Julie was in bed. She had been scarcely aware of her maid's help in undressing. The ordinary life was, as it were, suspended. Two scenes floated alternately before her--one the creation of memory, the other of imagination; and the second was, if possible, the more vivid, the more real of the two. Now she saw herself in Lady Henry's drawing-room; Sir Wilfrid Bury and a white-haired general were beside her. The door opened and Warkworth entered--young, handsome, soldierly, with that boyish, conquering air which some admired and others disliked. His eyes met hers, and a glow of happiness passed through her.
Then, at a stroke, the London drawing-room melted away. She was in a low bell-tent. The sun burned through its sides; the air was stifling3. She stood with two other men and the doctor beside the low camp-bed; her heart was wrung4 by every movement, every sound; she heard the clicking of the fan in the doctor's hands, she saw the flies on the poor, damp brow.
And still she had no tears. Only, existence seemed to have ended in a gulf5 of horror, where youth and courage, repentance6 and high resolve, love and pleasure were all buried and annihilated7 together.
That poor girl up-stairs! It had not been possible to take her home. She was there with nurse and doctor, her mother hanging upon every difficult breath. The attack of diphtheria had left a weakened heart and nervous system; the shock had been cruel, and the doctor could promise nothing for the future.
"Mother--mother!... Dead!"
The cry echoed in Julie's ears. It seemed to fill the old, low-ceiled room in which she lay. Her fancy, preternaturally alive, heard it thrown back from the mountains outside--returned to her in wailing8 from the infinite depths of the lake. She was conscious of the vast forms and abysses of nature, there in the darkness, beyond the walls of her room, as something hostile, implacable....
And while he lay there dead, under the tropical sand, she was still living and breathing here, in this old Swiss inn--Jacob Delafield's wife, at least in name.
There was a knock at her door. At first she did not answer it. It seemed to be only one of the many dream sounds which tormented10 her nerves. Then it was repeated. Mechanically she said "Come in."
The door opened, and Delafield, carrying a light, which he shaded with his hand, stood on the threshold.
"May I come and talk to you?" he said, in a low voice. "I know you are not sleeping."
It was the first time he had entered his wife's room. Through all her misery11, Julie felt a strange thrill as her husband's face was thus revealed to her, brightly illumined, in the loneliness of the night. Then the thrill passed into pain--the pain of a new and sharp perception.
Delafield, in truth, was some two or three years younger than Warkworth. But the sudden impression on Julie's mind, as she saw him thus, was of a man worn and prematurely12 aged--markedly older and graver, even, since their marriage, since that memorable13 evening by the side of Como when, by that moral power of which he seemed often to be the mere14 channel and organ, he had overcome her own will and linked her life with his.
She looked at him in a kind of terror. Why was he so pale--an embodied15 grief? Warkworth's death was not a mortal stroke for him.
He came closer, and still Julie's eyes held him. Was it her fault, this--this shadowed countenance16, these suggestions of a dumb strain and conflict, which not even his strong youth could bear without betrayal? Her heart cried out, first in a tragic17 impatience18; then it melted within her strangely, she knew not how.
She sat up in bed and held out her hands. He thought of that evening in Heribert Street, after Warkworth had left her, when she had been so sad and yet so docile19. The same yearning20, the same piteous agitation21 was in her attitude now.
He knelt down beside the bed and put his arms round her. She clasped her hands about his neck and hid her face on his shoulder. There ran through her the first long shudder22 of weeping.
"He was so young!" he heard her say through sobs23. "So young!"
He raised his hand and touched her hair tenderly.
"He died serving his country," he said, commanding his voice with difficulty. "And you grieve for him like this! I can't pity him so much."
"You thought ill of him--I know you did." She spoke24 between deep, sobbing25 breaths. "But he wasn't--he wasn't a bad man."
She fell back on her pillow and the tears rained down her cheeks.
Delafield kissed her hand in silence.
"Some day--I'll tell you," she said, brokenly.
"Yes, you shall tell me. It would help us both."
"I'll prove to you he wasn't vile26. When--when he proposed that to me he was distracted. So was I. How could he break off his engagement? Now you see how she loved him. But we couldn't part--we couldn't say good-bye. It had all come on us unawares. We wanted to belong to each other--just for two days--and then part forever. Oh, I'll tell you--"
"You shall tell me all--here!" he said, firmly, crushing her delicate hands in his own against his breast, so that she felt the beating of his heart.
"Give me my hand. I'll show you his letter--his last letter to me." And, trembling, she drew from under her pillow that last scrawled27 letter, written from the squalid hotel near the Gare de Sceaux.
No sooner, however, had she placed it in Delafield's hands than she was conscious of new forces of feeling in herself which robbed the act of its simplicity28. She had meant to plead her lover's cause and her own with the friend who was nominally29 her husband. Her action had been a cry for sympathy, as from one soul to another.
But as Delafield took the letter and began to read, her pulses began to flutter strangely. She recalled the phrases of passion which the letter contained. She became conscious of new fears, new compunctions.
For Delafield, too, the moment was one of almost intolerable complexity30. This tender intimacy31 of night--the natural intimacy of husband and wife; this sense, which would not be denied, however sternly he might hold it in check, of her dear form beside him; the little refinements32 and self-revelations of a woman's room; his half-rights towards her, appealing at once to love, and to the memory of that solemn pledge by which he had won her--what man who deserved the name but must be conscious, tempestuously33 conscious, of such thoughts and facts?
And then, wrestling with these smarts, these impulses, belonging to the natural, physical life, the powers of the moral being--compassion34, self-mastery, generosity35; while strengthening and directing all, the man of faith was poignantly36 aware of the austere38 and tender voices of religion.
Amid this play of influences he read the letter, still kneeling beside her and holding her fingers clasped in his. She had closed her eyes and lay still, save for the occasional tremulous movement of her free hand, which dried the tears on her cheek.
"Thank you," he said, at last, with a voice that wavered, as he put the letter down. "Thank you. It was good of you to let me see it. It changes all my thoughts of him henceforward. If he had lived--"
"But he's dead! He's dead!" cried Julie, in a sudden agony, wrenching39 her hand from his and burying her face in the pillow. "Just when he wanted to live. Oh, my God--my God! No, there's no God--nothing that cares--that takes any notice!"
She was shaken by deep, convulsive weeping. Delafield soothed41 her as best he could. And presently she stretched out her hand with a quick, piteous gesture, and touched his face.
"You, too! What have I done to you? How you looked, just now! I bring a curse. Why did you want to marry me? I can't tear this out of my heart--I can't!"
And again she hid herself from him. Delafield bent42 over her.
"Do you imagine that I should be poor-souled enough to ask you?"
Suddenly a wild feeling of revolt ran through Julie's mind. The loftiness of his mood chilled her. An attitude more weakly, passionately44 human, a more selfish pity for himself would, in truth, have served him better. Had the pain of the living man escaped his control, avenging45 itself on the supremacy46 that death had now given to the lover, Delafield might have found another Julie in his arms. As it was, her husband seemed to her perhaps less than man, in being more; she admired unwillingly47, and her stormy heart withdrew itself.
And when at last she controlled her weeping, and it became evident to him that she wished once more to be alone, his sensitiveness perfectly48 divined the secret reaction in her. He rose from his place beside her with a deep, involuntary sigh. She heard it, but only to shrink away.
"You will sleep a little?" he said, looking down upon her.
"I will try, mon ami."
"If you don't sleep, and would like me to read to you, call me. I am in the next room."
She thanked him faintly, and he went away. At the door he paused and came back again.
"To-night"--he hesitated--"while the doctors were here, I ran down to Montreux by the short path and telegraphed. The consul49 at Zanzibar is an old friend of mine. I asked him for more particulars at once, by wire. But the letters can't be here for a fortnight."
"I know. You're very, very good."
Hour after hour Delafield sat motionless in his room, till "high in the Valais depths profound" he "saw the morning break."
There was a little balcony at his command, and as he noiselessly stepped out upon it, between three and four o'clock, he felt himself the solitary50 comrade of the mist-veiled lake, of those high, rosy51 mountains on the eastern verge52, the first throne and harbor of the light--of the lower forest-covered hills that "took the morning," one by one, in a glorious and golden succession. All was fresh, austere, and vast--the spaces of the lake, the distant hollows of high glaciers53 filled with purple shadow, the precipices54 of the Rochers de Naye, where the new snow was sparkling in the sun, the cool wind that blew towards him from the gates of Italy, down the winding56 recesses57 of that superb valley which has been a thoroughfare of nations from the beginning of time.
Not a boat on the wide reaches of the lake; not a voice or other sound of human toil58, either from the vineyards below or the meadows above. Meanwhile some instinct, perhaps also some faint movements in her room, told him that Julie was no less wakeful than himself. And was not that a low voice in the room above him--the trained voice and footsteps of a nurse? Ah, poor little heiress, she, too, watched with sorrow!
A curious feeling of shame, of self-depreciation crept into his heart. Surely he himself of late had been lying down with fear and rising up with bitterness? Never a day had passed since they had reached Switzerland but he, a man of strong natural passions, had bade himself face the probable truth that, by a kind of violence, he had married a woman who would never love him--had taken irrevocably a false step, only too likely to be fatal to himself, intolerable to her.
Nevertheless, steeped as he had been in sadness, in foreboding, and, during this by-gone night, in passionate43 envy of the dead yet beloved Warkworth, he had never been altogether unhappy. That mysterious It--that other divine self of the mystic--God--the enwrapping, sheltering force--had been with him always. It was with him now--it spoke from the mysterious color and light of the dawn.
How, then, could he ever equal Julie in experience, in the true and poignant37 feeling of any grief whatever? His mind was in a strange, double state. It was like one who feels himself unfairly protected by a magic armor; he would almost throw it aside in a remorseful60 eagerness to be with his brethren, and as his brethren, in the sore weakness and darkness of the human combat; and then he thinks of the hand that gave the shield, and his heart melts in awe61.
"Friend of my soul and of the world, make me thy tool--thy instrument! Thou art Love! Speak through me! Draw her heart to mine."
At last, knowing that there was no sleep in him, and realizing that he had brooded enough, he made his way out of the hotel and up through the fresh and dew-drenched meadows, where the haymakers were just appearing, to the Les Avants stream. A plunge62 into one of its cool basins retempered the whole man. He walked back through the scented63 field-paths, resolutely64 restraining his mind from the thoughts of the night, hammering out, indeed, in his head a scheme for the establishment of small holdings on certain derelict land in Wiltshire belonging to his cousin.
As he was descending65 on Charnex, he met the postman and took his letters. One among them, from the Duke of Chudleigh, contained a most lamentable66 account of Lord Elmira. The father and son had returned to England, and an angry, inclement67 May had brought a touch of pneumonia68 to add to all the lad's other woes69. In itself it was not much--was, indeed, passing away. "But it has used up most of his strength," said the Duke, "and you know whether he had any to waste. Don't forget him. He constantly thinks and talks of you."
Delafield restlessly wondered when he could get home. But he realized that Julie would now feel herself tragically70 linked to the Moffatts, and how could he leave her? He piteously told himself that here, and now, was his chance with her. As he bore himself now towards her, in this hour of her grief for Warkworth, so, perhaps, would their future be.
Yet the claims of kindred were strong. He suffered much inward distress71 as he thought of the father and son, and their old touching72 dependence73 upon him. Chudleigh, as Jacob knew well, was himself incurably74 ill. Could he long survive his poor boy?
And so that other thought, which Jacob spent so much ingenuity75 in avoiding, rushed upon him unawares. The near, inevitable76 expectation of the famous dukedom, which, in the case of almost any other man in England, must at least have quickened the blood with a natural excitement, produced in Delafield's mind a mere dull sense of approaching torment9. Perhaps there was something non-sane in his repulsion, something that linked itself with his father's "queerness," or the bigotry77 and fanaticism78 of his grandmother, the Evangelical Duchess, with her "swarm79 of parsons," as Sir Wilfrid remembered her. The oddity, which had been violent or brutal80 in earlier generations, showed itself in him, one might have said, in a radical81 transposition of values, a singularity of criterion, which the ordinary robust82 Englishman might very well dismiss with impatience as folly83 or cant84.
Yet it was neither; and the feeling had, in truth, its own logic85 and history. He had lived from his youth up among the pageants86 of rank and possession. They had no glamour87 for him; he realized their burdens, their ineffectiveness for all the more precious kinds of happiness--how could he not, with these two forlorn figures of Chudleigh and his boy always before him? As for imagination and poetry, Delafield, with a mind that was either positive or mystical--the mind, one might say, of the land-agent or the saint--failed to see where they came in. Family tradition, no doubt, carries a thrill. But what thrill is there in the mere possession of a vast number of acres of land, of more houses, new and old, than any human being can possibly live in, of more money than any reasonable man can ever spend, and more responsibilities than he can ever meet? Such things often seemed to Delafield pure calamity--mere burdens upon life and breath. That he could and must be forced, some time, by law and custom, to take them up, was nothing but a social barbarity.
Mingled88 with all which, of course, was his passionate sense of spiritual democracy. To be throned apart, like a divine being, surrounded by the bought homage89 of one's fellows, and possessed90 of more power than a man can decently use, was a condition which excited in Delafield the same kind of contemptuous revolt that it would have excited in St. Francis. "Be not ye called master"--a Christian91 even of his transcendental and heterodox sort, if he were a Christian, must surely hold these words in awe, at least so far as concerned any mastery of the external or secular92 kind. To masteries of another order the saint has never been disinclined.
As he once more struck the village street, this familiar whirl of thoughts was buzzing in Delafield's mind, pierced, however, by one sharper and newer. Julie! Did he know--had he ever dared to find out--how she regarded this future which was overtaking them? She had tried to sound him; she had never revealed herself.
In Lady Henry's house he had often noticed in Julie that she had an imaginative tenderness for rank or great fortune. At first it had seemed to him a woman's natural romanticism; then he explained it to himself as closely connected with her efforts to serve Warkworth.
But suppose he were made to feel that there, after all, lay her compensation? She had submitted to a loveless marriage and lost her lover; but the dukedom was to make amends93. He knew well that it would be so with nine women out of ten. But the bare thought that it might be so with Julie maddened him. He then was to be for her, in the future, the mere symbol of the vulgarer pleasures and opportunities, while Warkworth held her heart?
Nay55!
He stood still, strengthening in himself the glad and sufficient answer. She had refused him twice--knowing all his circumstances. At this moment he adored her doubly for those old rebuffs.
Within twenty-four hours Delafield had received a telegram from his friend at Zanzibar. For the most part it recapitulated94 the news already sent to Cairo, and thence transmitted to the English papers. But it added the information that Warkworth had been buried in the neighborhood of a certain village on the caravan95 route to Mokembe, and that special pains had been taken to mark the spot. And the message concluded: "Fine fellow. Hard luck. Everybody awfully96 sorry here."
These words brought Delafield a sudden look of passionate gratitude97 from Julie's dark and sunken eyes. She rested her face against his sleeve and pressed his hand.
Lady Blanche also wept over the telegram, exclaiming that she had always believed in Henry Warkworth, and now, perhaps, those busybodies who at Simla had been pleased to concern themselves with her affairs and Aileen's would see cause to be ashamed of themselves.
To Delafield's discomfort98, indeed, she poured out upon him a stream of confidences he would have gladly avoided. He had brought the telegram to her sitting-room99. In the room adjoining it was Aileen, still, according to her mother's account, very ill, and almost speechless. Under the shadow of such a tragedy it seemed to him amazing that a mother could find words in which to tell her daughter's story to a comparative stranger. Lady Blanche appeared to him an ill-balanced and foolish woman; a prey100, on the one hand, to various obscure jealousies101 and antagonisms102, and on the other to a romantic and sentimental103 temper which, once roused, gloried in despising "the world," by which she generally meant a very ordinary degree of prudence104.
She was in chronic105 disagreement, it seemed, with her daughter's guardians106, and had been so from the first moment of her widowhood, the truth being that she was jealous of their legal powers over Aileen's fortune and destiny, and determined107, notwithstanding, to have her own way with her own child. The wilfulness108 and caprice of the father, which had taken such strange and desperate forms in Rose Delaney, appeared shorn of all its attraction and romance in the smaller, more conventional, and meaner egotisms of Lady Blanche.
And yet, in her own way, she was full of heart. She lost her head over a love affair. She could deny Aileen nothing. That was what her casual Indian acquaintances meant by calling her "sweet." When Warkworth's attentions, pushed with an ardor109 which would have driven any prudent110 mother to an instant departure from India, had made a timid and charming child of eighteen the talk of Simla, Lady Blanche, excited and dishevelled--was it her personal untidiness which accounted for the other epithet111 of "quaint," which had floated to the Duchess's ear, and been by her reported to Julie?--refused to break her daughter's heart. Warkworth, indeed, had begun long before by flattering the mother's vanity and sense of possession, and she now threw herself hotly into his cause as against Aileen's odious112 trustees.
They, of course, always believed the worst of everybody. As for her, all she wanted for the child was a good husband. Was it not better, in a world of fortune-hunters, that Aileen, with her half-million, should marry early? Of money, she had, one would think, enough. It was only the greed of certain persons which could possibly desire more. Birth? The young man was honorably born, good-looking, well mannered. What did you want more? She accepted a democratic age; and the obstacles thrown by Aileen's guardians in the way of an immediate113 engagement between the young people appeared to her, so she declared, either vulgar or ridiculous.
Well, poor lady, she had suffered for her whims114. First of all, her levity115 had perceived, with surprise and terror, the hold that passion was taking on the delicate and sensitive nature of Aileen. This young girl, so innocent and spotless in thought, so virginally sweet in manner, so guileless in action, developed a power of loving, an absorption of the whole being in the beloved, such as our modern world but rarely sees.
She lived, she breathed for Warkworth. Her health, always frail116, suffered from their separation. She became a thin and frail vision--a "gossamer117 girl" indeed. The ordinary life of travel and society lost all hold upon her; she passed through it in a mood of weariness and distaste that was in itself a danger to vital force. The mother became desperately118 alarmed, and made a number of flurried concessions119. Letters, at any rate, should be allowed, in spite of the guardians, and without their knowledge. Yet each letter caused emotions which ran like a storm-wind through the child's fragile being, and seemed to exhaust the young life at its source. Then came the diphtheria, acting120 with poisonous effect on a nervous system already overstrained.
And in the midst of the mother's anxieties there burst upon her the sudden, incredible tale that Warkworth--to whom she herself was writing regularly, and to whom Aileen, from her bed, was sending little pencilled notes, sweetly meant to comfort a sighing lover--had been entangling121 himself in London with another, a Miss Le Breton, positively122 a nobody, as far as birth and position were concerned, the paid companion of Lady Henry Delafield, and yet, as it appeared, a handsome, intriguing123, unscrupulous hussy, just the kind of hawk124 to snatch a morsel125 from a dove's mouth--a woman, in fact, with whom a little bread-and-butter girl like Aileen might very well have no chance.
Emily Lawrence's letter, in the tone of the candid126 friend, written after her evening at Crowborough House, had roused a mingled anguish127 and fury in the mother's breast. She lifted her eyes from it to look at Aileen, propped128 up in bed, her head thrown back against the pillow, and her little hands closed happily over Warkworth's letters; and she went straight from that vision to write to the traitor129.
The traitor defended and excused himself by return of post. He implored130 her to pay no attention to the calumnious131 distortion of a friendship which had already served Aileen's interests no less than his own. It was largely to Miss Le Breton's influence that he owed the appointment which was to advance him so materially in his career. At the same time he thought it would be wise if Lady Blanche kept not only the silly gossip that was going about, but even this true and innocent fact, from Aileen's knowledge. One never knew how a girl would take such things, and he would rather explain it himself at his own time.
Lady Blanche had to be content. And meanwhile the glory of the Mokembe appointment was a strong factor in Aileen's recovery. She exulted132 over it by day and night, and she wrote the letters of an angel.
The mother watched her writing them with mixed feelings. As to Warkworth's replies, which she was sometimes allowed to see, Lady Blanche, who had been a susceptible133 girl, and the heroine of several "affairs," was secretly and strongly of opinion that men's love-letters, at any rate, were poor things nowadays, compared with what they had been.
But Aileen was more than satisfied with them. How busy he must be, and with such important business! Poor, harassed134 darling, how good of him to write her a word--to give her a thought!
And now Lady Blanche beheld135 her child crushed and broken, a nervous wreck136, before her life had truly begun. The agonies which the mother endured were very real, and should have been touching. But she was not a touching person. All her personal traits--her red-rimmed eyes, her straggling hair, the slight, disagreeable twist in her nose and mouth--combined, with her signal lack of dignity and reticence137, to stir the impatience rather than the sympathy of the by-stander.
"And mamma was so fond of her," Julie would say to herself sometimes, in wonder, proudly contrasting the wild grace and originality138 of her disgraced mother with the awkward, slipshod ways of the sister who had remained a great lady.
Meanwhile, Lady Blanche was, indeed, perpetually conscious of her strange niece, perpetually thinking of the story her brothers had told her, perpetually trying to recall the sister she had lost so young, and then turning from all such things to brood angrily over the Lawrence letter, and the various other rumors139 which had reached her of Warkworth's relations to Miss Le Breton.
What was in the woman's mind now? She looked pale and tragic enough. But what right had she to grieve--or, if she did grieve, to be pitied?
Jacob Delafield had been fool enough to marry her, and fate would make her a duchess. So true it is that they who have no business to flourish do flourish, like green bay-trees.
As to poor Rose--sometimes there would rise on Lady Blanche's mind the sudden picture of herself and the lost, dark-eyed sister, scampering140 on their ponies141 through the country lanes of their childhood; of her lessons with Rose, her worship of Rose; and then of that black curtain of mystery and reprobation142 which for the younger child of sixteen had suddenly descended143 upon Rose and all that concerned her.
But Rose's daughter! All one could say was that she had turned out as the child of such proceedings144 might be expected to turn out--a minx. The aunt's conviction as to that stood firm. And while Rose's face and fate had sunk into the shadows of the past, even for her sister, Aileen was here, struggling for her delicate, threatened life, her hand always in the hand of this woman who had tried to steal her lover from her, her soft, hopeless eyes, so tragically unconscious, bent upon the bold intriguer145.
What possessed the child? Warkworth's letters, Julie's company--those seemed to be all she desired.
And at last, in the June beauty and brilliance146, when a triumphant147 summer had banished148 the pitiful spring, when the meadows were all perfume and color, and the clear mountains, in a clear sky, upheld the ever-new and never-ending pomp of dawn and noon and night, the little, wasted creature looked up into Julie's face, and, without tears, gasped149 out her story.
"These are his letters. Some day I'll--I'll read you some of them; and this--is his picture. I know you saw him at Lady Henry's. He mentioned your name. Will you please tell me everything--all the times you saw him, and what he talked of? You see I am much stronger. I can bear it all now."
Meanwhile, for Delafield, this fortnight of waiting--waiting for the African letters, waiting for the revival150 of life in Aileen--was a period of extraordinary tension, when all the powers of nerve and brain seemed to be tested and tried to the utmost. He himself was absorbed in watching Julie and in dealing151 with her.
In the first place, as he saw, she could give no free course to grief. The tragic yearning, the agonized152 tenderness and pity which consumed her, must be crushed out of sight as far as possible. They would have been an offence to Lady Blanche, a bewilderment to Aileen. And it was on her relation to her new-found cousin that, as Delafield perceived, her moral life for the moment turned. This frail girl was on the brink153 of perishing because death had taken Warkworth from her. And Julie knew well that Warkworth had neither loved her nor deserved her--that he had gone to Africa and to death with another image in his heart.
There was a perpetual and irreparable cruelty in the situation. And from the remorse59 of it Julie could not escape. Day by day she was more profoundly touched by the clinging, tender creature, more sharply scourged154 by the knowledge that the affection developing between them could never be without its barrier and its mystery, that something must always remain undisclosed, lest Aileen cast her off in horror.
It was a new moral suffering, in one whose life had been based hitherto on intellect, or passion. In a sense it held at bay even her grief for Warkworth, her intolerable compassion for his fate. In sheer dread155 lest the girl should find her out and hate her, she lost insensibly the first poignancy156 of sorrow.
These secrets of feeling left her constantly pale and silent. Yet her grace had never been more evident. All the inmates157 of the little pension, the landlord's family, the servants, the visitors, as the days passed, felt the romance and thrill of her presence. Lady Blanche evoked158 impatience of ennui159. She was inconsiderate; she was meddlesome160; she soon ceased even to be pathetic. But for Julie every foot ran, every eye smiled.
Then, when the day was over, Delafield's opportunity began. Julie could not sleep. He gradually established the right to read with her and talk with her. It was a relation very singular, and very intimate. She would admit him at his knock, and he would find her on her sofa, very sad, often in tears, her black hair loose upon her shoulders. Outwardly there was often much ceremony, even distance between them; inwardly, each was exploring the other, and Julie's attitude towards Delafield was becoming more uncertain, more touched with emotion.
What was, perhaps, most noticeable in it was a new timidity, a touch of anxious respect towards him. In the old days, what with her literary cultivation161 and her social success, she had always been the flattered and admired one of their little group. Delafield felt himself clumsy and tongue-tied beside her. It was a superiority on her part very natural and never ungraceful, and it was his chief delight to bring it forward, to insist upon it, to take it for granted.
But the relation between them had silently shifted.
"You judge--you are always judging," she had said once, impatiently, to Delafield. And now it was round these judgments162, these inward verdicts of his, on life or character, that she was perpetually hovering163. She was infinitely164 curious about them. She would wrench40 them from him, and then would often shiver away from him in resentment165.
He, meanwhile, as he advanced further in the knowledge of her strange nature, was more and more bewildered by her--her perversities and caprices, her brilliancies and powers, her utter lack of any standard or scheme of life. She had been for a long time, as it seemed to him, the creature of her exquisite166 social instincts--then the creature of passion. But what a woman through it all, and how adorable, with those poetic167 gestures and looks, those melancholy168, gracious airs that ravished him perpetually! And now this new attitude, as of a child leaning, wistfully looking in your face, asking to be led, to be wrestled169 and reasoned with.
The days, as they passed, produced in him a secret and mounting intoxication170. Then, perhaps for a day or two, there would be a reaction, both foreseeing that a kind of spiritual tyranny might arise from their relation, and both recoiling171 from it....
One night she was very restless and silent. There seemed to be no means of approach to her true mind. Suddenly he took her hand--it was some days since they had spoken of Warkworth--and almost roughly reminded her of her promise to tell him all.
She rebelled. But his look and manner held her, and the inner misery sought an outlet172. Submissively she began to speak, in her low, murmuring voice; she went back over the past--the winter in Bruton Street; the first news of the Moffatt engagement; her efforts for Warkworth's promotion173; the history of the evening party which had led to her banishment174; the struggle in her own mind and Warkworth's; the sudden mad schemes of their last interview; the rush of the Paris journey.
The mingled exaltation and anguish, the comparative absence of regret with which she told the story, produced an astonishing effect on Delafield. And in both minds, as the story proceeded, there emerged ever more clearly the consciousness of that imperious act by which he had saved her.
Suddenly she stopped.
"I know you can find no excuse for it all," she said, in excitement.
"Yes; for all--but for one thing," was his low reply.
She shrank, her eyes on his face.
"That poor child," he said, under his breath.
She looked at him piteously.
"Did you ever realize what you were doing?" he asked her, raising her hand to his lips.
"No, no! How could I? I thought of some one so different--I had never seen her--"
She paused, her wide--seeking gaze fixed175 upon him through tears, as though she pleaded with him to find explanations--palliatives.
But he gently shook his head.
Suddenly, shaken with weeping, she bowed her face upon the hands that held her own. It was like one who relinquishes176 all pleading, all defence, and throws herself on the mercy of the judge.
He tenderly asked her pardon if he had wounded her. But he shrank from offering any caress177. The outward signs of life's most poignant and most beautiful moments are generally very simple and austere.
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1
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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2
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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3
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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4
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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5
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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6
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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7
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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8
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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9
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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10
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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11
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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12
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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13
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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14
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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15
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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16
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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17
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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18
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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19
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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20
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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21
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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22
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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23
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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24
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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25
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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26
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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27
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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29
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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30
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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31
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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32
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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33
tempestuously
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| adv.剧烈地，暴风雨似地 | |
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34
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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35
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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36
poignantly
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37
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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38
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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39
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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40
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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41
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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42
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
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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44
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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45
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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46
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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47
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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48
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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49
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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50
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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51
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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52
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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53
glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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54
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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55
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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56
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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57
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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58
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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59
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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60
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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61
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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62
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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63
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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64
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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65
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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66
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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67
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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68
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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69
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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70
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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71
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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72
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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73
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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74
incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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75
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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76
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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77
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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78
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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79
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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80
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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81
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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82
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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83
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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84
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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85
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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86
pageants
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| n.盛装的游行( pageant的名词复数 )；穿古代服装的游行；再现历史场景的娱乐活动；盛会 | |
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87
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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88
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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89
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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90
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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91
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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92
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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93
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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94
recapitulated
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| v.总结，扼要重述( recapitulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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96
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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97
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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98
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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99
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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100
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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101
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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102
antagonisms
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| 对抗，敌对( antagonism的名词复数 ) | |
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103
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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104
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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105
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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106
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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107
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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108
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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109
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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110
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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111
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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112
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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113
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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114
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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115
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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116
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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117
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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118
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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119
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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120
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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121
entangling
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| v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的现在分词 ) | |
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122
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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123
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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124
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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125
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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126
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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128
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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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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calumnious
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| adj.毁谤的，中伤的 | |
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exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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135
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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136
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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137
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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139
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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143
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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intriguer
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| 密谋者 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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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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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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169
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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170
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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171
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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173
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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174
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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175
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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176
relinquishes
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的第三人称单数 )； 放弃 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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