The laboured minutes passed; he turned and looked slowly down at her averted9 profile. The curve of cheek was colourless; her hands were still lying clasped on her knee. He watched her for a moment, striving to connect the woman with her words. Something seemed bearing on his brain, so that it did not feel quite near. It did not feel so alive, nor so much his own, as before the vileness10 of this thing was uttered.
"I have never told you a falsehood," she murmured, "I didn't tell you any falsehood in London. Don't think me all deceit—every word of what I said that day was true."
"I dare say," he answered dully; "I have not accused you."
The change in his tone was pregnant with condemnation11 to her, and she wondered if he was believing her; but, indeed, he hardly recognised that she had said anything requiring belief. Her assurance appeared juvenile12 to him, incongruous. There was an air almost of unreality about their being seated here as they were, gazing at the blur13 of churchyard. Something never to be undone14 had happened and she was strange.
The service had ended, and, trooping out, the Sunday-school pupils clattered15 past their feet, shiny and clamorous16, and eyeing them with sidelong inquisition. She rose nervously17, and, rousing himself, he went with her through the crowd of children as far as the gate. There their steps flagged to a standstill, and for a few seconds they remained looking down the lane in silence.
To her, stunned18 by no shock to make reality less real, these final seconds held the condensed humiliation19 of the hour. The rigidity20 with which the man waited beside her seemed eloquent21 of disgust, and she mused22 bitterly on what she had done, how she had abased23 herself and destroyed his respect; she longed to be free of his reproachful presence. On the gravel24 behind them one of the bigger girls whispered to another, and the other giggled25.
She made a slight movement, and he responded with something impossible to catch. She did not offer her hand; she did not immediately pity him. Had a stranger told him this thing of her, she would have pitied and understood; told him by herself, she understood only that she was being despised. They separated with a mechanical "good-afternoon," quietly and slowly. The two girls, who watched them with precocious26 eagerness, debated their relationship.
The road lay before him long and bare, and lethargically27 he took it. He continued to hear her words, "There used to be another man," but he did not know he heard them—he did not actively28 pursue any train of thought. It was only in momentary29 intervals30 that he became aware that he was thinking. The sense of there being something numbed31 within him still endured, and as yet his condition was more of stupor32 than of pain.
"There used to be another man!" The sentence hummed in his ears, and as he went along he awoke to it, the persistence33 of it touched him; and he began to repeat it—mentally, difficultly, trying to spur his mind into comprehension of it and take it in. He did not suffer acutely even then. There was nothing acute in his feelings whatever. He found it hard to realise, albeit34 he did not doubt. She was what she had said she was; he knew it. But he could not see her so; he could not imagine her the woman that she had said she used to be. He saw her always as she had been to him, composed and self-contained. The demeanour had been a mask, yet it clung to his likeness35 of her, obscuring the true identity from him still. He strove to conceive her in her past life, contemning36 himself because he could not; he wanted to remember that he had been loving a disguise; he wanted to obliterate37 it. The fact of its having been a disguise and never she all the time was so hard to grasp. He tried to look upon her laughing in dishonour38, but the picture would not live; it appeared unnatural39. It was the inception40 of his agony: the feeling that he had known her so very little that it was her real self which seemed the impossible.
And that other man had known it all—seen every mood of her, learned her in every phase!
"Mary!" he muttered; and was lost in the consciousness that actually he had never known "Mary."
He perceived that the man was moving through his thoughts as a dark man, short and suave41, and he wondered how the fancy had arisen. Vaguely he began to wonder what he had been like indeed. It was too soon to question who he was—he wondered only how he looked, in a dim mental searching for the presence to associate her with. Next, the impression vanished, and sudden recollections came to him of men he was accustomed to meet.
The manner and mien42 of these riveted43 his attention. It was not by his own will that he considered them; the personalities44 were insistent45. He did not suppose that any one of them had been her lover; he knew that it was chimerical46 to view any one of them as such; but his brain had been groping for a man, and these familiar men obtruded47 themselves vividly48. The lurking49 horror of her defilement50 materialised, so that the sweat burst out on him; the significance of what he had heard flared51 red upon his vision. To think that it had pleased her to lend herself for the toy of a man's leisure, that some man had been free to make her the boast of his conceit52, twisted his heart-strings.
The solidity of the hospital confronted him on the slope that he had begun to mount. Beneath him stretched the herbage of cottage gardens somnolent53 in Sabbath calm. Out of the silence came the quick yapping of a shop-boy's dog, the shrillness54 of a shop-boy's whistle. They were the only sounds. Then he went in.
That evening Miss Brettan told Mrs. Kincaid that she wished to leave her.
The old lady received the announcement without any mark of surprise.
"You know your own mind best," she said meditatively55; "but I'm sorry you are going—very sorry."
"Yes," said Mary; "I must go. I'm sorry too, but I can't help myself. I——"
"I used to think you'd stop with me always; we got on so well together."
"You've been more than kind to me from the very first day; I shall never forget how kind you have been! If it were only possible. But it isn't; I——"
Once more the pronoun as the stumbling-block on delicate ground.
"I can't stop!" she added thickly; "I hope you'll be luckier with your next companion."
"I shan't have another; changes upset me. And you must go when it suits you best, you know; don't stay on to give me time to make fresh arrangements, as I haven't any to make. Study your own convenience entirely56."
"This week?"
"Yes, very well; let it be this week."
They said no more then. But the following afternoon, Mrs. Kincaid broached57 the subject abruptly58.
"What are you going to do, Miss Brettan?" she inquired. "Have you anything else in view?"
"No," said Mary hesitatingly; "not yet."
The suppression of her motive59 made plain speaking difficult to both.
"I've no doubt, though," she added, "that I shall be all right."
"What a pity it is! What a pity it is, to be sure!"
"Oh, you mustn't grieve about me!" she exclaimed; "it isn't worth that; I'm not worth it. You know—you know, so many women in the world have to make a living; and they do make it, somehow. It's only one more."
"And so many women find they can't! Tell me, must you go? Are you quite sure you're not exaggerating the necessity? I don't ask you your reasons, I never meddle60 in people's private affairs. But are you sure you aren't looking on anything in a false light and going to extremes?"
"Oh!" responded Mary, carried into sudden candour, "do you suppose I don't shiver at the prospect61? Do you suppose it attracts me? I'm not a girl, I'm not quixotic; I can't stop here!"
The elder woman sighed.
"Why couldn't you care for such a good fellow as my son?" she thought. "Then there would have been none of this bother for any of us!"
"I hope you'll be fortunate," she said gently. "Anything I can do to help you, of course, I will!"
"Thank you," said Mary.
"I mean, you mustn't scruple62 to refer to me; it's your only chance. Without any references——"
"Yes, I know too well how indispensable they are; but——"
"You have been here two years. I shall say I should have liked it to remain your home."
"Thank you," said Mary, again. But she was by no means certain that she could avail herself of this recommendation given in ignorance of the truth. It was precisely63 the matter that she had been debating. If she attempted to avail herself of it, the doctor might have something to say; and she was loath64 to be indebted for testimony65 from the mother which the son would know to be undeserved, whether he interfered66, or not; she wanted her renunciation to be complete. Yet, without this source of aid——She trembled. How speedily the few pounds in her possession would vanish! how soon there would be a revival68 of her past experience, with all its heartlessness and squalor! In imagination she was already footsore, adrift in the London streets.
"Mrs. Kincaid——" she cried. A passionate69 impulse seized her to declare everything. If she had been seventeen, she would have knelt at the old woman's feet, for it is not so much the vehemence70 of our moods that diminishes with time as the power of restraint that increases.
"Mrs. Kincaid, you must know? You must guess why——"
"I know nothing," said the old woman, quickly; "I don't guess!" The colour sank from her face, and Mary had never heard her speak with so much energy. "My son shall tell me—I have a son—I will not hear from you!"
"I beg your pardon," said Mary; and they were silent.
The same evening Mrs. Kincaid sent a message to the hospital, asking her son to come round to see her.
She had not mentioned that she was going to do so, and it was with a little shock that Mary heard the order given. She supposed, however, that it was given in her presence by way of a hint, and when the time-approached for him to arrive, she withdrew.
He came with misgivings71 and with relief. The last twenty-four hours had inclined him to the state of tension in which the unexpected is always the portentous72, but in which one waits, nevertheless, for something unlooked-for to occur. He did not know what he dreaded73 to hear, but the summons alarmed him, even while he welcomed it for permitting him to go to the house.
He threw a rapid glance round the parlour, and replied to his mother's greeting with quick interrogation.
"What has happened?"
"Nothing of grave importance has happened. I want to speak to you."
"I was afraid something was the matter," he said, more easily. "What is it?"
He took the seat opposite to her, and she was dismayed to observe the alteration75 in him. She contemplated76 him a few seconds irresolutely77.
"Philip," she said, "this afternoon Miss Brettan was anxious to tell me something; she was anxious to make me her confidant. And I wouldn't listen to her."
"Oh?" he said.... "And you wouldn't listen to her?"
"No, I wouldn't listen to her. I said, 'My son shall tell me, or I won't hear.' This afternoon I had no more idea of sending for you than you had of coming. But I have been thinking it over; she's in your mother's house, and she's the woman you love. You do love her, Philip?"
"I asked her to be my wife," he answered simply.
"I thought so. And she refused you?"
"Yes, she refused me. If I haven't told you before, it was because she refused me. To have spoken of it to you would have been to give pain—needless pain—to you and to her."
Mrs. Kincaid considered.
"You are quite right," she admitted; "your mistake was to suppose I shouldn't see it for myself." She turned her eyes from him and looked ostentatiously in another direction. "Now," she added, "she is going away! Perhaps you already knew, but——"
"No," he replied, "I didn't know; I thought it likely, but I didn't know. I understand why you sent for me."
He got up and went across to her, and kissed her on the brow.
"I understand why it was you sent for me," he repeated. "What a tender little mother it is! And to lose her companion, too!"
Where he leant beside her, she could not see how white his face had grown.
"Are we going to let her go, Phil?"
He stroked her hand.
"I am afraid we must let her go, mother, as she doesn't want to stop."
"You don't mean to interfere67, then? You won't do anything to prevent it?"
"I am not able to prevent it," he rejoined coldly. "I have no authority."
"Indeed?" murmured Mrs. Kincaid. "It seems I might have spared my pains."
"No," said her son; "your pains were well taken. I'm very glad you have spoken to me—or rather I'm very glad to have spoken to you—for you know now I meant no wrong by my silence."
"But—but, Philip——"
"But Miss Brettan must go mother, because she wishes to!"
"I don't understand you," exclaimed Mrs. Kincaid, bewildered. "I never thought you would care for any woman at all—you never struck me as the sort of man, somehow; but now that you do care, you can't surely mean that you think it right for the woman to leave the only place where she has any friends and go out into the world by herself? Don't you say you are in love with her?"
"I asked Miss Brettan to marry me," he answered. "Since you put the question, I do think it right for her to leave the place; I think every woman would wish to leave in the circumstances. I think it would be indelicate to restrain her."
"Your sense of delicacy78 is very acute for a lover," said the old lady grimly; "much too fine a thing to be comfortable. And I'll tell you what is greater still—your pride. Don't imagine you take me in for a moment; look behind you in the glass and ask yourself if it's likely!"
He had moved apart from her now and was lounging on the hearth79, but he did not attempt to follow her advice. Nor did he deny the implication.
"I look pretty bad," he acknowledged, "I know. But you're mistaken, for all that; my pride has nothing to do with it."
"You're making yourself ill at the prospect of losing her, and yet you won't——Not but what she must be mad to reject you, certainly I am not standing80 up for her, don't think it! I don't say I wanted to see you fond of her—I should have preferred to see you marry someone who would have been of use to you and helped you in your career. You might have done a great deal better; and I am sure I understand your having a proper pride in the matter and objecting to beg her to remain. But, for all that, if you do find so much in this particular woman that you are going to be miserable81 without her, why, I can say something to induce her to stop!"
"To the woman you would prefer me not to marry?" he said wearily. "But you mustn't do it, mother."
"I do want to see you marry her, Philip; I want to see you happy. You don't follow me a bit. Since the dread74 of her loss can make you look like that, you mustn't lose her; that's what I say."
"I have lost her," he returned; "I follow you very well. You think I might have married a princess, and you would have viewed that with a little pang82 too. You would give me to Miss Brettan with a big pang, but you'd give me to her because you think I want her."
"That is it—not a very big pang, either; I know every man is the best judge of his own life. Indeed, it oughtn't to be a pang at all; I don't think it is a pang, only a tiny A sweet-heart is always a mother's rival just at first, Phil; and I suppose it's always the mother's fault. But one day, when you're married to Mary, and a boy of your own falls in love with a strange girl, your wife will tell you how she feels. She'll explain it to you better that I can, and then you'll know how your mother felt and it won't seem so unnatural."
"Oh," he said, "hush83! Don't! I shall never be married to Mary."
"Yes," she declared, "you will. When you say that, you're not the 'best judge' any longer; it isn't judgment84, it's pique85, and I'm not going to have your life spoiled by pique and want of resolution. Phil, Phil, you're the last man I should have thought would have allowed a thing he wanted to slip through his fingers. And a woman—women often say 'no,' to begin with. It's not the girls who are to be had for the asking who make the best wives; the ones who are hardest to win are generally the worthiest86 to hold. Don't accept her answer, Phil! I'll persuade her to stay on, and at first you needn't come very often—I won't mind any more, I shall know what it means; and when you do come, I'll help you and tell you what to do. She shall get fond of you; you shall have the woman you want—I promise her to you!"
"Mother," he said—the pallor had touched his lips—"don't say that! Don't go on talking of what can't be. It's no misunderstanding to be made up; it isn't any courtship to be aided. I tell you you can no more give me Mary Brettan for my wife than you can give my childhood back to me out of eternity87."
"And I tell you I will!" said she. "'Faint-heart——' But you shall have your 'fair lady'! Yes, instead of—you remember what we used to say to you when you were a little boy? 'There's a monkey up your back, Phil!'—you shall have your fair lady instead of the monkey that's up your back. It's a full-grown monkey to-night and you're too obstinate88 to listen to reason. By-and-by you'll see you were wrong. She is suited to you; the more I think about it, the more convinced I am she would make you comfortable. You might have thrown yourself away on some silly girl without a thought beyond her hats and frocks! And she's interested in your profession; you've always been able to talk to her about it; she understands these things better than I do."
"Listen," exclaimed Kincaid with repressed passion, "listen, and remember what you said just now—that I am a man, to judge for myself! You mustn't ask Miss Brettan to stay, and you are not to think that it is her going that makes me unhappy. My hope is over. Between her and me there would never be any marriage if she remained for years. Everything was said, and it was answered, and it is done."
He bit the end from a cigar, and smoked a little before he spoke any more. When he did speak, his tones were under control; anyone from whom his face had been hidden would have pronounced the words stronger than the feeling that dictated89 them.
"Something else: after to-night don't talk to me about her. I don't want to hear; it's not pleasant to me. If you want to prove your affection, prove it by that! While she's here I can't see you; when she's gone, let us talk as if she had never been!"
The aspect of the man showed of what a tremendous strain this affected90 calmness was the outcome. Indeed, the deliberateness of the words, even more than the words themselves, hushed her into a conviction of his sincerity91, which was disquieting92 because she found it so inexplicable93. She smoothed the folds of her dress, casting at him, from time to time, glances full of wistfulness and pity; and at last she said, in the voice of a person who resigns herself to bewilderment:
"Well, of course I'll do as you wish. But you have both very queer notions of what is right, that's certain; help seems equally repugnant to the pair of you."
"Why do you say that?" inquired Kincaid. "What help has Miss Brettan declined?"
"She was reluctant to refer anybody to me, I thought, when I mentioned the matter to-day. I suppose that was another instance of delicacy over my head."
"The reference? She won't make use of it?"
"She seemed very doubtful of doing so. I said: 'Without any reference, what on earth will become of you?' And she said, 'Yes, she understood, but——' But something; I forget exactly what it was now."
"But that's insane!" he said imperatively94.
"She'll be helpless without it. She has been your companion, and you have had no fault to find with her; you can conscientiously95 say so."
He rose, and shook his coat clear of the ash that had fallen in a lump from the cigar.
"Nothing that has passed between Miss Brettan and me can affect her right to your testimony to the two years that she has lived with you; I should like her to know I said so."
"I will tell her," affirmed his mother. "What are you going to do?"
"It's getting late.... By the way, there's another thing. It will be a long while before she finds another home, at the best; she mustn't think I have anything to do with it, but I want her to take some money before she goes, to keep her from distress96.... Where did I leave my hat?"
"You want me to persuade her to take some money, as if it were from me?"
"Yes, as if it were from you—fifty pounds—to keep her from distress.... Did I hang it up outside?"
His mother went across to him and wound her arms about his neck.
"Can you spare so much, Philip?"
"I have been putting by," he said, "for some time."
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1
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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2
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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3
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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4
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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7
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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8
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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9
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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10
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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19
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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lethargically
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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36
contemning
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的现在分词 ) | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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40
inception
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| n.开端，开始，取得学位 | |
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41
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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42
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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43
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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44
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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45
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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chimerical
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| adj.荒诞不经的，梦幻的 | |
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obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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defilement
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| n.弄脏，污辱，污秽 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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shrillness
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| 尖锐刺耳 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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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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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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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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