In the early twilight1 of a July evening in the year 1875, two young Americans, neither dreaming of the other's presence, came face to face on the steps of a hotel on the Quai du Montblanc at Geneva. The two men, one of whom was so bronzed by Eastern suns that his friend looked pallid2 beside him, exchanged a long, incredulous stare; then their hands met, and the elder cried out, "Of all men in the world!"
"Flemming!" exclaimed the other eagerly; "I thought you were in Egypt."
"So I was, a month ago. What are you doing over here, Ned?"
"I don't know, to tell the truth."
"You don't know!" laughed Flemming. "Enjoying yourself, I suppose."
"The supposition is a little rash," said Edward Lynde. "I have been over nearly a year--quite a year, in fact. After uncle David's death"--
"Poor old fellow! I got the news at Smyrna."
"After he was gone, and the business of the estate was settled, I turned restless at Rivermouth. It was cursedly lonesome. I hung on there awhile, and then I came abroad."
"A rich man--my father wrote me. I have had no letter's from you. Your uncle treated you generously, Ned."
"Did he not always treat me generously?" said Lynde, with a light coming into his face and instantly dying out again. "Yes, he left me a pile of money and a heart-ache. I can hardly bear to talk of it even now, and it will be two years this August. But come up to my room. By Jove, I am glad to see you! How is it you are in Geneva? I was thinking about you yesterday, and wondering whether you were drifting down the Nile in a dahabeeah, or crossing the desert on a dromedary. Of course you have hunted tigers and elephants: did you kill anything?"
"I haven't killed anything but time. I was always a dead shot at that."
Lynde passed his arm through Flemming's, and the two friends mounted the staircase of the hotel.
"How is it you are in Geneva?" repeated Lynde.
"By luck," answered Flemming. "I am going home--in a zigzag3 way. I've been obliged to take a reef in my Eastern itinerary4. The fact is, I have had a letter from the old gentleman rather suggesting it. I believe he has availed himself of my absence to fall into financial difficulties."
"Why, I thought he was rolling in wealth."
"No, he is rolling in poverty, as nearly as I can make out. Well, not so bad as that. Nothing is ever as bad as it pretends to be. But he has met with heavy losses. I shall find letters in London and learn all about it. He wrote me not to hurry, that a month or two would make no difference. When I got to Munich I thought I would take a peep at Switzerland while I had the opportunity. I have done a good piece--from Lindau to Lucerne, from Lucerne to Martigny by way of the Furca; through the Tete Noire Pass to Chamouni, and from Chamouni, here."
While Flemming was speaking, Lynde unlocked a door at the end of the hall and ushered5 him into a sitting-room6 with three windows, each opening upon a narrow balcony of its own.
"Sit there, old fellow," said Lynde, wheeling an easy-chair to the middle window, "and look through my glass at the view before it takes itself off. It is not often as fine as it is this evening."
In front of the hotel the blue waters of the Rhone swept under the arches of the Pont des Bergues, to lose themselves in the turbid7, glacier-born Arve, a mile below the town. Between the Pont des Bergues and the Pont du Montblanc lay the island of Jean Jacques Rousseau, linked to the quay8 by a tiny chain bridge. Opposite, upon the right bank of the Rhone, stretched the handsome facades9 of tile-roofed buildings, giving one an idea of the ancient quarter which a closer inspection10 dispels11; for the streets are crooked12 and steep, and the houses, except those lining13 the quays14, squalid. It was not there, however, that the eye would have lingered. Far away, seen an incredible distance in the transparent15 evening atmosphere, Mont Blanc and its massed group of snowy satellites lifted themselves into the clouds. All those luminous16 battlements and turrets17 and pyramids--the Mole18, the Grandes Jorasses, the Aiguilles du Midi, the Dent19 du Geant, the Aiguilles d'Argentiere-- were now suffused20 with a glow so magically delicate that the softest tint21 of the blush rose would have seemed harsh and crude in comparison.
"You have to come away from Mont Blanc to see it," said Flemming, lowering the glass. "When I had my nose against it at Chamouni I didn't see it at all. It overhung me and smothered22 me. Old boy"--reaching up his hand to Lynde who was leaning on the back of the chair--"who would ever have thought that we two"--Flemming stopped short and looked earnestly into his comrade's face. "Why, Ned, I didn't notice how thin and pale you are. Are you ill?"
The color which had mantled23 Lynde's cheeks in the first surprise and pleasure of meeting his friend had passed away, leaving, indeed, a somewhat haggard expression on the young man's countenance24.
"Ill? Not that I know."
"Is anything wrong?"
"There is nothing wrong," replied Lynde, with some constraint25. "That is to say, nothing very wrong. For a month or six weeks I have been occupied with a matter that has rather unsettled me--more, perhaps, than I ought to have allowed."
"What is that?"
"It doesn't signify. Don't let's speak of it."
"But it does signify. You are keeping something serious from me. Out with it."
"Well, the truth is," said Lynde after a moment's hesitation26, "it IS something serious and nothing very positive: that's the perplexing part of it."
"You are not making it clear to me."
"I don't know that I can, Flemming."
"Try, then."
Lynde reflected a few seconds, with his eyes fixed27 on the remote mountain lines imperceptibly melting into the twilight. "Do you remember our walk home from the theatre, one night, two or three days before you sailed from New York?"
"Do you recollect29 my telling you of a queer thing that happened to me up in the New Hampshire hills?"
"Your encounter with the little lunatic? Perfectly."
"Don't!" said Lynde, shrinking as if some sharp instrument had pierced him. "She is here!"
"Here!" exclaimed Flemming, half rising from the chair, and glancing towards a draped door which connected the suite30 of apartments.
"Not in these rooms," said Lynde, with a short laugh, "but in Geneva--in this hotel."
"You do not mean it."
"When I say it is she, I'm not sure of it."
"Of course it isn't."
"That's what I say, and the next moment I know it is."
"And is THIS your trouble?"
"Yes," answered Lynde, knitting his brows. "I felt that I shouldn't make it clear to you."
"I am afraid you haven't, Ned. What earthly difference does it make to you whether or not it's the same girl?" "What difference!" cried Lynde impetuously; "what difference--when I love the very ground she walks on!"
"Oh, you love her! Which one?"
"Don't laugh at me, Flemming."
"I am not laughing," said Flemming, looking puzzled and anxious. "It is not possible, Ned, you have allowed yourself to go and get interested in a--a person not right in her mind!"
"Then Miss--Denham, is it?--cannot be the girl you told me about."
"That's the point."
"I don't see why there should be any confusion on that point."
"Don't you?"
"Come, let us go to the bottom of this. You have fallen in with a woman in Switzerland, and you suspect her of being a girl you met years ago in New Hampshire under circumstances which render her appearance here nearly an impossibility. As I am not a man of vivid imagination, that floors me. What makes you think them identical?"
"A startling personal resemblance, age, inflection of voice, manner, even a certain physical peculiarity--a scar."
"Then what makes you doubt?"
"Everything."
"Well, that's comprehensive, at all events."
"The very fact of her being here. The physician at the asylum32 said that that girl's malady33 was hopeless. Miss Denham has one of the clearest intellects I ever knew; she is a linguist34, an accomplished35 musician, and, what is more rare, a girl who has moved a great deal in society, or, at least, has travelled a great deal, and has not ceased to be an unaffected, fresh, candid36 girl."
"An American?"
"Of course; didn't I say so?"
"The other may have been a sister, then, or a cousin," suggested Flemming. "That would account for the likeness37, which possibly you exaggerate. It was in 1872, wasn't it?"
"I have been all over that. Miss Denham is an only child; she never had a cousin. To-day she is precisely38 what the other would have been, with restored health and three years added to her seventeen or eighteen."
"Upon my word, Ned, this is one of the oddest things I ever heard. I feel, though, that you have got yourself into an unnecessary snarl39. Where does Miss Denham come from? She is not travelling alone? How did you meet her? Tell me the entire story."
"There is nothing to tell, or next to nothing. I met the Denhams here, six weeks ago. It was at the table d'hote. Two ladies came in and took places opposite me--a middle-aged40 lady and a young one. I did not notice them until they were seated; it was the voice of the younger lady that attracted me; I looked up,--and there was the Queen of Sheba. The same eyes, the same hair, the same face, though not so pale, and fuller; the same form, only the contours filled out. I put down my knife and fork and stared at her. She flushed, for I fancy I stared at her rather rudely, and a faint mark, like a star, came into her cheek and faded. I saw it as distinctly as I saw it the day she passed me on the country road, swinging the flower in her hand."
"By Jove! it's a regular romance--strawberry mark and all."
"If you don't take this seriously," said Lynde, frowning, "I am done."
"Go on."
"I shall never know how I got through the endless courses of that dinner; it was an empty pantomime on my part. As soon as it was over I rushed to the hotel register. The only entry among the new arrivals which pointed41 to the two ladies was that of Mrs. William Denham and Niece, United States. You can understand, Flemming, how I was seized with a desire to know those two women. I had come to Geneva for a day or so; but I resolved to stay here a month if they stayed, or to leave the next hour if they left. In short, I meant to follow them discreetly42; it was an occupation for me. They remained. In the course of a week I knew the Denhams to speak to them when we met of a morning in the English Garden. A fortnight later it seemed to me that I had known them half my life. They had come across the previous November, they had wintered in Italy, and were going to Chamouni some time in July, where Mr. Denham was to join them; then they were to make an extended tour of Switzerland, accompanied by an old friend of the family, a professor, or a doctor, or something, who was in the south of France for his health. Miss Denham--her name is Ruth--is an orphan43, and was educated mostly over here. When the Denhams are at home they live somewhere in the neighborhood of Orange, New Jersey44. There are all the simple, exasperating45 facts. I can add nothing to them. If I were to tell you how this girl has perplexed46 and distressed47 me, by seeming to be and seeming not to be that other person--how my doubts and hopes have risen and fallen from day to day, even from hour to hour--it would be as uninteresting to you as a barometrical48 record. But this is certain: when Miss Denham and I part at Chamouni, as I suppose we shall, this world will have come to an end so far as I am concerned."
"The world doesn't come to an end that way--when one is twenty-six. Does she like you, Ned?"
"How can I say? She does not dislike me. We have seen very much of each other. We have been together some portion of each day for more than a month. But I've never had her a moment alone; the aunt is always present. We are like old friends--with a difference."
"Miss Denham is not a girl to flirt50 with; she is very self-possessed, with just a suspicion of haughtiness52; personally, tall, slight, a sort of dusky Eastern beauty, with the clear warm colors of a New England September twilight--not like the brunettes on this side, who are apt to have thick complexions53, saving their presence. I say she is not a girl to flirt with, and yet, with that sensitive-cut mouth and those deep eyes, she could do awful things in the way of tenderness if she had a mind to. She's a puzzle, with her dove's innocence54 and her serpent's wisdom. All women are problems. I suppose every married man of us goes down to his grave with his particular problem not quite solved."
Flemming gave a loud laugh. The "every married man of us" tickled55 him. "Yes," said he; "they are all daughters of the Sphinx, and past finding out. Is Miss Denham an invalid56?" he asked, after a pause.
"No; she is not strong--delicate, rather; of the pure type of American young-womanhood--more spirit than physique; but not an invalid--unless"- -
"You have let a morbid57 fancy run away with you, Ned. This lady and the other one are two different persons."
"If I could only believe it!" said Lynde. "I do believe it at times; then some gesture, some fleeting58 expression, a turn of the head, the timbre59 of her voice--and there she is again! The next moment I am ready to laugh at myself."
"Couldn't you question the aunt?"
"How could I?"
"You couldn't!"
"I have thought of that doctor at the asylum--what in the devil was his name? I might write to him; but I shrink from doing it. I have been brutal60 enough in other ways. I am ashamed to confess to what unforgivable expedients61 I have resorted to solve my uncertainty62. Once we were speaking of Genoa, where the Denhams had spent a week; I turned the conversation on the church of St. Lorenzo and the relic63 in the treasury64 there--the Sacra Catino, a supposed gift to Solomon from the Queen of Sheba. Miss Denham listened with the calmest interest; she had not seen it the day she visited the church; she was sorry to have missed that. Then the aunt changed the subject, but whether by accident or design I was unable for the soul of me to conjecture65. Good God, Flemming! could this girl have had some terrible, swift malady which touched her and passed, and still hangs over her--an hereditary66 doom67?"
"Then she's the most artful actress that ever lived, I should say. The leading lady of the Theatre Francais might go and take lessons of her. But if that were so, Ned?"
"If that were so," said Lynde slowly, "a great pity would be added to my love."
"You would not marry her!"
Lynde made no reply.
The night had settled down upon Geneva while the friends were talking. The room was so dark they could not distinguish each other; but Flemming was conscious of a pale, set face turned towards him in the obscurity, in the same way that he was conscious of the forlorn whiteness of Mont Blanc looming68 up out yonder, unseen. It was dark in the chamber69, but the streets were gay now with the life of a midsummer night. Interminable lines of lamps twinkled on the bridges and along the quays; the windows of the cafes on the opposite bank of the Rhone were brilliant with gas jets; boats, bearing merry cargoes70 to and from the lake, passed up and down the river; the street running under the hotel balcony was crowded with loungers, and a band was playing in the English Garden. From time to time a strain of music floated up to the window where the two men were sitting. Neither had spoken for some minutes, when Lynde asked his friend where he was staying.
"At the Schweizerhof," replied Flemming. "I always take the hotel nearest the station. Few Americans go there, I fancy. It is wonderfully and fearfully Swiss. I was strolling in here to look through the register for some American autographs when I ran against you."
"You had better bring your traps over here."
"It would not be worth while. I am booked for Paris to-morrow night. Ned--come with me!"
"I can't, Flemming; I have agreed to go to Chamouni with the Denhams."
"Don't!"
"That is like advising a famishing man not to eat his last morsel71 of food. I have a presentiment72 it will all end there. I never had a presentiment before."
"I had a presentiment once," said Flemming impressively. "I had a presentiment that a certain number--it was number twenty-seven--would draw the prize in a certain lottery73. I went to the office, and number twenty-seven was one of the two numbers unsold! I bought it as quick as lightning, I dreamed of number twenty-seven three successive nights, and the next day it drew a blank."
"That has the ring of the old Flemming!" cried Lynde, with an unforced laugh. "I am glad that I have not succeeded in turning all your joyous74 gold into lead. I'm not always such dull company as I have been to- night, with my moods and my presentiments75. I owe them partly, perhaps, to not seeing Miss Denham to-day, the aunt having a headache."
"You were not in a rollicking humor when I picked you up."
"I had been cruising about town all the morning alone, making assaults on the Musee Fol, the Botanic Garden, and the Jewish Synagogue. In the afternoon I had wrecked76 myself on Rousseau's Island, where I sat on a bench staring at Pradier's poor statue of Jean Jacques until I fancied that the ugly bronze cannibal was making mouths at me. When the aunt has a headache, _I_ suffer. Flemming, you must see Miss Denham, if only for a moment."
"Of course I should like to see her, Ned."
"You do not leave until evening," Lynde said, reflecting. "I think I can manage a little dinner for to-morrow. Now let us take a breath of fresh air. I know the queerest old nook, in the Rue77 de Chantpoulet, where the Bavarian beer is excellent and all the company smoke the most enormous porcelain78 pipes. Haven't I hit one of your weaknesses?"
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1
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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5
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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8
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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facades
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| n.（房屋的）正面( facade的名词复数 )；假象，外观 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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dispels
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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dent
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| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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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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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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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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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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linguist
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| n.语言学家；精通数种外国语言者 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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41
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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42
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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46
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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barometrical
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| 气压计的 | |
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49
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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51
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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52
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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53
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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54
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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55
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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56
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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57
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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58
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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timbre
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| n.音色，音质 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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61
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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62
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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69
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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72
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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73
lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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75
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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76
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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