The rare delight of his meetings with Margaret was at an end. Bluff1 Fortune had slammed the door in his face, and White-handed Hope had folded her golden wings and sat moping with melancholy3 mien4.
He wandered into Kensington Gardens, but the daffodils swung their heads despondently5, and the gorgeous masses of hyacinths made him think of funeral plumes6 on horses' heads.
He went on into the Park. She might be driving there, and he might catch glimpse of her. But she was not, and all the rest were less than nothing to him.
He found himself at Hyde Park Corner and back again at Kensington Gate. But the door was still closed in his face, and he longed for the sight of somebody else's as he had never longed before.
The post was of course open to him, but, at this stage at all events, he felt that the written word would be eminently7 inadequate8 and unsatisfying.
He wanted, when he approached that mighty9 question, to look into her eyes and see her answer in their pure depths before it reached her lips,—to watch the fluttering heart-signals in her sweet face and learn from them more than all the words in the world could tell. Letters were, at best, to actual speech but as actual speech would be to all that his heart-quickened eyes would discover if he could but ask her face to face.
And besides—he would have wished to make his footing somewhat surer before putting everything to the test.
But, since matters had gone thus far, it was quite out of the question to let them stop there unresolved. Either the precious cargo10 must be brought safely into port or the derelict must be sunk and the fairway cleared. The question was—how to proceed?
The unwritten laws of social usage would hardly permit him to carry the Pixley mansion11 by assault and insist on seeing Miss Brandt. Besides, that might expose her to annoyance12, and that he would not upon any consideration.
And so, before he reached his rooms, his mind was groping clumsily after written phrases which should in some sort express that which was in him without saying too much too soon,—which should delicately hint his regrets at this sudden curtailment13 of their acquaintance, and leave it for her to say whether or no she regarded the matter in the same light.
Lady Elspeth's sudden summons to the north furnished an acceptable text. Margaret was not to know that he knew of her call at Phillimore Gardens. It was surely but a friendly act on his part to inform her of a matter so nearly concerning one who was dear to them both.
It took a considerable time, however, and the expenditure14 of much thought and ink and paper, before he succeeded in producing a letter in any degree to his liking15. And even when it was written many perusals only served to deepen his doubts.
In any case, it was the best he could do under the circumstances, and since he could not see her answer in her eyes or in her face, the words she would send him in reply would surely afford his quickened perceptions some indication of her feeling, though nothing to what her presence would have told him.
So he wrote—
"Dear Miss Brandt,—When I called at Lady Elspeth Gordon's this afternoon, I learned, to my very great regret, in which I dare to hope you may participate, that our dear old friend had been summoned to Inverstrife at almost a moment's notice, by the sudden illness of her niece, the Countess of Assynt.
"I trust her visit may not need to be a very extended one, but Lady Elspeth is such a tower of strength to all who seek her help that she is not likely to return so long as she can be of any possible assistance to her friends.
"For reasons which, perhaps, I need not particularise, her sudden departure is to me a loss beyond its apparent magnitude. The hours I have spent at her house have been among the brightest of my life. You also have enjoyed her friendship. I venture to hope that you also will miss her.
"Should I not have the pleasure of seeing you for some little time, I would beg of you to bear me in your kindly16 remembrance.—Sincerely yours,
"JOHN C. GRAEME."
Did it say too much? Would she look upon it as an overstepping of the limits their acquaintance had reached?
Did it say enough? Could she possibly overlook the things he would so dearly have liked to say but had left unsaid?
Did it say too little? Could she possibly deem it an unnecessary liberty, and cold at that? He did not think she could by any possibility look at it in that light.
But after it was at last surely lodged17 in the pillar-box, all these doubts came back upon him with tenfold force, and his sleep that night would have been short-commons for a nightingale.
She would get his letter by the first post in the morning. Would she answer it at once? Or would she wait half a day considering it?
Either course held hopeful possibilities. A prompt answer would surely suggest a concurrence18 of feeling. An answer delayed would without doubt mean that she was pondering his words and reading between the lines. So he possessed19 his soul in patience, of a somewhat attenuated20 texture21, and waited in hope.
But the whole day passed, and the night, and the next morning's post still brought him nothing,—nothing but an intimation from a publisher of excellent standing22 that he would not decline to look over the manuscript of his next book if he was open to an offer. And this important document he tossed on one side as lightly as if it were a begging letter or a tailor's advertisement.
What were any other letters, or all the letters in the world, to him when the one letter he desired was not there?
All that bright April day he waited indoors, in order to get Margaret's letter the moment it arrived. For how should he wander abroad, in gloomy-blazing streets or desolate-teeming parks with that anxiously-expected letter possibly awaiting him at home?
The callous23 passage of the last post, after knocking cheerfully at every door but his own, left him wondering and desperate.
Could he by any possibility have addressed his letter wrongly? It was not easy to make a mistake in No. 1 Melgrave Square.
Could it have gone astray? The Post Office was abominably24 careless at times. One was constantly hearing of letters slipping down behind desks and monstrously26 delivered twenty years after date. What earthly good would that letter be delivered when he was forty-seven and Margaret Brandt somewhere in the neighbourhood of forty? Truly, it was monstrous25, it was abominable27 that such carelessness should be permitted in the public departments!
Could Margaret have taken umbrage28 at anything he had said? He conned29 his rough draft with solicitous30 care. It seemed new and strange and crude to him. He feared at each word to come upon the one that might have offended her. But no word, no phrase, nothing even of all that he had left unsaid sprang up before his horrified31 eyes to choke him with a sense of inadequacy32, or inadvertency, or trespass33.
No sleep got he that night for cudgelling his tired brains for reasons why no answer had come from Margaret.
Could she be ill? She was well enough, two days before, to call at Lady Elspeth's house. But, of course, even in a day one may take a chill and be prostrated34.
The possibility of that was brought home to him next morning by his landlady's surprised stare and exclamation35 at sight of his face.
"Law, Mr. John!"—she had been handmaid to his mother for many years and he was still always Mr. John to her,—"Have you got the influenza36 too? Everyone seems to have it nowadays."
He reassured37 her on the point. But every friend he met that day credited him with it, and suggested remedies and precautions sufficient to have made an end of any ordinary man.
He was vexed38 to think his face so clear an index of his feelings, but, truly, his spirits were none of the best and the weather was enervatingly warm.
It was quite inconceivable to him that Margaret Brandt should, of knowledge and intention, drop their pleasant acquaintance in this fashion. He believed he knew her well enough to know that, even if she had any fault to find with his letter, she would still have replied to it, and would have delicately conveyed her feeling in her answer.
Then, either she had never received it, or, for some good reason or other, she was unable to reply.
He went down to Melgrave Square to make sure that No. 1 was still there. Possibly he might come across Margaret in the neighbourhood. If he did he would know at a glance if she had received his letter.
But No. 1 offered him no explanations. It stood as usual, large and prim39 and precise, the very acme40 of solid, sober wealth and assertive41 moral rectitude. He was strongly tempted42 to call and ask for Miss Brandt, but it was only ten o'clock in the morning, and the house looked so truly an embodiment in stucco of Mrs. Grundy and Jeremiah Pixley, that he forbore and went on his melancholy way.
First, to his rooms again, to see if by chance the letter had come in his absence. Then, as it had not, to Lady Elspeth Gordon's for old Hamish's latest news, which, in a letter from his wife, was satisfactory as far as it went, but pointed43 to a protracted44 stay. And then, with stern resolution, up to Baker45 Street and away by train to Chesham, for a long day's tramp through the Buckingham hills and dales, by Chenies to Chorley Wood and Rickmansworth, so to weary the body that the wearier brain should get some rest that night.
The sweet soft air and sunshine, the leisurely46 life of the villages, and the cheerful unfoldings of the spring, in wood and field and hedgerow, brought him to a more hopeful frame of mind. Every sparrow twittered hope. The thrushes and young blackbirds fluted47 it melodiously48. It was impossible to remain unhopeful in such goodly company. Something unexpected, accidental, untoward49, had prevented Margaret replying to his letter. Time would clear it up and set him wondering at his lapse51 from fullest faith.
Also—he would risk even further rebuff. He would write again, and this time he would trust no precarious52 and problematical post-office. He would drop his letter into the Pixley letter-box himself, and so be sure that it got there.
If then no answer,—to the winds with Mrs. Grundy and all her coils and conventions! He would call and see Margaret himself, and learn from her own eyes and face and lips how matters stood, and Mrs. Grundy might dance and scream on the step outside until she grew tired of the exercise.
There was joy and hope in action once more. Patient waiting on slowly-dying Hope is surely the direst moral and mental torture to which poor humanity can be subjected. That is where woman pre-eminently overpasses53 man. Woman can wait unmurmuringly on dying Hope till the last breath is gone, then silently take up her burden and go on her way—or, if the strain has been too great, fold quiet hands on quiet heart and follow her dead hopes into the living hope beyond. Man must aye be doing—and as often as not, such natural judgment54 as he possesses being warped55 and jangled by the strain of waiting, he succeeds only in making matters worse and a more complete fool of himself.
To be writing to Margaret again was to be living in hope once more.
If nothing came of this, he would call at the Pixley house.
If nothing came of that—he grew valiant56 in his new access of life—he would beard Jeremiah Pixley in his den2 in Lincoln's Inn, state clearly how matters stood, and request permission to approach his ward50.
After all, this is a free country, and all men are equal under the law, though he had his own doubts as to whether he would find himself quite equal to that gleaming pillar of light, Mr. Jeremiah Pixley.
So he wrote—
"DEAR MISS BRANDT,—I wrote to you a few days ago, giving you the information of our dear friend Lady Elspeth's sudden summons to Inverstrife, to attend her niece, the Countess of Assynt.
"I hope you will not consider it presumption57 on my part to express the fear that my letter has somehow miscarried—probably through some oversight58 of my own, or carelessness on the part of the postal59 authorities.
"You will, I know, be glad to hear that Lady Elspeth accomplished60 her journey in safety and without undue61 discomfort62. But Lady Assynt's condition makes it probable that her stay may be somewhat prolonged.
"I venture to hope that you may regret this as much as I do. All who enjoyed Lady Elspeth's friendship and hospitality cannot but miss her sorely.
"I hope, however, that I may still have the pleasure of meeting you occasionally elsewhere. When one has not the habit of readily making new friendships one clings the more firmly to those already made.—Sincerely yours,
"JOHN C. GRAEME."
That letter he dropped into the Pixley letterbox himself that night, and so was assured of its delivery. But two days passed in waning63 hope, and the afternoon of the third found him on the doorstep of No. 1 Melgrave Square.
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收听单词发音
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1
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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2
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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3
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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4
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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5
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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6
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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7
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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8
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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9
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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10
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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11
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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12
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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13
curtailment
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| n.缩减，缩短 | |
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14
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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15
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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16
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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17
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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18
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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19
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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20
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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21
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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22
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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23
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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24
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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25
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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26
monstrously
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27
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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28
umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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29
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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31
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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32
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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33
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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34
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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35
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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36
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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37
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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38
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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39
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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40
acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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41
assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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42
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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43
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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44
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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45
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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46
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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47
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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48
melodiously
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49
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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50
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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51
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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52
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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53
overpasses
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| n.立交桥，天桥，高架道路( overpass的名词复数 ) | |
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54
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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55
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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56
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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57
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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58
oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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59
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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60
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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61
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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62
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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63
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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