One morning early in August he arrived at the door of his own house in Shannon. Helen had not expected him. She was flustered5. Breakfast had been served, but she would have another breakfast prepared at once.
No, George explained briefly6, he had had something on the train; she was not to trouble herself on his account.
This consideration was unusual. Well, he must go in and lie down; she knew he must be worn out, Helen suggested.
[158]No, he was not tired; and no, he would not go in and lie down.
He behaved like a visitor in the house. But he remained at home all day, puttering about the house and garden with a curious gentle air. After lunch he took a nap on the sofa in the parlor7. To Helen’s question as to whether he would go out for some golf as usual, he had replied that he would not play golf and that she might have an early dinner. Afterwards she remembered a faint embarrassment9 in his manner during the whole of this day, as if it were an effort to talk or reveal the simplest word of himself. But at the time Helen was pleased without questioning why he was behaving in this vaguely10 domestic fashion.
Late in the afternoon she had followed him into the garden, seated herself on a bench there with her hands folded—merely present, you understand. Cutter continued to pace slowly back and forth11 along the walk. Helen observed him gently. She thought he looked spent. She was glad he was taking the day off; this was all she thought about that.
Now and again Cutter regarded his wife with a sort of remorseful13 tenderness. He was experiencing one of those futile14 reactions a bad man has toward ineffable15 goodness when he knows he is[159] about to be rid of the burden and reproach of it. Presently he came and sat down beside her in the sweet, unaccusing silence she always made for him.
Her skin was still very fair, her hair darker, with golden lights, her brows much darker, the same blue eyes, white lidded. Strange he had never noticed before that the clothes she wore were like her—this grave little frock she was wearing now, white, sheer, like a veil, long pretty sleeves, a kind little waist with darts16 in it to fit her figure. Who but Helen would ever think of taking up darts in her bodice this year when every other woman was fluffing herself? He smiled at this, but the humor of his face was neither intimate nor affectionate. It was a sort of grinning footnote to Helen’s character.
He began presently to feel the old irritation17 at her silence. He halted, dropped down on the bench beside her, but at the other end, hung himself by one elbow over the back of it, crossed his legs and addressed her with a question which he frequently used like a key to turn in the lock of his wife’s silence.
“Helen, if you were about to say anything, what would you say?” he asked.
“I was just thinking,” she answered, implying[160] that she preferred not to publish these thoughts in speech.
But he wanted to know. His manner was that of a husband who wanted to start something.
“If we had children,” she began, looking at him, then away from him, “I was wondering what they would be doing now.”
His eyes widened over her, but she did not feel this amazement18. Her own gaze appeared to be trailing these children among the flowers in this garden.
“I often think of them,” she went on. “Our son—I always expected the first one to be a son—he should be quite a lad now. What do boys of fourteen do at this hour of the day?” regarding him with a sort of dreaming seriousness.
He made no reply. He had slumped19; with lowered lids he was staring at the graveled walk in front of this bench.
“But the two little girls, much younger, would be here in the garden with us. Isn’t it strange, I always know what they would be doing, but not the boy. I have seen them in my heart like bright images in a mirror; I have heard them laugh many a time.”
He was appalled20. Never before had he known[161] Helen to talk like this. Why was she doing it? Did she knew what was in his mind? Was she deliberately21 torturing him?
“Everything would have been so different if they had lived,” she went on, as if she had actually lost these children, “your life and mine. They would have changed us, our ways and our hopes. We should have built the house we planned—for them,” turning to him with a dim smile.
“I suppose so,” he said, obliged to answer this look; “but you know I have never regretted that we have no children.”
“At first you wanted them,” she reminded him.
“No; not for me; not for either of us,” she sighed.
For the first time in her life she saw tears in his eyes.
“For them?” she asked putting out her hand to him.
“No, for you,” he answered, drawing back from this hand.
She noticed that. Her attitude toward him was one of submission23. She did not ask herself[162] now why he shrank from her touch. She knew nothing about the psychology24 of passion, its strange and merciless revulsions.
“A son or a daughter would be company for you now,” he said after a pause.
“Yes; it’s been dull, not having them with me now. One grows so quiet inside. It must be a little like dying, to be getting older and stiller all the time.”
He could not bear this. He had a vision of what had happened to her. And now it was too late; she was predestined, even as he was doomed25 to his fate.... What follies26 love imposed upon youth! He had loved her and taken her, when she belonged to another kind of man, when he might have been happy with another kind of woman. Now he no longer loved her, and the other woman might give him pleasure, but never peace or happiness.... He supposed, after all, there must be something moral about happiness. Well, then, why had he missed happiness with Helen? Heaven knew she was made of every virtue27. And he had kept his vows28 to her. He had not actually broken faith with her—yet.
He rose and walked to the other end of the garden. He stood with his back to Helen, still thinking fiercely, like a man trying with his mind[163] to break the bonds that held him.... What a horror that this woman should be his wife. Nothing could change that. She was not of his kind. She was different; that was the whole trouble. If she were not his wife she would be the sort of woman he would never notice or meet. In view of everything—the vision of life and society, and what was coming to a man of his quality—he regarded it as remarkable29 that he had been so long faithful to her. It was stupid, silly, bucolic—the kind of husband he had been to this kind of wife!
He turned. Helen was still seated on the bench. The sight of her filled him with irritation, a sort of peevish30 remorse12. He was going to have the deuce of a time getting through his next encounter with her. He meant to put it off to the last minute. Meanwhile he simply must get to himself, away from her. If she hung about he felt that he might lose control of himself. And he must be careful not to say anything which he might regret afterwards.
He came back, stepping briskly along the walk, passed her as he would have passed a carpenter’s wife on the street and went on toward the house.
Helen’s eyes had met him far down the walk. They followed him until he disappeared around the corner of the house. Then, as if she had received[164] some dreadful warning from within, she pressed her hand to her breast, her lips unfolded, her cheeks blanched31, her eyes widened as if she beheld32 the very face of fear.
What was this? George was not like himself. She was aware of some frightful33 change in him. There was a flare34 about him, something feverish35, disheveled in his apparent neatness. She began to think over this day, his unexpected return that morning. Now that she came to think of it, there was no train upon which he could have arrived at that hour. His reserve, it was a fortification. She realized that now.
She sprang up, started for the house. Something had happened, something horrible. What was it? She must see George. She must touch him, speak to him.
She found him seated on the veranda36 with the afternoon paper spread before him, held up so that she could see only the top of his head, not his face. She stood struggling with herself. She wished to run to him, fling herself upon his breast and cry out: “George, what has happened? Do you love me? I am your wife. Kiss me.”
Never had she felt like this, the nameless terror, the beating of her heart like hammers in her breast. And all in this maddening moment, she[165] realized that she dared not approach him. He did not feel like a husband, but like a stranger who did not belong in this house.
She stood leaning against the spindle-legged pillar of the veranda and waited. She did not know for what, but as if she expected a blow. And she wanted it to fall. She wished to be put out of this pain as soon as possible.
Cutter laid aside his paper, stood up, swept a glance this way and that as if he could not decide which way to retreat, then he went inside, and affected37 to be looking for a book on the shelves in the parlor. He heard Helen pass down the hall, knew that she had halted a moment in the doorway38. He felt as if he was being trailed. What he wished was that she would have dinner, so that he could get through with this business. It must be done after dinner, because he could not sit down to the table with her afterward8.
She came back presently to fetch him to this meal. She wanted to cling on his arm, as she used to do years ago. But he evaded39 her, she could not have told how, only that if he had shouted to her not to touch him, she would not have been surer of what he meant.
They accomplished40 this dinner together. Cutter keeping his eyes withdrawn41 from her, taking[166] his food with that sort of foreign correctness which a man never practices at his own table. Many times they had passed through a meal in silence, but not a silence like this, potential, strained. Once Cutter caught sight of Helen’s hand, which was trembling. But he spared himself the sight of her face.
She scanned his, marked the new lines in it, the sullen43 droop44 to his eyes, usually so frank. She recalled the fact that he had not gone into their bedroom during this day; that he had kept to the public places in this house, as if it were no longer his house; that he had answered all her questions briefly; that in the garden he had drawn42 back from the touch of her hand; that now he was hurrying secretly to finish dining. She had premonitions of some unimaginable disaster which intimately concerned herself, but she could not bear to think what it was. By a forlorn faith many a woman receives strength to remain stupidly blind to her fate. Helen had some sort of faith that, if she kept perfectly45 quiet, this horror, whatever it was, would pass without being revealed to her. Then suddenly her courage broke.
Cutter thrust back his chair, rose from the table and made for the door.
[167]She followed him. “George,” she cried, “what is it? I am frightened”; the last word keyed to a wail46.
They were standing47 where she had overtaken him in the hall. He took out his watch, stared at it. “Twenty minutes past seven. The express is due at eight,” he muttered with the air of a man who times himself, leaving not a minute to spare.
“Yes, the express is due then, but—” she began.
“I am leaving on that train for New York,” he said, addressing her point-blank.
“But, George, this is only one day for me; and you have been away five weeks,” she exclaimed.
“Helen, come in here. I have something to tell you, and very few minutes to spare,” standing aside that she might precede him into the parlor.
She went in, sat in one of the mahogany chairs and regarded him with that long, winged look. The suppressed harshness of his voice had steadied her. She was calm. Women can withdraw to some quiet corner, sit perfectly still and watch you condemn48 yourself without a tremor49, although the moment before they may have been distracted by every fear. I have sometimes thought it might be a form of spiritual catalepsy. In any case, it is a very fortunate seizure50.
[168]“I am returning to New York to-night,” Cutter informed her, still standing as if this departure was imminent51. “I shall make my home there in the future.”
“Without me?” she asked, as if it was merely information she wanted.
“Without you,” he repeated, nodding his head for emphasis.
“For how long?”
“I have resigned as president of the bank here, disposed of all my interests. It is not my intention ever to come back to Shannon.” He did not look around to see how she had received this blow. He waited; silence, no movement, not a sound. “You can get a divorce. It will be easy,” he suggested.
“No,” she answered.
“I inferred that you would not now. Later, you may decide differently.”
She said “No,” and she did not repeat it.
“Meanwhile, I have provided for you. The house, the car, everything here is yours. The deeds are made to you. And I have placed securities to the amount of exactly half my estate in the bank here. They are in your name. You will have an income of something more than ten thousand a year. It is not much; but more, I[169] think, than you will care to spend.” He thrust two fingers into his waistcoat pocket and drew forth a slender key. “This is the key to your safety deposit box,” dropping it on the table. “You will need only to clip the coupons52 and cash them,” he explained.
She had not moved, but as she listened her face changed to scarlet53. Her eyes sparkled and were dry.
There was another moment’s silence. Cutter picked up his hat, fumbled54 it. He had not expected much of a scene, since Helen was so little given to emotional scenery. But neither had he been able to predict this indictment55 in fearful silence.
“You have been a good wife, Helen. I have not one reproach. But things cannot go on as they have gone. My life and my opportunities lie in a broader field. I have sacrificed them too long already. You have not been happy here as my wife; but you would be miserable56 in New York as my wife. I am doing the wisest—in the long run the kindest—thing for both of us, giving you your liberty and taking mine.”
“I have told no one of—our plans. I leave[170] that to you also. The one thing I must have is the right to achieve my own life in my own way. I give you the same privilege and—”
“You have only ten minutes before the train is due,” she interrupted.
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1
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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5
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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6
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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7
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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8
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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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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10
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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11
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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12
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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13
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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14
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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15
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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16
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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17
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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18
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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19
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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20
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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21
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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22
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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23
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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24
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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25
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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27
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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28
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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29
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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30
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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31
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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32
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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33
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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34
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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36
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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38
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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39
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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40
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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41
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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42
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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43
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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44
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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45
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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46
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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47
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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48
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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49
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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50
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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51
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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52
coupons
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| n.礼券( coupon的名词复数 )；优惠券；订货单；参赛表 | |
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53
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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54
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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55
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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56
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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57
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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