England has not yet quite forgotten the "Bournemouth Tragedy" during which Hector Brunton, who led for the Crown, first became known to the public as the "hanging prosecutor1."
The charge against Mrs. Cairns was murder; and for days no newspaper dared to omit a single comma from its reports of the case. For days Hector's bewigged photograph blazed on the back page of the "Daily Mail" and the front page of the "Sunday Pictorial"; for days England abandoned itself to the raptest scrutiny2 of Dr. Spilsbury's and other experts' evidence anent the poisonous properties of a certain arsenical face lotion3 with which--the "hanging prosecutor" alleged--Mrs. Cairns had doctored her dead husband's whisky; and to speculations4, ruminations, discussions, and wagers5 as to the probable fate of Mrs. Cairns.
During those days, that epitome6 of England, Powolney Mansions7, oblivious8 alike of reconstruction9, strikes, German indemnities10, the Irish question, and the "scandal of Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish," demanded only to know whether Mrs. Cairns would dare to face Hector Brunton's cross-examination; whether, cross-examination concluded, Hector Brunton would succeed in securing a verdict of "guilty" against Mrs. Cairns; and whether Mrs. Cairns, having been found guilty, would be hanged by the neck until she was dead or incarcerated11 for the period of her natural life--which period, Miss Greenwell informed Monsieur Mayer, was limited to twenty years with the remission of one quarter the sentence for good conduct.
"She'll be out in fifteen years," said Miss Greenwell, when, some ten days after the conclusion of the trial, the home secretary's remission of the death penalty was duly announced, "and she'll still be a young woman."
"I," retorted Monsieur Mayer, "do not believe that she was guilty at all. If it had not been for 'Ector Brunton----"
"And that reminds me," began Miss Greenwell--but by then the lovers were already away.
2
Consciously and subconsciously12, the success and the réclame of the "hanging prosecutor" infuriated Ronnie. Always he hated the man, but now, every time he saw H. B.'s face staring at him from the newspapers, a new thought, the thought of his own meagerly employed talents, talents of which he had begun to feel more and more surely confident, rankled13. Even in the "ridiculous flat" (he and Aliette christened it the "ridiculous flat" in the same way that Orientals always refer to their most cherished possessions as things of no account) he felt himself a failure.
Julia Cavendish herself, too weak, with a curious lethargy of which Heron Baynet alone knew the exact cause, to pay more than one visit to Flat 27, Block B, Embankment House, admitted it "passable." At her suggestion Aliette had decided15 on using a beige wall-paper, almost identical with the one at Jermyn Street, throughout; on Ronnie's Chippendale and Ronnie's eighteenth century engravings (removed almost by force from Moses Moffatt's) for the tiny flame-curtained dining-room. Ronnie's ascetic16 bedroom furniture she relegated17 to Caroline Staley, providing him in its stead with hanging-cupboards craftily18 and cheaply contrived19 in the wall-spaces either side his dressing-room fireplace.
For the sitting-room20 (christened by Aliette the "parlor21"), the tiniest box of French simplicity22 combined with English comfort; and for their communal23 chamber24, with its tester bed and its short purple curtains, Julia's Christmas check provided the adornment25. But it was only by adding some of her own income that Aliette, faced with and realizing for the first time the petty troubles of home-making with one servant, could install the electric kitchenette, the Canadian "cook's table," the gas-fires and the tiled hearths26, the Califont hot-water system which functioned automatically as soon as one turned the taps, the Hoover vacuum-sweeper, and all those other labor-saving devices which people who really need them can never afford.
Despite all of which, the "ridiculous flat" had its discomforts27, not least of them being the impossibility of sleeping Ponto on the exiguous28 premises29.
"Man," asked Aliette dubiously30, as they finally drove away, luggage on taxi, from a curiously31 incurious Powolney Mansions, "what are we going to do with him?"
"The Lord knows, my dear," laughed Ronnie. "People who elope have no right to take Great Danes with them."
"I suppose we ought to get rid of him. He's very expensive."
However, neither of them had the heart to part with the beast; and eventually they found quarters for him in a little side-street off the Hammersmith Road.
3
From their very first meal together, faultlessly cooked and faultlessly served by Caroline Staley--as glad as she to be free from boarding-housedom; all through February and well into March, Aliette's home-life was one long ecstasy32, marred33 only by her growing anxiety about Julia's health and a vague suspicion that Ronnie "worried." Looking back from the safe coziness of the "ridiculous flat" on the long months they had wasted in Powolney Mansions, it seemed impossible that they should ever have been "boarding-house people," ever have tolerated the uncleanliness, the unhomeliness, the gossip, and the monotony of Monsieur Mayer's establishment.
And by the end of March even Ronnie's "worries" seemed to have disappeared. For John Cartwright's promises had more than materialized; and though the briefs were rarely marked higher than "Two guineas," the work they entailed34 kept Ronnie from brooding.
Despite his whimsical grumblings at being forced to leave her alone all day, Aliette knew that her man, growing hourly more ambitious for success, saw prospects35 of it in this strange employment. Coming back of a late afternoon, he would lounge into the parlor, kiss her, accept the tea Caroline Staley never failed to bring him, light his pipe, and talk at length about his petty triumphs at the Old Bailey or Brixton.
Once, even, he showed her his name in a press-report, with a smiled "I'm getting quite a reputation among the criminal classes. Soon there won't be a pickpocket36 within the metropolitan37 radius38 who doesn't regard me as his only hope of salvation39. They call me 'Cut Cavendish,' I believe. Hope you haven't had too dull a day, darling."
But Aliette's days were never dull. The hours when Ronnie was away from her "defending his pickpockets40" passed all too swiftly for accomplishment41 of the manifold trivialities which ministered to his comfort. Literally42 "she never had a moment to sit down."
So soon as he had left for his chambers43 (he hated seeing her do housework, and so she used to maintain the pretense44 of idleness until she heard the front door close, and the gate of the automatic lift clink to behind him), Caroline Staley--grown, as all servants, somewhat dictatorial45 in her old age--would demand help in the making of the bed, demand that her mistress sally forth46 to wrangle47 with the milkman or impress upon the butcher the alien origin of the previous day's joint48.
These wrangles49 provided Aliette, hitherto immune from the petty worries of the average woman and now almost completely isolated50 from her kind, with a certain amusement. Returned from them, she helped lay her own table for luncheon51; and, luncheon over, busied herself with the darning of stockings, with the cleaning of special pieces of silver, or with some other of the thousand and one tasks which your really class-conscious domestic, whose master is waited on hand and foot, always manages to leave to her master's wife. So that if, as at least once a week, Aliette felt it her duty to visit Julia Cavendish, it meant a rush for tube or omnibus, and a second rush homewards in time to dress for dinner--"dressing for dinner" being a shibboleth52 on which both lovers insisted as their "last relic53 of respectability."
And even if her days had been dull, the evenings would have made their dullness worth while. Those evenings! Their one servant abed. She and her man alone together, isolated high above London--solitary--safe--not even the telephone to connect them with their kind: Ronnie, pipe between his lips, his face tired yet happy in the glow of the fire, his long limbs outstretched, his lips moving rarely to speech; Aliette, some unread novel on her lap, the light of the reading-lamp a-shimmer54 on her dimpled shoulders, on the vivid of her hair and the vivid of her eyes; Aliette, pleasantly wearied of body, pleasantly vacuous55 of thought, speaking rarely as her mate, utterly56 happy in his silent company, so happy that all the terrors of her past life with Hector seemed like a nightmare dreamed long since in girlhood and remembered in maturity57 only as foolishness.
Nevertheless, as London March blew chilly58 toward London April, Aliette again grew fearful. Try as she would to elude59 them, moments came when she craved60 so desperately61 for maternity62 that Ronnie's very passion seemed a reproach. And in those moments her imagination fashioned itself children--a boy-child and a girl-child--Dennis and Etta--dream-babies who would bind63 her man to her forever and forever.
Ronnie, too, had his moments of fear, of hope, of dreamery. But for the most part they were a silent couple; and only once did either give voice to their secret thoughts. Then it was Ronnie, who said with one of his whimsical smiles:
"You've no idea, Alie, what an orator64 I'm getting to be. If only I could get one really big case. A murder trial, for instance. But one needs luck for that!"
So the equable days went by.
4
April came; and, to Aliette, the fret65 of spring. More and more with every opening bud, with every deepening of the green leaf-haze along the river-bank below her windows, she yearned66 for children--for Ronnie's children. Her body gave no sign; but already, as though for warning, her mind was pregnant with a new power, the power of prophetic imagination which comes only to the isolated.
Sometimes--as when, after one of Mollie's rare visits, it showed her sister married to Wilberforce--this new power pleased Aliette; sometimes, playing about Hector, it frightened her. But always it made her restless; so that, abandoning more and more of her household duties to Caroline Staley, she walked again with Ponto, as she had walked in the old days when Ronnie was not yet hers.
Fulham Park knew the pair of them--and Barnes Common--and Putney Heath. Down the myriad67 streets that lead away from the river to the unexplored south of London they wandered as far as Shadwell Wood and Coombe Wood and Richmond Park. And always, from those walks, Aliette returned thoughtful; for now, as imagination pictured more and more clearly the fate of Dennis and of Etta should those dream-children be at last made real, there waxed in her the determination to strike the one last possible blow for legal freedom.
Hitherto pride, and to a certain extent the fear of still further exasperating68 him, had prevented her from making any personal move in Hector's direction. Hitherto she had acquiesced69 in the policy that others--Ronnie, Julia, the admiral, James Wilberforce--should fight for her. But all these had failed!
And, "Surely," thought Aliette, "surely it is my duty to conquer this pride, to put aside these fears, to meet him face to face."
But, despite the assurances of the imaginative power--which showed her herself resolute70 against Hector, reasoning with Hector, remonstrating71 with Hector, finally shaming Hector into giving her her freedom--Aliette could not bring herself to ask even the favor of an interview. Three separate times she sat down to the little satin-wood desk in the parlor, three separate times she took pen in hand; but each time determination failed at mere72 sight of the first uncompromising "Dear" on the tinted73 note-paper. Pride and her disdain74 for the man, courage and fear alike forbade her to cross that Rubicon.
"I'm a fool," she said to herself, "a fool and a funk. For Ronnie's sake, for the sake of Ronnie's mother, even for my own sake I ought to write. But I can't--I just can't." And the pen would drop from her nerveless fingers, leaving her soul prey75 to that utter despondency which only the prophetically imaginative suffer.
Meanwhile, the imaginative powers of another woman--powers so infinitely76 better trained than Aliette's that their least effort could formulate77 the written word--were concentrating on Hector Brunton. To Julia Cavendish, ever since the Bournemouth Tragedy, the mere name had become an obsession78. Despite her growing prescience of death, despite the lethargy which every day made more potent79 over her limbs, the old lady's mind throbbed80 with activity. That tiniest protoplasm of a plan which she had conceived on Christmas day spored82 under her thoughts as coral-blossoms spore81 under the sea; till her brain, mistress of the written word, saw itself join issue with the brain of Hector Brunton, master of the word spoken--and defeat it.
"There is one weapon," thought Julia Cavendish, "one sure weapon with which I can pierce his armor." Yet somehow her hand tarried in the forging of that weapon, as though the moment were not yet come.
5
The "ridiculous flat" held one supreme84 joy--the finest view which a Londoner may have of London. From its parlor window, of a day, one could survey all the city--from Putney Church to St. Paul's, from Chiswick Mall where once red-heeled gallants tripped it with the ladies of St. James's, to Keats's Hampstead and the dim blue of Highgate.
At that window, on an April evening, Aliette and her lover stood to contemplate85 the pageant86 which Thames and town proffered87 nightly for their delight. Dusk had fallen, masking the river-pageant with a cloak of indigo88 and silver. Northward89, a saffron shimmer under murky90 skies, lay London. Westward91, the river dwindled92 out between its fringing lamps to darkness and the misty93 fields.
"Time for bed," said Ronnie practically. He made to close the curtains, but Aliette restrained him.
"Not yet, man."
"Why? Aren't you sleepy?"
Aliette made no answer. She seemed to have forgotten his presence. Her eyes were all for the pageant below; her ears all for the faint hum of the city which mounted, drowsily94 murmurous95, to their high apartment. And after a little while, knowing the need for solitude96 upon her, Ronnie tiptoed away.
Aliette was hardly conscious of his going. It seemed to her as though--in that moment--she were aloof97 from him, from all men; as though her soul, wandering free, mingled98 with myriads99 of other souls whom night had liberated100 from their earthly bodies to hover101 above the city.
The little French clock on the mantelpiece ticked and ticked. Hardly she heard it ticking. The earthly minutes passed and passed, flowing under her, flowing away into the ocean of time as the river-flood flows away into the oceans of the sea. From below came sound of London's clocks chiming the quarters.
Thought died in her brain. Only the imaginative power was alive. Imagination's self died. Only her soul was alive. And, with her soul, she dreamed a dream.
She dreamed that her letter to Hector had been written, that Hector had answered it. She saw herself setting out to meet him. He had sent his car to fetch her from Embankment House. She saw herself stepping into the car. It was their old car; but the man whose back she could see through the plate-glass of the cabriolet was not their old chauffeur102. "I wonder what his name is," she thought.
The car set out, noiseless. It left Embankment House behind; it crossed Putney Bridge. It came, between miles and miles of utterly empty streets, into London. A peculiar103 grayness, neither of the night nor of the day, a peculiar silence, almost a silence of death, brooded over London. No lights gleamed from its ghostly houses; no feet, no wheels echoed on its ghostly paving.
The car spun104 on, noiseless--beyond the ghostly gray into ghostly green--and now it seemed to Aliette as though the time were twilight-time; as though she were in Hyde Park; as though in a few minutes she would make the remembered door in Lancaster Gate.
"Hector's house," she thought. And the thought frightened her. She wanted not to go to Hector. She wanted Ronnie--her Ronnie. But the car spun on.
Now, faltering105 and afraid, she stood before the door of her husband's house. Now the door opened; and Lennard, subservient106 as ever, led her into the recollected107 hall.
Lennard vanished; and suddenly Aliette's soul knew its dream for dream.
Then the dream grew real again. Fearful and alone she stood in the chill vastness of that shadowy hall among the recollected furniture. She felt her breasts throbbing108 under the thin frock, felt her knees tremble as she grasped the door-handle of Hector's study.
No lights burned in the study. It was all gray, gray as the streets without. Hector was not there--only a face--a huge, cruel, unrelenting face.
"So you've come back," it said.
She moved toward the face, across the gray carpet that gave back no sound to her feet. But she could not speak with the face. Between her and the face--as a great sheet of glass--slid silence, the interminable unbearable109 silence of dreams. Through the glass, Aliette could see every pore in the great face, every hair of its head; but she might not speak with it, nor it with her. Then a voice, a voice as of very conscience, cried out in her: "Your strength against its strength. Your will against its will."
She felt her will beat out from her as wings beat, beat and batter110 at the glass between them. The glass of silence slid away; and she knew the face for Hector's. She said to it:
"Hector, I haven't come back. I'm never coming back."
"You shall," said the face, Hector's face; and now, under the face, she knew feet, her husband's feet.
At that, terror, the hopeless panic of dreams, gripped her soul by the throat, choking down speech. It seemed to her that she stood naked in that gray and silent room.
But now, as a momentary111 beam through the grayness, another face--the face of her lover--was added to their silent company. And again, "Your will against its will," said the voice.
Terror's fingers unclutched from her throat, so that her will spoke83, "I shall never come back, Hector."
The face writhed112 at the words as a face in pain; and suddenly, knowing herself its master, she knew pity for the face, pity for the thing she had done. Till once more she heard the inner voice whisper: "No pity. Your strength against its strength. Your will against its will."
"But I love you," pleaded Hector. "I need you."
She said to him, "My children need me, Hector. Set me free."
And once more the glass of the silences slid between them; once more the interminable, unbearable silence of dreams held her speechless.
Tap, tap, tap. Who was that knocking on Hector's door? It must be Ronnie. Tap, tap, tap. Ronnie mustn't come in. Ronnie mustn't find her and Hector alone together.
The glass darkled. Behind the glass Aliette could see Hector's face blur113 and blur. The face vanished. She was alone, alone in Hector's study. She was cold, desperately cold through all her limbs.
Tap, tap, tap. She heard a voice, a human voice: "Mr. Cavendish, Mr. Cavendish. Are you there, Mr. Cavendish? You're wanted on the 'phone, Mr. Cavendish."
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收听单词发音
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1
prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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lotion
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| n.洗剂 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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wagers
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| n.赌注，用钱打赌( wager的名词复数 )v.在（某物）上赌钱，打赌( wager的第三人称单数 )；保证，担保 | |
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epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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indemnities
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| n.保障( indemnity的名词复数 )；赔偿；赔款；补偿金 | |
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incarcerated
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| 钳闭的 | |
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subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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discomforts
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exiguous
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| adj.不足的，太少的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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pickpockets
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| n.扒手( pickpocket的名词复数 ) | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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wrangles
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| n.（尤指长时间的）激烈争吵，口角，吵嘴( wrangle的名词复数 )v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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shibboleth
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| n.陈规陋习；口令；暗语 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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56
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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57
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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58
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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59
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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60
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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65
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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66
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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68
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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69
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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remonstrating
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 )；告诫 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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73
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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81
spore
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| n.(无花植物借以繁殖的)孢子，芽胞 | |
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spored
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| v.（细菌、苔藓、蕨类植物）孢子( spore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
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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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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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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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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100
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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101
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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102
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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103
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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104
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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105
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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106
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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107
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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109
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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110
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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111
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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112
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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