“Thus far, you know little or nothing about me, Mr. Dexter,” I said. “You are, as I believe, quite unaware3 that my husband and I are not living together at the present time.”
“Is it necessary to mention your husband?” he asked, coldly, without looking up from his embroidery4, and without pausing in his work.
“It is absolutely necessary,” I answered. “I can explain myself to you in no other way.”
He bent5 his head, and sighed resignedly.
“You and your husband are not living together at the present time,” he resumed. “Does that mean that Eustace has left you?”
“He has left me, and has gone abroad.”
“Without any necessity for it?”
“Without the least necessity.”
“Has he appointed no time for his return to you?”
“If he persevere7 in his present resolution, Mr. Dexter, Eustace will never return to me.”
For the first time he raised his head from his embroidery—with a sudden appearance of interest.
“Is the quarrel so serious as that?” he asked. “Are you free of each other, pretty Mrs. Valeria, by common consent of both parties?”
The tone in which he put the question was not at all to my liking8. The look he fixed9 on me was a look which unpleasantly suggested that I had trusted myself alone with him, and that he might end in taking advantage of it. I reminded him quietly, by my manner more than by my words, of the respect which he owed to me.
“You are entirely10 mistaken,” I said. “There is no anger—there is not even a misunderstanding between us. Our parting has cost bitter sorrow, Mr. Dexter, to him and to me.”
He submitted to be set right with ironical11 resignation. “I am all attention,” he said, threading his needle. “Pray go on; I won’t interrupt you again.” Acting12 on this invitation, I told him the truth about my husband and myself quite unreservedly, taking care, however, at the same time, to put Eustace’s motives13 in the best light that they would bear. Miserrimus Dexter dropped his embroidery on his lap, and laughed softly to himself, with an impish enjoyment15 of my poor little narrative16, which set every nerve in me on edge as I looked at him.
“I see nothing to laugh at,” I said, sharply.
His beautiful blue eyes rested on me with a look of innocent surprise.
“Nothing to laugh at,” he repeated, “in such an exhibition of human folly17 as you have just described?” His expression suddenly changed his face darkened and hardened very strangely. “Stop!” he cried, before I could answer him. “There can be only one reason for you’re taking it as seriously as you do. Mrs. Valeria! you are fond of your husband.”
“Fond of him isn’t strong enough to express it,” I retorted. “I love him with my whole heart.”
Miserrimus Dexter stroked his magnificent beard, and contemplatively repeated my words. “You love him with your whole heart? Do you know why?”
“Because I can’t help it,” I answered, doggedly18.
He smiled satirically, and went on with his embroidery. “Curious!” he said to himself; “Eustace’s first wife loved him too. There are some men whom the women all like, and there are other men whom the women never care for. Without the least reason for it in either case. The one man is just as good as the other; just as handsome, as agreeable, as honorable, and as high in rank as the other. And yet for Number One they will go through fire and water, and for Number Two they won’t so much as turn their heads to look at him. Why? They don’t know themselves—as Mrs. Valeria has just said! Is there a physical reason for it? Is there some potent19 magnetic emanation from Number One which Number Two doesn’t possess? I must investigate this when I have the time, and when I find myself in the humor.” Having so far settled the question to his own entire satisfaction, he looked up at me again. “I am still in the dark about you and your motives,” he said. “I am still as far as ever from understanding what your interest is in investigating that hideous20 tragedy at Gleninch. Clever Mrs. Valeria, please take me by the hand, and lead me into the light. You’re not offended with me are you? Make it up; and I will give you this pretty piece of embroidery when I have done it. I am only a poor, solitary21, deformed22 wretch23, with a quaint24 turn of mind; I mean no harm. Forgive me! indulge me! enlighten me!”
He resumed his childish ways; he recovered his innocent smile, with the odd little puckers25 and wrinkles accompanying it at the corners of his eyes. I began to doubt whether I might not have been unreasonably26 hard on him. I penitently27 resolved to be more considerate toward his infirmities of mind and body during the remainder of my visit.
“Let me go back for a moment, Mr. Dexter, to past times at Gleninch,” I said. “You agree with me in believing Eustace to be absolutely innocent of the crime for which he was tried. Your evidence at the Trial tells me that.”
He paused over his work, and looked at me with a grave and stern attention which presented his face in quite a new light.
“That is our opinion,” I resumed. “But it was not the opinion of the Jury. Their verdict, you remember, was Not Proven. In plain English, the Jury who tried my husband declined to express their opinion, positively28 and publicly, that he was innocent. Am I right?”
Instead of answering, he suddenly put his embroidery back in the basket, and moved the machinery29 of his chair, so as to bring it close by mine.
“Who told you this?” he asked.
“I found it for myself in a book.”
Thus far his face had expressed steady attention—and no more. Now, for the first time, I thought I saw something darkly passing over him which betrayed itself to my mind as rising distrust.
“Ladies are not generally in the habit of troubling their heads about dry questions of law,” he said. “Mrs. Eustace Macallan the Second, you must have some very powerful motive14 for turning your studies that way.”
“I have a very powerful motive, Mr. Dexter My husband is resigned to the Scotch30 Verdict His mother is resigned to it. His friends (so far as I know) are resigned to it—”
“Well?”
“Well! I don’t agree with my husband, or his mother, or his friends. I refuse to submit to the Scotch Verdict.”
The instant I said those words, the madness in him which I had hitherto denied, seemed to break out. He suddenly stretched himself over his chair: he pounced31 on me, with a hand on each of my shoulders; his wild eyes questioned me fiercely, frantically32, within a few inches of my face.
“What do you mean?” he shouted, at the utmost pitch of his ringing and resonant33 voice.
A deadly fear of him shook me. I did my best to hide the outward betrayal of it. By look and word, I showed him, as firmly as I could, that I resented the liberty he had taken with me.
“Remove your hands, sir,” I said, “and retire to your proper place.”
He obeyed me mechanically. He apologized to me mechanically. His whole mind was evidently still filled with the words that I had spoken to him, and still bent on discovering what those words meant.
“I beg your pardon,” he said; “I humbly35 beg your pardon. The subject excites me, frightens me, maddens me. You don’t know what a difficulty I have in controlling myself. Never mind. Don’t take me seriously. Don’t be frightened at me. I am so ashamed of myself—I feel so small and so miserable36 at having offended you. Make me suffer for it. Take a stick and beat me. Tie me down in my chair. Call up Ariel, who is as strong as a horse, and tell her to hold me. Dear Mrs. Valeria! Injured Mrs. Valeria! I’ll endure anything in the way of punishment, if you will only tell me what you mean by not submitting to the Scotch Verdict.” He backed his chair penitently as he made that entreaty37. “Am I far enough away yet?” he asked, with a rueful look. “Do I still frighten you? I’ll drop out of sight, if you prefer it, in the bottom of the chair.”
He lifted the sea-green coverlet. In another moment he would have disappeared like a puppet in a show if I had not stopped him.
“Say nothing more, and do nothing more; I accept your apologies,” I said. “When I tell you that I refuse to submit to the opinion of the Scotch Jury, I mean exactly what my words express. That verdict has left a stain on my husband’s character. He feels the stain bitterly. How bitterly no one knows so well as I do. His sense of his degradation38 is the sense that has parted him from me. It is not enough for him that I am persuaded of his innocence39. Nothing will bring him back to me—nothing will persuade Eustace that I think him worthy40 to be the guide and companion of my life—but the proof of his innocence, set before the Jury which doubts it, and the public which doubts it, to this day. He and his friends and his lawyers all despair of ever finding that proof now. But I am his wife; and none of you love him as I love him. I alone refuse to despair; I alone refuse to listen to reason. If God spare me, Mr. Dexter, I dedicate my life to the vindication41 of my husband’s innocence. You are his old friend—I am here to ask you to help me.”
It appeared to be now my turn to frighten him. The color left his face. He passed his hand restlessly over his forehead, as if he were trying to brush some delusion42 out of his brain.
“Is this one of my dreams?” he asked, faintly. “Are you a Vision of the night?”
“I am only a friendless woman,” I said, “who has lost all that she loved and prized, and who is trying to win it back again.”
He began to move his chair nearer to me once more. I lifted my hand. He stopped the chair directly. There was a moment of silence. We sat watching one another. I saw his hands tremble as he laid them on the coverlet; I saw his face grow paler and paler, and his under lip drop. What dead and buried remembrances had I brought to life in him, in all their olden horror?
He was the first to speak again.
“So this is your interest,” he said, “in clearing up the mystery of Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s death?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe that I can help you?”
“I do.”
He slowly lifted one of his hands, and pointed6 at me with his long forefinger43.
“You suspect somebody,” he said.
The tone in which he spoke34 was low and threatening; it warned me to be careful. At the same time, if I now shut him out of my confidence, I should lose the reward that might yet be to come, for all that I had suffered and risked at that perilous44 interview.
“You suspect somebody,” he repeated.
“Perhaps!” was all that I said in return.
“Is the person within your reach?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you know where the person is?”
“No.”
He laid his head languidly on the back of his chair, with a trembling long-drawn sigh. Was he disappointed? Or was he relieved? Or was he simply exhausted45 in mind and body alike? Who could fathom46 him? Who could say?
“Will you give me five minutes?” he asked, feebly and wearily, without raising his head. “You know already how any reference to events at Gleninch excites and shakes me. I shall be fit for it again, if you will kindly47 give me a few minutes to myself. There are books in the next room. Please excuse me.”
I at once retired48 to the circular antechamber. He followed me in his chair, and closed the door between us.
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1
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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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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10
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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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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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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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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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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16
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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puckers
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的第三人称单数 ) | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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penitently
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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31
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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34
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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35
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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36
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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40
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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41
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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42
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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43
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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44
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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46
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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47
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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48
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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