I turned and, hardly conscious of my actions, stumbled from the room. A bevy1 of young people at once surrounded me. What I said to them I hardly know. I only remember that it was several minutes before I found myself again alone and making for the little room into which Beaton had vanished a half-hour before. It was the one given up to card-playing. Did I expect to find him seated at one of the tables? Possibly; at all events, I approached the doorway3, and was about to enter, when a heavy step shook the threshold before me, and I found myself confronted by the advancing figure of an elderly lady, whose portrait it is now time for me to draw. It is no pleasurable task, but one I cannot escape.
Imagine, then, a broad, weighty woman of not much height, with a face whose features were usually forgotten in the impression made by her great cheeks and falling jowls. If the small eyes rested on you, you found them sinister4 and strange, but if they were turned elsewhere, you asked in what lay the power of the face, and sought in vain amid its long wrinkles and indeterminate lines for the secret of that spiritual and bodily repulsion which the least look into this impassive countenance5 was calculated to produce. She was a woman of immense means, and an oppressive consciousness of this spoke6 in every movement of her heavy frame, which always seemed to take up three times as much space as rightfully belonged to any human creature. Add to this that she was seldom seen without a display of diamonds which made her broad bust7 look like the bejewelled breast of some Eastern idol8, and some idea may be formed of this redoubtable9 woman whom I have hitherto confined myself to speaking of as the gorgon10.
The stare she gave me had something venomous and threatening in it. Evidently for the moment I was out of her books, and while I did not understand in what way I had displeased11 her, for we always had met amicably13 before, I seized upon this sign of displeasure on her part as explanatory, perhaps, of the curtness14 and show of contradictory15 feelings on the part of her dependent niece. Yet why should the old woman frown on me? I had been told more than once that she regarded me with great favour. Had I unwittingly done something to displease12 her, or had the game of cards she had just left gone against her, ruffling16 her temper and making it imperative17 for her to choose some object on which to vent2 her spite? I entered the room to see. Two men and one woman stood in rather an embarrassed silence about a table on which lay some cards, which had every appearance of having been thrown down by an impatient hand. One of the men was Will Beaton, and it was he who now remarked:
“She has just found out that the young people are enjoying themselves. I wonder upon which of her two unfortunate nieces she will expend18 her ill-temper to-night.”
“Oh, there’s no question about that,” remarked the lady who stood near him. “Ever since she has had a reasonable prospect19 of working Gilbertine off her hands, she has devoted20 herself quite exclusively to her remaining burden. I hear,” she impulsively21 continued, craning her neck to be sure that the object of her remarks was quite out of earshot, “that the south hall was blue to-day with the talk she gave Dorothy Camerden. No one knows what about, for the girl evidently tries to please her. But some women have more than their own proper share of bile; they must expend it on some one.” And she in turn threw down her cards, which up till now she had held in her hand.
I gave Beaton a look and stepped out on the veranda22. In a minute he followed me, and in the corner facing the ocean, where the vines cluster the thickest, we held our conversation.
I began it, with a directness born of my desperation.
“Beaton,” said I, “we have not known each other long, but I recognise a man when I see him, and I am disposed to be frank with you. I am in trouble. My affections are engaged, deeply engaged, in a quarter where I find some mystery. You have helped make it.” (Here a gesture escaped him.) “I allude23 to the story you related the other morning of the young girl you had seen hanging over the verge24 of the cliff, with every appearance of intending to throw herself over.”
“It was as a dream I related that,” he gravely remarked.
“That I am aware of. But it was no dream to me, Beaton. I fear I know that young girl; I also fear that I know what drove her into contemplating25 so rash an act. The conversation just held in the card-room should enlighten you. Beaton, am I wrong?”
The feeling I could not suppress trembled in my tones. He may have been sensitive to it, or he may have been simply good-natured. Whatever the cause, this is what he said in reply:
“It was a dream. Remember that I insist upon its being a dream. But some of its details are very clear in my mind. When I stumbled upon this dream-maiden in the moonlight her face was turned from me toward the ocean, and I did not see her features then or afterwards. Startled by some sound I made, she crouched26, drew back, and fled to cover. That cover, I have good reason to believe, was this very house.”
I reached out my hand and touched him on the arm.
“This dream-maiden was a woman?” I inquired. “One of the women now in this house?”
He replied reluctantly:
“She was a young woman, and she wore a long cloak. My dream ends there. I cannot even say whether she was fair or dark.”
I recognised that he had reached the limit of his explanations, and, wringing27 his hand, I started for the nearest window, which proved to be that of the music-room. I was about to enter when I saw two women crossing to the opposite doorway, and paused with a full heart to note them, for one was Mrs. Lansing and the other Dorothy. The aunt had evidently come for the niece, and they were leaving the room together. Not amicably, however. Harsh words had passed, or I am no judge of the human countenance. Dorothy especially bore herself like one who finds difficulty in restraining herself from some unhappy outburst, and as she disappeared from my sight in the wake of her formidable companion my attention was again called to her hands, which she held clenched28 at her sides.
I was stepping into the room when my impulse was again checked. Another person was sitting there, a person I had been most anxious to see ever since my last interview with Sinclair. It was Gilbertine Murray, sitting alone in an attitude of deep, and possibly not altogether happy thought.
I paused to study the sweet face. Truly she was a beautiful woman. I had never before realised how beautiful. Her rich colouring, her noble traits, and the spirited air which gave her such marked distinction, bespoke29 at once an ardent30 nature and a pure soul.
I did not wonder that Sinclair had succumbed31 to charms so pronounced and uncommon32, and as I gazed longer and noted33 the tremulous droop34 of her ripe lips and the far-away look of eyes which had created a great stir in the social world when they first flashed upon it, I felt that if Sinclair could see her now he would never doubt her again, despite the fact that the attitude into which she had fallen was one of great fatigue35, if not despondency.
She held a fan in her hand, and as I stood looking at her she dropped it. As she stooped to pick it up her eyes met mine, and a startling change passed over her. Springing up, she held out her hands in wordless appeal, then let them drop again as if conscious that I would not be likely to understand either herself or her mood. She was very beautiful.
Entering the room, I approached her. Had Sinclair managed to have his little conversation with her? Something must have happened, for never had I seen her in such a state of suppressed excitement, and I had seen her many times, both here and in her aunt’s house when I was visiting Dorothy. Her eyes were shining, not with a brilliant, but a soft light, and the smile with which she met my advance had something in it strangely tremulous and expectant.
“I am glad to have a moment in which to speak to you alone,” I said. “As Sinclair’s oldest and closest friend, I wish to tell you how truly you can rely both on his affection and esteem36. He has an infinitely37 good heart.”
She did not answer as brightly and as quickly as I expected. Something seemed to choke her — something which she finally mastered, though only by an effort which left her pale, but self-contained, and even more lovely, if that is possible, than before.
“Thank you,” she then said, “my prospects38 are very happy. No one but myself knows how happy.”
And she smiled again, but with an expression which recalled to my mind Sinclair’s fears.
I bowed. Some one was calling her name; evidently our interview was to be short.
“I am obliged,” she murmured. Then quickly: “I have not seen the moon to-night. Is it beautiful? Can you see it from this veranda?”
But before I could answer she was surrounded and dragged off by a knot of young people, and I was left free to keep my engagement with Sinclair.
I did not find him at his post, nor could any one tell where he had vanished.
It was plain that his conduct was looked upon as strange, and I felt some anxiety lest it should appear more so before the evening was over. I found him at last in his room, sitting with his head buried in his arms. He started up as I entered.
“Well?” he asked sharply.
“I have learned nothing decisive.”
“Nor I.”
“I exchanged some words with both ladies and I tackled Beaton; but the matter remains40 just about where it was. It may have been Dorothy who took the box and it may have been Gilbertine. But there seems to be greater reason for suspecting Dorothy. She lives a terrible life with that aunt.”
“And Gilbertine is on the point of escaping that bondage41. I know; I have thought of that. Walter, you are a generous fellow;” and for a moment Sinclair looked relieved. Before I could speak, however, he was sunk again in his old despondency. “But the doubt,” he cried —“the doubt! How can I go through this rehearsal42 with such a doubt in my mind? I cannot and will not. Go, tell them I am ill, and cannot come down again to-night. God knows you will tell no untruth.”
I saw that he was quite beside himself, but ventured upon one remonstrance43.
“It will be unwise to rouse comment,” I said. “If that box was taken for the death it holds, the one restraint most likely to act upon the young girl who retains it will be the conventionalities of her position and the requirements of the hour. Any break in the settled order of things — anything which would give her a moment by herself — might precipitate44 the dreadful event we fear. Remember, one turn of the hand, and all is lost. A drop is quickly swallowed.”
“Frightful!” he murmured, the perspiration46 oozing47 from his forehead. “What a wedding-eve! And they are laughing down there. Listen to them. I even imagine I hear Gilbertine’s voice. Is there unconsciousness in it, or just the hilarity48 of a distracted mind bent49 on self-destruction? I cannot tell; the sound conveys no meaning to me.”
“She has a sweet, true face,” I said, “and she wears a very beautiful smile to-night.”
He sprang to his feet.
“Yes, yes — a smile that maddens me; a smile that tells me nothing, nothing! Walter, Walter, don’t you see that, even if that cursed box remains unopened, and nothing ever comes of its theft, the seeds of distrust are sown thick in my breast, and I must always ask: ‘Was there a moment when my young bride shrank from me enough to dream of death?’ That is why I cannot go through the mockery of this rehearsal.”
“Can you go through the ceremony of marriage?”
“I must — if nothing happens to-night.”
“And then?”
I spoke involuntarily. I was thinking not of him, but of myself. But he evidently found in my words an echo of his own thought.
“Yes, it is the then,” he murmured. “Well may a man quail50 before that then.”
He did go downstairs, however, and later on went through the rehearsal very much as I had expected him to do — quietly and without any outward show of emotion.
As soon as possible after this the company separated, Sinclair making me an imperceptible gesture as he went upstairs. I knew what it meant, and was in his room as soon as the fellows who accompanied him had left him alone.
“The danger is from now on,” he cried, as soon as I had closed the door behind me. “I shall not undress to-night.”
“Nor I.”
“Happily we both have rooms by ourselves in this great house. I shall put out my light, and then open my door as far as need be. Not a move in the house will escape me.”
“I will do the same.”
“Gilbertine — God be thanked! — is not alone in her room. Little Miss Lane shares it with her.”
“And Dorothy?”
“Oh, she is under the strictest bondage night and day. She sleeps in a little room off her aunt’s. Do you know her door?”
I shook my head.
“I will pass down the hall and stop an instant before the two doors we are most interested in. When I pass Gilbertine’s I will throw out my right hand.”
I stood on the threshold of his room and watched him. When the two doors were well fixed51 in my mind, I went to my own room and prepared for my self-imposed watch. When quite ready, I put out my light. It was then eleven o’clock.
The house was very quiet. There had been the usual bustle52 attending the separation of a party of laughing, chattering53 girls for the night; but this had not lasted long, for the great doings of the morrow called for bright eyes and fresh cheeks, and these can only be gained by sleep. In this stillness twelve o’clock struck, and the first hour of my anxious vigil was at an end. I thought of Sinclair. He had given no token of the watch he was keeping, but I knew he was sitting with his ear to the door, listening for the alarm which must come soon if it came at all.
But would it come at all? Were we not wasting strength and a great deal of emotion on a dread45 which had no foundation in fact? What were we two sensible and, as a rule, practical men thinking of, that we should ascribe to either of these dainty belles54 of a conventional and shallow society the wish to commit a deed calling for the vigour55 and daring of some wilful56 child of nature? It was not to be thought of in this sober, reasoning hour. We had given ourselves over to a ghastly nightmare, and would yet awake.
Why was I on my feet? Had I heard anything?
Yes, a stir, a very faint stir somewhere down the hall — the slow, cautious opening of a door, then a footfall — or had I imagined the latter? I could hear nothing now.
Pushing open my own door, I looked cautiously out. Only the pale face of Sinclair confronted me. He was peering from the corner of an adjacent passage-way, the moonlight at his back. Advancing, we met in silence. For the moment we seemed to be the only persons awake in the vast house.
“I thought I heard a step,” was my cautious whisper after a moment of intense listening.
“Where?”
I pointed57 toward that portion of the house where the ladies’ rooms were situated58.
“That is not what I heard,” was his murmured protest; “what I heard was a creak in the small stairway running down at the end of the hall where my room is.”
“One of the servants,” I ventured, and for a moment we stood irresolute59. Then we both turned rigid60 as some sound arose in one of the far-off rooms, only to quickly relax again as that sound resolved itself into a murmur39 of muffled61 voices. Where there was talking there could be no danger of the special event we feared. Our relief was so great we both smiled. Next instant his face, and, I have no doubt, my own, turned the colour of clay, and Sinclair went reeling back against the wall.
A scream had risen in this sleeping house — a piercing and insistent62 scream such as raises the hair and curdles63 the blood.
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1
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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2
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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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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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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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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gorgon
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| n.丑陋女人，蛇发女怪 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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curtness
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| n.简短；草率；简略 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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16
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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17
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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18
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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26
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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30
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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31
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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32
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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39
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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42
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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43
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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44
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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45
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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46
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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47
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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48
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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49
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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50
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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51
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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52
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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53
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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54
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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56
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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63
curdles
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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