“The moon is just rising,” he said, and lingered a little, looking out.
He was alone with Marius in the beautiful room overlooking the terrace. Through the folding door standing1 open into the next chamber2 might be seen Miss Chressham seated at her harp3 and the dowager Lady Lyndwood lying back gracefully4 with an open book on her knee.
It was difficult for any of them to realise there was a new mistress of the house, a new Countess of Lyndwood under the very same roof. These four were so much the same as they had always been. The lazy luxury of Lyndwood Holt was unchanged; yet but for this stranger they would have been scattered5, and others in their places here.
The candle-light showed the rich fittings, the splendid furniture. The elegant melody of the harp sounded delicately in keeping with the fine chambers6. Marius, listening to it, sighed, in sentimental7 mood.
My lord had spoken to him. Frankly9 and charmingly, Marius had asked his pardon and expressed his gratitude10. They felt themselves, perhaps, better friends than they had been since they were boys. Rose was pleased that he had made his brother happy, secretly flattered and touched by being able to play the bountiful, and Marius was honestly grateful.
Presently my lord returned from the window. He was splendidly attired11. The cloud that darkened his face on his arrival had lifted; he was a little flushed, and his eyes were dark, as if with excitement, otherwise he was composed and pleasant.
The Countess Lavinia had not appeared since she entered the house, nor had Rose mentioned her. Susannah and Marius had been silent about her, too, but my lady was able to bring her name naturally into their conversation.
The Earl leant against the mantelpiece; the pale-pink silk he wore caught the light and glimmered12, the brightest thing in the room.
Marius, sitting at his ease in one of the great leather chairs, studied my lord’s face, and wondered at it for its attraction and charm. He had never thought about his brother’s looks, though a certain magnificence of bearing about the Earl had always held him in awe14; but to-night, as he gazed up at the proud expressive15 countenance16 of Rose, he was almost startled by the extreme handsomeness of the blunt-featured, composed, slightly defiant17 face with the nostrils18 a little distended19, the lips firmly set, and the large eyes very brilliant under the long lashes20.
They call him Beau Lyndwood, thought the young man with a slight sense of distaste. Contemplation of his brother’s splendour gave him an alien feeling. He turned away his eyes and stared across to the dark expanse of the window.
My lord spoke8.
“When do you think of going to London?”
“That is as you please, sir.”
“I told Willouby you would be coming to take up your commission soon. You had better write to him.”
“I will, to-night.”
Rose Lyndwood smiled.
“And the lady?” he said sweetly.
Marius coloured.
“She is coming to London in September,” he answered manfully. Of all things he loathed21 speaking of this to his brother. “She has not written to me, but I hardly expected it.” He pulled himself up short. “This seems sorry foolery to you, sir.”
The Earl’s charming smile deepened.
“What did you call her?”
“Aspasia,” said Marius, staring in front of him.
“Aspasia! It hath melancholy22 associations! Well, September is not so far. You must commend me to her when you meet.”
Marius rose.
“I will write that letter in the library.” He hesitated, then said awkwardly: “Give my duty to my lady your wife. I hope to meet her tomorrow.”
My lord still smiled in a manner that seemed to put a measureless distance between them, and as Marius turned to leave the room he walked over to the two ladies in the inner chamber.
“A likeness23 to something—to someone,” the Countess Agatha was saying. “I cannot think where.”
“What gossip do ye broach24?” asked the Earl.
Susannah bent25 over her harp, but his mother answered at once.
“We were speaking of your Lavinia,” she said. “I could swear I had seen her face before.”
“Her type,” replied Rose Lyndwood, “is not uncommon26. And now will you sing to me, Susannah?”
Marius had lights brought into the library, and seated himself at the great desk between the bookshelves, where my lady had sat that evening when her son had told her of his ruin.
After arranging his paper and sharpening a quill27, Marius leant back in the comfortable chair and fell into a happy musing28. The future was good to dwell on. The colour crept into his cheeks, and the fire into his eyes, and his boyishly handsome face softened29 into a dreamy expression.
The candles burning either side the desk showed a pleasant picture of him, elegant, young, wide-browed and fair, with fresh, untaught lips, one hand slackly holding the quill, the other hanging by his side, grey silk and soft lace adorning30 his slim figure, and his bright hair brushing the dark background of the carved seat.
Suddenly the door opened and shut.
Marius dropped the quill with a start.
“Is that you, my lord? I have not even begun the letter.”
He looked over his shoulder and remained in that attitude, clasping the arm of the chair.
The Countess Lavinia stood inside the door. Her close purple gown was undone31 at the throat. Her complexion32 a ghastly colour; she wore no ornaments33.
“Aspasia!” said Marius.
“Hush!” she answered. “Hush!”
He rose now, still staring at her.
“Aspasia!” he repeated, and blenched35 as if he beheld36 a spirit.
She came nearer.
“I am no ghost,” she said, in a voice full of horror; “but your brother’s wife.” She put her hand to her forehead, and pushed back the damp dark hair. “I have been watching for this chance. I crept down; I saw you come in here. His cousin is singing to him.”
Marius shuddered37 and straightened himself.
“Wait!” he said. “You are Aspasia—and Rose’s wife?”
“It is new to you,” she returned wildly, “but I have thought of nothing else for two months. I knew he was your brother. What did it avail? I wrote to you—to your hotel in Paris.”
She stopped, gazing at him, and twisting her fingers together. He began to understand what she was saying, what her presence here, in his brother’s house, meant, what this was that had happened to them.
“I never had your letter,” he said stupidly. “You pledged yourself to me.”
She answered in a feverish38 haste.
“I know. Had I refused my father he would have killed me—yes, killed me! He said he would send me to Bedlam39.” She dropped into the chair that stood stiffly against the opposite wall. “It seemed, too, that you must know—that you did not care.”
Marius stumbled towards her, stooped and took her bare cold hands in his, as he had once held them, gloved and warm, under the spring trees in the garden of the Luxembourg.
“So you were Miss Lavinia Hilton, and now are Rose’s wife?” he said, in a hollow voice. “I understand.”
She turned up her face to his, and her slim bosom40 panted desperately41 under the dark gown.
“My father sent for me very soon after we parted. He was terrible—and now it is done.” A look of hopelessness came over her countenance. She rose to her feet, their hands still clinging together.
“How I have dreaded42 this meeting! I feared it must be before them all. Oh, Marius! Marius!” She ended in a broken wail43 and drew her hands away and hid her face.
“You are different,” said Marius in a foolish wonder. She seemed so much older, so much whiter and haggard, too. In a confused way he marvelled44 at it.
“Different,” she echoed; then she laughed. “I am your brother’s wife!”
Marius stepped back.
“My God!” he said in his throat, and mechanically laid hold of his sword hilt. “My God! What are we going to do?”
The Countess Lavinia cowered45 against the wall.
“You must go away. I followed you to ask you to leave the house at once—to go away. With you here I cannot bear it: do you hear me?”
The foolish quiescence46 into which the shock had at first stunned47 him began to give way to a rising passion that thawed48 his heart.
“His wife!” The blood rose to his face, his eyes. “How dared you become his wife—huckstered for your money——”
“Yes, for the money,” she interrupted frantically49. “He wanted the money, as my father wanted the title, and so he must take me, hating me as I hate him—and your brother!” She stood to her full height, pressing her hands on her bosom. “I think my soul was sold, too, for what is this but sin?”
“Where is Rose?” cried Marius thickly, and made for the door. But she was very quickly in his way.
“What are you doing?” she asked desperately. “He must not know—this must be between us—always. You must go, before anyone discovers.” She lowered her voice and glanced furtively50 as if knowing herself in the house of strangers and enemies. “If you leave now,” she continued hurriedly, “to-night, at once, we need not meet in public.”
Marius did not gather the sense of what she said. This was not Aspasia of the Luxembourg gardens, with romantic eyes and shy of speech.
“I must find Rose,” he repeated thickly.
The Countess leant across the door, grasping the handle. Her senses were on the alert. She knew Rose was only a few yards away, he and his two kinswomen; she divined it could only be a matter of moments before someone entered the library.
“What do you want to find him for?” she demanded. It was noticeable that she gave her husband neither his name nor his title. She beat the fingers of her left hand up and down on her breast. “Why do you stare like that? How slow you are!”
His eyes rested on her wedding-ring, the only ornament34 she wore.
“All is so changed,” he said drearily51. He sat down at the table. “How foolish we were.” He could not avoid uttering what was his one thought—how foolish they had been. He had imagined that he had loved Aspasia, and it had been beautiful; now this woman said, “I am Aspasia,” and the delicate fabric52 of the romance was shattered. Soft words with a fair stranger beneath the fluttering leaves was another matter to this scene with Rose’s wife in Rose’s house. The whole thing grew distasteful, almost ugly. He stared at the Countess, and it beat in his brain that she was a stranger to him; he did not know her in the least—only her face, her voice——
She, on her side, was sharply observing him.
“Perhaps you didn’t care,” she said, “after all. Well, you gave me reason to think so. We were to have been married in the autumn.”
“I kept faith!” he cried. “But you—what have you made of it all?”
A frightened look settled in her intent eyes.
“I do not know; I feel I have done something terrible. It was not to be avoided—in any way escaped. I also kept faith in my heart. What had I for him but hate?”
It jarred on Marius that she put this into words.
“We must not blame Rose,” he said, with pale lips. “He did not know. Had you told him——”
“I had no chance. Was he likely to have listened? He wanted the money.”
That stung the Earl’s brother.
“My lord wanted the money that he might help me. He heard of—our meeting. Oh, Heaven, he meant we should not be hampered53 for lack of this money! For himself I think he would have done otherwise; indeed, I believe there was another——”
Then, as the whole miserable54 confusion and tangle55 showed itself more clearly to his startled soul, he was dumb.
The Countess Lavinia caught up his broken sentence.
“Another! Ye do not need to tell me that. I am not so young nor such a fool, though maybe they thought so. But do not tell me it was not for himself. He was a ruined man.”
“Do not fling that in my face!” cried Marius.
“In your face?”
“’Tis my brother,” he answered with a great flush, “and the head of my house.”
Her feverish eyes expressed scorn.
“I do not understand you. He hath the money, hath he not?”
“Curse the money!” exclaimed Marius. “I say it was for me and my visionary love affair he did this. Had ye told him!”
“Visionary love affair!” echoed the Countess hysterically56. “Is that how ye phrase it? Well, it was more to me.”
It had been more to him, and the knowledge of it—of how much it had been and how the last few moments had changed everything on heaven and earth, held him in a white silence.
“What are you going to do?” asked the Countess. There was a goading57 note in her voice that touched the unbearable58. “Why do you not go?”
“I must see my lord,” he answered hoarsely59.
“You will not tell him?”
“I must,” he muttered. “What else?”
“Cannot you keep silence? Cannot you leave us our secret? Will you not go away, as I have asked you?”
He raised his despairing young face.
“What of my lord’s position?”
“Why do you consider—him?” She suddenly left the door and came lightly to the other side of the table. “Marius,” she said eagerly, “think of me a little. What did you say to me once—ah, what did you say, Marius?”
She had not known his name when last they met; he did not care to hear her use it now.
“What do you want of me?” he said in a shamed voice.
“I have said go to London—away, anywhere. I cannot have you here, I am not schooled enough—yet.” She paused a second, and he looked away from her, supporting his sick brow in his hand—“These women have sharp eyes, too,” she added faintly.
Now he glanced at her. “These women!” So that was how she spoke of his mother and his cousin—she, a stranger in the house, Mr. Hilton’s daughter; Aspasia should have loved my lady and Susannah.
“You may write to me,” she went on quickly, “under cover of my father’s house.”
She had thought of that, then. It brought him to his feet.
“But you are the Countess of Lyndwood,” he said.
Her slight frame trembled painfully, her large shadowed eyes widened.
“Does it make any difference to what you and I feel for each other?” she asked faintly.
“It makes a difference in the expression of that feeling,” he answered fearfully. “It means that you are no longer Aspasia.”
She held out a shaking hand towards him.
“Does it mean you no longer care?”
He made a movement as if he turned on her.
“Do you want me to say I do?”
“Perhaps so,” she answered huskily. “Perhaps I find nothing else worth living for. Do you think it has been pleasant for me since I saw you last in the Luxembourg?”
Her words made no impression on him. He was thinking of those three a few yards away—of Susannah at her harp, of my lady with the open book on her knee, of my lord listening to the music, as they had so often done before. There were only two doors and a length of corridor between them.
“Why do you look at me so strangely?” asked the Countess. “Cannot you say good-bye and go?”
Every word she said expressed this desire—to have it all secret, hidden away, concealed60, to deceive Rose and “these women.”
Marius straightened himself.
“I will go, madam.”
She was not satisfied.
“Like that?” she cried.
“In what manner?” he asked wildly. “In what manner should I take leave of you?”
She took an impatient turn about the room.
“Do you desire to madden me? Am I to tell you all you are to do? It did not use to be so.”
“Why will you dwell on the past. You, not I, have made it different.”
“You, not I,” she retorted bitterly, “find it so different. Would to God ye had told me then it was a mere13 Maytime’s amusement! It might have saved a broken heart!”
He came a desperate step towards her.
“Aspasia!”
She turned swiftly at that.
“Oh, my dear,” she cried in a shaking voice, “I am so lonely and so tired!”
He stood, neither advancing nor retreating, staring at her appealing presence with distracted eyes.
Before either spoke, Rose Lyndwood entered the room.
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收听单词发音
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1
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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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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7
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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8
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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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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10
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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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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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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18
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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21
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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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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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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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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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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27
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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28
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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29
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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adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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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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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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35
blenched
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| v.（因惊吓而）退缩，惊悸( blench的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变白，（使）变苍白 | |
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36
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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37
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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38
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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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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41
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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42
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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43
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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44
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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46
quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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47
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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48
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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49
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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50
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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51
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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52
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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53
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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54
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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55
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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56
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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57
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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58
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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59
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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60
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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