Although Hockmaster’s revelation had jarred through his whole being, he judged her gently now. He was honest-souled enough to disintegrate6 ?sthetic disgust from abiding7 emotion. He was keenly sensible of the agony she had endured at dinner, and he suffered with her truly and loyally. But the ignobleness attendant on all the conditions of Hockmaster’s drunken confidence spread itself for the time like a foul8 curtain over finer feelings. He could not help wishing that she had told him her story. That the consciousness of her position as a divorced woman had been the cause of the constraint9 of her letters, he could no longer doubt. That she intended to make all clear to him before she definitely pledged herself to him as his wife, he was absolutely certain. His nature was too loyal for him to suspect otherwise. There he read her truly. But why had she waited? It would have made his present course of action so much more simple, had the spoken confidence between them enabled him to take the initiative. Now his hands were tied. He could do nothing but wait until she made the sign. Thus the thought, in calmer, nobler moments. But then the common story of seduction, with its vulgar stigma10 of the divorce court, and the personality of the reeling, hiccoughing man, sent a shiver through his flesh.
In the morning he spent an hour with his father, forgetting for the while his own troubles in endeavours to cheer and amuse. On his way out, he met Mme. Boccard, who greeted him with plaintive11 volubility. His American friend had paid his bill and left orders for his bag to be given to the porter from the H?tel National. She was sorry her establishment had not been to his liking12. What did Monsieur Chetwynd think of the dinner? What had been lacking? And the bed? It was a beautiful bed—as it happened, the best in all the pension. Raine consoled her, as best he could, for the American’s defection, but in his heart he was grimly pleased at this sign of grace in his late friend. He had some idea, at least, when sober, of common decency13. Mme. Boccard enquired14 concernedly after the professor, was delighted to hear that he was mending.
“Ah, that is good,” she said, “it would not be suitable if too many people were ill The pension would get a bad name. That poor Mme. Stapleton is still suffering this morning. It is Mr. Chetwynd who will be sorry.”
“Nothing serious?” asked Raine, in some alarm.
“Oh no—une crise des nerfs. Que voulez-vous? Les dames15 sont comme cela.”
In spite of this information, however, he looked into his room, on his way out, in the vague hope of finding a note from Katherine. But there was none. He felt himself in a cruelly false position. Yet he could do nothing. Like a wise man he resolved to await events and in the meantime to proceed with his usual habits. In accordance therefore with the latter, he walked up the Grand Quai and sat down at one of the tables outside the Café du Nord, where he had been accustomed, before his absence at Chamonix, to read the Journal de Geneve and the previous day’s Figaro. It was pleasant to get back to a part of the former way of life, when Hockmaster was undreamed of. The retirement17 of his late friend from the pension was a relief to him. He felt he could breathe more freely. If he could be assured that Hockmaster would retire from Geneva as well, and vanish into the Unknown whence he came, he would have been almost happy. He wanted never to set eyes on his face again.
But the particularly undesired invariably happens. He was trying to concentrate his mind upon the literary supplement of the Figaro, when the ingenuous18 but now detested19 voice fell upon his ear.
“I was just on my way to ransack20 the town of Geneva for you.”
Raine looked up frowningly. Hockmaster was standing21 by his side, sprucely attired22, clean-shaven, the pink of freshness. His shirt cuffs23 were immaculately conspicuous24, he wore patent-leather boots and carried a new pair of gloves in his hand. His pale-blue eyes looked as innocent as if they had never gazed upon liquid stronger than a pellucid26 lake. Immediately after he had spoken he sat down and airily waved away the waiter, who was hovering27 near for orders.
“Did you particularly desire to see me?” asked Raine, stiffly.
“I do. Particularly. I guess I riled you considerably28 last night, and my mind would not be easy until I apologized. For anything I did last night and anything I said, I apologize most humbly29. I know,” he added with one of his child-like smiles, “that I fell by a long chalk from the image of my Maker30, and I can’t expect you to forgive me all at once—but if you were to do it by degrees, beginning from now, you would make me feel that I am gradually approximating to it again.”
There was a quaint31 charm in the manner of this astonishing man, to which Raine could not help being susceptible32, in spite of his dislike. Besides, the ordinary conventions of life bound him to accept an apology so amply tendered.
“You did put me to some trouble,” he said gravely, “and for that I most cordially accept your excuses. For the rest—” he completed the sense with a gesture..
But Hockmaster looked pained.
“I see, Mr. Chetwynd. What you can’t do is to pal25 on to a man who has betrayed a woman’s honour.”
Raine felt embarrassed. He was aware that he had been disingenuous33 in shifting the whole weight of his disgust and anger on to that one particular point. The direct appeal did not lack manliness34, was evidently sincere. It stirred within him the sense of justice. He tried to realize his attitude towards Hock-master in the case of Katherine being merely a chance acquaintance. Obviously all the complex feelings centering round his love for her ought to go for nothing in his judgment35 of Hockmaster. Raine was an honourable36 man, who hated hypocrisy37 and prejudice and unfair dealing38, and the detection of them in himself brought with it an irritating sense of shame.
“I have the privilege of the friendship of the lady in question,” he replied to the American, “and therefore felt a personal resentment39 of your confidence last night.”
“Mr. Chetwynd,” returned Hockmaster, leaning forward earnestly with his elbows on the table, “there is only one way in which I can make things square, and that is to take you into my confidence still further.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, man, let us drop the subject!”
“No. For I think you’ll be pleased. You are a straight, honourable man, and I want to act in a straight, honourable way. Do you see that?”
“Perfectly,” said Raine. “But don’t you also see that this is a matter that cannot be discussed? A woman’s name cannot be bandied about by two men. Come, we will let bygones be bygones.”
He rose, grasping his stick, as if to depart, and held out his hand. But the American, somewhat to Raine’s astonishment40, made a deprecating gesture and also rose to his feet.
“No. Not yet,” he said blandly41. “Not before you feel sure I am doing the straight thing. You called me a cad, last night, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But perhaps I was hasty.”
“Oh no. I own up. Honest Injun, as we say in America. I was a cad. Only, having called your friend a cad, you owe it to him to allow him to retrieve42 his character in your eyes.”
“Why should you be so anxious to do so?” asked Raine, struck with the man’s earnestness.
“Because I’ve got sort of fond of you,” replied the American. “Will you listen to me for two minutes?”
“Certainly.”
“Then I’ll tell you that I’m going direct, this very minute, to ask that lady to marry me.
“To marry you?” cried Raine, with the blood in his cheeks. “It would be an insult!”
“It’s a pity you think so,” returned Hock-master reflectively. “I wish I could unmake my mind, but you see it’s all fixed43 up already.”
“What’s fixed up?”
“That I should ask her. Mr. Chetwynd, this is the first chance I have had. For eight years I have lost every trace of her. If you know a more honourable way of repairing the wrong, you just tell me.”
“Man alive! leave Geneva and never let her hear of you again.”
“I will, if she refuses me. That’s fixed up too. I must be going.”
“Mrs. Stapleton is ill, and can’t see you this morning,” said Raine desperately44.
“I have an appointment with her in five minutes’ time,” replied the other imperturbably45. “Now, Mr. Chetwynd, I shall be proud to shake hands with you.”
He extended his hand, which Raine, thrown off his balance for the moment, took mechanically; and then he gave him a parting nod, jerked forward his shirt-cuffs, squared his shoulders and marched away, evidently pleased with himself.
Raine sat down again by the marble table, took a mouthful of the vermouth in front of him, and tried to recover his equilibrium46. Katherine was going to see this man, to listen to a proposal of marriage. A spasm47 of pain shot through him. Perhaps the older love had smouldered through the years and had burst forth48 again. His hand shook as he put the glass to his lips again.
People came and went in the café, sat down to their bock or absinthe and departed. The busy life of Geneva passed by on the sunny pavement; brown-cheeked, pale-eyed Swiss peasants, blue-bloused workmen, tourists with veils and puggarees and Baedekers. Barefooted children, spying the waiter’s inattention, whined49 forward with decrepit50 bunches of edelweiss. Smart flower-sellers, in starched51 white sleeves, displayed their great baskets to the idlers. Cabs, hired by family parties of Germans or Americans, drove off with raucous52 shouts and cracking of whips, from the rank in the shade opposite, by the garden railings. The manager of the café, in correct frock-coat, stood under the awning53 in the gangway, and smiled benignly54 on his customers. The time passed. But Raine sat there chin in hand, staring at the blue veins55 of the marble, his thoughts and emotions as inchoate56 as they.
At last he became aware that someone looked at him and bowed. Rousing himself from his daze57 he recognized Felicia, who was advancing along the pavement by the outer row of chairs. With a sudden impulse, he rose, and leaving some money for the waiter, went out and greeted her.
“Isn’t it a lovely day?” she said brightly. “I couldn’t stay in the pension after déjeuner, so I came out to do some shopping.”
“Déjeuner!” cried Raine, “Do you mean to say it is over?”
“Why, of course. Haven’t you had any?”
“No—the time has passed. However, I am not very hungry. Do you mind if I go shopping with you?”
“I should feel flattered, Mr. Chetwynd.” She laughed up at him from under her red parasol. The sight of her, fresh in her youthful colouring and dainty white dress, seemed to soothe58 the man’s somewhat weary senses. A feeling of restfulness in her company stole over his heart, as he walked by her side.
“What are you going to buy?” he asked as they passed by the shops.
“I really don’t know. I must consider. Perhaps some needles and tape. But you must stay outside.”
“Oh no. I will come with you and see how it is done,” said Raine with a smile.
“Then I’ll have to buy something important that I don’t want,” said Felicia.
A laughing argument, which lasted until the needles and tape were purchased. Then they continued their walk down the Rue16 de la Corraterie and came to the Bastion gardens, where they sat down under the trees. Felicia was happy. The brotherly kiss of the previous evening had restored to her the self-respect that her maidenhood59 seemed to have lost. He was still the prince of her girl’s heart, she could serve him now, she felt, without shame or shrinking. The growing woman in her divined his mood and strove to cheer him with her most lightsome self.
Womanhood divined the mood, but inexperience was blind to its dangerousness. Unconsciously her sweet charm of youth drew Raine nearer to her. When they parted, he felt that he had gone within an ace5 of making love to her, and committing a base action. The thought stung him. He had not reckoned upon such weakness in himself. Spurred by an impatient scorn of his cowardice60, his heart turned all the more passionately61 to Katherine.
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1
strews
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| v.撒在…上( strew的第三人称单数 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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2
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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3
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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disintegrate
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| v.瓦解，解体，（使）碎裂，（使）粉碎 | |
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7
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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8
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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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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stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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11
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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12
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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15
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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16
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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17
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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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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19
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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21
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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22
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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27
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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28
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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30
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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31
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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32
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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33
disingenuous
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| adj.不诚恳的，虚伪的 | |
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34
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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35
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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36
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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38
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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39
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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40
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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41
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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42
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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43
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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44
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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45
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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46
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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47
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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48
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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49
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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50
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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51
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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53
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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54
benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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55
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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56
inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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57
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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58
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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59
maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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60
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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61
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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