Raine had jotted7 down this among some rough notes for a series of lectures in Metaphysics he was preparing, when his father’s voice broke a silence that had lasted nearly an hour.
“I am reading that letter you wrote to ——.”
“Which letter?” asked Raine.
As the old man did not reply at first, but continued reading the letter which he held out before him, Raine closed his note-book, and went round behind his father’s chair, and looked over his shoulder.
“Oh, that one. You must have thought me idiotic8. I half fancy I did it to puzzle you.”
“I wasn’t puzzled, my dear boy. I guessed. And does the magnet still attract?”
It was the first time he had referred to the matter. His voice was a little husky as he asked the question—it seemed to be a liberty that he was taking with Raine. He looked up at him deprecatingly, touching9 the hand that was on his shoulder.
“Don’t think me an inquisitive10 old man,” he added, smiling to meet the affectionate look on his son’s face.
“Yes, I am attracted—very much,” said Raine. “More than I had conceived possible.”
“I am so glad—she too is drawn11 to you, Raine.”
“I think so too—sometimes. At others she baffles me.”
“You would like to know for certain?”
“Of course,” said Raine with a laugh. There seemed a humorous side to the discussion. The loved old face wore an expression of such concern.
“Then, Raine—if you really love her—I can tell you—she has given you her heart, my son. I had it from her own lips.”
The laugh died away from Raine’s eyes. With a quick movement, he came from behind his father and stood facing him, his brows knitted.
“What do you mean, father?” he asked very earnestly.
“Felicia—she is only waiting, Raine.”
“Felicia!”
“Yes. Who else?”
Raine passed his hand through his hair and walked to and fro about the room, his hands dug deep in his pockets. The old man followed him with his eyes, anxiously, not comprehending.
Suddenly Raine stopped short before him.
“Father, I haven’t been a brute12. I haven’t trifled with her. I never suspected it. I liked her for her own sake, because she is a bright, likeable girl—and I am fond of her for your sake. But I have never, to my knowledge, led her to suppose—believe me.”
And then the old man saw his plans for Raine’s future fall in desolation round him like a house of cards.
“I don’t understand,” he said rather piteously, “if she is the attraction—”
“It is not little Felicia.”
“Ah!” said the old man, with the bitter pang13 of disappointment.
He rested his head on his hand, dejectedly.
“I had set my heart upon it. That was why, the first day you came, I spoke14 of her coming back to Oxford15 with us. Poor little girl! Heaven knows what will happen to her, when I tell her.”
“Tell her! You mustn’t do that, dad. She must learn it for herself. It will be best for her. I will be very careful—very careful—she will see—and her pride will come to her help. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go away—for an indefinite time. Rogers and three men are climbing in Switzerland. I shall pack up my things and go and join them to-morrow; I have a list of their dates.”
He searched for it among the papers in his pocket-book.
“Chamonix! Their being so close will be a good excuse. When I come back—it will only be for a short time—this break will make it easier to modify my attitude.”
“Let us think what would be best,” said the professor with an old man’s greater slowness of decision.
“I have made up my mind,” said Raine. “I go to-morrow.”
Just then a rap was heard at the door, and a moment afterwards Felicia appeared, bringing her daily task of copy. She handed the professor the manuscript—and while he looked through it mechanically, she stood like a school-girl before her master, with clasped hands, waiting pleasurably for the little word of praise.
“There is going to be a specially16 gorgeous fête on the lake to-night, Mr. Chetwynd,” she said brightly, turning to Raine.
“Won’t it be like the other one?”
“Oh, much more so! There is a royal Duke of somewhere or other staying at the National, and the municipality mean to show him what they can do. I am so fond of these fêtes venétiennes. You’re coming, aren’t you, professor?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” replied the old man. “The night air isn’t good for me.” Then he added, closing the manuscript, “It is beautifully done. I shall grudge17 giving it to the printers.”
“But you’ll get it all back again,” said Felicia. “Send it to me afterwards, and I’ll bind18 it up beautifully with blue ribbon.”
She gave them each a little nod of farewell and tripped lightly out of the room. The two men looked at each other, rather sadly.
“Oh, Raine—is it too late? Couldn’t you?”
“No, dad,” said Raine. “I am afraid other things are too serious.”
Later in the day he opened his note-book and his eye fell upon the last fragment he had scribbled19. He threw it upon his dressing-table with an exclamation20 of impatience21. The personal application of his aphorisms22 was too sudden and obvious to be pleasant.
There was no doubt now in his mind as to the face that attracted him to Geneva. It had, vanished on the first day of his arrival, when he had seen Katherine comforting the hurt child. He was conscious too that it had been Katherine all along, at Oxford, whose memory had haunted him, that he had only evoked23 that of Felicia in order to enable him to deceive himself. He had practised the self-delusion systematically24, whenever his thoughts had drifted away from the work and interests that surrounded him. He had made light of the matter, treated it jestingly, grown angry when it obtruded25 itself seriously on his thoughts. For he had shrunk, with the instinctive26 fear of a man of strong nature, from exposing to the touch a range of feelings which had once brought him great sorrow. To love meant to bring into play a man’s emotions, infinitely deeper than those of a boy, and subject to far more widely-reaching consequences. For this reason he had mocked at the idea of being in love with Katherine, had forced himself, since the power that drew him to Geneva could not be disregarded, to consider Felicia as an equal component27, and at the time of his light confidence to Mrs. Monteith, had almost persuaded himself that he was indulging in a whimsical holiday fancy.
But he could delude28 himself no longer. From the first meeting he knew that it was not the young girl, but the older, deeper-natured woman that had stirred him. He had felt kindly29 and grateful to her for his father’s sake; but there his feelings had stopped. Whereas, with Katherine, he had been drifting, he knew not whither. The process of subjective30 development had been brought suddenly to its climax by his father’s words. He realized that he loved Katherine.
To fly away from Geneva at this moment was particularly unpleasant—necessitating almost the rending31 of his heart-strings. But as he had decided32, he sent a telegram to Rogers at Chamonix, secured a place in the next morning’s diligence, and packed his Gladstone-bag and knapsack. He was sincerely sorry for Felicia. No decent, honest man can learn that a girl has given him her heart in vain, without a certain amount of pain and perplexity.
“And to think that I have been such a blind idiot as never even to suspect it?” he exclaimed with a vicious jerk of the bag-strap, which burst it, and thereby33 occasioned a temporary diversion.
“I passed you this afternoon and you did not see me,” said Felicia as they were going in to dinner. “You were in the diligence office.”
“Yes,” said Raine, “I was engaging a seat to Chamonix. I am going climbing with some Oxford people.”
“When do you start?”
“To-morrow,” said Raine. “I think I may be away some weeks.”
He could not help noticing the look of disappointment in her eyes, and the little downward droop34 of her lips. He felt himself a brute for telling her so abruptly35. However, he checked the impulse, which many men, in a similar position, have obeyed, out of mistaken kindness, to add a few consoling words as to his return, and took advantage of the general bustle36 of seat-taking to leave her and go to his place at the opposite side of the table.
Many new arrivals had come to the pension during the last few days. Colonel Cazet and his wife had joined their friends the Por-nichons; several desultory37 tourists, whose names no one knew, made their appearance at meal-times, and vanished immediately afterwards. When questioned concerning them, Mme. Boccard would reply:
“Oh, des Américains!-” as if that explained everything.
In addition to these, Mr. Skeogh, the commercial gentleman who had surrendered to Frau Schultz’s seductions, had this evening introduced a friend who was passing through Geneva. By virtue38 of his position as visitor of a guest, Mme. Boccard placed him at the upper end of the table between Fraulein Klinkhardt and Mme. Popea, instead of giving him a seat at the foot, by herself, where new arrivals sat, and whence, by the rules of the pension, they worked their way upwards39, according to seniority.
There were twenty-one guests that night. Mme. Boccard turned a red, beaming face to them, disguising with smiles the sharp directing glances kept ever upon the summer waiter and his assistant. The air was filled with a polyglot40 buzz, above which could be heard the great voices of the old soldiers and the shrill41 accents of the Americans fresh from the discovery of Chil-Ion. At the head of the table, however, where the older house-party were gathered, reigned42 a greater calm. Both Mr. Chetwynd and Felicia were silent. Raine conversed43 in low tones with Katherine, on America, where she had lived most of her younger life. She very rarely alluded44 to her once adopted nationality, preferring to be recognized as an Englishwoman, but Raine was recording45 his impressions of a recent visit to New York, and her comments upon his criticisms were necessary. Around them the general topic was the fête venétienne that was to take place on the lake. To Mr. Skeogh, who had never seen one, Frau Schultz gave hyperbolic description. Mr. Wanless, a grizzled and tanned middle-aged46 man, with a cordless eyeglass and a dark straggling moustache, who had travelled apparently47 all over the world, rather pooh-poohed the affair as childish, and, in a lull48 in the talk, was heard describing a Nautch-dance to Mme. Popea.
It seemed commonplace enough, this pension dinner-party. Hundreds such were at that moment in progress all through Switzerland, differing from each other as little as the loads of any two consecutive49 London omnibuses on the same route. Yet to more than one person it was ever memorable50.
Little Miss Bunter, who sat next to Felicia, had grown happier of late. The summer had warmed her blood. Also she had lately received an eight-page letter from Burmah which had brought her much consolation51. There was a possibility, it hinted, of the marriage taking place in the spring. She had already consulted Katherine as to the trousseau, and had made cuttings from Modern Society of the description of fashionable weddings during the past two months. Having these hopes within her, and one of the new dresses chosen by Katherine, without, she looked much fresher than usual this evening. Her sandy hair seemed less lifeless, her complexion52 less sallow. She did not speak much, being constitutionally timid. Her opinions were such weak, frail53 things, that she was afraid of sending them forth54 into the rough world. But she listened with animated55 interest to the various conversations. Raine’s talk particularly interested her. She had a vague idea that she was improving her mind.
“It struck me,” Raine was saying, “that culture in America was chiefly in the hands of the women—more so even than it is in our own strictly56 business circles. And nearly all New York is one great business circle.”
“Were you long in the States, sir?” asked Mr. Skeogh, who had been silent for some time.
“Oh no,” said Raine, looking over towards him, “only a few weeks. My remarks are from the merest superficial impressions.”
“It is a fine country,” said Mr. Skeogh.
Raine acquiesced57 politely.
“I do not like the country,” said Frau Schultz, thus making the topic a fairly general one. “There is no family life. The women are idle. They are not to my taste.”
“What a blessing58!” murmured Katherine in a low voice, to which Raine replied by an imperceptible smile. But aloud she said: “I don’t think American women are idle. They give their wits and not their souls to housekeeping. So they order their husbands’ dinners and see to the washing of their babies just as well as other women; but they think that these are duties that any rational creature can perform without letting them absorb their whole interests in life.”
“A woman’s duty is to be a good housewife,” said Frau Schultz dictatorially59, in her harshest accent. “In Germany it is so.”
“But is not the party of progress in Germany trying to improve the position of women?” asked Mr. Wanless with a securing grip of his eyeglass.
“It cannot be improved,” said Frau Schultz.
“That is a matter of opinion,” replied Mr. Wanless. “When elegant ladies have Damen-lecture especially written for them, and when peasant women are harnessed to a cart by the side of the cow, while the husband walks behind smoking his cigar—I think a little improvement is necessary somewhere.”
He spoke in a clear, authoritative60 voice, commanding attention.
“Have you been in Germany?” asked Frau Schultz.
“I have been all over the world—travelled continuously for twenty years. Somehow the position of women has interested me. It is an index to the sociology of a country.”
“Which is the most interesting one you know from that point of view?” asked old Mr. Ohetwynd, who had been following the conversation.
“Burmah,” replied Mr. Wanless. “It is the anomaly of the East. Germany could learn many lessons from her.”
“Is the position of women very high there?” asked Miss Bunter, timidly, the mention of Burmah having stimulated61 her interest to the pitch of speaking.
“Oh yes!” returned Mr. Wanless, laughing. “A wife is the grey mare62 there with a vengeance63.”
A faint flush came into Miss Bunter’s cheek.
“But it does not matter to the English people who live there, does it?”
Mr. Wanless assured her, amid the general smile, that English people carried their own laws and customs with them. Miss Bunter relapsed into a confused yet pleased silence. The talk continued, became detached and desultory again. Miss Bunter no longer listened, but nerved herself up to a great effort. At last, when a lull came, she moistened her lips with some wine, and leant across the table, catching64 the traveller’s eye.
“Have you lived long in Burmah?”
“Yes. I have just come from an eighteen-months’ stay there.”
“I wonder if you ever met a Mr. Dotterel there?”
“I know a man of that name,” said Mr. Wanless, smiling. “But Burmah is an enormous place, you know. My friend is an F. J. Dotterel—Government appointment—stationed at Bhamo!”
“That’s him,” cried Miss Bunter, in suppressed and ungrammatical excitement. “How extraordinary you should know him! He is a great friend of mine.”
“A very good fellow,” said Mr. Wanless. “His wife and himself were very kind to me.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Bunter. “His wife? It can’t be the same—my friend is not married.”
“Oh yes he is,” laughed the traveller pleasantly. “There is only one F. J. Dotterel in the Government service at Bhamo. Married out there. Got three or four jolly little children.”
She looked at him for a moment haggardly, and grew white to the lips. The loss of blood made her face look pinched and death-like. She tried to utter some words, but only a few inarticulate sounds came from her throat. There was a moment’s intense silence, every one around her knowing what had happened. Then she swayed sideways, and Felicia caught her in her arms.
She had fainted. The table rose in confusion. Amid a hubbub65 of voices was heard Mme. Popea’s explaining to Mr. Wanless the nature of his indiscretion.
“I will carry her to her room,” said Paine, lifting her thin body in his arms. “Come and help me,” he added, signing with his head to Felicia and Katherine.
They followed him out and upstairs. He laid her down on her bed.
“You know what to do, don’t you?” he said to Katherine, as he left the two with the unconscious lady.
“Poor thing. It will break her heart,” whispered Katherine, as she busied herself with the hooks and eyes and laces.
“I don’t much believe in the fragility of women’s hearts,” said Felicia.
“Why do you say that, Felicia?” said Katherine gently. “You know that you don’t mean it.”
“Oh!” said Felicia with a little inflexion of superciliousness66, “I generally say what I mean.”
Katherine did not reply, reading her well enough by her own general knowledge of human nature. We often contradict our own common sense and better impulses, for the unprofitable satisfaction of contradicting our enemy.
So when poor Miss Bunter opened her eyes and recovered consciousness, feeling sick and giddy and cold, and, seizing Felicia’s hand, broke into miserable67 crying and sobbing68, Katherine judged it wiser to leave the two of them alone together, without any further offer to share Felicia’s ministrations.
When she entered the salon69 a little later, she found most of the party preparing to go out to see the illuminations. The little tragedy was still being discussed, and Katherine was beset70 by questioners. Little Miss Bunter’s love story had long been common property in the pension, as she had told it to each of the ladies in the very strictest confidence.
The exodus71 of the guests began. Mme. Popea ran out of the room and quickly returned to Katherine’s side.
“Mademoiselle Graves will not come,” she said, buttoning her glove. “Could not you go and persuade her?”
“I fear I should be of no use, Mme. Popea,” said Katherine. “I will ask Mr. Chetwynd.”
“Ah! Then she will come,” laughed Mme. Popea—and she hurried out after the Pornichons, who had asked her to accompany them.
Katherine passed by the few remaining people, chiefly ladies, standing72 about the room in hats and wraps, to meet Raine, who was just coming in from the balcony, where he had been smoking.
“I hear that Felicia won’t go to the fête. Don’t you think you could persuade her? It would do her good. She has been looking forward to it so much.”
But Raine shook his head and looked down at her, tugging73 his blonde moustache. It was an embarrassing request. Katherine half divined, and forbore to press the matter. She had already somewhat sacrificed her tact74 to her conscience.
“But you, yourself? Are you not coming?” he asked.
“No; I think I’ll stay in. I feel rather too sorry for that poor little body.”
“You had better come. The brightness will cheer you.”
“I don’t think I should care for it,” she replied, with her hand to her bosom75, fingering a dark red rose in her dress.
Suddenly the flower fell from its stalk to the ground. She started slightly, from the unexpectedness, and, when Raine stooped and picked it up, held out her hand for it, palm upwards. But he disregarded her action and retained the rose.
“Do come!” he pleaded.
She glanced at him, met his eyes. A wave of emotion passed through her, seeming for the moment to lift her off her feet. Why should she refuse? She knew perfectly76 well that she would give her soul to go with him through fire and water to the ends of the earth. But she dreaded77 lest he should know it.
“Would you really like me to come?”
“You know I should.”
She went to put on her things. Raine stepped on to the balcony to wait for her. He could see the pale reflection of the illuminations, and hear the noise of the people, and the faint sound of music broken by the cracking of a cabman’s whip in the street below. For a moment his surroundings seemed to him unreal, as they do to a man gliding78 over the edge of a precipice79.
“I wonder what is going to happen?” he said to himself.
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1
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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aphorisms
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| 格言，警句( aphorism的名词复数 ) | |
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evoked
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systematically
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obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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abruptly
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bustle
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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48
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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51
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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dictatorially
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| adv.独裁地，自大地 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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superciliousness
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| n.高傲，傲慢 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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