While she read through one or two of these the disreputable letter awaiting her attention worried her. It was something importunate1, disagreeable, like a debased face thrust in at her door. With a sigh she turned to it, to get it out of the way before she opened Terry's letter, clean and dandyish, written on the delicate paper the Regiment2 affected3.
She held the thing gingerly by the edge, and, going away from the table, she stood by the fire while she opened it. A smell of turf-smoke came out of it,—nothing worse than that. Perhaps, after all, it was only one of the many appeals for help which came to her pretty constantly.
"HONOURED MADAM,—This is from one who wishes you no harm, but onley good. There is a woman lives in the Waterfall Cottage your husband goes to see often. Such doins ought not to be Aloud.
"From your sinceer Well-Wisher,
XXX."
If it had been a longer letter she would not have read it. It was so short and written so legibly that the whole disgraceful thing leaped at her in a single glance.
As though it had been a noxious4 reptile5 which had bitten her she flung it from her into the heart of the brightly burning fire of wood and turf. A little flame sprang up and it was gone, just as Sir Shawn came into the room.
They had the breakfast room to themselves now that there were no visitors, but Lady O'Gara hesitated to speak. She had no intention of keeping the matter of the anonymous6 letter from her husband, but she wanted to let him eat his breakfast in peace, and to talk later on, secure from possible interruptions.
She gave him scraps7 of news from her letters, and from The Times of the preceding day, which reached them at their breakfast table. She felt disturbed and agitated8, but only as one does who has received an insult. She would be better when she had told Shawn about the horrid9 thing.
Her restlessness, so unlike her usual benign10 placidity11, at last attracted her husband's notice.
"Any disturbing news, Mary?" he asked.
"Nothing." Her hand hovered12 over Terry's letter. "Terry thinks he can get a few days' leave next week for the pheasants and bring a couple of brother-officers with him."
"H'm!" Sir Shawn said, a little grimly. "He hasn't been away very long. I suppose Eileen is coming back."
"She comes on Monday."
"I expect he knows it."
"Perhaps he does. Have you finished, Shawn? Another cup of tea? No?
I want to talk to you, dear. Will you come out to the Robin's Seat.
It is really a beautiful morning."
"Let me get my pipe."
Unsuspiciously he found his pipe and tobacco pouch13 and followed her. The Robin's Seat was a wooden seat below a little hooded14 arch, under a high wall over which had grown all manner of climbing wall-plants. The arbour and the seat were on the edge of a path which formed the uppermost of three terraces: below the lowest the country swept away to the bog15. The wall, made to copy one in a famous Roman garden, was beautiful at all times of the year, with its strange clinging and climbing plants that flourished so well in this mild soft air. In Autumn it was particularly beautiful with its deep reds and golds and purples and bronzes. The Robin's Seat was a favourite resting-place of these two married lovers, who fed the robins16 that came strutting17 about their feet, and even perched on their knees, asking a crumb18.
Despite the disturbance19 of her mind Lady O'Gara had not forgotten her feathered pensioners20. She threw crumbs21 to them as she talked, and the robins picked them up and flirted22 their little heads and bodies daintily, turning a bright inquiring eye on her when the supply ceased.
"Well, Mary?"
"I hate to tell you, Shawn." She brushed away the last crumbs from her lap. "I did not tell you the truth when I said there was nothing disturbing among my letters."
"I knew there was something. We have not lived so long together for me not to know you through and through. And you are as open as the day."
"It was a horrid thing, a creeping, lying thing."
"An anonymous letter." His eyes fluttered nervously23 under the droop24 of the long lashes25. "You should have put it in the fire, darling."
"I did. There was so little of it that unfortunately I saw it all at a glance. It is horrid to think that any one about here could do such a thing."
Suddenly she laughed. She had a peculiarly joyous27 laugh.
"They,—whoever wrote it—should have said something more likely to be believed. They said—I beg your pardon for telling you, Shawn—that you were visiting a lady at the Waterfall Cottage."
She was looking at him and suddenly she saw the shadows come in his face which had had the power to disturb her before: or she thought she did. The upper part of his face was in shadow from the balsam that dropped its trails like a fringe over the arch.
"You did not believe it, Mary?"
"What do you think? Would you believe such a story of me?"
"Don't!" he said, and there was something sharp, like a cry, in the protest. "No reptile would be base enough to spit at you."
They were alone together. Below them the terraces fell to the coloured bogs28. A river winding29 through the bog showed as a darkly blue ribbon, reflecting the cloud of indigo30 which hung above the bog. Beyond was the Wood of the Echoes, the trees apparently31 with their feet in the water in which other trees showed inverted32. Not a creature to see them, but the robins.
Suddenly he put his head down on her shoulder, with the air of a tired child.
"Your correspondent was not a liar26, Mary," he said. "I have visited Mrs. Wade33 at Waterfall Cottage, at night too, and only not by stealth because I thought that Hercules' ghost—" he shivered a little—"would have kept spies and onlookers34 from that place."
Lady O'Gara shifted his head slightly with the greatest gentleness, so that she might caress35 him, stroking his hair with her fingers.
"Well, and why not?" she asked, with her air of gaiety.
"There never was such a wife as you, Mary," he said. "Go on stroking my hair. It draws the pain out."
"You have neuralgia?" she asked with quick alarm.
"No: it is a duller pain than that. It is a sort of congestion36 caused by keeping secrets from you."
"Secrets!" Her voice was quite unsuspicious. "You could not keep them long."
He sat up and looked at her, and she saw that there was pain in his eyes.
"I have been keeping secrets from you all our wedded37 life together,
Mary."
She uttered a little sound of dismay—of grief. Then she said, with an assumption of an easy manner:
"And if you have, Shawn, well—they must be things I had no right to know. There are reticences I can respect. Other people's secrets might be involved…."
"That was it," he said eagerly. "There was another person's secret involved. I kept it back when it would have rested my heart to tell you."
"I shall not ask you to tell me now unless the time has come to tell.
I can trust you, Shawn."
"The time may have come," he answered, drawing down her caressing38 hand to kiss it. "Another man might have told it to win you the more completely, Mary. He might have found justification39 for betraying his friend. I thought at one time you must have cared for Terence Comerford and not for me. It was the strangest thing in the world that you should have cared for me. Terence was so splendid, so big, so handsome and pleasant with every one. How could you have preferred me before him? And I knew he wasn't fit for you, Mary. I knew there was another girl,—yet I held my peace. It tortured me, to keep silence. And there was the other girl to be thought of. He owed reparation to the other girl. But his mother had her heart set on you for a daughter-in-law. I believe he would have done the right thing if he had lived,—in spite of all it would have meant to his mother. He had a good heart,—but—oh, my God!—he should not have lifted his eyes to you when there was that other poor girl!"
He spoke40 in a voice as though he were being tortured, and her caressing hand felt the cold sweat ooze41 out on his forehead. How sensitive he was! How he grieved for his friend after all those years!
"He did not really lift his eyes to me as you say," she said. "His mother wanted it. He never did. A woman is not deceived."
"But you cared for him—to some extent?" he asked jealously.
"I never cared for any man but one," she answered. "I used to think you would never ask me. Perhaps you never would have only that I came to you when you were so broken down after your illness; and you had not strength enough to resist me."
She finished with a certain pathetic gaiety. With all his deep love for her she had not brought him joyfulness42. Many people had noticed it. Her own well-spring of Joy had never run dry. It had survived even his sadness, and had made the house bright for their one child, but there had been moments, hours, when she had felt oddly exhausted43, as though she had to bear a double strain of living.
"You saved me from utter despair,—'an angel beautiful and bright.'
That is what you seemed to me when you showed me your exquisite44 pity."
"Poor Terence!" she said softly. "Do you know, Shawn, I believe he was often on the edge of telling me his secret. Over and over again he began and was interrupted, or he drew back."
"Hardly, Mary. Men do not tell such things to the ladies of their family."
"Oh!" She coloured like a girl. "It was,—that. I thought it was … a lady … some one he knew in Dublin perhaps."
"It was a girl in Killesky. Her grandmother kept a little public-house. She looked like an old Gipsy-Queen, the grandmother. And the girl—the girl was like a dark rose. All the men in the county raved45 about her—the gentlemen, I mean. It was extraordinary how many roads led through Killesky. The girl was as modest as she was beautiful. Terence was mad about her. He knocked down a Connaught Ranger46 man who made a joke about her. That last leave—before he was killed—he was never out of the place. She had been at a convent school—the old woman had brought her up well—and she used to go on visits to school friends in Dublin. Terence told me he met her in Dublin when we were at the Royal Barracks. I implored47 him to let her alone, but he was angry and told me to mind my own business. That last time it was more serious. Poor little Bridyeen! I told him he ought to marry her. I think he knew it. It made him short-tempered with me. But … I hope … I hope…—" the strange anguish48 came back to his voice—"that he would have married her."
"I remember now," Lady O'Gara said. "I remember the girl. Aunt Grace thought very well of her; she told the old woman she ought not to have Bridyeen serving in the bar. She was a beautiful little creature, like a moss49 rosebud50, such dark hair and the beautiful colour and the ardent51 look in her eyes. Old Mrs. Dowd answered Aunt Grace with a haughtiness52 equal to her own. Aunt Grace was very angry: she said the old woman was insolent53. I did not learn exactly what Mrs. Dowd had said, but I gathered that she said she knew how to keep her girl as well as Aunt Grace did."
"I sometimes thought the old woman was ambitious," Sir Shawn went on, dreamily. "She used to watch Bridyeen while all those fellows were hanging about her and paying her compliments. I have sometimes thought she meant Bridyeen to marry a gentleman. Several were infatuated enough for that. The old woman was always about watching and listening. I don't think any of them was ever rude to the little girl. She was so innocent to look at. If any man had forgotten himself so far he would have had to answer to the others."
"What became of them—afterwards? Killesky seldom came in my path. I did not know that the picturesque54 old woman and the little granddaughter had gone till after we were married, when I drove that way and saw the garish55 new shop going up.
"It was like the old woman to carry off poor Bridyeen from all the scandal and the talk. You remember how ill I was. I thought that as soon as I was well enough I would go and see them—the old woman and the poor child. I would have done what I could. They were gone. No one knew what had become of them. They had gone away quietly and mysteriously. The little place was shut up one morning. You remember how pretty it was, the little thatched house behind its long garden. They had gone to America. Fortunately the people had not begun to talk."
"That poor little thing!" Lady O'Gara said softly. "She looked as shy as a fawn56. I wonder what became of her."
"Don't you understand, Mary? She has come back. She is … Mrs. Wade."
"Oh! She married then? Of course you would want to be kind to her. I suppose she is a widow!"
"I don't think she married. I don't know what brings her back here, unless it is the desire to return which afflicts57 the Irish wherever they go. She has fixed58 herself in such a lonely spot. After all, she is my tenant59. It is my business to see that she wants for nothing. I recognized her one night I came that way—when I was late and had to take that road. I saw her through the unshuttered window with a strong light on her face. I went back there in daylight and came upon her drawing water from the well. She was frightened at first, but afterwards she seemed glad to see me. She is very lonely. No one goes to see her but Mrs. Horridge,—a good creature—but Bridyeen is a natural lady. I must not go there again though she is a grey-haired woman older than her years—it was strange that I recognized her after twenty years; there are beasts who will talk."
"I shall come with you, Shawn," said Lady O'Gara. "That will be the best way to prevent their talking."
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1
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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7
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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8
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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9
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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10
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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12
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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13
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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14
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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15
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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19
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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24
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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26
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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28
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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29
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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31
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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32
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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34
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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35
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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39
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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40
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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41
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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42
joyfulness
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43
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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44
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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45
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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46
ranger
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| n.国家公园管理员，护林员；骑兵巡逻队员 | |
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47
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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49
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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50
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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51
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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52
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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53
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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54
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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55
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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56
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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57
afflicts
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的名词复数 ) | |
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58
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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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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