Among others, it was a strange thing that Jocelyn felt no surprise at meeting the name of Millicent Chyne on the lips of another man. Women understand these things better than we do. They understand each other, and they seem to have a practical way of accepting human nature as it is which we never learn to apply to our fellowmen. They never bluster1 as we do, nor expect impossibilities from the frail2.
Another somewhat singular residue3 left, as it were, in Jocelyn's mind when the storm of emotion had subsided5 was a certain indefinite tenderness for Millicent Chyne. She felt sure that Jack6 Meredith's feeling for her was that feeling vaguely7 called the right one, and, as such, unalterable. To this knowledge the subtle sympathy for Millicent was perhaps attributable. But navigation with pen and thought among the shoals and depths of a woman's heart is hazardous8 and uncertain.
Coupled with this—as only a woman could couple contradictions—was an unpardoning abhorrence9 for the deceit practised. But Jocelyn knew the world well enough to suspect that, if she were ever brought face to face with her meanness, Millicent would be able to bring about her own forgiveness. It is the knowledge of this lamentable10 fact that undermines the feminine sense of honour.
Lastly, there was a calm acceptance of the fact that Guy Oscard must and would inevitably11 go to the wall. There could be no comparison between the two men. Millicent Chyne could scarcely hesitate for a moment. That she herself must likewise suffer uncomplainingly, inevitably, seemed to be an equally natural consequence in Jocelyn Gordon's mind.
She could not go to Jack Meredith and say:
“This woman is deceiving you, but I love you, and my love is a nobler, grander thing than hers. It is no passing fancy of a giddy, dazzled girl, but the deep strong passion of a woman almost in the middle of her life. It is a love so complete, so sufficing, that I know I could make you forget this girl. I could so envelop12 you with love, so watch over you and care for you, and tend you and understand you, that you MUST be happy. I feel that I could make you happier than any other woman in the world could make you.”
Jocelyn Gordon could not do this; and all the advanced females in the world, all the blue stockings and divided skirts, all the wild women and those who pant for burdens other than children, will never bring it to pass that women can say such things.
And precisely13 because she could not say this, Jocelyn felt hot and sick at the very thought that Jack Meredith should learn aught of Millicent Chyne from her. Her own inner motive14 in divulging15 what she had learnt from Guy Oscard could never for a moment be hidden behind a wish, however sincere, to act for the happiness of two honourable16 gentlemen.
Jocelyn had no one to consult—no one to whom she could turn, in the maddening difficulty of her position, for advice or sympathy. She had to work it out by herself, steering17 through the quicksands by that compass that knows no deviation—the compass of her own honour and maidenly18 reserve.
Just because she was so sure of her own love she felt that she could never betray the falseness of Millicent Chyne. She felt somehow that Millicent's fall in Jack Meredith's estimation would drag down with it the whole of her sex, and consequently herself. She did not dare to betray Millicent, because the honour of her sex must be held up by an exaggerated honour in herself. Thus her love for Jack Meredith tied her hands, while she stood idly by to see him wreck19 his own life by what could only be a miserable20 union.
With the clear sight of the onlooker21, Jocelyn Gordon now saw that, by Jack Meredith's own showing, Millicent was quite unworthy of him. But she also remembered words, silences, and hints which demonstrated with lamentable plainness the fact that he loved her. She was old enough and sufficiently22 experienced to avoid the futile23 speculation24 as to what had attracted this love. She knew that men marry women who in the estimation of onlooking25 relatives are unworthy of them, and live happily ever afterwards, without deeming it necessary to explain to those relatives how it comes about.
Now it happened that this woman—Jocelyn Gordon—was not one of those who gracefully26 betray themselves at the right moment and are immediately covered with a most becoming confusion. She was strong to hold to her purpose, to subdue27 herself, to keep silent. And this task she set herself, having thought it all carefully out in the little flower-scented verandah, so full of pathetic association. But it must be remembered that she in no wise seemed to see the pathos29 in her own life. She was unconscious of romance. It was all plain fact, and the plainest was her love for Jack Meredith.
Her daily life was in no perceptible way changed. Maurice Gordon saw no difference. She had never been an hilarious30 person. Now she went about her household, her kindnesses, and unobtrusive good works with a quieter mien31; but, when occasion or social duty demanded, she seemed perhaps a little readier than before to talk of indifferent topics, to laugh at indifferent wit. Those who have ears to hear and eyes wherewith to see learn to distrust the laugh that is too ready, the sympathy that flows in too broad a stream. Happiness is self-absorbed.
Four months elapsed, and the excitement created in the small world of Western Africa by the first dazzling success of the Simiacine Expedition began to subside4. The thing took its usual course. At first the experts disbelieved, and then they prophesied32 that it could not last. Finally, the active period of envy, hatred33, and malice34 gave way to a sullen35 tolerance36 not unmixed with an indefinite grudge37 towards Fortune who had favoured the brave once more.
Maurice Gordon was in daily expectation of news from that far-off favoured spot they vaguely called the Plateau. And Jocelyn did not pretend to conceal38 from herself the hope that filled her whole being—the hope that Jack Meredith might bring the news in person.
Instead, came Victor Durnovo.
He came upon her one evening when she was walking slowly home from a mild tea-party at the house of a missionary39. Hearing footsteps on the sandy soil, she turned, and found herself face to face with Durnovo.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, and her voice thrilled with some emotion which he did not understand. “Ah, it is you!”
“Yes,” he said, holding her hand a little longer than was necessary. “It is I.”
His journey from Msala through the more civilised reaches of the lower river, his voyage in the coasting boat, and his arrival at Loango, had partaken of the nature of a triumphal progress. Victor Durnovo was elated—like a girl in a new dress.
“I was coming along to see you,” he said, and there was a subtle offence in his tone.
She did not trouble to tell him that Maurice was away for ten days. She felt that he knew that. There was a certain truculence40 in his walk which annoyed her; but she was wonderingly conscious of the fact that she was no longer afraid of him. This feeling had as yet taken no definite shape. She did not know what she felt, but she knew that there was no fear in her mind.
“Have you been successful?” she asked, with a certain negative kindness of tone bred of this new self-confidence.
“I should think we had! Why, the lot that Oscard brought down was a fortune in itself. But you saw Oscard, of course. Did he stay at the bungalow41?”
“No; he stayed at the hotel.”
“Did you like him?”
“Yes, very much.”
“He is a nice fellow, first-rate fellow. Of course, he has his faults, but he and I got on splendidly. He's—engaged, you know.”
“So he told me.”
Durnovo glanced at her again searchingly, and looked relieved. He gave an awkward little laugh.
“And I understand,” he said, “that Meredith is in the same enviable position.”
“Indeed!”
Durnovo indulged in a meaning silence.
“When do you go back?” she asked carelessly.
“Almost at once,” in a tone that apologised for causing her necessary pain. “I must leave to-morrow or the next day. I do not like the idea of Meredith being left too long alone up there with a reduced number of men. Of course, I had to bring a pretty large escort. I brought down sixty thousand pounds worth of Simiacine.”
“Yes,” she said; “and you take all the men back to-morrow?”
He did not remember having stated for certain that he was leaving the next day.
“Have you had any more sickness among the men?” she asked at once, in a tone of irony44 which made him wince45.
“No,” he answered, “they have been quite all right.”
“What time do you start?” she asked. “There are letters for Mr. Meredith at the office. Maurice's head clerk will give them to you.”
She knew that these letters were from Millicent. She had actually had them in her hand. She had inhaled46 the faint, refined scent28 of the paper and envelopes.
“You will be careful that they are not lost, won't you?” she said, tearing at her own heart with a strange love of the pain. “They may be important.”
“Oh, I will deliver them sharp enough,” he answered. “I suppose I had better start to-morrow.”
“I should think so,” she replied quietly, with that gentle mendacity which can scarcely be grudged47 to women, because they are so poorly armed. “I should think so. You know what these men are. Every hour they have in Loango demoralises them more and more.”
They had reached the gate of the bungalow garden. She turned and held out her hand in an undeniable manner. He bade her good-bye and went his way, wondering vaguely what had happened to them both. The conversation had taken quite a different turn to what he had expected and intended. But somehow it had got beyond his control. He had looked forward to a very different ending to the interview. And now he found himself returning somewhat disconsolately48 to the wretched hotel in Loango—dismissed—sent back.
The next day he actually left the little West African coast town, turning his face northward49 with bad grace. Even at that distance, he feared Jack Meredith's half-veiled sarcasm50. He knew that nothing could be hidden for long from the Englishman's suavely51 persistent52 inquiry53 and deduction54. Besides, the natives were no longer safe. Meredith, with the quickness of a cultured linguist55, had picked up enough of their language to understand them, while Joseph talked freely with them in that singular mixture of slang and vernacular56 which follows the redcoat all over the world. Durnovo had only been allowed to come down to the coast under a promise, gracefully veiled, but distinct enough, that he should only remain twenty-four hours in Loango.
Jocelyn avoided seeing him again. She was forced to forego the opportunity of hearing much that she wanted to learn because Durnovo, the source of the desired knowledge, was unsafe. But the relief from the suspense57 of the last few months was in itself a consolation58. All seemed to be going on well at the Plateau. Danger is always discounted at sight; and Jocelyn felt comparatively easy respecting the present welfare of Jack Meredith, living as she did on the edge of danger.
Four days later she was riding through the native town of Loango, accompanied by a lady-friend, when she met Victor Durnovo. The sight of him gave her a distinct shock. She knew that he had left Loango three days before with all his men. There was no doubt about that. Moreover, his air was distinctly furtive—almost scared. It was evident that the chance meeting was as undesired by him as it was surprising to her.
“I thought you had left,” she said shortly, pulling up her horse with undeniable decision.
“Yes... but I have come back—for—for more men.”
She knew he was lying, and he felt that she knew.
“Indeed!” she said. “You are not a good starter.”
She turned her horse's head, nodded to her friend, bowed coldly to Durnovo, and trotted59 towards home. When she had reached the corner of the rambling60, ill-paved street, she touched her horse. The animal responded. She broke into a gentle canter, which made the little children cease their play and stare. In the forest she applied61 the spurs, and beneath the whispering trees, over the silent sand, the girl galloped62 home as fast as her horse could lay legs to the ground.
Jocelyn Gordon was one of those women who rise slowly to the occasion, and the limit of their power seems at times to be only defined by the greatness of the need.
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1
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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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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6
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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7
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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10
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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12
envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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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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divulging
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的现在分词 ) | |
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16
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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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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onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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onlooking
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| n.目击，旁观adj.旁观的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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30
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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31
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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32
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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34
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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35
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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38
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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39
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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40
truculence
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| n.凶猛，粗暴 | |
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41
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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42
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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43
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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44
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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45
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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46
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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48
disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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49
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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50
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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51
suavely
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52
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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53
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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54
deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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55
linguist
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| n.语言学家；精通数种外国语言者 | |
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56
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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57
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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58
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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59
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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60
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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61
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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62
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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