AT two o'clock in the morning the freckled1 boy fromCreston stopped his sleepy horse at the door of the redhouse, and Charity got out. Harney had taken leave ofher at Creston River, charging the boy to drive herhome. Her mind was still in a fog of misery2, and shedid not remember very clearly what had happened, orwhat they said to each other, during the interminableinterval since their departure from Nettleton; but thesecretive instinct of the animal in pain was so strongin her that she had a sense of relief when Harney gotout and she drove on alone.
The full moon hung over North Dormer, whitening themist that filled the hollows between the hills andfloated transparently4 above the fields. Charity stooda moment at the gate, looking out into the waningnight. She watched the boy drive off, his horse's headwagging heavily to and fro; then she went around to thekitchen door and felt under the mat for the key. Shefound it, unlocked the door and went in. Thekitchen was dark, but she discovered a box of matches,lit a candle and went upstairs. Mr. Royall's door,opposite hers, stood open on his unlit room; evidentlyhe had not come back. She went into her room, boltedher door and began slowly to untie6 the ribbon about herwaist, and to take off her dress. Under the bed shesaw the paper bag in which she had hidden her new hatfrom inquisitive7 eyes....
She lay for a long time sleepless8 on her bed, staringup at the moonlight on the low ceiling; dawn was in thesky when she fell asleep, and when she woke the sun wason her face.
She dressed and went down to the kitchen. Verena wasthere alone: she glanced at Charity tranquilly9, withher old deaf-looking eyes. There was no sign of Mr.
Royall about the house and the hours passed without hisreappearing. Charity had gone up to her room, and satthere listlessly, her hands on her lap. Puffs10 ofsultry air fanned her dimity window curtains and fliesbuzzed stiflingly11 against the bluish panes12.
At one o'clock Verena hobbled up to see if she were notcoming down to dinner; but she shook her head, andthe old woman went away, saying: "I'll cover up, then."The sun turned and left her room, and Charity seatedherself in the window, gazing down the village streetthrough the half-opened shutters13. Not a thought was inher mind; it was just a dark whirlpool of crowdingimages; and she watched the people passing along thestreet, Dan Targatt's team hauling a load of pine-trunks down to Hepburn, the sexton's old white horsegrazing on the bank across the way, as if she looked atthese familiar sights from the other side of the grave.
She was roused from her apathy14 by seeing Ally Hawescome out of the Frys' gate and walk slowly toward thered house with her uneven15 limping step. At the sightCharity recovered her severed16 contact with reality. Shedivined that Ally was coming to hear about her day: noone else was in the secret of the trip to Nettleton,and it had flattered Ally profoundly to be allowed toknow of it.
At the thought of having to see her, of having to meether eyes and answer or evade17 her questions, the wholehorror of the previous night's adventure rushed backupon Charity. What had been a feverish18 nightmarebecame a cold and unescapable fact. Poor Ally, at thatmoment, represented North Dormer, with all its meancuriosities, its furtive19 malice20, its shamunconsciousness of evil. Charity knew that, althoughall relations with Julia were supposed to be severed,the tender-hearted Ally still secretly communicatedwith her; and no doubt Julia would exult21 in the chanceof retailing22 the scandal of the wharf23. The story,exaggerated and distorted, was probably already on itsway to North Dormer.
Ally's dragging pace had not carried her far from theFrys' gate when she was stopped by old Mrs. Sollas, whowas a great talker, and spoke24 very slowly because shehad never been able to get used to her new teeth fromHepburn. Still, even this respite25 would not last long;in another ten minutes Ally would be at the door, andCharity would hear her greeting Verena in the kitchen,and then calling up from the foot of the stairs.
Suddenly it became clear that flight, and instantflight, was the only thing conceivable. The longing26 toescape, to get away from familiar faces, from placeswhere she was known, had always been strong in her inmoments of distress27. She had a childish belief inthe miraculous28 power of strange scenes and new faces totransform her life and wipe out bitter memories. Butsuch impulses were mere29 fleeting30 whims31 compared to thecold resolve which now possessed32 her. She felt shecould not remain an hour longer under the roof of theman who had publicly dishonoured33 her, and face to facewith the people who would presently be gloating overall the details of her humiliation34.
Her passing pity for Mr. Royall had been swallowed upin loathing35: everything in her recoiled36 from thedisgraceful spectacle of the drunken old manapostrophizing her in the presence of a band of loafersand street-walkers. Suddenly, vividly37, she relivedagain the horrible moment when he had tried to forcehimself into her room, and what she had before supposedto be a mad aberration38 now appeared to her as a vulgarincident in a debauched and degraded life.
While these thoughts were hurrying through her she haddragged out her old canvas school-bag, and wasthrusting into it a few articles of clothing and thelittle packet of letters she had received from Harney.
From under her pincushion she took the library key, andlaid it in full view; then she felt at the back ofa drawer for the blue brooch that Harney had given her.
She would not have dared to wear it openly at NorthDormer, but now she fastened it on her bosom39 as if itwere a talisman40 to protect her in her flight. Thesepreparations had taken but a few minutes, and when theywere finished Ally Hawes was still at the Frys' cornertalking to old Mrs. Sollas....
She had said to herself, as she always said in momentsof revolt: "I'll go to the Mountain--I'll go back to myown folks." She had never really meant it before; butnow, as she considered her case, no other course seemedopen. She had never learned any trade that would havegiven her independence in a strange place, and she knewno one in the big towns of the valley, where she mighthave hoped to find employment. Miss Hatchard was stillaway; but even had she been at North Dormer she was thelast person to whom Charity would have turned, sinceone of the motives41 urging her to flight was the wishnot to see Lucius Harney. Travelling back fromNettleton, in the crowded brightly-lit train, allexchange of confidence between them had beenimpossible; but during their drive from Hepburn toCreston River she had gathered from Harney's snatchesof consolatory42 talk--again hampered43 by the freckledboy's presence--that he intended to see her the nextday. At the moment she had found a vague comfort inthe assurance; but in the desolate44 lucidity45 of thehours that followed she had come to see theimpossibility of meeting him again. Her dream ofcomradeship was over; and the scene on the wharf--vileand disgraceful as it had been--had after all shed thelight of truth on her minute of madness. It was as ifher guardian's words had stripped her bare in the faceof the grinning crowd and proclaimed to the world thesecret admonitions of her conscience.
She did not think these things out clearly; she simplyfollowed the blind propulsion of her wretchedness. Shedid not want, ever again, to see anyone she had known;above all, she did not want to see Harney....
She climbed the hill-path behind the house and struckthrough the woods by a short-cut leading to the Crestonroad. A lead-coloured sky hung heavily over thefields, and in the forest the motionless air wasstifling; but she pushed on, impatient to reachthe road which was the shortest way to the Mountain.
To do so, she had to follow the Creston road for a mileor two, and go within half a mile of the village; andshe walked quickly, fearing to meet Harney. But therewas no sign of him, and she had almost reached thebranch road when she saw the flanks of a large whitetent projecting through the trees by the roadside. Shesupposed that it sheltered a travelling circus whichhad come there for the Fourth; but as she drew nearershe saw, over the folded-back flap, a large signbearing the inscription47, "Gospel Tent." The interiorseemed to be empty; but a young man in a black alpacacoat, his lank46 hair parted over a round white face,stepped from under the flap and advanced toward herwith a smile.
"Sister, your Saviour48 knows everything. Won't you comein and lay your guilt49 before Him?" he askedinsinuatingly, putting his hand on her arm.
Charity started back and flushed. For a moment shethought the evangelist must have heard a report of thescene at Nettleton; then she saw the absurdity50 of thesupposition.
"I on'y wish't I had any to lay!" she retorted,with one of her fierce flashes of self-derision;and the young man murmured, aghast: "Oh, Sister, don'tspeak blasphemy51...."But she had jerked her arm out of his hold, and wasrunning up the branch road, trembling with the fear ofmeeting a familiar face. Presently she was out ofsight of the village, and climbing into the heart ofthe forest. She could not hope to do the fifteen milesto the Mountain that afternoon; but she knew of a placehalf-way to Hamblin where she could sleep, and where noone would think of looking for her. It was a littledeserted house on a slope in one of the lonely rifts52 ofthe hills. She had seen it once, years before, whenshe had gone on a nutting expedition to the grove53 ofwalnuts below it. The party had taken refuge in thehouse from a sudden mountain storm, and she rememberedthat Ben Sollas, who liked frightening girls, had toldthem that it was said to be haunted.
She was growing faint and tired, for she had eatennothing since morning, and was not used to walking sofar. Her head felt light and she sat down for a momentby the roadside. As she sat there she heard the clickof a bicycle-bell, and started up to plunge54 back intothe forest; but before she could move the bicyclehad swept around the curve of the road, and Harney,jumping off, was approaching her with outstretchedarms.
"Charity! What on earth are you doing here?"She stared as if he were a vision, so startled by theunexpectedness of his being there that no words came toher.
"Where were you going? Had you forgotten that I wascoming?" he continued, trying to draw her to him; butshe shrank from his embrace.
"I was going away--I don't want to see you--I want youshould leave me alone," she broke out wildly.
He looked at her and his face grew grave, as though theshadow of a premonition brushed it.
"Going away--from me, Charity?""From everybody. I want you should leave me."He stood glancing doubtfully up and down the lonelyforest road that stretched away into sun-fleckeddistances.
"Where were you going?'
"Home.""Home--this way?"She threw her head back defiantly55. "To my home--upyonder: to the Mountain."As she spoke she became aware of a change in hisface. He was no longer listening to her, he was onlylooking at her, with the passionate56 absorbed expressionshe had seen in his eyes after they had kissed on thestand at Nettleton. He was the new Harney again, theHarney abruptly57 revealed in that embrace, who seemed sopenetrated with the joy of her presence that he wasutterly careless of what she was thinking or feeling.
He caught her hands with a laugh. "How do you supposeI found you?" he said gaily58. He drew out the littlepacket of his letters and flourished them before herbewildered eyes.
"You dropped them, you imprudent young person--droppedthem in the middle of the road, not far from here; andthe young man who is running the Gospel tent pickedthem up just as I was riding by." He drew back, holdingher at arm's length, and scrutinizing59 her troubled facewith the minute searching gaze of his short-sightedeyes.
"Did you really think you could run away from me? Yousee you weren't meant to," he said; and before shecould answer he had kissed her again, not vehemently,but tenderly, almost fraternally, as if he hadguessed her confused pain, and wanted her to know heunderstood it. He wound his fingers through hers.
"Come let's walk a little. I want to talk to you.
There's so much to say."He spoke with a boy's gaiety, carelessly andconfidently, as if nothing had happened that couldshame or embarrass them; and for a moment, in thesudden relief of her release from lonely pain, she feltherself yielding to his mood. But he had turned, andwas drawing her back along the road by which she hadcome. She stiffened60 herself and stopped short.
"I won't go back," she said.
They looked at each other a moment in silence; then heanswered gently: "Very well: let's go the other way,then."She remained motionless, gazing silently at the ground,and he went on: "Isn't there a house up here somewhere--a little abandoned house--you meant to show me someday?" Still she made no answer, and he continued, inthe same tone of tender reassurance61: "Let us go therenow and sit down and talk quietly." He took one of thehands that hung by her side and pressed his lips to thepalm. "Do you suppose I'm going to let you sendme away? Do you suppose I don't understand?"The little old house--its wooden walls sun-bleached toa ghostly gray--stood in an orchard62 above the road.
The garden palings had fallen, but the broken gatedangled between its posts, and the path to the housewas marked by rose-bushes run wild and hanging theirsmall pale blossoms above the crowding grasses.
Slender pilasters and an intricate fan-light framed theopening where the door had hung; and the door itselflay rotting in the grass, with an old apple-tree fallenacross it.
Inside, also, wind and weather had blanched63 everythingto the same wan5 silvery tint64; the house was as dry andpure as the interior of a long-empty shell. But itmust have been exceptionally well built, for the littlerooms had kept something of their human aspect: thewooden mantels with their neat classic ornaments65 werein place, and the corners of one ceiling retained alight film of plaster tracery.
Harney had found an old bench at the back door anddragged it into the house. Charity sat on it,leaning her head against the wall in a state ofdrowsy lassitude. He had guessed that she was hungryand thirsty, and had brought her some tablets ofchocolate from his bicycle-bag, and filled hisdrinking-cup from a spring in the orchard; and now hesat at her feet, smoking a cigarette, and looking up ather without speaking. Outside, the afternoon shadowswere lengthening66 across the grass, and through theempty window-frame that faced her she saw the Mountainthrusting its dark mass against a sultry sunset. Itwas time to go.
She stood up, and he sprang to his feet also, andpassed his arm through hers with an air of authority.
"Now, Charity, you're coming back with me."She looked at him and shook her head. "I ain't evergoing back. You don't know.""What don't I know?" She was silent, and he continued:
"What happened on the wharf was horrible--it's naturalyou should feel as you do. But it doesn't make anyreal difference: you can't be hurt by such things. Youmust try to forget. And you must try to understandthat men...men sometimes...""I know about men. That's why."He coloured a little at the retort, as though ithad touched him in a way she did not suspect.
"Well, then...you must know one has to makeallowances....He'd been drinking....""I know all that, too. I've seen him so before. Buthe wouldn't have dared speak to me that way if hehadn't...""Hadn't what? What do you mean?""Hadn't wanted me to be like those other girls...." Shelowered her voice and looked away from him. "So's 'the wouldn't have to go out...."Harney stared at her. For a moment he did not seem toseize her meaning; then his face grew dark. "Thedamned hound! The villainous low hound!" His wrathblazed up, crimsoning67 him to the temples. "I neverdreamed--good God, it's too vile," he broke off, as ifhis thoughts recoiled from the discovery.
"I won't never go back there," she repeated doggedly68.
There was a long interval3 of silence, during which sheimagined that he was searching her face for morelight on what she had revealed to him; and a flush ofshame swept over her.
"I know the way you must feel about me," she broke out,"...telling you such things...."But once more, as she spoke, she became aware that hewas no longer listening. He came close and caught herto him as if he were snatching her from some imminentperil: his impetuous eyes were in hers, and she couldfeel the hard beat of his heart as he held her againstit.
"Kiss me again--like last night," he said, pushing herhair back as if to draw her whole face up into hiskiss.
收听单词发音 |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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transparently
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| 明亮地，显然地，易觉察地 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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untie
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| vt.解开，松开；解放 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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stiflingly
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| adv. 令人窒息地(气闷地，沉闷地) | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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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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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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retailing
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| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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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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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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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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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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52
rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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54
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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56
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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62
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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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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64
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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65
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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66
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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67
crimsoning
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| 变为深红色（crimson的现在分词形式） | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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