Life was going on, then, and dragging her at its wheels. She could neither check its rush nor wrench4 loose from it and drop out — oh, how blessedly — into darkness and cessation. She must go bounding on, racked, broken, but alive in every fibre. The most she could hope was a few hours’ respite5, not from her own terrors, but from the pressure of outward claims: the midday halt, during which the victim is unbound while his torturers rest from their efforts. Till her father’s return she would have the house to herself, and, the question of the venison despatched, could give herself to long lonely pacings of the empty rooms, and shuddering6 subsidences upon her pillow.
Her first impulse, as the mist cleared from her brain, was the habitual7 one of reaching out for ultimate relations. She wanted to know the worst; and for her, as she saw in a flash, the worst of it was the core of fatality9 in what had happened. She shrank from her own way of putting it — nor was it even figuratively true that she had ever felt, under faith in Denis, any such doubt as the perception implied. But that was merely because her imagination had never put him to the test. She was fond of exposing herself to hypothetical ordeals10, but somehow she had never carried Denis with her on these adventures. What she saw now was that, in a world of strangeness, he remained the object least strange to her. She was not in the tragic11 case of the girl who suddenly sees her lover unmasked. No mask had dropped from Denis’s face: the pink shades had simply been lifted from the lamps, and she saw him for the first time in an unmitigated glare.
Such exposure does not alter the features, but it lays an ugly emphasis on the most charming lines, pushing the smile to a grin, the curve of good-nature to the droop12 of slackness. And it was precisely13 into the flagging lines of extreme weakness that Denis’s graceful14 contour flowed. In the terrible talk which had followed his avowal15, and wherein every word flashed a light on his moral processes, she had been less startled by what he had done than by the way in which his conscience had already become a passive surface for the channelling of consequences. He was like a child who had put a match to the curtains, and stands agape at the blaze. It was horribly naughty to put the match — but beyond that the child’s responsibility did not extend. In this business of Arthur’s, where all had been wrong from the beginning — where self-defence might well find a plea for its casuistries in the absence of a definite right to be measured by — it had been easy, after the first slip, to drop a little lower with each struggle. The woman — oh, the woman was — well, of the kind who prey16 on such men. Arthur, out there, at his lowest ebb17, had drifted into living with her as a man drifts into drink or opium18. He knew what she was — he knew where she had come from. But he had fallen ill, and she had nursed him — nursed him devotedly19, of course. That was her chance, and she knew it. Before he was out of the fever she had the noose20 around him — he came to and found himself married. Such cases were common enough — if the man recovered he bought off the woman and got a divorce. It was all a part of the business — the marriage, the bribe21, the divorce. Some of those women made a big income out of it — they were married and divorced once a year. If Arthur had only got well — but, instead, he had a relapse and died. And there was the woman, made his widow by mischance as it were, with her child on her arm — whose child? — and a scoundrelly black-mailing lawyer to work up her case for her. Her claim was clear enough — the right of dower, a third of his estate. But if he had never meant to marry her? If he had been trapped as patently as a rustic22 fleeced in a gambling-hell? Arthur, in his last hours, had confessed to the marriage, but had also acknowledged its folly23. And after his death, when Denis came to look about him and make inquiries24, he found that the witnesses, if there had been any, were dispersed25 and undiscoverable. The whole question hinged on Arthur’s statement to his brother. Suppress that statement, and the claim vanished, and with it the scandal, the humiliation26, the life-long burden of the woman and child dragging the name of Peyton through heaven knew what depths. He had thought of that first, Denis swore, rather than of the money. The money, of course, had made a difference, — he was too honest not to own it — but not till afterward27, he declared — would have declared on his honour, but that the word tripped him up, and sent a flush to his forehead.
Thus, in broken phrases, he flung his defence at her: a defence improvised28, pieced together as he went along, to mask the crude instinctiveness of his act. For with increasing clearness Kate saw, as she listened, that there had been no real struggle in his mind; that, but for the grim logic29 of chance, he might never have felt the need of any justification30. If the woman, after the manner of such baffled huntresses, had wandered off in search of fresh prey, he might, quite sincerely, have congratulated himself on having saved a decent name and an honest fortune from her talons31. It was the price she had paid to establish her claim that for the first time brought him to a startled sense of its justice. His conscience responded only to the concrete pressure of facts.
It was with the anguish32 of this discovery that Kate Orme locked herself in at the end of their talk. How the talk had ended, how at length she had got him from the room and the house, she recalled but confusedly. The tragedy of the woman’s death, and of his own share in it, were as nothing in the disaster of his bright irreclaimableness. Once, when she had cried out, “You would have married me and said nothing,” and he groaned33 back, “But I have told you,” she felt like a trainer with a lash8 above some bewildered animal.
But she persisted savagely34. “You told me because you had to; because your nerves gave way; because you knew it couldn’t hurt you to tell.” The perplexed35 appeal of his gaze had almost checked her. “You told me because it was a relief; but nothing will really relieve you — nothing will really help you — till you have told some one who — who will hurt you.”
“Who will hurt me —?”
“Till you have told the truth as — as openly as you lied.”
He started up, ghastly with fear. “I don’t understand you.”
“You must confess, then — publicly — openly — you must go to the judge. I don’t know how it’s done.”
“To the judge? When they’re both dead? When everything is at an end? What good could that do?” he groaned.
“Everything is not at an end for you — everything is just beginning. You must clear yourself of this guilt36; and there is only one way — to confess it. And you must give back the money.”
This seemed to strike him as conclusive37 proof of her irrelevance38. “I wish I had never heard of the money! But to whom would you have me give it back? I tell you she was a waif out of the gutter39. I don’t believe any one knew her real name — I don’t believe she had one.”
“She must have had a mother and father.”
“Am I to devote my life to hunting for them through the slums of California? And how shall I know when I have found them? It’s impossible to make you understand. I did wrong — I did horribly wrong — but that is not the way to repair it.”
“What is, then?”
He paused, a little askance at the question. “To do better — to do my best,” he said, with a sudden flourish of firmness. “To take warning by this dreadful — ”
“Oh, be silent,” she cried out, and hid her face. He looked at her hopelessly.
At last he said: “I don’t know what good it can do to go on talking. I have only one more thing to say. Of course you know that you are free.”
He spoke40 simply, with a sudden return to his old voice and accent, at which she weakened as under a caress41. She lifted her head and gazed at him. “Am I?” she said musingly42.
“Kate!” burst from him; but she raised a silencing hand.
“It seems to me,” she said, “that I am imprisoned43 — imprisoned with you in this dreadful thing. First I must help you to get out — then it will be time enough to think of myself.”
His face fell and he stammered44: “I don’t understand you.”
“I can’t say what I shall do — or how I shall feel — till I know what you are going to do and feel.”
“You must see how I feel — that I’m half dead with it.”
“Yes — but that is only half.”
He turned this over for a perceptible space of time before asking slowly: “You mean that you’ll give me up, if I don’t do this crazy thing you propose?”
She paused in turn. “No,” she said; “I don’t want to bribe you. You must feel the need of it yourself.”
“The need of proclaiming this thing publicly?”
“Yes.”
He sat staring before him. “Of course you realize what it would mean?” he began at length.
“To you?” she returned.
“I put that aside. To others — to you. I should go to prison.”
“I suppose so,” she said simply.
“You seem to take it very easily — I’m afraid my mother wouldn’t.”
“Your mother?” This produced the effect he had expected.
“You hadn’t thought of her, I suppose? It would probably kill her.”
“It would have killed her to think that you could do what you have done!”
“It would have made her very unhappy; but there’s a difference.”
Yes: there was a difference; a difference which no rhetoric45 could disguise. The secret sin would have made Mrs. Peyton wretched, but it would not have killed her. And she would have taken precisely Denis’s view of the elasticity46 of atonement: she would have accepted private regrets as the genteel equivalent of open expiation47. Kate could even imagine her extracting a “lesson” from the providential fact that her son had not been found out.
“You see it’s not so simple,” he broke out, with a tinge48 of doleful triumph.
“No: it’s not simple,” she assented49.
“One must think of others,” he continued, gathering50 faith in his argument as he saw her reduced to acquiescence51.
She made no answer, and after a moment he rose to go. So far, in retrospect52, she could follow the course of their talk; but when, in the act of parting, argument lapsed53 into entreaty54, and renunciation into the passionate55 appeal to give him at least one more hearing, her memory lost itself in a tumult56 of pain, and she recalled only that, when the door closed on him, he took with him her promise to see him once again.
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1
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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2
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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3
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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4
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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5
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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6
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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7
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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8
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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9
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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10
ordeals
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| n.严峻的考验，苦难的经历( ordeal的名词复数 ) | |
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11
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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12
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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13
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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14
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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15
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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16
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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17
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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18
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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19
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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20
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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21
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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22
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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23
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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24
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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25
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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26
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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27
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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28
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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29
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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30
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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31
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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32
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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33
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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34
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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35
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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36
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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37
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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38
irrelevance
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| n.无关紧要；不相关；不相关的事物 | |
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39
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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40
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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41
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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42
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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43
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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46
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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47
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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48
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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49
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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51
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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52
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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53
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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54
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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55
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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56
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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