The house, which was an immense square building of yellow stone in the Italian Renaissance2 style, occupied, with its grounds, an entire block in the best section of the fashionable boulevard. Stacey had always rather liked the exterior3, though it was not Parkins and May but a Chicago firm of architects who had built the house. It was severe, commanding, less inharmonious in Vernon than most anachronisms, and the four great chimneys were really fine. Never having cared for the Prices, Stacey had seen the interior but once—at a large house-warming affair given in the winter of 1910, to which he had gone out of curiosity. It had struck him then as Chicago decorators’ stuff (which it was), proper, faultlessly in period, quite without character. He remembered perfectly4 the dreariness5 of his impression.
So now, when he entered the vast hall, his first glimpse of it made him aware of change.
“Mr. Carroll, sir?” asked the English butler. “Will you go upstairs, please? Mrs. Price is expecting you there, sir.”
“Yes,” said Stacey, “half a minute.” He walked quickly across the hall and stood for a moment at the entrance to the great drawing-room on the left. As he looked in he smiled, half appreciatively, half ironically. Change? Well, rather! To begin with, Marian—it was Marian, of course—had swept away pretty much everything that had been in that room when Stacey had first seen it. But, even supposing the discarded furniture and pictures to have been sold, he hardly thought the present relative bareness had saved Ames money. That long table, the Florentine chest, and the copy of a relief in marble with touches of blue and gold (Desiderio da Settignano?)—if it was a copy—h’m! He turned back. “All right,” he said to the butler. “I’ll go up.”
As he mounted the broad stone stairway, the man following, his glance rested on a tapestry7—a Medici tapestry, if he knew anything about it. “Whew!” he thought. But his eyes were just a little hard now. Marian would take and take—and give nothing. All the same, what did she get from it? Again he felt suddenly unreasoningly sorry for her.
The butler conducted Stacey to the south end of the upper hall, tapped perfunctorily at a door, opened it, and Stacey went in.
The room he entered was a small sitting-room—Marian’s own, most certainly—English in feeling, crowded with a great many things. Or, rather, no, on second thought Stacey knew it well:—it was like what pleasant English people did sometimes to their smallest, best loved room in a Tuscan villa8. The French windows were wide open, but the heavy wooden shutters9 were closed to shut out the heat, so that only a soft summer air entered, with perfumes from the garden outside. There was a kind of radiant greenish twilight10 in the room.
No one was there, though a flame burned beneath a silver kettle, two fragile cups stood ready, and a tea-wagon with bread and butter and cake was drawn11 up near the table. After perhaps a minute Marian entered through another door.
She was wearing a simple dress of a pearl gray color, short, as the fashion was, and with a silver cord about the waist. She looked as Greek as any one or anything modern could look, and Stacey drew in his breath sharply with admiration12 of her beauty. Nevertheless, as he shook hands with her and replied to her apparently13 natural greeting, he was wary14. All this delightful15 readiness for his visit, the coziness, the shining tea things, Marian herself. . . . “?‘I mistrust the Greeks and the gifts they bring,’?” he said to himself suddenly, and smiled, finding the quotation16 apt, Marian looking as she did. But he kept it to himself.
Marian sat down at the table, but remained for a moment gracefully17 idle, smiling at him, before beginning to make the tea.
“You see all my preparations, Stacey,” she said lightly. “You see what an event it is when you come. Aren’t you flattered?”
“You know I am,” he returned, almost disarmed18 now by her remark. And this was true. For Stacey was genuinely anxious to be friends with Marian. After all, at bottom he was a simple person. That is, he was complex only on his receptive side. He could perceive, quite without effort, the subtlest, most tangled19, personal relationships all about him, whether or not he was himself involved in them; he had always been able to do this. But the real Stacey Carroll in the centre of this rich shimmering20 web remained simple. The impulses on which he acted were simple, almost boyish sometimes.
Marian and Stacey were both silent while she measured out the tea and poured the hot water. Gazing at her so closely, he noted21 that she was very thin. Her fine pointed22 face was almost sharp, and her bare arms, lifted prettily23 to the silver urn6, were too slender. Stacey was sorry. But, considering himself questioningly, he recognized that this half-pity for Marian, together with an artist’s admiration of her loveliness, was all that he felt for her now. Absolutely all. No touch of love remained. And Stacey was immensely relieved.
“It has to brew24 seven minutes,” said Marian, glancing at her tiny turquoise-incrusted wrist-watch, then leaning back in a corner of her chair and resting her long slim hands on one arm of it.
“Most people treat tea-making so clumsily,” Stacey remarked. “You make it an art, just as you do with all the other daily things. They acquire distinction. That’s nice.”
“Thanks,” she said idly, “but it’s only that it tastes better if it’s made right, you know.”
“And isn’t that something? Marian,” he added, noting that her fingers were quite bare, “don’t you wear your rings any more?”
She glanced down at her hands. “No,” she said, “I don’t like them. And they slip off.”
“You mustn’t let yourself get so thin,” he returned solicitously25.
She gave him a quick hard smile. “Of course not. I must keep myself a handsome objet d’art, mustn’t I? I remember all about the Parthenon, Stacey.”
“No, no!” he answered, discouraged, getting a glimpse of her antagonism26, “I didn’t mean that! I only meant that you must stay well. What a rotter you must think me, to take my remark like that! As far as that goes, you’re more beautiful at present than I’ve ever seen you,” he added simply.
But he saw her bite her lip after her pettish27 outburst, and he felt lost—baffled. To save him, he could not make out what she was after; whether she regretted her spiteful little attack because it was not in line with a carefully prepared program or because she merely wanted to be friendly and hadn’t meant to grow petulant28. His mind played restlessly over the whole situation and could make nothing of it.
“Yes, that was rather nasty of me, I admit,” said Marian after a moment.
It was some little time before she could again conquer his wariness29, but she did so at last. There is a smooth disarming30 intimacy31 about the tea-hour. The ceremony of tea itself is so fine; it is elegant, aloof32 and gracious; it ministers to taste yet not to appetite; people are not there to chew and be nourished. And then the hour itself is lovable—the sun’s rays growing level, dust in the air turned golden, a hush33 perceptible even through the city’s noise. Stacey surrendered to the atmosphere of intimacy. He drank the fragrant34 China tea and talked without restraint of a number of things. Perhaps, he thought, he and Marian might still be friends. He had treated her abominably35 and was sorry for it now that he understood her better, though she, he admitted, understood him better than he her.
They could be silent, too. Pauses were not awkward.
“You gather so much fineness together, Marian,” he remarked once. “All that you touch becomes fine, turns to gold.” He ceased abruptly36. That was the wrong allusion37, he thought, annoyed at his clumsiness.
But she did not seem to mind it. “You’re really quite kindly38 toward me, aren’t you, Stacey?” she replied, with perhaps just a hint of irony39 in her voice, but smiling pleasantly.
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“No reason at all, of course,” she said prettily, making him a mocking little bow. “Have some more tea.”
He held out his cup, watched her fill it, then set it down again, all mechanically. “People get in states of mind—for no particular reason,” he said vaguely40, feeling apologetic yet not wanting to go into the matter—as much on her account as on his.
“Yes, and then into others. Tell me:—do you feel kindly toward everybody now?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t go so far as to claim that!” he replied uncomfortably. It went against his whole nature to talk about himself to Marian, yet he felt he owed her some sort of confession41. So he went on haltingly. “I used to get awfully42 worked up about a lot of things—about people being greedy, for instance. I don’t mean any one person—everybody, whole human race. But then,” he concluded diffidently, “it struck me that they weren’t hateful on account of it, but only pathetic, since their greed never brought them happiness—never!”
Marian’s face was half turned away from him and she was resting her chin in her cupped hand—an old familiar pose—so that he could not see her expression. But all at once she dropped her hand, lay back in her chair, and laughed musically, startling him.
“Oh, Stacey, you’re so funny!” she exclaimed. “I’ve told you that before. But I think,” she added, not laughing now, smiling at him deliberately43, “that I liked you better in your fierce, world-defying, Byronic stage, when you were so dramatic, than now in this Christ-like phase.”
He winced44 sharply. She had really hurt him there. He despised people who went sweetly through the world doing good to others; which was what she meant. Stacey flushed hotly. But he caught a fleeting45 gleam of triumph in Marian’s eyes, and at this his anger and most of his shame left him, and he only felt drearily46 that it was no use, she hated him and had got him there on purpose to take this sort of small revenge. It was true that she had led him on and stabbed just when he had generously disarmed; she had not played fair. But, after all, why should she?
She baffled him to-day, though. He thought that now he was in for it, that she would try to lead him into some further trap. Instead, she grew suddenly listless, talked indifferently of casual things, or, again, talked rapidly and artificially. She made no more onslaughts, was rather kind to him than otherwise, ringing for the butler to bring up a brand of cigarettes of which she knew Stacey was fond. But he felt her to be immensely sophisticated, with no girlishness remaining. Leaning back in her chair she had the weary perfection of something finished, complete and soulless. There was no trace left in her of the elfish charm for which he had once loved her idolatrously. Nor had there been at the very beginning of the afternoon when she had seemed fresh and spontaneous.
She went down to the door with him when he left her, but she shook hands almost apathetically47.
He puzzled over it as he walked homeward. He could not understand what Marian had been about. Surely she had not summoned him to give him that one thrust. She was too clever not to have been able to do more than that if revenge was what she had been after. It did not occur to him that Marian might simply have been intolerably bored and have wanted him as some kind of relief, to cajole or stab as the mood struck her. What Stacey did feel was that it was restful to go back to Catherine and his father from so much futile48 complexity49. Not that they were so limpid50, either, come to think about it; Catherine especially wasn’t. But they were direct.
The interview left him feeling a little sore,—not altogether, though partly, because he had been wounded in his self-esteem. But this did not last; the matter was too trivial to annoy him for long. He forgot all about it in his work.
It was just two weeks later at about four in the afternoon when the door of Stacey’s office was thrown open and Ames Price strode in. Stacey’s first feeling was one of surprise and repressed amusement; for he had not seen Ames since the evening of the outrageous51 jest played on him at the road-house. Stacey’s second emotion, following immediately, was a sick comprehending horror. It was as though he had known everything beforehand in a dream that he had forgotten and that had fought in vain to break loose and summon him.
Ames’s heavy face was set, in a struggle for self-control, and his voice when he spoke52 was thick and difficult.
Stacey had already sprung to his feet. He was paler than Ames. “Yes,” he said, and snatched up his hat.
“No,” said Stacey dully, “no. Come on!”
“Slowly—through the office. No fuss. Got to smile. Latimer said so.” It was as though Ames were reciting a ritual.
Together they went down in the elevator and out of the building. It was August, but the car that Ames had brought was a closed car. “Latimer again,” thought Stacey, with a touch of loathing55 beneath the horror that filled his mind. They set off swiftly.
“It’s—Marian,” said Ames. “She shot herself this morning. Dying. She—asks for you.” He looked at Stacey—dully rather than with hatred56.
It was this, of course, or something like it, Stacey knew already; but to hear it in words was abominable57. A chill ran over his body. He felt physically58 nauseated59. He set his teeth.
“In—much—pain?” he muttered.
“No.”
The car drove up beneath the porte-cochère of the Prices’ house, and the two men got out. They went upstairs together silently.
In Marian’s exquisite60 boudoir stood a black group of people. Stacey recognized none of them at first, only caught a feeling of their heavy incongruity61 in that place. Then he saw that Mr. Latimer was one and that another was a doctor whom he knew. There was a nurse also. From somewhere Mrs. Latimer appeared, and Stacey perceived that she was a haggard old woman. A look of relief softened62 her eyes a very little at sight of him.
“She wants to see you, Stacey,” Mrs. Latimer murmured. “I’ll speak to the doctor inside,” and she went through a door.
Presently she returned with the doctor. “You can go in,” he said.
“No, no harm. Better to let her have her way. There’s nothing to be done. The bullet missed the heart and penetrated65 the lung instead. The wound is dressed. Be as calm as you can.”
“There’s no hope?”
“Not the faintest. She is—well, there’s no hope,” replied the doctor, rather kindly.
“Just a minute, then,” said Stacey. He leaned against a wall and struggled for composure. Then he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “All right,” he said, and went through the door with the doctor and Marian’s mother.
The room beyond was hushed, cool and darkened. Mrs. Latimer led Stacey to the bedside, then withdrew to a distant corner of the room and stood there, motionless, with the nurse and the doctor. When he looked that way he could see them like dim figures in the background of some faded Venetian picture.
“Is that Stacey?” asked a thin voice.
“Yes,” he murmured, and knelt by the bed.
Marian was propped66 up within it, and her face, that was turned sideways toward him on the pillows, was like alabaster67, thin, veined and bloodless; but her beauty was unmarred, heightened even—like a statue of her beauty. The only color anywhere was in her bright hair that was spread about the pillow.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” she said. “Take my hand.”
He did so, gently. Her voice was scarcely more than a musical murmur63, and between phrases she gasped68 for breath. “Don’t talk!” he begged. “Let me talk to you, Marian.”
“No,” she said, “I must talk to you, Stacey. Not much—only a little.” She paused, panting.
“I wanted—to tell you,” she went on almost inaudibly, “oh, lots of things! Not to worry—for one. It’s just—as well. Only—isn’t it like me,” she said, with a faint smile, “to fail—even in this?”
“Marian—please!” he muttered, tightening71 his hold on her hand for an instant. It was the pathos72 of her frail73 attempt at cynicism that shook him. For now she no longer looked the weary, perfect, grown-up woman; she seemed a little girl. To watch her die was like watching a child die—or a dream.
“I hurt you, Stacey. I—didn’t mean to,” she said softly, and managed to stroke his hand, ever so faintly.
It was perhaps the first time he had found tenderness in her. He set his teeth hard.
“I must say—what I have to—quickly,” she went on. “You are not to—blame yourself, Stacey. You have—nothing—to—do—with—it.” She paused for a moment, struggling for breath. “I was—all wrong—twisted. You were right. You couldn’t love me—or I you—not even you. I could not bear—life—any longer—having made—such a mess—of it.”
She closed her eyes weakly, and he thought that she slept or—had died. But presently they fluttered open again. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “that I said—what I did—to you—the other day. It was not—true—and I did not mean it—even then.”
“Oh,” he cried, in a choked voice, “don’t, Marian!”
She held his fingers close. “Poor Stacey!” she whispered. “It’s not your fault.”
Again she paused. And after a moment an elfish smile stirred her lips. “Do I look—a fright?” she asked.
“No—lovely.”
“Well, that’s good!” she murmured, with the ghost of a laugh. “Par—thenon.”
They were both silent for a while.
“Now I’m sleepy. You may—go. But first—kiss me, Stacey dear.”
He bent74 over and touched her white cheek with his lips, then rose slowly to his feet and made his way back unsteadily to the others.
“I don’t know,” he muttered hoarsely to the doctor. “You’d better feel her pulse.”
The doctor went quickly to the bed, then, after a moment, returned. “Just the same—or only a little weaker. She’s asleep,” he whispered.
Stacey looked at Mrs. Latimer. “I’ll go, then. You’ll keep me informed—by ’phone?” he pleaded.
She nodded, taking his hand for an instant.
He returned to the other room, dizzily. “She’s sleeping just now,” he said to Marian’s husband. “Will you—have your car take me—home?”
They went out into the hall together. Stacey stumbled, and Ames grasped his arm and held it.
But Mr. Latimer had followed them. “Stacey,” he said, “just a moment.”
Stacey turned mechanically to stare at him. Up to now he had only been vaguely aware of the man’s presence.
“It is perhaps unnecessary for me to warn you to say nothing of this,” said Marian’s father stonily75. “It must be kept out of the papers.”
It was just what Stacey needed. He straightened up, anger rushing through him like a hot flood. “Go to hell!” he said, then swung about and walked quickly and firmly downstairs, with Ames following.
At the door of the car the two men gazed at each other helplessly. There was no antagonism between them now. In some odd way they were even united.
“I’m glad you said that to Latimer,” Ames remarked dully.
So was Stacey glad. His anger was all that sustained him on the ride home. For he felt that everything was Mr. Latimer’s fault. All the worst of Marian he had given her. Almost he had pointed the revolver.
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1
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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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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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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solicitously
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antagonism
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pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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wariness
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| n. 注意,小心 | |
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disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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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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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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fragrant
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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abruptly
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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kindly
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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vaguely
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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apathetically
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| adv.不露感情地；无动于衷地；不感兴趣地；冷淡地 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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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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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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nauseated
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| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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stonily
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| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
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