She had stirred his curiosity from the moment he met her; partly by something tragic1 in her beauty, which was indubitable; partly by some quality which he found repellent even in her attraction. She bore a well known name, but her husband's estates were encumbered2; every place he had was let, and they entertained but little. Terence had known the latter slightly for some years, and disliked him extremely. He was a man with a predilection3 for any sport in which something suffered, provided it could be followed in comfort; and he openly lamented4 having married for love—as he termed it—instead of putting up his peerage to the bidding of the States.
Terence had pitied any one who might have to do with him, and was thus already at a sympathetic angle on meeting his wife.
She surprised him by her detachment from the world in which she lived. She viewed it with vague eyes, knowing of its happenings only from what was told her, and divining neither their probability nor their consequence.
Nothing, dropped into her mind, seemed to fructify5: it lay there like seed upon a rock. To Terence, whose chief resource was his ignorance, such detachment appeared incredible.
He thought her beauty of itself would have proved a sufficient link with life, or with at least the deadlier forms of it which wear the name in London. A woman with her eyes was generally enabled to foresee some of the surprises in the Book of Judgment6. Men looked to that.
But it was clear to Terence that she foresaw nothing. If corruption7 had approached her, it had failed to get not a hearing only, but a seeing. Whatever place there might be for it in her heart, there was plainly none in her intelligence: she did not even know it by sight.
Terence guessed that from the men she knew, and by the way she knew them. She had evidently no instructive sense of a bad lot. A bad woman had that, and often added hatred9 to it; a good woman had it, and added pity. She had it not at all.
He found consequently no compliment in the gracious way she had received him, and no seduction in the enquiring10 sadness of her eyes. Since the meeting was at Ascot, and she was exquisitely11 dressed, he tried all the frivolous12 topics he thought might interest her; then some of the serious ones which interested him. She seemed about equally bored with either, and he was surprised when she asked on parting, with a curious gravity of request, if he would come and see her.
He saw her twice in town. She had named her day, but he had forgotten it and gone on another. So she wrote, finding his card, to arrange a meeting, and, after it, offered him another afternoon. Terence was on each occasion her only visitor, and surmised13 that he was not so by chance.
Yet he found it difficult to account for the privilege.
They seemed to have little in common, not even the tongue in which they talked. Both appeared to be translating their thoughts before speaking them.
Terence felt stupidly ineffective, and wondered in what straits of tedium14 she might be living on receiving, a day or two later, an invitation to spend a week end at Wallingford, where her husband had taken a summer house.
He hesitated; (to be desired despite such a show of dulness seemed almost pathetic); accepted, hoping that work would intervene; but in the end, went.
He told himself that it would be outdoor weather, a house party, and he should see little of his hostess.
It was outdoor weather; but the party had been arranged for pairing, and he saw little but his hostess.
They spent the days upon the dozing15 river, and sat together late into the warm nights upon the lawn.
He knew nothing about women, and did not understand their ways. Therefore he was gravely interested in the account she set before him of her groping soul.
He had never imagined any conception of existence so out of touch with reality as were her beliefs. Her idealism would have discredited16 a schoolgirl's fiction, and she clung to it as though there were some merit in being deceived.
Such determination to remain in the dark almost angered him.
"But men and women aren't like that," he expostulated more than once.
"That's what people are always telling me," she replied pathetically: "but why aren't they?"
He hadn't, as he assured her, the remotest notion; his interest lying, not in what men weren't, but in what they were.
He tried to impart that interest in her, but without success.
If men were the brutes17 they seemed proud to be, she asserted vigorously, she didn't care how ill she knew them.
But it was clear that she had higher hopes of humanity than she confessed, and it would have been clear to any one but Terence that those hopes were becoming centred on himself.
What men said of him had roused her incredulous admiration18, and he seemed to dislike women as much as he respected them. His honesty, his deference19, and his grave good looks attracted her from the first; his sympathy and discernment riveted20 the attraction. He reproved her optimism in vain; for was he not its embodiment?
Terence, unconscious of being anything but a somewhat poor companion, discussed the sentiments she suggested, growing ever more astounded21 by her severance22 from realities, and more touched by her unhappy days.
Of her husband's life he knew more than she had surmised, but she had surmised enough to make wifehood an indignity23. His unfaithfulness, as a stye by which she had to live, soured for her every odour in the world. She had not the vigour24 to ignore it, nor the courage to escape. She had dreamed of marriage as a royal feast; she woke to find herself among the swine.
The discovery would have hardened some women into defiance25; some would have sheltered with it their own intrigues26; but the shock cowed in her all further curiosity in existence. If life were really like the bit she had tasted, she preferred to starve. The other men she met seemed as horrible as her husband; they had the same speech, the same jests, the same dissipations.
She shrank more and more into herself; even women revolted her by their tolerance27 of men's presumptions28.
Then Terence came. Like a plant grown in darkness, her anaemic delicacy29 of thought responded with an unhealthy exuberance30 to the first ray of sunlight. She listened to his silences and found them refreshing31; then she drew him into speech.
He spoke32 of much that she could not understand, but his obscurities were an intoxication33, and not, as those of other men, a dread34. She felt there was something wide and fine behind his words; a coherence35, an integrity; she was vaguely36 pleased to feel it there, though its quality did not interest her at all. What did was her own expansion in the atmosphere of sympathetic confidence it had created.
Her expansiveness was, at times, distasteful to him. The secrets of a woman's moral toilet-table may be more disconcerting than those her boudoir guarded. To be discursive37 about either seemed to him to lack the finer reticence38 of life. A man's sight, if he could see at all, was a sufficient sentry39 to his admiration; and the little it allowed him he might be suffered to enjoy. To label the false wherever one found it would be to leave a world only fit for fools.
Terence, however, wronged her by imagining her confidences habitual40. He suggested the insecurity of entrusting41 such things to men.
"To men!" she exclaimed, shrinking. "Do you suppose I do?"
He did; but renounced42 the conception penitently43 in view of her dismay, and lent a more consciously honoured, if more embarrassed ear. But compassion44 overcame his embarrassment45; and he thought less often of her indiscretions than of her loneliness.
She asked him to spend a week at Wallingford when the season was over.
"I have very few friends," she said; "and no one but you has ever helped me to understand."
He wondered to what he had helped her, and whether he would recognize it if she told him; but he did not wonder if he might remit47 the helping48; the disadvantage in the gift of oneself being that the giving is never at an end.
So he came to Wallingford again in September, when the moonlight fell nightly on white veils of mist, and the world took on a golden ripeness in the mellow49 silent days.
Some letters, in the meanwhile, had passed between them; letters which might have made Terence uneasy had he known what they meant. Instead, he answered them, and consigned50 their intentions to the chaos51 of feminine incomprehensibility. Some of that chaos took a shape during his second stay at Wallingford sufficiently52 definite and disconcerting.
It was probably only what had been put, to no purpose, in her letters, but it had another significance when spoken with rather uncomfortable pauses and lit with the intensity53 of a woman's very lovely eyes.
To mistake its meaning was impossible; to ignore it seemed to Terence a contemptible54 discretion46. He could not withdraw his sympathy because it had been so dangerously misapplied, but he tried, with fraternal frankness, to abstract from it the odour of personality with which she had scented55 it.
He hoped to animate56 her with the big issues of life, but to a woman there is often no issue bigger than a man's devotion.
As they hung in the skiff beneath the birches of the mill-pond one breathless afternoon, she let him realize the fruitlessness of his intentions.
The sun that filled the drowsy57 air fell in dazzling patches on her white frock; there was not a sound save the dull drone of the weir58, and deep in the shade a kingfisher sat motionless above the water, like a blue flame upon the bough59.
She had been silent for some while after his last remark, looking away from him towards the river; then, to Terence's dismay, she leant forward, hiding her face in her hands, and began to sob60.
He was paralyzed by his ignorance of any cause for tears, perplexed61 with self-reproaches, helplessness, and pity. It seemed equally absurd to ask why she was crying, or to offer comfort until he knew. He sat wretchedly mute for some moments, and at last begged her to let him hear what ailed8 her.
She did not answer till he had repeated the request, and then faltered62 between her sobs63: "Oh, you wouldn't understand, you couldn't understand: I've got no one to care for me, no one, no one!"
He could think of no response to that which did not sound inane64. He had not heard a woman cry since his sisters left the schoolroom, and no other form of consolation65 occurred to him than the brotherly caresses66 which had served him then.
Yet not till his ineptitude67 and apparent apathy68 became intolerable did he lean forward from the thwart69 and rest his hand upon her knee.
With the channel of that touch between them, the soothing70 trifles became easy which had been impossible of speech before.
Uncertain of what she might find consoling, he spoke as to a child whom he had found in tears; a murmur71 merely of the gentleness and pity which were in his heart.
She paid, for some time, no heed72 to him, but her sobs relaxed, and presently, though with her face still hidden, she laid a wet hand on his.
"Do you really mean it?" she faltered searchingly.
"Of course I mean it," he replied, wondering what his meaning was supposed to be, but resolute73 to stand to this poor creature for any kindness and fortitude74 there might be in the world.
"You're very, very good," she said; but her eyes had in them, even to his discernment, an appreciation75 of another sort of worth.
That was at the beginning of the afternoon; yet, though he sculled her up stream later, to taste, melting in the heated air, the moist coolness under Bensington weir, and higher, afterwards, to the "Swan" for tea, she made no reference to that understanding which was by him so little understood.
But she was more than usually silent, and there was a dream-haze across the purple depths of her eyes, which only parted when she looked at him. Then the wonderful colour seemed to flood them, and she smiled faintly in the furthest crevice77 of her lips, as though they had been touched by the tips of some feathery pleasure.
But to Terence that sweetness of a shared secret in her smile was immensely discomposing.
That, he recognized, when he came to look back, was the moment of warning.
At that he had his fears, never stirred before; at that he should have taken flight.
Flight was the way of men; of men timorous78 and importuned79; perhaps, often, the only way. But he had not the courage for such a show of fear; even flight seemed to affront80 a woman's confidence.
A sheaf of letters at breakfast offered him that bridge of fabulous81 affairs over which so many a man of wider experience would have escaped. But he gave it never a thought. Where was fraternity in the world if one had to flee from the first woman who dared to claim it? He would as soon have fled from an infectious fever!
There were closer points in the comparison than he supposed—though the world does not equally admire the man who imperils the safety of his life and him who risks the peace of it—but perception of them would not have changed his mind.
He stayed because he could not go.
The morning of the day that followed was spent by every one on the shady lawn. It was too hot for even the theory of movement, and plans were postponed82 until the afternoon. Terence had meant to sketch83 a piece of stonework at Ewelme Church, but found himself engaged by his hostess to drive her to Nuneham.
Whether she intended to go there or not, she pleaded the heat as an excuse for deferring84 the start till it became too late to make one.
They had tea in the little Doric shrine85 that overlooked the river, and she took him afterwards up to the wood that rose behind the house.
Seated on a stile within it, against which he leaned, she told him the dream with which her eyes had been clouded the day before; told it with a hesitating persuasiveness86 which made dissent87 seem brutal88; the dream of an ethereal alliance to which the man should bring a life, and the woman a use for it.
Terence listened stupefied as the na?ve unsteady voice made out its astounding89 offer. She had gathered somehow his desire for such a thing; the magnifying power of her vanity must have revealed it in all he did and said. And her abysmal90 lack of humour concealed91 its grotesque92 disparities. He, so it seemed, was to contribute his existence, and she, a smile.
But if its seriousness was an absurdity93, its absurdities94 were serious. Terence heard them with grave lips; heard in them, too, the diffident whispers of his pity swollen95 by her fancy to a blare of passion.
It was serious enough as she sounded it, and sad enough too. Disillusionment, even the gentlest, seemed out of the question.
How, to a woman who rides, triumphing in his devotion, through the barriers of her decorum, is a man to say, "I do not love you"?
There was nothing less that could be said: nothing less, at least, that was not a lie: for less, to her ears, would have said nothing. Love alone was her warrant, her title; and she had thrust his love into her helm.
There could be no other disillusionment but to take that from her, and to take it from her was to drag her to the dust.
So Terence listened. The bronze stems of the hazel saplings shone before him like prison bars, but he nodded now and then as she spoke her faith, and gazed at the golden air that burned beyond them in the west.
"I've never trusted any man enough," she ended, "to tell him all that I've told you; but you've made me believe in you; I don't know how. I suppose it really is because you're good and true. But are you quite, quite sure I mean so much to you, and that caring for me won't spoil your life?"
"One never knows what may spoil one's life," said Terence gravely "and seldom what may spoil another's; but I think it's true that you may trust me, and I'll try to be to you the friend that you desire."
He gave her his hand with boyish candour; and she held it, saying nothing, and not looking into his face.
When she released it, presently, she slid from the stile; and, turning, faced the sunset which had gilded96 his hair.
She was standing76 close to and partly in front of him, and so watched with him for a while, in silence, the setting splendours of the day.
Then, with a little sigh, she leaned back against his shoulder. Thus they stood some moments longer without a word; Terence braced97 to bear her weight; braced mentally to meet whatever might be coming, conscious of the beat against him of her quickened breath.
Then, with her dark head tilted98 back, she turned her face slowly towards him till it almost touched his lips.
For an instant he hated her, fiercely, impotently. The next, he put his hand gently upon her shoulder and kissed her cheek.
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收听单词发音
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1
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fructify
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| v.结果实；使土地肥沃 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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7
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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9
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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10
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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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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14
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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27
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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presumptions
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| n.假定( presumption的名词复数 )；认定；推定；放肆 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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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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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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entrusting
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的现在分词 ) | |
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42
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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43
penitently
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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47
remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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50
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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51
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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52
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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53
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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54
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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55
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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56
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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57
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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58
weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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60
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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62
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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63
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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64
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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65
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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ineptitude
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| n.不适当；愚笨，愚昧的言行 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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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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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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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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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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deferring
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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