WHEN Lady Newhaven slipped out of the supper-room after her husband and Hugh, and lingered at the door of the study, she did not follow them with the deliberate intention of eavesdropping1, but from a vague impulse of suspicious anxiety. Yet she crouched2 in her white satin gown against the door listening intently.
Neither man moved within. Only one spoke3. There was no other sound to deaden her husband’s distinct low voice. The silence that followed his last word “Will you draw?” was broken by his laugh, and she had barely time to throw herself back from the door into a dark recess4 under the staircase before Hugh came out. He almost touched her as he passed. He must have seen her if he had been capable of seeing anything, but he went straight on unheeding. And as she stole a few steps to gaze after him, she saw him cross the hall and go out into the night without his hat and coat, the amazed servants staring after him.
She drew back to go upstairs, and met her husband coming slowly out of the study. He looked steadily6 at her, as she clung trembling to the banisters. There was no alteration7 in his glance, and she suddenly perceived that what he knew now he had always known. She put her hand to her head.
“You look tired,” he said, in the level voice to which she was accustomed. “You had better go to bed.”
She stumbled swiftly upstairs, catching8 at the banisters, and went into her own room.
Her maid was waiting for her by the dressing-table with its shaded electric lights. And she remembered that she had given a party, and that she had on her diamonds.
It would take a long time to unfasten them. She pulled at the diamond sun on her breast with a shaking hand. Her husband had given it to her when her eldest9 son was born. Her maid took the tiara gently out of her hair, and cut the threads that sewed the diamonds on her breast and shoulders. Would it never end? The lace of her gown cautiously withdrawn10 through its hundred eyelet-holes knotted itself.
“Cut it,” she said impatiently. “Cut it.”
At last she was in her dressing-gown and alone. She flung herself face downwards12 on the sofa. Her attitude had the touch of artificiality which was natural to her.
The deluge14 had arrived, and unconsciously she met it as she would have made a heroine meet it had she been a novelist, in a white dressing-gown and pink ribbons in a stereotyped15 attitude of despair on a divan16.
Conscience is supposed to make cowards of us all, but it is a matter of common experience that the unimaginative are made cowards of only by being found out.
Had David qualms17 of conscience when Uriah fell before the besieged18 city? Surely if he had he would have winced19 at the obvious parallel of the prophet’s story about the ewe lamb. But apparently20 he remained serenely21 obtuse22 till the indignant author’s “Thou art the man” unexpectedly nailed him to the cross of his sin.
And so it was with Lady Newhaven. She had gone through the twenty-seven years of her life believing herself to be a religious and virtuous23 person. She was so accustomed to the idea that it had become a habit, and now the whole of her self-respect was in one wrench24 torn from her. The events of the last year had not worn it down to its last shred25, had not even worn the nap off. It was dragged from her intact, and the shock left her faint and shuddering26.
The thought that her husband knew, and had thought fit to conceal27 his knowledge, had never entered her mind, any more than the probability that she had been seen by some of the servants kneeling listening at a keyhole. The mistake which all unobservant people make is to assume that others are as unobservant as themselves.
By what frightful28 accident, she asked herself, had this catastrophe29 come about. She thought of all the obvious incidents which would have revealed the secret to herself; the dropped letter, the altered countenance30, the badly arranged lie. No. She was convinced her secret had been guarded with minute, with scrupulous31 care. The only thing she had forgotten in her calculations was her husband’s character, if, indeed, she could be said to have forgotten that which she had never known.
Lord Newhaven was in his wife’s eyes a very quiet man of few words. That his few words did not represent the whole of him had never occurred to her. She had often told her friends that he walked through life with his eyes shut. He had a trick of half shutting his eyes which confirmed her in this opinion. When she came across persons who were, after a time, discovered to have affections and interests of which they had not spoken she described them as “cunning.” She had never thought Edward “cunning” till to-night. How had he of all men discovered this — this. — She had no words ready to call her conduct by, though words would not have failed her had she been denouncing the same conduct in another wife and mother.
Gradually “the whole horror of her situation,” to borrow from her own vocabulary, forced itself upon her mind like damp through a gay wall-paper. What did it matter how the discovery had been made! It was made, and she was ruined. She repeated the words between little gasps32 for breath. Ruined! Her reputation lost! Hers — Violet Newhaven’s. It was a sheer impossibility that such a thing could have happened to a woman like her. It was some vile33 slander34 which Edward must see to. He was good at that sort of thing. But no, Edward would not help her. She had committed —. She flung out her hands panic-stricken, as if to ward13 off a blow. The deed had brought with it no shame, but the word — the word wounded her like a sword.
Her feeble mind, momentarily stunned35, pursued its groping way.
He would divorce her. It would be in the papers. But no. What was that he had said to Hugh —“No names to be mentioned; all scandal avoided.”
She shivered and drew in her breath. It was to be settled some other way. Her mind became an entire blank. Another way! What way? She remembered now, and an inarticulate cry broke from her. They had drawn11 lots.
Which had drawn the short lighter36?
Her husband had laughed. But then he laughed at everything. He was never really serious, always shallow and heartless. He would have laughed if he had drawn it himself. Perhaps he had. Yes, he certainly had drawn it. But Hugh? She saw again the white set face as he passed her. No, it must be Hugh who had drawn it — Hugh whom she loved. She wrung37 her hands and moaned, half-aloud:
“Which? Which?”
There was a slight movement in the next room, the door was opened, and Lord Newhaven appeared in the doorway38. He was still in evening dress.
“Did you call?” he said quietly. “Are you ill?” He came and stood beside her.
“No,” she said hoarsely39, and she sat up and gazed fixedly40 at him. Despair and suspense41 were in her eyes. There was no change in his, and she remembered that she had never seen him angry. Perhaps she had not known when he was angry.
He was turning away, but she stopped him.
“Wait,” she said, and he returned, his cold attentive42 eye upon her. There was no contempt, no indignation in his bearing. If those feelings had shaken him it must have been some time ago. If they had been met and vanquished43 in secret that also must have been some time ago. He took up an "Imitation of Christ,” bound in the peculiar44 shade of lilac which at that moment prevailed, and turned it in his hand.
“You are overwrought,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “and I particularly dislike a scene.”
She did not heed5 him.
“I listened at the door,” she said in a harsh, unnatural45 voice.
“I am perfectly46 aware of it.”
A sort of horror seemed to have enveloped47 the familiar room. The very furniture looked like well-known words arranged suddenly in some new and dreadful meaning.
“You never loved me,” she said.
He did not answer, but he looked gravely at her for a moment, and she was ashamed.
“Why don’t you divorce me if you think me so wicked?”
“For the sake of the children,” he said, with a slight change of voice.
Teddy, the eldest, had been born in this room. Did either remember that grey morning six years ago?
There was a silence that might be felt.
“Who drew the short lighter?” she whispered, before she knew that she had spoken.
“I am not here to answer questions,” he replied. “And I have asked none. Neither, you will observe, have I blamed you. But I desire that you will never again allude48 to this subject, and that you will keep in mind that I do not intend to discuss it with you.”
He laid down the “Imitation,” and moved towards his own room.
With a sudden movement she flung herself upon her knees before him and caught his arm. The attitude suggested an amateur.
“Which drew the short lighter?” she gasped49, her small upturned face white and convulsed.
“You will know in five months’ time,” he said. Then he extricated50 himself from her trembling clasp and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
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1
eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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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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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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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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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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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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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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41
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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44
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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45
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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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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47
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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49
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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50
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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