himself of the image of the old Laura, or could not fathom the new. It was like stepping from the firmer ground of the moss on to the softer patches where foot and head lost themselves. He could see her as she had been, or as he had believed her to be, up to twenty-four hours before—the little enemy and alien in the house; or as she had lived beside him those four months—troubled, petulant, exacting. But this radiant, tender Laura—with this touch of feverish extravagance in her love and her humiliation—she bewildered him; or rather she roused a new response; he must learn new ways of loving her.

Once, as he was holding her hand, she looked at him timidly.

“You would have left Bannisdale, wouldn’t you?”

He quickly replied that he had been in correspondence with his old Jesuit friends. But he would not dwell upon it. There was a kind of shame in the subject, that he would not have had her penetrate. A devout Catholic does not dwell for months on the prospects and secrets of the religious life to put them easily and in a moment out of his hand—even at the call of the purest and most legitimate passion. From the Counsels, the soul returns to the Precepts. The higher, supremer test is denied it. There is humbling in that—a bitter taste, not to be escaped.

Perhaps she did penetrate it. She asked him hurriedly if he regretted anything. She could so easily go away again—for ever. “I could do it—I could do it now!” she said firmly. “Since you kissed me. You could always be my friend.”

He smiled, and raised her hands to his lips. “Where thou livest, dear, I will live, and where——”

She withdrew a hand, and quickly laid it on his mouth.

“No—not to-night! We have been so full of death all these weeks! Oh! how
I want to tell Augustina!”

But she did not move. She could not tear herself from this comfortless room—this strange circle of melancholy light in which they sat—this beating of the rain in their ears as it dashed against the old and fragile casements.

“Oh! my dear,” he said suddenly as he watched her, “I have grown so old and cross. And so poor! It has taken far more than the picture”—he pointed to the vacant space—”to carry me through this six months. My schemes have been growing—what motive had I for holding my hand? My friends have often remonstrated—the Jesuits especially. But at last I have had my way. I have far—far less to offer you than I had before.”

He looked at her in a sad apology.

“I have a little money,” she said shyly. “I don’t believe you ever knew it before.”

“Have you?” he said in astonishment.

“Just a tiny bit. I shall pay my way”—and she laughed happily. “Alan!—have you noticed—how well I have been getting on with the Sisters?—what friends Father Leadham and I made? But no!—you didn’t notice anything. You saw me all 黑色 - 所有” she repeated with a mournful change of voice.

Then her eyelids fell, and she shivered.

“Oh! how you hurt—how you 伤害!—last night.”

He passionately soothed her, denouncing himself, asking her pardon. She gave a long sigh. She had a strange sense of having climbed a long stair out of an abyss of misery. Now she was just at the top—just within light and welcome. But the dark was so close behind—one touch! and she was thrust down to it again.

“I have only hated two people this last six months,” she said at last, 关于, apparently, of nothing. “Your cousin, who was to have Bannisdale—and—and—Mr. Williams. I saw him at Cambridge.”

There was a pause; then Helbeck said, with an agitation that she felt beneath her cheek as her little head rested on his shoulder:

“You saw Edward Williams? How did he dare to present himself to you?”

He gently withdrew himself from her, and went to stand before the hearth, drawn up to his full stern height. His dark head and striking pale features were fitly seen against the background of the old wall. As he stood there he was the embodiment of his race, of its history, its fanaticisms, its “great refusals” at once of all mean joys and all new freedoms. To a few chosen notes in the universe, tender response and exquisite vibration—to all others, deaf, hard, insensitive, as the stone of his old house.

Laura looked at him with a mingled adoration and terror. Then she hastily explained how and where she had met Williams.

“And you felt no sympathy for him?” said Helbeck, wondering.

她脸红了。

“I knew what it must have been to you. And—and—he showed no sense of it.”

Her tone was so simple, so poignant, that Helbeck smiled only that he might not weep. Hurriedly coming to her he kissed her soft hair.

“There were temptations of his youth,” he said with difficulty, “from which the Faith rescued him. Now these same temptations have torn him from the faith. It has been all known to me from first to last. I see no hope. Let us never speak of him again.”

“No,” she said trembling.

He drew a long breath. Suddenly he knelt beside her.

“And you!” he said in a low voice—”you! What love—what sweetness—shall be enough for you! Oh! my Laura, when I think of what you have done to-night—of all that it means, all that it promises—I humble myself before you. I envy and bless you. Yours has been no light struggle—no small sacrifice. I can only marvel at it. Dear, the Church will draw you so softly—teach you so tenderly! You have never known a mother. Our Lady will be your Mother. You have had few friends—they will be given to you in all times and countries—and this will you are surrendering will come back to you strengthened a thousand-fold for my support—and your own.”

He looked at her with emotion. Oh! how pale she had grown under these words of benediction. There was a moment’s silence—then she rose feebly.

“Now—let me go! To-morrow—will you tell Augustina? Or to-night, if she were awake, and strong enough? How can one be sure—?”

“Let us come and see.”

He took her hand, and they moved a few steps across the room, when they were startled by the thunder of the storm upon the windows. They stopped involuntarily. Laura’s face lit up.

“How the river roars! I love it so. Yesterday I was on the top of the otter cliff when it was coming down in a torrent! To-morrow it will be superb.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go there till I have had some fencing done,” said Helbeck with decision. “The rain has loosened the moss and made it all slippery and unsafe. I saw some people gathering primroses there to-day, and I told Murphy to warn them off. We must put a railing——”

Laura turned her face to the hall.

“What was that?” she said, catching his arm.

A sudden cry—loud and piercing—from the stairs.

“Mr. Helbeck—Miss Fountain!”

They rushed into the hall. Sister Rosa ran towards them.

“Oh! Mr. Helbeck—come at once—Mrs. Fountain——”

Augustina still sat propped in her large chair by the fire.

But a nurse looked up with a scared face as they entered.

“Oh come—如何—Mr. Helbeck! She is just going.”

Laura threw herself on her knees beside her stepmother. Helbeck gave one look at his sister, then also kneeling he took her cold and helpless hand, and said in a steady voice—

“Receive thy servant, O Lord, into the place of salvation, which she hopes from Thy mercy.”

The two nurses, sobbing, said the “Amen.”

“Deliver, O Lord, the soul of Thy servant from all the perils of hell, from pains and all tribulations.”

“阿们。”

Mrs. Fountain’s head fell gently back upon the cushions. The eyes withdrew themselves in the manner that only death knows, the lids dropped partially.

“Augustina—dear Augustina—give me one look!” cried Laura in despair. She wrapped her arms round her stepmother and laid her head on the poor wasted bosom.

But Helbeck possessed himself of one of the girl’s hands, and with his own right he made the sign of the Cross upon his sister’s brow.

“Depart, O Christian soul, from this world, in the name of God the Father Almighty, who created thee; in the name of Jesus Christ, the son of the living God, who suffered for thee; in the name of the Holy Ghost, who has been poured out upon thee; in the name of the angels and archangels; in the name of the thrones and dominations; in the name of the principalities and powers; in the name of the cherubim and seraphim; in the name of the patriarchs and prophets; in the name of the holy apostles and evangelists; in the name of the holy martyrs and confessors; in the name of the holy monks and hermits; in the name of the holy virgins, and of all the saints of God; let thy place be this day in peace, and thy abode in the Holy Sion; through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

There was silence, broken only by Laura’s sobs and the nurses’ weeping. Helbeck alone was quite composed. He gazed at his sister, not with grief—rather with a deep, mysterious joy. When he rose, still looking down upon Augustina, he questioned the nurses in low tones.

There had been hardly any warning. Suddenly a stifled cry—a gurgling in the throat—a spasm. Sister Rosa thought she had distinguished the words “Jesus!—” “Alan—” but there had been no time for any message, any farewell. The doctors had once warned the brother that it was possible, though not likely, that the illness would end in this way.

“Father Bowles gave her Communion this morning?” said Helbeck, with a grave exactness, like one informing himself of all necessary things.

“This morning and yesterday,” said Sister Rosa eagerly; “and dear Mrs.
Fountain confessed on Saturday.”

Laura rose from her knees and wrung her hands.

“Oh! I can’t bear it!” she said to Helbeck. “If I had been there—if we could just have told her! Oh, how strange—how 奇怪 it is!”

And she looked wildly about her, seized by an emotion, a misery, that Helbeck could not altogether understand. He tried to soothe her, regardless of the presence of the nurses. Laura, too, did not think of them. But when he put his arm round her, she withdrew herself in a restlessness that would not be controlled.

“How strange—how strange!” she repeated, as she looked down on the little blanched and stiffening face.

Helbeck stooped and kissed the brow of the dead woman.

“If I had only loved her better!” he said with emotion.

Laura stared at him. His words brought back to her a rush of memories—Augustina’s old fear of him—those twelve years in which no member of the Fountain household had ever seen Mrs. Fountain’s brother. So long as Augustina had been Stephen Fountain’s wife, she had been no less dead for Helbeck, her only brother, than she was now.

The girl shuddered. She looked pitifully at the others.

“Please—please—leave me alone with her a little! She was my father’s wife—my dear father’s wife!”

And again she sank on her knees, hiding her face against the dead. The nurses hesitated, but Helbeck thought it best to let her have her way.

“We will go for half an hour,” he said, stooping to her. Then, in a whisper that only she could hear—”My Laura—you are mine now—let me soon come back and comfort you!”

When they returned they found Laura sitting on a stool beside her stepmother. One hand grasped that of Augustina, while the other dropped listlessly in front of her. Her brow under its weight of curly hair hung forward. The rest of the little face almost disappeared behind the fixed and sombre intensity of the eyes.

She took no notice when they came in, and it was Helbeck alone who could rouse her. He persuaded her to go, on a promise that the nurses would soon recall her.

When all was ready she returned. Augustina was lying in a white pomp of candles and flowers; the picture of the Virgin, the statue of St. Joseph, her little praying table, were all garlanded with light; every trace of the long physical struggle had been removed; the great bed, with its meek, sleeping form and its white draperies, rose solitary amid its lights—an altar of death in the void of the great panelled room.

Laura stood opposite to Helbeck, her hands clasped, as white and motionless from head to foot as Augustina herself. Once amid the prayers and litanies he was reciting with the Sisters, he lifted his head and found that she was looking at him and not at Augustina. Her expression was so forlorn and difficult to read, that he felt a vague uneasiness. But his Catholic sense of the deep awe of what he was doing made him try to concentrate himself upon it, and when he raised his eyes again Laura was gone.

At four o’clock, in the dawn, he went himself to rest awhile, a little surprised, perhaps, that Laura had not come back to share the vigils of the night, but thankful, nevertheless, that she had been prudent enough to spare herself.

Some little time before he went, while it was yet dark, Sister Rosa had gone to lie down for a while. Her room was just beyond Laura’s. As she passed Miss Fountain’s door she saw that there was a light within, and for some time after the tired nurse had thrown herself on her bed, she was disturbed by sounds from the next room. Miss Fountain seemed to be walking up and down. Once or twice she broke out into sobs, then again there were periods of quiet, and once a sharp sound that might have been made by tearing a letter. But Sister Rosa did not listen long. It was natural that Miss Fountain should sorrow and watch, and the nurse’s fatigue soon brought her sleep.

She had rejoined her companion, however, and Mr Helbeck had been in his room about half an hour, when the door of the death chamber opened softly, and Miss Fountain appeared.

The morning light was already full, though still rosily clear and cold, and it fell upon the strangest and haggardest figure. Miss Fountain was in a black dress, covered with a long black cloak. Her dress and cloak were bedraggled with mud and wet. Her hat and hair were both in a drenched confusion, and the wind had laid a passing flush, like a mask, upon the pallor of her face. In her arms she held some boughs of wild cherry, and a mass of wild clematis, gathered from a tree upon the house wall, for which Augustina had cherished a particular affection.

She paused just inside the door, and looked at the nurses uncertainly, like one who hardly knew what she was doing.

Sister Rosa went to her.

“They are so wet,” she whispered with a troubled look, “and I went to the most sheltered places. But I should like to put them by her. She loved the cherry blossom—and this clematis.”

The nurse took her into the next room, and between them they dried and shook the beautiful tufted branches. As Laura was about to take them back to the bed, Sister Rosa asked if she would not take off her wet cloak.

“Oh no!” said the girl, as though with a sudden entreaty. “No! I am going out again. It shan’t touch anything.”

And daintily holding it to one side, she returned with the flowers in a basket. She took them out one by one, and laid them beside Augustina, till the bed was a vision of spring, starred and wreathed from end to end, save for that waxen face and hands in the centre.

“There is no room for more,” said the nurse gently, beside her.

Laura started.

“不是，但 - ”

She looked vaguely round the walls, saw a pair of old Delft vases still empty, and said eagerly, pointing, “I will bring some for those. There is a tree—a cherry tree,” the nurse remembered afterwards that she had spoken with a remarkable slowness and clearness, “just above the otter cliff. You don’t know where that is. But Mr. Helbeck knows.”

The nurse glanced at her, and wondered. Miss Fountain, no doubt, had been dazed a little by the sudden shock. She had learnt, however, not to interfere with the first caprices of grief, and she did not try to dissuade the girl from going.

When the flowers were all laid, Laura went round to the further side of the bed and dropped on her knees. She gazed steadily at Augustina for a little; then she turned to the faldstool beside the bed and the shelf above it, with Augustina’s prayer-books, and on either side of the St. Joseph, on the wall, the portraits of Helbeck and his mother. The two nurses moved away to the window that she might be left a little to herself. They had seen enough, naturally, to make them divine a new situation, and feel towards her with a new interest and compassion.

When she rejoined them, they were alternately telling their beads and looking at the glory of the sunrise as it came marching from the distant fells over the park. The rain had ceased, but the trees and grass were steeped, and the river came down in a white flood under the pure greenish spaces, and long pearly clouds of the morning sky.

Laura gave it all one look. Then she drew her cloak round her again.

“Dear Miss Fountain,” whispered Sister Rosa, entreating, “don’t be long.
And when you come in, let me get you dry things, and make you some tea.”

The girl made a sign of assent.

“Good-bye,” she said under her breath, and she gently kissed first Sister Rosa, and then the other nurse, Sister Mary Raphael, who did not know her so well, and was a little surprised perhaps to feel the touch of the cold small lips.

They watched her close the door, and some dim anxiety made them wait at the window till they saw her emerge from the garden wall into the park. She was walking slowly with bent head. She seemed to stand for a minute or two at the first seat commanding the bend of the river; then the rough road along the Greet turned and descended. They saw her no more.

A little before eight o’clock, Helbeck, coming out of his room, met
Sister Rosa in the passage. She looked a little disturbed.

“Is Miss Fountain there?” asked Helbeck in the voice natural to those who keep house with death. He motioned toward his sister’s room.

“I have not seen Miss Fountain since she went out between four and five o’clock,” said the nurse.

“She went out for some flowers. As she did not come back to us, we thought that she was tired and had gone straight to bed. But now I have been to see. Miss Fountain is not in her room.”

Helbeck stopped short.

“Not in her room! And she went out between four and five o’clock!”

“She told us she was going for some flowers to the otter cliff,” said Sister Rosa, with cheeks that were rapidly blanching. “I remember her saying so very plainly. She said you would know where it was.”

He stared at her, his face turning to horror. Then he was gone.

Laura was not far to seek. The tyrant river that she loved, had received her, had taken her life, and then had borne her on its swirl of waters straight for that little creek where, once before, it had tossed a human prey upon the beach.

There, beating against the gravelly bank, in a soft helplessness, her bright hair tangled among the drift of branch and leaf brought down by the storm, Helbeck found her.

He brought her home upon his breast. Those who had come to search with him followed at a distance.

He carried her through the garden, and at the chapel entrance nurses and doctors met him. Long and fruitless efforts were made before all was yielded to despair; but the river had done its work.

At last Helbeck said a hoarse word to Sister Rosa. She led the others away.

… In that long agony, Helbeck’s soul parted for ever with the first fresh power to suffer. Neither life nor death could ever stab in such wise again. The half of personality—the chief forces of that Helbeck whom Laura had loved, were already dead with Laura, when, after many hours, his arms gave her back to the Sisters, and she dropped gently from his hold upon her bed of death, in a last irrevocable submission.

Far on in the day, Sister Rosa discovered on Laura’s table a sealed letter addressed to Dr. Friedland of Cambridge. She brought it to Helbeck. He looked at it blindly, then gradually remembered the name and the facts connected with it. He wrote and sent a message to Dr. and Mrs. Friedland asking them of their kindness to come to Bannisdale.

The Friedlands arrived late at night. They saw the child to whom they had given their hearts lying at peace in the old tapestried room. Some of the flowers she had herself brought for Augustina had been placed about her. The nurses had exhausted themselves in the futile cares that soothe good women at such a time.

The talk throughout the household was of sudden and hopeless accident. Miss Fountain had gone for cherry blossom to the otter cliff; the cliff was unsafe after the rain; only twenty-four hours before, Mr. Helbeck had given orders on the subject to the old keeper. And the traces of a headlong fall just below a certain flowery bent where a wild cherry stood above a bank of primroses, were plainly visible.

Then, as the doctor and Mrs. Friedland entered their own room, Laura’s letter was brought to them.

They shut themselves in to read it, expecting one of those letters, those unsuspicious letters of every day, which sudden death leaves behind it.

But this was what they read:

“Dear, dear friend,—Last night, nearly five hours ago, I promised for the second time to marry Mr. Helbeck, and I promised, too, that I would be a Catholic. I asked him to procure for me Catholic teaching and instruction. I could not, you see, be his wife without it. His conscience now would not permit it. And besides, last summer I saw that it could not be.

“… Then we were called to Augustina. It was she who finally persuaded me. I did not do it merely to please her. Oh! no—没有. I have been on the brink of it for days—perhaps weeks. I have so hungered to be his again…. But it gave it sweetness that Augustina wished it so much—that I could tell her and make her happy before she died.

“Then, she was dead!—all in a moment—without a word—before we came to her almost. She had prayed so—and yet God would not leave her a moment in which to hear it. That struck me so. It was so strange, after all the pains—all the clinging to Him—and entreating. It might have been a sign, and there!—she never gave a thought to us. It seemed like an intrusion, a disturbance even to touch her. How horrible it is that death is so 寂寞! Then something was said that reminded me of my father. I had forgotten him for so long. But when they left me with her, I seemed to be holding not her hand, but his. I was back in the old life—I heard him speaking quite distinctly. ‘Laura, you cannot do it—you cannot do it!’ And he looked at me in sorrow and displeasure. I argued with him so long, but he beat me down. And the voice I seemed to hear was not his only,—it was the voice of my own life, only far stronger and crueller than I had ever known it.

“Cruel!—I hardly know what I am writing—who has been cruel! I!—only I! To open the old wounds—to make him glad for an hour—then to strike and leave him—could anything be more pitiless? Oh! my best—best beloved…. But to live a lie—upon his heart, in his arms—that would be worse. I don’t know what drives me exactly—but the priests want my inmost will—want all that is I—and I know when I sit down to think quietly, that I cannot give it. I knew it last October. But to be with him, to see him, was too much. Oh! if God hears, may He forgive me—I prayed to-night that He would give me courage.

“He must always think it an accident—he will. I see it all so plainly.—But I am afraid of saying or doing something to make the others suspect.—My head is not clear. I can’t remember from one moment to another.

“You understand—I must trouble him no more. And there is no other way.
This winter has proved it. Because death puts an 结束.

“This letter is for you three only, in all the world. Dear, dear Molly—I sit here like a coward—but I can’t go without a sign.—You wouldn’t understand me—I used to be so happy as a little child—but since Papa died—since I came here—oh! I am not angry now, not proud—no, no.—It is for love—for love.

“Good-bye—good-bye. You were all so good to me—think of me, grieve for me sometimes.—

“Your ever grateful and devoted

“LAURA.”

Next morning early, Helbeck entered the dining-room, where Dr. Friedland was sitting. He approached the doctor with an uncertain step, like one finding his way in the dark.

“You had a letter,” he said. “Is it possible that you could show it me—or any part of it? Only a few hours before her death the old relations between myself—and Miss Fountain—were renewed. We were to have been husband and wife. That gives me a certain claim.”

Dr. Friedland grew pale.

“My dear sir,” he said, rising to meet his host,—”that letter contained a message for my daughter which was not intended for other eyes than hers. I have destroyed it.”

And then speech failed him. The old man stood in a guilty confusion.

Helbeck lifted his deep eyes with the steady and yet muffled gaze of one who, in the silence of the heart, lets hope go. Not another word was said. The doctor found himself alone.

Three days later, the doctor wrote to his wife, who had gone back to
Cambridge to be with Molly.

“Yesterday Mrs. Fountain was buried in the Catholic graveyard at Whinthorpe. To-day we carried Laura to a little chapel high in the hills. A. lonely yet a cheerful spot! After these days and nights of horror, there was a moment—a breath—of balm. The Westmoreland rocks and trees will be about her for ever. She lies in sight, almost, of the Bannisdale woods. Above her the mountain rises to the sky. One of those wonderful Westmoreland dogs was barking and gathering the sheep on the crag-side, while we stood there. And when it was all over I could hear the river in the valley—a gay and open stream, with little bends and shadows—not tragic like the Greet.

“Many of the country people came. I saw her cousins, the Masons; that young fellow—you remember?—with a face swollen with tears. Mr. Helbeck stood in the distance. He did not come into the chapel.

“How she loved this country! And now it holds her tenderly. It gives her its loveliest and best. Poor, poor child!

“As for Mr. Helbeck, I have hardly seen him. He seems to live a life all within. We must be as shadows to him; as men like trees walking. But I have had a few conversations with him on necessary business; I have observed his bearing under this intolerable blow. And always I have felt myself in the presence of a good and noble man. In a few months, or even weeks, they say he will have entered the Jesuit Novitiate. It gives me a deep relief to think of it.

“What a fate!—that brought them across each other, that has left him nothing but these memories, and led her, step by step, to this last bitter resource—this awful spending of her young life—this blind witness to august things!”