Hockmaster had gone. She did not know whether it was the relief of his absence or the rush of air caused by the opening of the door that sent a fierce momentary2 thrill through her frame. Her eyes were burning, her throat parched3, her body quivering in a passion of anger. She stood for a few seconds, with parted lips, breathing great draughts4 of the cool air, and mechanically unloosened the neck of her dress; it was strangling her. Then she turned, looking from right to left, like a caged creature panting for escape. Her glance fell upon the chair where Hockmaster had just sat. The edge of the rug at the feet was curled, the cushion flattened5, the tidy disarranged—all hatefully suggestive of his continued presence. With a passionate6 movement, she rushed and restored the things to order, shaking the cushion with childish fierceness, till not a wrinkle was left. While the action lasted, it relieved her.
She crossed the room, sat for a moment. But every pulse in her throbbed7. Motionlessness was impossible. She sprang to her feet and paced the room, moving her arms in passionate gestures.
Forgive him! Never—never in this world or the next. To have betrayed her—to Raine of all men. The thought in its fiery8 agony was almost unthinkable. The drawling, plaintive9 tone in which he had made his confession10 maddened her. The echo of his words pierced her brain.
The sudden meeting the night before had shaken her. After the ordeal11 of the dinner her nerves had given way, and she had lain awake all night with throbbing12 temples. She had risen, faint and ill, to read his note beseeching13 an interview. She had strung herself to go through with it. As the hours passed she had grown more self-possessed; while waiting, had put some extra tidying touches to her room, rearranged some flowers she had bought the day before. She had even smiled to herself. After all, what claim had this man upon her?
He had come, trim, point-device in his attire14, looking scarcely a day older than when she had forsaken15 all for him. He had pleaded, owned himself a scoundrel, strengthening his cause by his very weakness.
“I was going to marry you, Kitty. Before God I was! On my return from Mexico. I thought I was going to make millions—become one of the little gods of the earth. No man living would have let go the chance. I guess I was to have made you more powerful than the ordinary run of queens. Who could have told those mines were a fraud? Van Hoetmann himself was deceived. I came back at once. You were gone. I tried to trace you. I lost you. And all these years I have been kind of haunted by it. Before I left Chicago, a man was bragging16 he had never brought a cloud upon a woman’s life. I said to him: ‘Sir, go down on your bended knees and thank Almighty17 God for it.’”
She had listened, at first rather sceptically. But gradually his earnestness had convinced her of his sincerity18. She had loved him, as she had understood love in those far-off days, when her young shadowed nature had expanded like a plant to the light. A little tenderness remained, called from forgotten depths to the surface. She had spoken very gently to him, forgiven him, the sweeter woman prompting her.
And then he had urged marriage.
“It is what I have come to tell you, Kitty. Let me make amends20 for the past by devoting my life to your happiness. I am not right bad all through. I’ll begin again to love you as I did when first I saw you in that white dress, among the roses of the verandah.”
She had smiled, shaken her head, it could never be. She was quite happy. He had done his part, she was satisfied with his intentions. But the amends she claimed was that he should never seek to see her again. Only on that condition, that he left Geneva at once, looking upon this as a final parting, could she give him her full, unqualified forgiveness. He had insisted, wearying her. She had risen, held out her hand to him.
“You must go. It is a generous impulse that urges you to make reparation in this manner, not love—”
She paused for a breath, instinctively21 trying him with a touchstone, and smiling as it failed to draw the response of passion.
“Let your conscience be easy. You wish to serve me—you have a trust—my honour—you can cherish it.”
And then the element of grotesque22 folly23, that underlay24 this man’s nature, had prompted him to satisfy the childlike craving25 for plenary shrift and absolution. He told her that he had confessed in an unguarded moment to Chetwynd, taken him further into his confidence. At first she had scarcely understood him—the suggestion had stunned26, paralyzed her for a few seconds, during which his words seemed to strike her senses dimly, like rain in the night. The complete realization27 came with a rush—the shame, the degradation28—the abyss that he had opened at her feet. Sudden overpowering hate of him had flooded her senses and burst all barriers of reserve and self-control.
He had committed the Unpardonable Sin, in a woman’s eyes—the crime against her honour. To have won her, kissed her, cast her aside—that is in the heart of a woman to forgive. But not the other. He had betrayed her. Not only that, but he had stabbed to the very soul of her love. The sight of the weak man, who had added this crowning outrage29 to the havoc30 he had wrought31 in her life, goaded32 her into madness. The very tenderness, with which she had but lately regarded him, made the revulsion all the stronger.
“Oh God! I could kill you! I could kill you!” she had cried.
He had turned white to the lips, scared at the transformation33 of the calm, subdued34 woman into the fierce, quivering creature with glittering eyes and passion-strung words. The eternal, wild, savage35 woman, repressed for years in the depths of her soul, had leapt out upon him to rend36 him in her mad anger. She had pointed37 to the door, stamping her foot, driven him out of her sight. At the door he had paused, and looked at her with a strange mingling38 of manhood and submission39 in his eyes.
“I deserve my punishment—but I am not all bad. And so help me God, Kitty, my offer will hold good at any moment of my life!”
He had gone. She was alone, pacing the room, still shaken with the storm of elemental fury.
At last exhaustion40 weakened her. She drew aside the curtain before her bed, and threw herself down shivering with the shame that was eating into her bones.
“Oh, my God!” she moaned, “Oh, my God! That he should have learned—from him—”
She drew the sides of the pillow tight about her face. It was agony of degradation. Her body shuddered41 at the thought of his contempt, the shattering of his faith in her, the man’s revolt at the brutality42 of the revelation. She had been dragged through the mire43 before his eyes. In her degradation she saw herself the object of his loathing44.
The sharp striking of the little Swiss clock on her writing-table roused her. She raised a drawn45 face and looked in its direction. It was only eleven. She had thought hours had passed while she had lain there shivering. A little sense of dismay crept over her. If those few minutes had passed like hours, what would be the length of the hours themselves that had to be lived through that day?
If only she had sent him that letter, she thought bitterly. She might have fallen in his eyes, but not to those depths. He would have understood. The tremulous hope that his love would remain unclouded had sustained her. If only she could have spoken. A cynical46 irony47 seemed to govern the world.
She went to the window and looked into the street. A sudden impulse to go out of doors into the open air came over her and as quickly died away. She could not bear to walk along the street or in the public gardens—before hundreds of human eyes. Her soul felt naked and ashamed. If it had been country, where she could have gone and hidden herself in a quiet far-off corner, and laid her face upon the grass, and let the tree-branches whisper to her alone, it would have been different. She shrank from the contact of men and women—and yet her heart sank with a despairing sense of loneliness.
The consciousness of it came with a shock, as to one, who, on a North Country fell, suddenly finds himself isolated48 from outer things by an impenetrable mist. She hurried away from the window, sat down, through sheer physical weariness, on the chair by her writing-table, and buried her face in her hands.
A servant brought up a note. A fearful pang49 shot through her that it might be from Raine. The first glance showed her Hockmaster’s handwriting. The envelope bore the printed heading of one of the cafés.
“If you have any pity, forgive me,”—it ran. “That I told you of my fault is proof of my earnest desire to begin a new life as regards you. I would give years of my life to win a kind word from you. All that was best and straightest in me spoke19 to you, Kitty. I am intensely miserable50.”
She crumpled51 up the note and threw it aside. His misery52 indeed!
She looked at the clock. Half-past eleven. The thought came to her that all her life was to drag along at this pace, endless minutes to each hour.
The heat of her resentment53 against Hock-master cooled down, but the poignancy54 of her shame remained. The impulsive55 hope that had risen at the first sight of the letter left a train of new reflections. How could she ever meet Raine again?
She rose once more, and resumed her weary, restless movements about the room.
“Never, never!” she cried. “His eyes would kill me—he would be kind—Oh God! I couldn’t bear it. I would rather have him curse me! I would rather have him strike me! Oh, Raine, Raine, my darling, my love! I would have told you all—and you would have judged me from my own lips. You would not have put me from you. But this degradation—”
She was carrying death in her heart. She could not conceive the survival of his love. Men—unlike women—could not love, when once love had been turned to scorn. If they met, he would be considerate, kind, even pitiful. The thought of his contemptuous pity scorched56 her. The picture of him rose before her, frank, generous, honourable57. She stopped short, as an agitating58 possibility occurred to her.
Might not quixotism lead him to renew his offer?
The idea haunted her, and gathering59 strength from her knowledge and her idealized conception of his nature, grew into a conviction. For a moment she gave herself up to the temptation of taking him at his word. She loved him with every yearning60 fibre in her body. Without him life was an appalling61 waste. It would be enough for her merely to be with him, seek now and then a caress62 from his hand.
But then came the passionate recoil63. She shuddered, put up her hands before her face.
“Never!” she cried again. “I would rather die! My ignominy in his eyes is eternal. It would drag him down. He is too good to have a millstone like that tied around his neck.”
Yet the longing64 swept through her again, and her mind swayed to and fro. The hours crept on. She refused an offer of food made her by the servant. She felt as if it would choke her. She would ring if she wanted any later.
What was she to do? Her aching head throbbed as if it would burst. Hockmaster’s note met her glance. She read it again. And this time she smoothed it out and replaced it slowly on the table. Her anger was dulled by despair. Nothing remained of her vehement65 indignation. It was the back-swing of the pendulum66.
What was she to do? Raine she could never meet face to face. Yet the whole woman in her yearned67 to meet him. She must cut herself adrift, vanish wholly from his life. Destiny seemed to point out the course she must follow. She sat down, her chin in her hands, brooding over it until the sense of fatefulness numbed68 her mind. Fate had brought her back this other from the dark back ward69 of time. He had changed her life once. Was it not meant that he should fulfil the work he had begun? She must marry him. Raine would be saved. It would be a life of sadness, selfsacrifice. But then women were born for it.
Like many another woman, she was driven by an hour’s despair to commit herself to a life-long unhappiness. She had counted the cost, and, unlike a man, blindly resolved to pay it. It is part of a woman’s nature to trust herself to the irreparable. Katherine went to her table and wrote two letters—one to each man. The pen flew quickly, her intelligence illuminated70 by a false light. She sealed them, rang the bell, despatched them by the servant. It was done. She had burned her ships, committed herself irrevocably. A period of dull calm followed, during which she pretended to eat some food that she ordered, and read unintelligently an article in a review. But at last the words swam before her eyes. The review fell to the ground. The agony of her life came upon her, and she broke down utterly71.
Felicia in the next room was humming an air. She had returned from her walk with Raine and was taking off her things. If she had been called upon suddenly to name the air, it would have slipped like a waking dream from her memory. The mingled72 altruistic73 and personal feelings of the past two hours had lifted her into an exalted74 mood, which was not altogether joyous75. She was passing through one of those rare moments, when a young impressionable girl lives spiritually, without definite consciousness of personal needs, in a certain music of the soul. A sexual manifestation76 transcendentalized, if one pushes inquiry77 to the root of things. The magic of her sex had drawn the pain from a strong man’s eyes and had touched his inner self.
Suddenly a sound struck upon her ear and the song died upon her lips. She listened, puzzled. It came again, a moan and a choking sob78. Already somewhat overwrought, she held her breath, instinctively seeking some clue of association. She grasped it with a rush of emotion. Once she had heard that cry before, from a woman’s depths, on the evening of poor little Miss Bunter’s tragedy.
It was Katherine, on the other side of the wooden partition, crying her heart out. Fibres within the girl were strangely stirred, filling her with a great, yearning pity. At some moments of their lives women can touch the stars. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse she went out, knocked at Katherine’s door and entered.
Katherine rose, looked at her half-bewildered; then the magnetism79 of the sympathy in Felicia’s eyes and impulsively80 outstretched arms attracted her involuntarily. She made a step forward, and, with a little cry, half-sob, half-welcome, gave herself up to Felicia’s clasp.
“I heard you. I had to come,” said Felicia. Katherine did not reply. For a long time they sat together without speaking, the elder woman’s misery turned to sadness by the sweet and sudden tenderness. She cried softly in the girl’s arms. “It was good of you to come,” she said at last. “I had broken down—utterly broken down.”
“I felt it,” answered Felicia gently. She smoothed Katherine’s ruffled81 fair hair with a light touch and kissed her forehead.
“It will come right in time, dear.”
But Katherine shook her head.
“Some things are final, irrevocable. The sun goes out of one’s heart for ever and ever.”
“Could I do nothing for you? Practically I mean. You see, I know—a word—it might be in my power—”
She hesitated, touching82 upon delicate ground. Katherine lifted a tear-stained face, and looked at her curiously83.
“You love him—and yet you would help me?”
“Because he loves you, dear,” said Felicia. “And because it has come upon me that I have been doing you a great wrong—in thinking badly of you.”
“What has made you think better of me?”
“Intuition, I suppose—and when I seemed to realize what his love for you meant. He could only love what was worthy84 of him.”
“That is why he can love me no more,” said Katherine in a low voice.
She paused for a moment, her breath coming quickly. Then she continued hurriedly, twining her fingers in a nervous clasp: “Things have happened that make it impossible for him to care for me—I shall never see him again. I am going away this afternoon—see,”—she pointed to a dressing-bag packed, but still open, lying on the table. “And I shall pass out of his life altogether.”
“But I don’t understand!” cried Felicia, in grieved dismay. “What could make him cease to love you?”
“I have not been what the world calls a good woman, Felicia. God knows I have paid the penalty already—but the bitterest penalty of all is yet to be paid—the surrender of the longed-for Paradise, that only a woman who has lived as I have done can long for. Oh, my child, my dear, tender little girl, the way of the world is made hard for women sometimes.”
“Why should the women always suffer?” asked Felicia.
“Why? God knows. It is life.”
“If I were a man,” said Felicia, with a glow in her eyes, “I would think it dastardly to let a woman suffer, if I loved her.”
“There are some things that kill love,” replied Katherine bitterly.
“Has Raine told you so?”
“Ah, no. He is too generous.”
“Then how do you know?”
“My dear, when you leave a cut flower in the sun you know it will be withered85 up. There is no need for you to watch it to make sure.”
“But—if he still loves you? He did last night—he did this morning.”
Katherine gently laid her hand on the girl’s lips.
“Hush! I told you. What I have done can’t be undone86.”
“But you love him, Katherine,” Felicia burst out impetuously.
“Don’t you see I am signing my death-warrant?” cried Katherine.
Her voice vibrated and she looked at Felicia with shining eyes—“I shall love him till I die, as the best and wisest man of men that has ever walked the earth.”
She rose, crossed the room, came back and laid her hands upon Felicia’s shoulders, and looked into her young, wondering eyes.
“Dear,” she said, “I shall always remember what you have done for me to-day. When you came in, I thought my heart was broken—but your tenderness stole over me like a charm—and now you see I can talk quite sensibly, and smile, just like my own self again. You must bid me good-bye, dear. I must go soon. But what I want to tell you is this. Think kindly87 of me—ah, don’t you cry, child—there has been enough of tears to-day—think of me, dear, as a sister-woman, who stepped aside once out of the beaten track and for whom fate has been too much. And, Felicia dear, when I am gone—it will take very, very little to make Raine love you—”
“Ah, no!” cried Felicia passionately88.
But Katherine smiled her sad, self-controlled smile.
“All, yes! He cannot help loving you—and so God give you happiness.”
“I can’t bear you to go like this. I can’t bear it!” cried Felicia.
“We all have to work out our destiny,” said Katherine. “Now good-bye, dear—God bless you.”
A few moments later, Katherine was alone again, finishing her preparations for departure.
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收听单词发音
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1
tambourine
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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6
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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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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bragging
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的现在分词 )；大话 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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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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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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instinctively
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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underlay
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的过去式 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起n.衬垫物 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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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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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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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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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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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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51
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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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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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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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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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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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