bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第247节
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them to enter as he shuts the door。
So； George； who is writing at his table； supposing himself to be
alone； does not raise his eyes； but remains absorbed。 The old
housekeeper looks at him； and those wandering hands of hers are
quite enough for Mrs Bagnet’s confirmation； even if she could see
the mother and the son together； knowing what she knows； and
doubt their relationship。
Not a rustle of the housekeeper’s dress； not a gesture； not a
word betrays her。 She stands looking at him as he writes on； all
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unconscious； and only her fluttering hands give utterance to her
emotions。 But they are very eloquent； very； very eloquent。 Mrs
Bagnet understands them。 They speak of gratitude； of joy； of grief；
of hope； of inextinguishable affection； cherished with no return
since this stalwart man was a stripling； of a better son loved less；
and this son loved so fondly and so proudly； and they speak in
such touching language； that Mrs Bagnet’s eyes brim up with
tears； and they run glistening down her sun…brown face。
“George Rouncewell！ O my dear child； turn and look at me！”
The trooper starts up； clasps his mother round the neck； and
falls down on his knees before her。 Whether in a late repentance；
whether in the first association that comes back upon him； he puts
his hands together as a child does when it says its prayers； and
raising them towards her breast； bows down his head； and cries。
“My George； my dearest son！ Always my favourite； and my
favourite still； where have you been these cruel years and years？
Grown such a man； too； grown such a fine strong man。 Grown so
like what I knew he must be； if it pleased God he was alive！”
She can ask； and he can answer； nothing connected for a time。
All that time the old girl； turned away； leans one arm against the
whitened wall； leans her honest forehead upon it； wipes her eyes
with her serviceable grey cloak； and quite enjoys herself like the
best of old girls as she is。
“Mother；” says the trooper； when they are more composed；
“forgive me first of all； for I know my need of it。”
Forgive him！ She does it with all her heart and soul。 She always
has done it。 She tells him how she has had it written in her will；
these many years； that he was her beloved son George。 She has
never believed any ill of him； never。 If she had died without this
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happiness—and she is an old woman now； and can’t look to live
very long—she would have blessed him with her last breath； if she
had had her senses； as her beloved son George。
“Mother； I have been an undutiful trouble to you； and I have my
reward； but of late years I have had a kind of glimmering of a
purpose in me； too。 When I left home I didn’t care much； mother—
I am afraid not a great deal—for leaving； and went away and
’listed； harum…scarum； making believe to think that I cared for
nobody； no not I； and that nobody cared for me。”
The trooper has dried his eyes； and put away his handkerchief：
but there is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual
manner of expressing himself and carrying himself； and the
softened tone in which he speaks； interrupted occasionally by a
half…stifled sob。
“So I wrote a line home； mother； as you too well know； to say I
had ‘listed under another name； and I went abroad。 Abroad； at one
time I thought I would write home next year； when I might be
better off； and when that year was out I thought I would write
home next year； when I might be better off； and when that year
was out again； perhaps I didn’t think much about it。 So on； from
year to year； through a service of ten years； till I began to get older；
and to ask myself why should I ever write？”
“I don’t find any fault； child—but not to ease my mind； George？
Not a word to your loving mother； who was growing older； too？”
This almost overturns the trooper afresh； but he sets himself up
with a great； rough； sounding clearance of his throat。
“Heaven forgive me； mother； but I thought there would be
small consolation then in hearing anything about me。 There were
you； respected and esteemed。 There was my brother； as I read in
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chance north…country papers now and then； rising to be
prosperous and famous。 There was I a dragoon； roving； unsettled；
not self…made like him； but self…unmade—all my earlier
advantages thrown away； all my little learning unlearnt； nothing
picked up but what unfitted me for most things that I could think
of。 What business had I to make myself known？ After letting all
that time go by me； what good could come of it？ The worst was
past with you； mother。 I knew by that time （being a man） how you
had mourned for me； and wept for me； and prayed for me； and the
pain was over； or was softened down； and I was better in your
mind as it was。”
The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head； and taking one of his
powerful hands； lays it lovingly upon her shoulder。
“No； I don’t say that it was so； mother； but that I made it out to
be so。 I said just now what good could come of it？ Well； my dear
mother； some good might have come of it to myself—and there
was the meanness of it。 You would have sought me out； you would
have purchased my discharge； you would have taken me down to
Chesney Wold； you would have brought me and my brother and
my brother’s family together； you would all have considered
anxiously how to do something for me； and set me up as a
respectable civilian。 But how could any of you feel sure of me；
when I couldn’t so much as feel sure of myself？ How could you
help regarding as an incumbrance and a discredit to you； an idle
dragooning chap； who was an incumbrance and a discredit to
himself； excepting under discipline？ How could I look my
brother’s children in the face； and pretend to set them an
example—I； the vagabond boy； who had run away from home； and
been the grief and unhappiness of my mother’s life？ ‘No； George。’
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Such were my words； mother； when I passed this in review before
me： ‘You have made your bed。 Now； lie upon it。’”
Mrs Rouncewell； drawing up her stately form； shakes her head
at the old girl with a swelling pride upon her； as much as to say； “I
told you so！” The old girl relieves her feelings； and testifies her
interest in the conversation； by giving the trooper a great poke
between the shoulders with her umbrella； this action she
afterwards repeats； at intervals； in a species of affectionate lunacy：
never failing； after the administration of each of these
remonstrances； to resort to the whitened wall and the grey cloak
again。
“This was the way I brought myself to think； mother； that my
best amends was to lie upon that bed I had made； and die upon it。
And I should have done it （though I have been to see you more
than once down at Chesney Wold； when you little thought of me）；
but for my old comrade’s wife here； who I find has been too many
for me。 But I thank her for it。 I thank you for it； Mrs Bagnet； with
all my heart and might。”
