‘Did he tell you that I had asked him to marry me?’ Despite herself, as she spoke1 the words a red tide dyed her face. It was not a flush; it was not a blush; it was a sort of flood which swept through her, leaving her in a few seconds whiter than before. Harold saw and understood. He could not speak; he lowered his head silently. Her eyes glittered more coldly. The madness that every human being may have once was upon her. Such a madness is destructive, and here was something more vulnerable than herself.
‘Did he tell you how I pressed him?’ There was no red tide this time, nor ever again whilst the interview lasted. To bow in affirmation was insufficient2; with an effort he answered:
‘You understood so! Oh, I don’t doubt he embellished4 the record with some of his own pleasantries. But you understood it; and that is sufficient.’ After a pause she went on:
‘Did he tell you that he had refused me?’
‘Yes!’ Harold knew now that he was under the torture, and that there was no refusing. She went on, with a light laugh, which wrung5 his heart even more than her pain had done . . . Stephen to laugh like that!
‘And I have no doubt that he embellished that too, with some of his fine masculine witticisms6. I understood myself that he was offended at my asking him. I understood it quite well; he told me so!’ Then with feminine intuition she went on:
‘I dare say that before he was done he said something kindly7 of the poor little thing that loved him; that loved him so much, and that she had to break down all the bounds of modesty8 and decorum that had made the women of her house honoured for a thousand years! And you listened to him whilst he spoke! Oh-h-h!’ she quivered with her white-hot anger, as the fierce heat in the heart of a furnace quivers. But her voice was cold again as she went on:
‘But who could help loving him? Girls always did. It was such a beastly nuisance! You “understood” all that, I dare say; though perhaps he did not put it in such plain words!’ Then the scorn, which up to now had been imprisoned9, turned on him; and he felt as though some hose of deathly chill was being played upon him.
‘And yet you, knowing that only yesterday, he had refused me—refused my pressing request that he should marry me, come to me hot-foot in the early morning and ask me to be your wife. I thought such things did not take place; that men were more honourable10, or more considerate, or more merciful! Or at least I used to think so; till yesterday. No! till to-day. Yesterday’s doings were my own doings, and I had to bear the penalty of them myself. I had come here to fight out by myself the battle of my shame . . . ’
Here Harold interrupted her. He could not bear to hear Stephen use such a word in connection with herself.
‘No! You must not say “shame.” There is no shame to you, Stephen. There can be none, and no one must say it in my presence!’ In her secret heart of hearts she admired him for his words; she felt them at the moment sink into her memory, and knew that she would never forget the mastery of his face and bearing. But the blindness of rage was upon her, and it is of the essence of this white-hot anger that it preys11 not on what is basest in us, but on what is best. That Harold felt deeply was her opportunity to wound him more deeply than before.
‘Even here in the solitude12 which I had chosen as the battleground of my shame you had need to come unasked, unthought of, when even a lesser13 mind than yours, for you are no fool, would have thought to leave me alone. My shame was my own, I tell you; and I was learning to take my punishment. My punishment! Poor creatures that we are, we think our punishment will be what we would like best: to suffer in silence, and not to have spread abroad our shame!’ How she harped14 on that word, though she knew that every time she uttered it, it cut to the heart of the man who loved her. ‘And yet you come right on top of my torture to torture me still more and illimitably. You come, you who alone had the power to intrude15 yourself on my grief and sorrow; power given you by my father’s kindness. You come to me without warning, considerately telling me that you knew I would be here because I had always come here when I had been in trouble. No—I do you an injustice16. “In trouble” was not what you said, but that I had come when I had been in short frocks. Short frocks! And you came to tell me that you loved me. You thought, I suppose, that as I had refused one man, I would jump at the next that came along. I wanted a man. God! God! what have I done that such an affront17 should come upon me? And come, too, from a hand that should have protected me if only in gratitude18 for my father’s kindness!’ She was eyeing him keenly, with eyes that in her unflinching anger took in everything with the accuracy of sun-painting. She wanted to wound; and she succeeded.
But Harold had nerves and muscles of steel; and when the call came to them they answered. Though the pain of death was upon him he did not flinch19. He stood before her like a rock, in all his great manhood; but a rock on whose summit the waves had cast the wealth of their foam20, for his face was as white as snow. She saw and understood; but in the madness upon her she went on trying new places and new ways to wound:
‘You thought, I suppose, that this poor, neglected, despised, rejected woman, who wanted so much to marry that she couldn’t wait for a man to ask her, would hand herself over to the first chance comer who threw his handkerchief to her; would hand over herself—and her fortune!’
‘Oh, Stephen! How can you say such things, think such things?’ The protest broke from him with a groan21. His pain seemed to inflame22 her still further; to gratify her hate, and to stimulate23 her mad passion:
‘Why did I ever see you at all? Why did my father treat you as a son; that when you had grown and got strong on his kindness you could thus insult his daughter in the darkest hour of her pain and her shame!’ She almost choked with passion. There was now nothing in the whole world that she could trust. In the pause he spoke:
‘Stephen, I never meant you harm. Oh, don’t speak such wild words. They will come back to you with sorrow afterwards! I only meant to do you good. I wanted . . . ’ Her anger broke out afresh:
‘There; you speak it yourself! You only wanted to do me good. I was so bad that any kind of a husband . . . Oh, get out of my sight! I wish to God I had never seen you! I hope to God I may never see you again! Go! Go! Go!’
This was the end! To Harold’s honest mind such words would have been impossible had not thoughts of truth lain behind them. That Stephen—his Stephen, whose image in his mind shut out every other woman in the world, past, present, and future—should say such things to any one, that she should think such things, was to him a deadly blow. But that she should say them to him! . . . Utterance24, even the utterance which speaks in the inmost soul, failed him. He had in some way that he knew not hurt—wounded—killed Stephen; for the finer part was gone from the Stephen that he had known and worshipped so long. She wished him gone; she wished she had never seen him; she hoped to God never to see him again. Life for him was over and done! There could be no more happiness in the world; no more wish to work, to live! . . .
He bowed gravely; and without a word turned and walked away.
Stephen saw him go, his tall form moving amongst the tree trunks till finally it was lost in their massing. She was so filled with the tumult25 of her passion that she looked, unmoved. Even the sense of his going did not change her mood. She raged to and fro amongst the trees, her movements getting quicker and quicker as her excitement began to change from mental to physical; till the fury began to exhaust itself. All at once she stopped, as though arrested by a physical barrier; and with a moan sank down in a helpless heap on the cool moss26.
* * * * *
Harold went from the grove27 as one seems to move in a dream. Little things and big were mixed up in his mind. He took note, as he went towards the town by the byroads, of everything around him in his usual way, for he had always been one of those who notice unconsciously, or rather unintentionally. Long afterwards he could shut his eyes and recall every step of the way from the spot where he had turned from Stephen to the railway station outside Norcester. And on many and many such a time when he opened them again the eyelids28 were wet. He wanted to get away quickly, silently, unobserved. With the instinct of habitual29 thought his mind turned London-ward. He met but few persons, and those only cottiers. He saluted30 them in his usual cheery way, but did not stop to speak with any. He was about to take a single ticket to London when it struck him that this might look odd, so he asked for a return. Then, his mind being once more directed towards concealment31 of purpose, he sent a telegram to his housekeeper32 telling her that he was called away to London on business. It was only when he was far on his journey that he gave thought to ways and means, and took stock of his possessions. Before he took out his purse and pocket-book he made up his mind that he would be content with what it was, no matter how little. He had left Normanstand and all belonging to it for ever, and was off to hide himself in whatever part of the world would afford him the best opportunity. Life was over! There was nothing to look forward to; nothing to look back at! The present was a living pain whose lightest element was despair. As, however, he got further and further away, his practical mind began to work; he thought over matters so as to arrange in his mind how best he could dispose of his affairs, so to cause as little comment as might be, and to save the possibility of worry or distress33 of any kind to Stephen.
Even then, in his agony of mind, his heart was with her; it was not the least among his troubles that he would have to be away from her when perhaps she would need him most. And yet whenever he would come to this point in his endless chain of thought, he would have to stop for a while, overcome with such pain that his power of thinking was paralysed. He would never, could never, be of service to her again. He had gone out of her life, as she had gone out of his life; though she never had, nor never could out of his thoughts. It was all over! All the years of sweetness, of hope, and trust, and satisfied and justified34 faith in each other, had been wiped out by that last terrible, cruel meeting. Oh! how could she have said such things to him! How could she have thought them! And there she was now in all the agony of her unrestrained passion. Well he knew, from his long experience of her nature, how she must have suffered to be in such a state of mind, to have so forgotten all the restraint of her teaching and her life! Poor, poor Stephen! Fatherless now as well as motherless; and friendless as well as fatherless! No one to calm her in the height of her wild abnormal passion! No one to comfort her when the fit had passed! No one to sympathise with her for all that she had suffered! No one to help her to build new and better hopes out of the wreck35 of her mad ideas! He would cheerfully have given his life for her. Only last night he was prepared to kill, which was worse than to die, for her sake. And now to be far away, unable to help, unable even to know how she fared. And behind her eternally the shadow of that worthless man who had spurned36 her love and flouted37 her to a chance comer in his drunken delirium38. It was too bitter to bear. How could God lightly lay such a burden on his shoulders who had all his life tried to walk in sobriety and chastity and in all worthy39 and manly40 ways! It was unfair! It was unfair! If he could do anything for her? Anything! Anything! . . . And so the unending whirl of thoughts went on!
The smoke of London was dim on the horizon when he began to get back to practical matters. When the train drew up at Euston he stepped from it as one to whom death would be a joyous41 relief!
He went to a quiet hotel, and from there transacted42 by letter such business matters as were necessary to save pain and trouble to others. As for himself, he made up his mind that he would go to Alaska, which he took to be one of the best places in the as yet uncivilised world for a man to lose his identity. As a security at the start he changed his name; and as John Robinson, which was not a name to attract public attention, he shipped as a passenger on the Scoriac from London to New York.
The Scoriac was one of the great cargo43 boats which take a certain number of passengers. The few necessaries which he took with him were chosen with an eye to utility in that frozen land which he sought. For the rest, he knew nothing, nor did he care how or whither he went. His vague purpose was to cross the American Continent to San Francisco, and there to take passage for the high latitudes44 north of the Yukon River.
* * * * *
When Stephen began to regain45 consciousness her first sensation was one of numbness46. She was cold in the back, and her feet did not seem to exist; but her head was hot and pulsating47 as though her brain were a living thing. Then her half-open eyes began to take in her surroundings. For another long spell she began to wonder why all around her was green. Then came the inevitable48 process of reason. Trees! It is a wood! How did I come here? why am I lying on the ground?
All at once wakened memory opened on her its flood-gates, and overwhelmed her with pain. With her hands pressed to her throbbing49 temples and her burning face close to the ground, she began to recall what she could of the immediate50 past. It all seemed like a terrible dream. By degrees her intelligence came back to its normal strength, and all at once, as does one suddenly wakened from sleep to the knowledge of danger, she sat up.
Somehow the sense of time elapsed made Stephen look at her watch. It was half-past twelve. As she had come into the grove immediately after breakfast, and as Harold had almost immediately joined her, and as the interview between them had been but short, she must have lain on the ground for more than three hours. She rose at once, trembling in every limb. A new fear began to assail52 her; that she had been missed at home, and that some one might have come to look for her. Up to now she had not been able to feel the full measure of pain regarding what had passed, but which would, she knew, come to her in the end. It was too vague as yet; she could not realise that it had really been. But the fear of discovery was immediate, and must be guarded against without delay. As well as she could, she tidied herself and began to walk slowly back to the house, hoping to gain her own room unnoticed. That her general intelligence was awake was shown by the fact that before she left the grove she remembered that she had forgotten her sunshade. She went back and searched till she had found it.
Gaining her room without meeting any one, she at once change her dress, fearing that some soil or wrinkle might betray her. Resolutely53 she put back from her mind all consideration of the past; there would be time for that later on. Her nerves were already much quieter than they had been. That long faint, or lapse51 into insensibility, had for the time taken the place of sleep. There would be a price to be paid for it later; but for the present it had served its purpose. Now and again she was disturbed by one thought; she could not quite remember what had occurred after Harold had left, and just before she became unconscious. She dared not dwell upon it, however. It would doubtless all come back to her when she had leisure to think the whole matter over as a connected narrative54.
When the gong sounded for lunch she went down, with a calm exterior55, to face the dreaded56 ordeal57 of another meal.
Luncheon58 passed off without a hitch59. She and her aunt talked as usual over all the small affairs of the house and the neighbourhood, and the calm restraint was in itself soothing60. Even then she could not help feeling how much convention is to a woman’s life. Had it not been for these recurring61 trials of set hours and duties she could never have passed the last day and night without discovery of her condition of mind. That one terrible, hysterical62 outburst was perhaps the safety valve. Had it been spread over the time occupied in conventional duties its force even then might have betrayed her; but without the necessity of nerving herself to conventional needs, she would have infallibly betrayed herself by her negative condition.
After lunch she went to her own boudoir where, when she had shut the inner door, no one was allowed to disturb her without some special need in the house or on the arrival of visitors. This ‘sporting oak’ was the sign of ‘not at home’ which she had learned in her glimpse of college life. Here in the solitude of safety, she began to go over the past, resolutely and systematically63.
She had already been so often over the memory of the previous humiliating and unhappy day that she need not revert64 to it at present. Since then had she not quarrelled with Harold, whom she had all her life so trusted that her quarrel with him seemed to shake the very foundations of her existence? As yet she had not remembered perfectly65 all that had gone on under the shadow of the beech66 grove. She dared not face it all at once, even as yet. Time must elapse before she should dare to cry; to think of her loss of Harold was to risk breaking down altogether. Already she felt weak. The strain of the last forty-eight hours was too much for her physical strength. She began to feel, as she lay back in her cushioned chair, that a swoon is no worthy substitute for sleep. Indeed it had seemed to make the need for sleep even more imperative67.
It was all too humiliating! She wanted to think over what had been; to recall it as far as possible so as to fix it in her mind, whilst it was still fresh. Later on, some action might have to be based on her recollection. And yet . . . How could she think when she was so tired . . . tired . . .
Nature came to the poor girl’s relief at last, and she fell into a heavy sleep . . .
It was like coming out of the grave to be dragged back to waking life out of such a sleep, and so soon after it had begun. But the voice seemed to reach to her inner consciousness in some compelling way. For a second she could not understand; but as she rose from the cushions the maid’s message repeated, brought her wide awake and alert in an instant:
‘Mr. Everard, young Mr. Everard, to see you, miss!’
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收听单词发音
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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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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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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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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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preys
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| v.掠食( prey的第三人称单数 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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12
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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harped
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| vi.弹竖琴（harp的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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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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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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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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spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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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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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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latitudes
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| 纬度 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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46
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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47
pulsating
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| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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48
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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50
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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51
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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52
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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53
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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54
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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55
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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56
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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57
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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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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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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