The grove was a privileged place. Long ago a great number of young beeches4 had been planted so thickly that as they grew they shot up straight and branchless in their struggle for the light. Not till they had reached a considerable altitude had they been thinned; and then the thinning had been so effected that, as the high branches began to shoot out in the freer space, they met in time and interlaced so closely that they made in many places a perfect screen of leafy shade. Here and there were rifts5 or openings through which the light passed; under such places the grass was fine and green, or the wild hyacinths in due season tinged6 the earth with blue. Through the grove some wide alleys7 had been left: great broad walks where the soft grass grew short and fine, and to whose edges came a drooping8 of branches and an upspringing of undergrowth of laurel and rhododendron. At the far ends of these walks were little pavilions of marble built in the classic style which ruled for garden use two hundred years ago. At the near ends some of them were close to the broad stretch of water from whose edges ran back the great sloping banks of emerald sward dotted here and there with great forest trees. The grove was protected by a ha-ha, so that it was never invaded from without, and the servants of the house, both the domestics and the gardeners and grooms9, had been always forbidden to enter it. Thus by long usage it had become a place of quiet and solitude10 for the members of the family.
To this soothing11 spot had come Stephen in her pain. The long spell of self-restraint during that morning had almost driven her to frenzy12, and she sought solitude as an anodyne13 to her tortured soul. The long anguish14 of a third sleepless15 night, following on a day of humiliation16 and terror, had destroyed for a time the natural resilience of a healthy nature. She had been for so long in the prison of her own purpose with Fear as warder; the fetters17 of conventional life had so galled19 her that here in the accustomed solitude of this place, in which from childhood she had been used to move and think freely, she felt as does a captive who has escaped from an irksome durance. As Stephen had all along been free of movement and speech, no such opportunities of freedom called to her. The pent-up passion in her, however, found its own relief. Her voice was silent, and she moved with slow steps, halting often between the green tree-trunks in the cool shade; but her thoughts ran free, and passion found a vent18. No stranger seeing the tall, queenly girl moving slowly through the trees could have imagined the fierce passion which blazed within her, unless he had been close enough to see her eyes. The habit of physical restraint to which all her life she had been accustomed, and which was intensified20 by the experience of the past thirty-six hours, still ruled her, even here. Gradually the habit of security began to prevail, and the shackles21 to melt away. Here had she come in all her childish troubles. Here had she fought with herself, and conquered herself. Here the spirits of the place were with her and not against her. Here memory in its second degree, habit, gave her the full sense of spiritual freedom.
As she walked to and fro the raging of her spirit changed its objective: from restraint to its final causes; and chief amongst them the pride which had been so grievously hurt. How she loathed22 the day that had passed, and how more than all she hated herself for her part in it; her mad, foolish, idiotic23, self-importance which gave her the idea of such an act and urged her to the bitter end of its carrying out; her mulish obstinacy24 in persisting when every fibre of her being had revolted at the doing, and when deep in her inmost soul was a deterring25 sense of its futility26. How could she have stooped to have done such a thing: to ask a man . . . oh! the shame of it, the shame of it all! How could she have been so blind as to think that such a man was worthy27! . . .
In the midst of her whirlwind of passion came a solitary28 gleam of relief: she knew with certainty that she did not love Leonard; that she had never loved him. The coldness of disdain29 to him, the fear of his future acts which was based on disbelief of the existence of that finer nature with which she had credited him, all proved to her convincingly that he could never really have been within the charmed circle of her inner life. Did she but know it, there was an even stronger evidence of her indifference30 to him in the ready manner in which her thoughts flew past him in their circling sweep. For a moment she saw him as the centre of a host of besetting31 fears; but her own sense of superior power nullified the force of the vision. She was able to cope with him and his doings, were there such need. And so her mind flew back to the personal side of her trouble: her blindness, her folly32, her shame.
In truth she was doing good work for herself. Her mind was working truly and to a beneficent end. One by one she was overcoming the false issues of her passion and drifting to an end in which she would see herself face to face and would place so truly the blame for what had been as to make it a warning and ennobling lesson of her life. She moved more quickly, passing to and fro as does a panther in its cage when the desire of forest freedom is heavy upon it.
That which makes the irony34 of life will perhaps never be understood in its casual aspect by the finite mind of man. The ‘why’ and ‘wherefore’ and the ‘how’ of it is only to be understood by that All-wise intelligence which can scan the future as well as the present, and see the far far-reaching ramifications35 of those schemes of final development to which the manifestation36 of completed character tend.
To any mortal it would seem a pity that to Stephen in her solitude, when her passion was working itself out to an end which might be good, should come an interruption which would throw it back upon itself in such a way as to multiply its malignant37 force. But again it is a part of the Great Plan that instruments whose use man’s finite mind could never predicate should be employed: the seeming good to evil, the seeming evil to good.
As she swept to and fro, her raging spirit compelling to violent movement, Stephen’s eyes were arrested by the figure of a man coming through the aisles38 of the grove. At such a time any interruption of her passion was a cause for heightening anger; but the presence of a person was as a draught39 to a full-fed furnace. Most of all, in her present condition of mind, the presence of a man—for the thought of a man lay behind all her trouble, was as a tornado40 striking a burning forest. The blood of her tortured heart seemed to leap to her brain and to suffuse41 her eyes. She ‘saw blood’!
It mattered not that the man whom she saw she knew and trusted. Indeed, this but added fuel to the flame. In the presence of a stranger some of her habitual42 self-restraint would doubtless have come back to her. But now the necessity for such was foregone; Harold was her alter ego43, and in his presence was safety. He was, in this aspect, but a higher and more intelligent rendering44 of the trees around her. In another aspect he was an opportune45 victim, something to strike at. When the anger of a poison snake opens its gland46, and the fang47 is charged with venom48, it must strike at something. It does not pause or consider what it may be; it strikes, though it may be at stone or iron. So Stephen waited till her victim was within distance to strike. Her black eyes, fierce with passion and blood-rimmed as a cobra’s, glittered as he passed among the tree-trunks towards her, eager with his errand of devotion.
Harold was a man of strong purpose. Had he not been, he would never have come on his present errand. Never, perhaps, had any suitor set forth49 on his quest with a heavier heart. All his life, since his very boyhood, had been centred round the girl whom to-day he had come to serve. All his thought had been for her: and to-day all he could expect was a gentle denial of all his hopes, so that his future life would be at best a blank.
But he would be serving Stephen! His pain might be to her good; ought to be, to a certain extent, to her mental ease. Her wounded pride would find some solace50 . . . As he came closer the feeling that he had to play a part, veritably to act one, came stronger and stronger upon him, and filled him with bitter doubt as to his power. Still he went on boldly. It had been a part of his plan to seem to come eagerly, as a lover should come; and so he came. When he got close to Stephen, all the witchery of her presence came upon him as of old. After all, he loved her with his whole soul; and the chance had come to tell her so. Even under the distressing51 conditions of his suit, the effort had its charm.
Stephen schooled herself to her usual attitude with him; and that, too, since the effort was based on truth came with a certain ease to her. At the present time, in her present frame of mind, nothing in the wide world could give her pleasure; the ease which came, if it did not change her purpose, increased her power. Their usual salutation, begun when she was a little baby, was ‘Good morning, Stephen!’ ‘Good morning, Harold!’ It had become so much a custom that now it came mechanically on her part. The tender reference to childhood’s days, though it touched her companion to the quick, did not appeal to her since she had no special thought of it. Had such a thought come to her it might have softened52 her even to tears, for Harold had been always deep in her heart. As might have been expected from her character and condition of mind, she was the first to begin:
‘I suppose you want to see me about something special, Harold, you have come so early.’
‘Yes, Stephen. Very special!’
‘Were you at the house?’ she asked in a voice whose quietness might have conveyed a warning. She was so suspicious now that she suspected even Harold of—of what she did not know. He answered in all simplicity53:
‘No. I came straight here.’
‘How did you know I should be here?’ Her voice was now not only quiet but sweet. Without thinking, Harold blundered on. His intention was so single-minded, and his ignorance of woman so complete, that he did not recognise even elementary truths:
‘I knew you always came here long ago when you were a child when you were in—’ Here it suddenly flashed upon him that if he seemed to expect that she was in trouble as he had purposed saying, he would give away his knowledge of what had happened and so destroy the work to which he had set himself. So he finished the sentence in a lame33 and impotent manner, which, however, saved complete annihilation as it was verbally accurate: ‘in short frocks.’ Stephen needed to know little more. Her quick intelligence grasped the fact that there was some purpose afoot which she did not know or understand. She surmised54, of course, that it was some way in connection with her mad act, and she grew cooler in her brain as well as colder in her heart as she prepared to learn more. Stephen had changed from girl to woman in the last twenty-four hours; and all the woman in her was now awake. After a moment’s pause she said with a winning smile:
‘Why, Harold, I’ve been in long frocks for years. Why should I come here on this special day on that account?’ Even as she was speaking she felt that it would be well to abandon this ground of inquiry55. It had clearly told her all it could. She would learn more by some other means. So she went on in a playful way, as a cat—not a kitten—does when it has got a mouse:
‘That reason won’t work, Harold. It’s quite rusty56 in the joints57. But never mind it! Tell me why you have come so early?’ This seemed to Harold to be a heaven-sent opening; he rushed in at once:
‘Because, Stephen, I wanted to ask you to be my wife! Oh! Stephen, don’t you know that I love you? Ever since you were a little girl! When you were a little girl and I a big boy I loved you. I have loved you ever since with all my heart, and soul, and strength. Without you the world is a blank to me! For you and your happiness I would do anything—anything!’
This was no acting58. When once the barrier of beginning had been broken, his soul seemed to pour itself out. The man was vibrant59 through all his nature; and the woman’s very soul realised its truth. For an instant a flame of gladness swept through her; and for the time it lasted put all other thought aside.
But suspicion is a hard metal which does not easily yield to fire. It can come to white heat easily enough, but its melting-point is high indeed. When the flame had leaped it had spent its force; the reaction came quick. Stephen’s heart seemed to turn to ice, all the heat and life rushing to her brain. Her thoughts flashed with convincing quickness; there was no time for doubting amid their rush. Her life was for good or ill at the crossing of the ways. She had trusted Harold thoroughly60. The habit of her whole life from her babyhood up had been to so look to him as comrade and protector and sympathetic friend. She was so absolutely sure of his earnest devotion that this new experience of a riper feeling would have been a joy to her, if it should be that his act was all spontaneous and done in ignorance of her shame. ‘Shame’ was the generic61 word which now summarised to herself her thought of her conduct in proposing to Leonard. But of this she must be certain. She could not, dare not, go farther till this was settled. With the same craving62 for certainty with which she convinced herself that Leonard understood her overtures63, and with the same dogged courage with which she pressed the matter on him, she now went on to satisfy her mind.
‘What did you do yesterday?’
‘I was at Norcester all day. I went early. By the way, here is the ribbon you wanted; I think it’s exactly the same as the pattern.’ As he spoke64 he took a tissue-piper parcel from his pocket and handed it to her.
‘Thanks!’ she said. ‘Did you meet any friends there?’
‘Not many.’ He answered guardedly; he had a secret to keep.
‘Where did you dine?’
‘At the club!’ He began to be uneasy at this questioning; but he did not see any way to avoid answering without creating some suspicion.
‘Did you see any one you knew at the club?’ Her voice as she spoke was a little harder, a little more strained. Harold noticed the change, rather by instinct than reason. He felt that there was danger in it, and paused. The pause seemed to suddenly create a new fury in the breast of Stephen. She felt that Harold was playing with her. Harold! If she could not trust him, where then was she to look for trust in the world? If he was not frank with her, what then meant his early coming; his seeking her in the grove; his proposal of marriage, which seemed so sudden and so inopportune? He must have seen Leonard, and by some means have become acquainted with her secret of shame . . . His motive65?
Here her mind halted. She knew as well as if it had been trumpeted66 from the skies that Harold knew all. But she must be certain . . . Certain!
She was standing67 erect68, her hands held down by her sides and clenched69 together till the knuckles70 were white; all her body strung high—like an over-pitched violin. Now she raised her right hand and flung it downward with a passionate71 jerk.
‘Answer me!’ she cried imperiously. ‘Answer me! Why are you playing with me? Did you see Leonard Everard last night? Answer me, I say. Harold An Wolf, you do not lie! Answer me!’
As she spoke Harold grew cold. From the question he now knew that Stephen had guessed his secret. The fat was in the fire with a vengeance72. He did not know what to do, and still remained silent. She did not give him time to think, but spoke again, this time more coldly. The white terror had replaced the red:
‘Are you not going to answer me a simple question, Harold? To be silent now is to wrong me! I have a right to know!’
In his trouble, for he felt that say what he would he could only give her new pain, he said humbly73:
‘Don’t ask me, Stephen! Won’t you understand that I want to do what is best for you? Won’t you trust me?’ Her answer came harshly. A more experienced man than Harold, one who knew women better, would have seen how overwrought she was, and would have made pity the pivot74 of his future bearing and acts and words while the interview lasted; pity, and pity only. But to Harold the high ideal was ever the same. The Stephen whom he loved was no subject for pity, but for devotion only. He knew the nobility of her nature and must trust it to the end. When her silence and her blazing eyes denied his request, he answered her query75 in a low voice:
‘I did!’ Even whilst he spoke he was thankful for one thing, he had not been pledged in any way to confidence. Leonard had forced the knowledge on him; and though he would have preferred a million times over to be silent, he was still free to speak. Stephen’s next question came more coldly still:
‘Did he tell you of his meeting with me?’
‘He did.’
‘Did he tell you all?’ It was torture to him to answer; but he was at the stake and must bear it.
‘I think so! If it was true.’
‘What did he tell you? Stay! I shall ask you the facts myself; the broad facts. We need not go into details . . . ’
‘Oh, Stephen!’ She silenced his pleading with an imperious hand.
‘If I can go into this matter, surely you can. If I can bear the shame of telling, you can at least bear that of listening. Remember that knowing—knowing what you know, or at least what you have heard—you could come here and propose marriage to me!’ This she said with a cold, cutting sarcasm76 which sounded like the rasping of a roughly-sharpened knife through raw flesh. Harold groaned77 in spirit; he felt a weakness which began at his heart to steal through him. It took all his manhood to bear himself erect. He dreaded78 what was coming, as of old the once-tortured victim dreaded the coming torment79 of the rack.
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1
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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deterring
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的现在分词 ) | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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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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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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tornado
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| n.飓风，龙卷风 | |
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suffuse
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| v.(色彩等)弥漫，染遍 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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gland
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| n.腺体，(机)密封压盖，填料盖 | |
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fang
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| n.尖牙，犬牙 | |
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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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52
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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53
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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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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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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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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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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trumpeted
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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69
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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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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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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77
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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78
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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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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