Raine seized the telegram eagerly, read it, crumpled9 it into his pocket in some excitement, and turned to the waiter.
“There is a diligence to Cluses—when does ifc start?”
“At 12.15, Monsieur.”
“And the train to Geneva?”
“At 5.50.”
“Good. Secure me a seat in the diligence, and have my bill made out.”
The waiter bowed and departed.
“I am sorry to break our engagement to-day, Hockmaster,” said Raine to the American, who had been watching the effect of the telegram with some curiosity, “but I must start for Geneva at once.”
“I like that,” replied Hockmaster; “it’s slick. Nothing like making up your mind in a minute. It’s the way to do business. I guess I’ll come too.”
“You’ll have a disgusting drive,” said Raine, viewing the proposal with less than his usual cordiality.
“That’s so,” retorted the other imperturbably11, “I wasn’t expecting the sun to shine just because I choose to travel. I am a modest man.”
“Well, hurry up,” said Raine, seeing that the American was decided12. “Perhaps you’re wise in getting out of this.”
“I should have done so a couple of days ago, if it had not been for you. You seem to have a sort of way of pushing the lonesomeness off people’s shoulders.”
There was an ingenuous13 frankness, an artless simplicity14 in the man’s tone, that touched a soft spot in Raine’s nature.
“That’s devilish good of you,” he replied, with an Englishman’s awkwardness of acknowledgment. “You have done me a good turn too. Come along.”
In spite of Hockmaster’s special efforts towards entertainment, the drive to Cluses was particularly dreary15. The rain never ceased falling, the damp hung thick upon leaves and branches, and clustered like wool among the pine stems. The mountains loomed16 vague and indistinct, fading away into mist in the middle-distance. The Arve, as the road approached it, seethed17 below, a muddy torrent18. The desolate19 district beyond St. Martin heaved like an Aceldama of mud and detritus20 oozing21 through the fog.
Besides external depression, certain anxieties lay on Raine’s mind. His father’s health was never very strong. A dangerous illness was to be dreaded22. His deep affection for his father magnified his fears. There was Katherine, too. His heart yearned23 towards her. He closed his eyes to the hopeless landscape, and evoked24 her picture as she stood in pale saffron and sapphire25 and a dash of pale gold, the morning’s colours, in the morning sunlight. But why had she left him so long without news of her? A lover’s question, which he sought to answer lover-wise.
Cluses at last, the little watchmakers’ town; an hour’s wait for the train. They went into a café and sat down. After a while Hockmaster rose, went up to an old plate-glass mirror on one side of the room, smoothed his thin sandy hair with his fingers, arranged his cravat26, and then returned. With the exception of two elderly townsmen playing at dominoes in the corner, while the host sat looking on in his shirtsleeves, they were the only customers. They conversed27 in desultory28 fashion on the rain, the journey, the forlorn aspect of the place.
“If we had a town with an industry like this one in America,” said Hockmaster, after his second petit verre from the carafe29 in front of him, “we should hitch30 it on to Wall Street and make a go-ahead city of it in a fortnight, and manufacture timepieces for half the universe.”
“That would be rather rough on the universe,” said Raine idly. “American watches—”
“The very tip-topest articles in the world!” interrupted Hockmaster warmly. “Just look at this!”
He drew from his pocket a magnificent gold watch, opened all its cases rapidly, and displayed the works before Raine’s eyes.
“There! See whether that can be beaten in Europe. Made, every bit of it, in Chicago. That watch cost me 450 dollars. It did that.”
Raine admired the watch, mollified the owner, who drank another glass of fine champagne31 on the strength of his country’s reputation. Then with an inconsequence that was one of the quaint32 features of conversation:
“Mr. Chetwynd,” he said, lighting33 a fresh cigar, “I am about tired to death of these gilded34 saloons in continental35 hotels. Imitation palaces are not in my line. I should like something homier. I was thinking, if you could recommend me a snug36 sort of boarding-house in Geneva, it would be very good of you.”
“Why not come to the one I am staying at?” said Raine good-naturedly. “There is a very companionable set of people there.”
“Right,” replied Hockmaster. “That’s real kind of you. When you come to Chicago, you track straight for Joseph K. Hockmaster. You’ll find gratitude37.”
“My dear fellow!” laughed Raine deprecatingly.
“No,” said the other in his serious way. “I repeat, it’s real kind. Most of your countrymen would have shunted me off to another establishment. I think I tire folks by talking. I am always afraid. That’s why I tell you to mention when you grow weary of conversation. It won’t offend me. It’s as natural for me to talk as it is for a slug to leave his slime behind him. I think I’m chock full of small ideas and they overflow38 in a liquid kind of way. Now big ideas are solider and roll out more slowly—like yours.”
And he poured himself out the last glass of fine champagne that remained in the decanter.
They reached the pension at half-past seven. Mme. Boccard appeared at Raine’s summons, wreathed in smiles, welcomed Hockmaster graciously and assigned him a room. Dinner had just begun, she had put it back half an hour, in compliment to Mr. Chetwynd. It was charming of him to have sent her a private telegram. Everyone was well; the professor had taken a turn for the better during the day.
Raine went straight up to his father, and, to his intense relief, found his fears of a dangerous illness to be almost groundless.
“And Felicia?” he asked, after the first affectionate questionings.
“Well,” replied the old man—“very bonny. Do you know, Raine, I think we may have made a mistake. It has been all my fault. It would be the greatest kindness to forget—and to forgive your meddling39 old father.” Raine laughed in his kind way, reassuring40 the old man.
“It was not I that sent for you,” continued the latter. “It was Felicia. There was no longer any reason for you to stop away—and she insisted. Girls’ hearts are mysterious books. Don’t search into hers, Raine. Forget it—seek your happiness where it is truest, my son—and then it will be mine.” Raine did not press the subject. He was somewhat puzzled, but he gathered that she had spoken and that silence would be the more delicate part. He postponed42 further consideration of the matter; for which he may be forgiven, as the longing43 for Katherine was tugging44 at his heart-strings. Besides, he was honestly very hungry, and dinner was in progress.
After a hurried toilet he went down to the dining-room. The first sound that struck his ear, as he entered, was the pop of a champagne cork45 and the voice of Hockmaster, who was sitting at the lower end, with his back to the door, next to Mme. Boccard. The waiter was in the act of filling his glass from a large bottle of champagne. The blaze of light after the darkness of the corridors dazzled Raine, and he paused for a second on the threshold, glancing up the table. He was greeted by two rows of welcoming faces turned towards him and a chorus of kind salutations. The old commandant stretched up his hand behind his chair and gave a vigorous handshake. Mme. Popea looked up at him, with a smile over her good-natured face, as he passed along. But he had eyes only for Katherine. A curious little spasm46 passed through him, as he met her glance. It seemed to contain a world of fears. She was looking pale and ill.
Mme. Boccard, in her high-pitched voice, directed him to take the professor’s place at the head of the table. He found himself thus between Felicia and Katherine. Felicia greeted him naturally. Katherine gave him a cold, trembling hand, and an almost furtive47 look. Evidently something had happened during his absence, of whose nature he was ignorant. She was no longer the same woman. Mere48 feminine shyness would not account for this suppressed agitation49. The food on her plate had remained untouched. For a moment he lost sense of the scene round him. The universe consisted in this woman with the ashen50 face and quickly heaving bosom51. He bent52 towards her,—“Are you ill?” he whispered, his emotion expressing itself by the first chance commonplace.
“No,” she returned hurriedly, in the same tone. “A sudden faintness—my heart, perhaps. Don’t notice me—for heaven’s sake! I shall be better soon.”
Question and answer passed too quickly to attract attention. Raine recovered his balance, and turned to Felicia.
“My father seems to be getting on nicely, thanks to you,” he said kindly53.
“Ca, not to me. To you. Since your reply came to-day.”
“I am always so nervous when he gets seedy. He is not strong, I have been full of direful imaginations all the afternoon.”
Felicia sketched54 the history of the case, touched on the abandoned trip to Lucerne, condoled55 with Raine on the disappointment at not meeting his friends at Chamonix. She talked bravely, all the pride of her young-womanhood up in arms to help her. Perhaps she could convince him that he had made a mistake. She devoted56 to the task all her energies. Her modesty57 and intuitive tact58 saved her from over-acting. Her concentration, however, prevented her from realizing the silent agitation of Katherine. She attributed it to embarrassment59 at meeting Raine after his absence, and felt a little thrill of gratified vanity at the inversion60 of parts. It used to be Katherine who was outwardly at perfect ease and self-contained, and herself who was embarrassed and tongue-tied.
It seemed a little victory in the handling of life.
Raine spoke41 brightly enough of his adventures at Chamonix, including Miss Bunter, who was sitting very subdued61 and wan62 next to Felicia, in the conversation, and drew from her an account of a far-off visit to the Mer de Glace. But he was feeling low at heart. If he addressed a chance remark to Katherine, she greeted it with a forced smile, which he felt like a stab. He could see from the very fear in her eyes that it was not merely sudden faintness. He noticed that on trying to lift her wine-glass, which he had accidentally refilled too full, her hand shook so much that she abandoned the attempt. He silently poured some wine into one that he had not used and exchanged glasses with her. She acknowledged the act with a bow of her head and drank the wine somewhat feverishly63.
“My American friend seems to be enjoying himself,” said Raine to Felicia, as Hock-master’s somewhat sharply pitched voice was heard expounding64 his artlessly paradoxical philosophy of life to those around him.
Felicia leant forward, so as to catch a glimpse of him down the long table.
“You must introduce him,” she said.
“With pleasure. He will amuse you. I think if Bret Harte had known him, he would not have asked whether the Caucasian was played out. He is as childlike and bland65 as Ah Sin himself. But he is a capital fellow.”
They paused for a moment to catch what he was saying. Raine saw him leaning across the table and addressing a new arrival, evidently a compatriot.
“No. I am not a married man. But I am fond of ladies’ society. To get along without ladies is like washing your hands without soap.”
There was laughter at the remark, which was increased by his attempts to convey his meaning in French to Mme. Boccard.
Felicia looked at Raine and laughed too. Then out of kindly impulse, by chance catching66 Katherine’s eye,—
“Mr. Chetwynd has brought us quite an acquisition, don’t you think so?”
Katherine forced a smile and uttered a semi-articulate “yes.” Then her eyelids67 closed for a few seconds and quivered, as in a nervous attack. This sign of agitation could not escape Felicias notice. She became aware that something was happening. A suspicion of a tragic68 element in the relations between the man she loved and the woman she hated, flitted in the twilight69 of her mind. The laugh died from her lips, as she looked more keenly at Katherine. She turned her glance towards Raine, saw his eyes fix themselves for a moment on Katherine with an indescribable expression of pain and longing. It was the first time she had seen for herself that he loved her. The pang70 of it gripped her heart. But she disregarded it. Again she remembered Frau Schultz’s innuendoes71 and tittle-tattle, and involuntarily brought them to bear on the present situation. The impression left on her mind by the tragedy in the life of the poor little lady by her side had not yet been effaced72. It aided in the suggestion of another tragedy in the lives of these two others. The strain upon herself had also somewhat exalted73 her system and produced a certain nervous sensitiveness. Something was happening—something fateful or tragic. A feeling akin10 to awe74 came over her young mind, and suppressed her own simpler girlish fancies. A silence fell upon her, as it had fallen upon Raine and Katherine. The constraint75 began to grow painful, the meal seemed endless. Hockmaster’s voice in the distance began to irritate her nerves.
At last the dinner was over. There was the usual scuffling of chairs and frou-frou of skirts, as the guests rose. With a common impulse Raine and Katherine moved a step aside.
“Katherine!”
She put one hand up to her bosom, and steadied herself with the other on the back of her chair.
“I am feeling very ill,” she said, thickly. “Don’t think me cruel—I can’t see you tonight. To-morrow. I shall be better then. You have seen I am not myself—this last hour has been martyrdom—forgive me—good-night.”
“Don’t forget that I love you, dear—let that give you strength,” said Raine, in a low voice.
A cry came involuntarly to her lips, wrung76 from her suffering.
“Ah, don’t!”
She turned quickly, and followed the departing guests. Raine stood bewildered, looking with contracted brow at her receding77 form. Hockmaster was standing78 at the door, his dinner napkin over his arm, a few yards away from the group of men who had remained to smoke. He opened the door a little wider for her. But she passed out like an automaton79, looking neither to right nor left.
The American closed the door, and came up to Raine.
“Say, Chetwynd, can one get a liqueur brandy here?”
“The waiter will be here in a minute for orders,” replied Raine. “How are you getting on?”
“First class. Liveliest meal I’ve had since I dined on a burning ship sailing from New York to Cuba. Did I ever tell you the story?—My hell! It was a hot time! Have a cigar.”
“No, thanks,” replied Raine. “I must go and fetch my pipe. When I come back you can tell me.”
Deeply troubled about Katherine, he was not in the humour for Hockmaster’s stories, and he seized eagerly at the excuse for being free from him for a time. He went out on to the balcony, with the intention of passing through to the drawing-room, where he expected to find Felicia. An idea had occurred to him which he was anxious to put into execution. But after passing two or three ladies, he discovered Felicia alone in the dimness of the furthest end of the balcony.
“Felicia,’” he said, calling her for the first time by her Christian80 name, “you are a dear good girl—you will help me if you can. Has Katherine been ill during my absence?”
The direct, frank appeal touched the girl to the heart. It seemed to raise her with one great leap in her own esteem81, above all the burning shame she had suffered. Raine’s vigorous, sympathetic instinct had pierced through externals to the innermost of her maidenhood82. She answered his question gently.
“No. She has been quite as usual all the time. But I think she has looked sadder these last few days.”
“She has not been looking ill—as at dinner to-night?”
“No. That was sudden.”
And then with a strange, absolutely new, almost delicious sense of the strong man weakly depending upon her for comfort, she said timidly,—
“You mustn’t be unhappy. She may have been longing for you to come back—for she loves you—and this evening—she is very delicate, you know. Sometimes when I am with her, she seems so fragile—she will be better to-morrow—and you will be happy.”
“Ah! Thank you, Felicia,” said Raine, greatly moved. “I wish—I wish you would let me kiss you for it.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He stooped, and touched her cheek with his lips, and then strode away feeling somehow stronger and serener83.
And Felicia remained on the balcony deep in thought, her girlish love purified by the the brotherly kiss.
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收听单词发音
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1
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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3
dribbled
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| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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drearier
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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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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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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detritus
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| n.碎石 | |
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oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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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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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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carafe
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| n.玻璃水瓶 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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41
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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42
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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43
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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47
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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48
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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49
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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50
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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51
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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52
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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53
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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54
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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55
condoled
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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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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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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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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automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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serener
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的比较级形式 | |
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