‘Lady Montbarry, Miss.’
Agnes was writing a letter, when the servant astonished her by announcing the visitor’s name. Her first impulse was to refuse to see the woman who had intruded1 on her. But Lady Montbarry had taken care to follow close on the servant’s heels. Before Agnes could speak, she had entered the room.
‘I beg to apologise for my intrusion, Miss Lockwood. I have a question to ask you, in which I am very much interested. No one can answer me but yourself.’ In low hesitating tones, with her glittering black eyes bent2 modestly on the ground, Lady Montbarry opened the interview in those words.
Without answering, Agnes pointed3 to a chair. She could do this, and, for the time, she could do no more. All that she had read of the hidden and sinister4 life in the palace at Venice; all that she had heard of Montbarry’s melancholy5 death and burial in a foreign land; all that she knew of the mystery of Ferrari’s disappearance6, rushed into her mind, when the black-robed figure confronted her, standing7 just inside the door. The strange conduct of Lady Montbarry added a new perplexity to the doubts and misgivings8 that troubled her. There stood the adventuress whose character had left its mark on society all over Europe — the Fury who had terrified Mrs. Ferrari at the hotel — inconceivably transformed into a timid, shrinking woman! Lady Montbarry had not once ventured to look at Agnes, since she had made her way into the room. Advancing to take the chair that had been pointed out to her, she hesitated, put her hand on the rail to support herself, and still remained standing. ‘Please give me a moment to compose myself,’ she said faintly. Her head sank on her bosom9: she stood before Agnes like a conscious culprit before a merciless judge.
The silence that followed was, literally10, the silence of fear on both sides. In the midst of it, the door was opened once more — and Henry Westwick appeared.
He looked at Lady Montbarry with a moment’s steady attention — bowed to her with formal politeness — and passed on in silence. At the sight of her husband’s brother, the sinking spirit of the woman sprang to life again. Her drooping11 figure became erect12. Her eyes met Westwick’s look, brightly defiant13. She returned his bow with an icy smile of contempt.
Henry crossed the room to Agnes.
‘Is Lady Montbarry here by your invitation?’ he asked quietly.
‘No.’
‘Do you wish to see her?’
‘It is very painful to me to see her.’
He turned and looked at his sister-in-law. ‘Do you hear that?’ he asked coldly.
‘I hear it,’ she answered, more coldly still.
‘Your visit is, to say the least of it, ill-timed.’
‘Your interference is, to say the least of it, out of place.’
With that retort, Lady Montbarry approached Agnes. The presence of Henry Westwick seemed at once to relieve and embolden14 her. ‘Permit me to ask my question, Miss Lockwood,’ she said, with graceful15 courtesy. ‘It is nothing to embarrass you. When the courier Ferrari applied16 to my late husband for employment, did you —’ Her resolution failed her, before she could say more. She sank trembling into the nearest chair, and, after a moment’s struggle, composed herself again. ‘Did you permit Ferrari,’ she resumed, ‘to make sure of being chosen for our courier by using your name?’
Agnes did not reply with her customary directness. Trifling17 as it was, the reference to Montbarry, proceeding18 from that woman of all others, confused and agitated19 her.
‘I have known Ferrari’s wife for many years,’ she began. ‘And I take an interest —’
Lady Montbarry abruptly20 lifted her hands with a gesture of entreaty21. ‘Ah, Miss Lockwood, don’t waste time by talking of his wife! Answer my
plain question, plainly!’
‘Let me answer her,’ Henry whispered. ‘I will undertake to speak plainly enough.’
Agnes refused by a gesture. Lady Montbarry’s interruption had roused her sense of what was due to herself. She resumed her reply in plainer terms.
‘When Ferrari wrote to the late Lord Montbarry,’ she said, ‘he did certainly mention my name.’
Even now, she had innocently failed to see the object which her visitor had in view. Lady Montbarry’s impatience22 became ungovernable. She started to her feet, and advanced to Agnes.
‘Was it with your knowledge and permission that Ferrari used your name?’ she asked. ‘The whole soul of my question is in that. For God’s sake answer me — Yes, or No!’
‘Yes.’
That one word struck Lady Montbarry as a blow might have struck her. The fierce life that had animated23 her face the instant before, faded out of it suddenly, and left her like a woman turned to stone. She stood, mechanically confronting Agnes, with a stillness so wrapt and perfect that not even the breath she drew was perceptible to the two persons who were looking at her.
Henry spoke24 to her roughly. ‘Rouse yourself,’ he said. ‘You have received your answer.’
She looked round at him. ‘I have received my Sentence,’ she rejoined — and turned slowly to leave the room.
To Henry’s astonishment25, Agnes stopped her. ‘Wait a moment, Lady Montbarry. I have something to ask on my side. You have spoken of Ferrari. I wish to speak of him too.’
Lady Montbarry bent her head in silence. Her hand trembled as she took out her handkerchief, and passed it over her forehead. Agnes detected the trembling, and shrank back a step. ‘Is the subject painful to you?’ she asked timidly.
Still silent, Lady Montbarry invited her by a wave of the hand to go on. Henry approached, attentively26 watching his sister-in-law. Agnes went on.
‘No trace of Ferrari has been discovered in England,’ she said. ‘Have you any news of him? And will you tell me (if you have heard anything), in mercy to his wife?’
Lady Montbarry’s thin lips suddenly relaxed into their sad and cruel smile.
‘Why do you ask me about the lost courier?’ she said. ‘You will know what has become of him, Miss Lockwood, when the time is ripe for it.’
Agnes started. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she said. ‘How shall I know? Will some one tell me?’
‘Some one will tell you.’
Henry could keep silence no longer. ‘Perhaps, your ladyship may be the person?’ he interrupted with ironical27 politeness.
She answered him with contemptuous ease. ‘You may be right, Mr. Westwick. One day or another, I may be the person who tells Miss Lockwood what has become of Ferrari, if —’ She stopped; with her eyes fixed28 on Agnes.
‘If what?’ Henry asked.
‘If Miss Lockwood forces me to it.’
Agnes listened in astonishment. ‘Force you to it?’ she repeated. ‘How can I do that? Do you mean to say my will is stronger than yours?’
‘Do you mean to say that the candle doesn’t burn the moth29, when the moth flies into it?’ Lady Montbarry rejoined. ‘Have you ever heard of such a thing as the fascination30 of terror? I am drawn31 to you by a fascination of terror. I have no right to visit you, I have no wish to visit you: you are my enemy. For the first time in my life, against my own will, I submit to my enemy. See! I am waiting because you told me to wait — and the fear of you (I swear it!) creeps through me while I stand here. Oh, don’t let me excite your curiosity or your pity! Follow the example of Mr. Westwick. Be hard and brutal32 and unforgiving, like him. Grant me my release. Tell me to go.’
The frank and simple nature of Agnes could discover but one intelligible33 meaning in this strange outbreak.
‘You are mistaken in thinking me your enemy,’ she said. ‘The wrong you did me when you gave your hand to Lord Montbarry was not intentionally34 done. I forgave you my sufferings in his lifetime. I forgive you even more freely now that he has gone.’
Henry heard her with mingled35 emotions of admiration36 and distress37. ‘Say no more!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are too good to her; she is not worthy38 of it.’
The interruption passed unheeded by Lady Montbarry. The simple words in which Agnes had replied seemed to have absorbed the whole attention of this strangely-changeable woman. As she listened, her face settled slowly into an expression of hard and tearless sorrow. There was a marked change in her voice when she spoke next. It expressed that last worst resignation which has done with hope.
‘You good innocent creature,’ she said, ‘what does your amiable39 forgiveness matter? What are your poor little wrongs, in the reckoning for greater wrongs which is demanded of me? I am not trying to frighten you, I am only miserable40 about myself. Do you know what it is to have a firm presentiment41 of calamity42 that is coming to you — and yet to hope that your own positive conviction will not prove true? When I first met you, before my marriage, and first felt your influence over me, I had that hope. It was a starveling sort of hope that lived a lingering life in me until to-day. You struck it dead, when you answered my question about Ferrari.’
‘How have I destroyed your hopes?’ Agnes asked. ‘What connection is there between my permitting Ferrari to use my name to Lord Montbarry, and the strange and dreadful things you are saying to me now?’
‘The time is near, Miss Lockwood, when you will discover that for yourself. In the mean while, you shall know what my fear of you is, in the plainest words I can find. On the day when I took your hero from you and blighted43 your life — I am firmly persuaded of it!— you were made the instrument of the retribution that my sins of many years had deserved. Oh, such things have happened before to-day! One person has, before now, been the means of innocently ripening44 the growth of evil in another. You have done that already — and you have more to do yet. You have still to bring me to the day of discovery, and to the punishment that is my doom45. We shall meet again — here in England, or there in Venice where my husband died — and meet for the last time.’
In spite of her better sense, in spite of her natural superiority to superstitions46 of all kinds, Agnes was impressed by the terrible earnestness with which those words were spoken. She turned pale as she looked at Henry. ‘Do you understand her?’ she asked.
‘Nothing is easier than to understand her,’ he replied contemptuously. ‘She knows what has become of Ferrari; and she is confusing you in a cloud of nonsense, because she daren’t own the truth. Let her go!’
If a dog had been under one of the chairs, and had barked, Lady Montbarry could not have proceeded more impenetrably with the last words she had to say to Agnes.
‘Advise your interesting Mrs. Ferrari to wait a little longer,’ she said. ‘You will know what has become of her husband, and you will tell her. There will be nothing to alarm you. Some trifling event will bring us together the next time — as trifling, I dare say, as the engagement of Ferrari. Sad nonsense, Mr. Westwick, is it not? But you make allowances for women; we all talk nonsense. Good morning, Miss Lockwood.’
She opened the door — suddenly, as if she was afraid of being called back for the second time — and left them.
收听单词发音 |
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intruded
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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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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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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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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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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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embolden
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| v.给…壮胆，鼓励 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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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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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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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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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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42
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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