Lady Orlay, it may be remembered, was one of those who attempt to keep their acquaintances in the right place—that is to say, in the background of her life. With this object in view, she had an “at home” day, hoping that her acquaintances would come to see her then and not stay too long. To-day was not that day.
“I know I ought not to have come this afternoon,” explained Netty, with a rather shy haste, as she shook hands. “But I could not wait until next Tuesday, because we sail that day.”
“Then you are going home again?”
“Yes,” she said, looking from one to the other with the soft blush still in her cheeks—“yes, and I am engaged to be married.”
“Ah!” said Deulin. And his voice meant a great deal, while his eyes said nothing.
“Do we know the—gentleman?” asked Lady Orlay kindly3. She was noting, with her quick and clever eyes, that Netty seemed happy and was exquisitely4 dressed. She was quite ready to be really interested in this idyl.
“I do not know,” answered Netty. “He is not unknown in London. His name is Burris.”
“Oh!” said Lady Orlay, “the comp—” Then she remembered that to call a fellow-creature a company promoter is practically a libel. “The millionaire?” she concluded, rather lamely5.
“I believe he is very rich,” admitted Netty, “though, of course—”
“No, of course not,” Lady Orlay hastened to say. “I congratulate you, and wish you every happiness.”
She turned rather abruptly6 towards Deulin, as if to give the next word to him. He took it promptly7.
“And I,” he said, with his old-world bow and deprecatory outspreading of the hands—“I wish you all the happiness—that money can buy.”
Then he walked towards the fireplace, and stood there with his shoulder turned towards them while the two ladies discussed that which was to be Netty's future life. Her husband would be old enough to be her father, but he was a millionaire twice over—in London and New York. He had, moreover, a house in each of those great cities, of which details appeared from time to time in the illustrated8 monthly magazines.
“So I shall hope to be in London every year,” said Netty, “and to see all the friends who have been so kind to us—you and Lord Orlay and Mr. Deulin.”
“And Reginald Cartoner,” suggested Deulin, turning to look over his shoulder for the change which he knew would come into Netty's eyes. And it came.
“Yes,” she said. She looked as if she would like to ask a question, but did not give way to the temptation. She did not know that Cartoner was in the house at that moment, and Wanda, too. She did not know that Deulin had brought Wanda to London to stay at Lady Orlay's until Martin effected his escape and joined his sister in England. She only knew what the world now knew—that Price Martin Bukaty had died and been buried at sea. It was very sad, she had said, he was so nice.
Deulin did not join in the conversation again. He seemed to be interested in the fire, and Lady Orlay glanced at him once or twice, seeking to recall him to a sense of his social obligations. He had taken an envelope from his pocket, and, having torn it in two, had thrown it on the fire, where it was smouldering now on the coals. It was a soiled and worn envelope, as if it had passed through vicissitudes9; there seemed to be something inside it which burned and gave forth10 an aromatic11 odor.
He was still watching the fire when Netty rose and took her leave. When the door closed again Lady Orlay went towards the fire.
“What is that in which you are so deeply interested that you quite forgot to be polite?” she said to Deulin. “Is it a letter?”
“It is a love-token,” answered the Frenchman.
“For Netty Cahere?”
“No. For the woman that some poor fool supposed her to be.”
Lady Orlay touched the envelope with the toe of a slipper12 which was still neat and small, so that it fell into the glowing centre of the fire and was there consumed.
“Perhaps you have assumed a great responsibility,” she said.
“I have, and I shall carry it lightly to heaven if I get there.”
“It has a smell of violets,” said Lady Orlay, looking down into the fire.
“They are violets—from Warsaw,” admitted Deulin. “Wanda is in?” he asked, gravely.
“Yes; they are in the study. I will send for her.”
“I have received a letter from her father,” said Deulin, with his hand on the bell.
Wanda came into the room a few minutes later. She was, of course, in mourning for Martin now, as well as for Poland. But she still carried her head high and faced the world with unshrinking eyes. Cartoner followed her into the room, his thoughtful glance reading Deulin's face.
“You have news?”
“I have heard from your father at last.”
The Frenchman took the letter from his pocket, and his manner of unfolding it must have conveyed the intimation that he was not going to give it to Wanda, but intended to read it aloud, for Lady Orlay walked to the other end of the long room, out of hearing. Cartoner was about to follow her, when Wanda turned and glanced at him, and he stayed.
“The letter begins,” said Deulin, unconsciously falling into a professional preliminary—
“'I have received Cartoner's letter supplementing the account given by the man who was with Martin at the last. I remember Captain Cable quite well. When we met him at the Signal House, at Northfleet, I little thought that he would be called upon to render the last earthly service to my son. So it was he who read the last words. And Martin was buried in the Baltic. You, my old friend, know all that I have given to Poland. The last gift has been the hardest to part with. Some day I hope to write to Cartoner, but not now. He is not a man to attach much importance to words. He is, I think, a man to understand silence. At present I cannot write, as I am virtually a prisoner in my own house. From a high quarter I have received a gracious intimation that my affairs are under the special attention of a beneficent monarch13, and that I am so far to be mercifully forgiven that a sentence of perpetual confinement14 within the barriers of Warsaw will be deemed sufficient punishment for—not having been found out. But my worst enemies are my own party. Nothing can now convince them that Martin and I did not betray the plot. Moreover, Cartoner's name is freely coupled with ours. So they believe. So it will go down to history, and nothing that we can say will make any difference. That I find myself in company with Cartoner in this error only strengthens the feeling of friendship, of which I was conscious when we first met. Beg him, for his own sake, never to cross this frontier again. Ask him, for mine, to avoid making any sign of friendship towards me or mine.'”
As fate ruled it, the letter required turning at this point, and Deulin, for the first time in his life, perhaps, made a mistake at a crucial moment. He allowed his voice to break on the next word, and had to pause for an instant before he could proceed.
“Then follow,” he said, rather uneasily, “certain passages to myself which I need not read. Further on he proceeds: 'I am in good health. Better, indeed, than when I last saw you. I am, in fact, a very tough old man, and may live to give much trouble yet.'”
“So, you see, he seems very cheerful,” he said, as if it was the letter that had laughed. He folded the paper and replaced it in his pocket. “He seems to be getting on very well without you, you perceive,” he added, smiling at Wanda. But he lacked conviction. There was in his voice and manner a dim suggestion of the losing game, consciously played.
“May I read the letter for myself?” asked Wanda, holding out her slim, steady hand.
After a moment's hesitation17, Deulin took the folded paper from his pocket and handed it to her. Lady Orlay had returned to the group standing18 near the fire. He turned and met her eyes, making an imperceptible movement of his eyebrows19, as of one who had made an attempt and failed. They waited in silence while Wanda read the letter, and at length she handed it back to him.
“Yes,” she said, “I read it differently. It is not only the world which appears differently to two different people, even a letter may have two meanings to two readers. You shed a sort of gayety upon that——”
She indicated the letter which he still held in his hand, and Deulin deprecated the suggestion by a shrug20 of the shoulders.
“—which is not really there. To me it is the letter of a broken-hearted man,” she added slowly. There was an odd pause, during which Wanda seemed to reflect. She was at the parting of the ways. Even Deulin had nothing to say. He could not point out the path. Perhaps Cartoner had already done so by his own life, without any words at all.
“I shall go to Warsaw to-night,” she said at last to Lady Orlay, “if you will not think me wanting in manners. Believe me, I do not lack gratitude21. But—you understand?”
“Yes, dear, I understand,” replied the woman who had known happiness. And she closed her lips quickly, as if she feared that they might falter22.
“It is so clearly my duty, and duty is best, is it not?” said Wanda. As she spoke23 she turned to Cartoner. The question was asked of none other. It was unto his judgment24 that she gave her case; to his wisdom she submitted the verdict of her life. She wished him to give it before these people. As if she took a subtle pride in showing them that he was what she knew him to be. She was sure of her lover; which is, perhaps, happiness enough for this world.
“Duty is best, is it not?” she repeated.
“It is the only thing,” he answered.
Deulin was the first to speak. He had strong views upon last words and partings. The mere25 thought of such things made him suddenly energetic and active. He turned to Wanda with his watch in his hand.
“Your mind is made up?” he asked. “You go to-night?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must go at once to see to your passport and make arrangements for the journey. I take you as far as Alexandrowo. I cannot take you across the frontier, you understand?”
He turned to Cartoner.
“And you? When do you go to Spain?”
“To-night,” was the answer.
“Then good-bye.” The Frenchman held out his hand, and in a moment was at the door. Lady Orlay followed him out of the room and closed the door behind her. She followed him down-stairs. In the hall they stood and looked at each other in silence. There were tears in the woman's eyes. But Deulin's smile was sadder.
“And this is the end,” he said—“the end!”
“No,” said Lady Orlay; “it is not. It cannot be. I have never known a great happiness yet that was not built upon the wreckage26 of other happinesses. That is why happy people are never gay. It is not the end, Paul. Heaven is kind.”
“Sometimes,” answered Deulin, grudgingly27. On the door-step he paused, and, facing her suddenly, he made a gesture indicating himself, commanding her attention to his long life and story. “Sometimes, milady.”
The End
The End
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1
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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2
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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3
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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4
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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5
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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6
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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7
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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8
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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9
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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10
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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11
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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12
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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13
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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14
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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15
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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16
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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17
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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18
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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19
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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20
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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21
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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22
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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23
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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24
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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25
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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26
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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27
grudgingly
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