We mortals are often in greater peril1 of a fall when we trust in the cheerful temerity2 of an imagined strength. To a man standing3 upon the edge of a precipice4 the lands beneath seem faint and insignificant5, and yet but a depth of air lies between him and the plain. Our frailties6 may seem pitiful, nay7, impossible to us when we listen to noble music, or watch the sunrise on the mountains. The man who is exalted8 in the spirit lives in a clearer atmosphere, and wonders at the fog that may have drifted round him yesterday. He may even laugh at the alter ego9 framed of clay, and ask whether this soft-bodied, cringing10 thing could ever have answered to the name of “self.”
Some such feeling of optimism took possession of Murchison that night. The words of his wife’s songs were in his brain; he heard her moving in the room above, and felt the dearness of her presence in the place. Everywhere he beheld11 the work of her hands—the curtains at the windows, the flowers in the bowls. Her photograph stood on the mantel-shelf, and he rose and looked at it, smiling at the eyes that smiled at him. Could he, the husband of such a woman, and the father of her children, be the mere12 creature of the juice of the grape? Was he no stronger than some sot at a street corner? He gazed at his own photograph that stood before the mirror, gazed at it critically, as though studying a strange face. The eyes looked straight at him, the mouth was firm, the jaw13 crossed by a deep shadow that betrayed no degenerate14 sloping of the chin. Was this the face of a man who was the victim of a lust15? He smiled at the memory of his weaker self as a man smiles at a rival whom he can magnanimously pity.
The pride of strength suggested the thought of proof. Old Porteus Carmagee had sent him this choice wine, and was he afraid of six bottles in a basket? Why not challenge this alter ego, this mean and treacherous16 caricature of his manhood, and prove in the grapple that he was the master of his earthly self? There was a combative17 stimulus18 in the thought that appealed to a man who had been an athlete. It fired the element of action in him, made him knit his muscles and expand his chest.
Murchison looked at himself steadily19 in the mirror, held up his hand, and saw not the slightest tremor20. He crossed the hall, entered the dining-room, and dragged the hamper21 from under the window-seat with something of the spirit of a Greek hero dragging some classic monster from its lair23. Coolly and without flurry he carried the thing into the drawing-room and set it down on the little gate-legged table. He cut the cord, raised the lid, and let the musty fragrance24 of the lawyer’s cellar float out into the room. The simile25 of Pandora’s box did not occur to him. He put the straw aside, and pulled out a cobwebbed bottle from its case. His knife served him to break up the cork26; he sniffed27 the wine’s bouquet28, and looked round him for a glass.
He found one among Catherine’s curios, an old Venetian goblet29 of quaint30 shape. Half filling it, he tossed Porteus Carmagee’s letter on to the straw, and standing before his wife’s portrait, looked steadily into the smiling eyes.
“Kate, I drink to you. One glass to prove it, and the open bottle left untouched.”
Deliberately31 he raised the glass and drank, looking at his wife’s face in its framing of silver on the mantel-shelf.
More than two hours had passed since she had left him, and Catherine was lying awake, watching the moonlight glimmering32 on the moor33. Her heart was tranquil34 in her, her thoughts free from all unrest as she lay in the oak bed, happily lethargic35, waiting for her husband’s step upon the stairs. The day had been very sweet to her, and there was no shadow across the moon. She lay thinking of her children, and her childhood, and of the near past, when she had first sung the songs that she had sung to the man that night.
The crash of broken glass and the sound of some heavy body falling startled Catherine from her land of dreams. She sat up, listening, like one roused from a first sleep. Murchison must have turned out the lamp and then blundered against some piece of furniture in the dark. If it were her treasured and much-sought china! She slipped out of bed, opened the door, and went out on to the landing.
“James, what is it?”
The narrow hall lay dark below her, and she won no answer from her husband.
“Are you hurt, dear?”
Still no reply; the door was shut.
“James, what has happened?”
She crept down the stairs, and stepped on the last step. A curious, “gaggling” laugh came from the room across the hall. At the sound she stiffened36, one hand holding the bosom37 of her laced night-gear, the other gripping the oak rail. A sudden blind dread38 smote39 her till she seemed conscious of nothing save the dark.
“James, are you coming?”
Again she heard that mockery of a laugh, and a kind of senseless jabbering40 like the babbling41 of a drunken man. A rush of anguish42 caught her heart, the anguish of one who feels the horror of the stifling43 sea. She tottered44, groped her way back into her room, and sank down on the bed in an agony of defeat. Was it for this that her love had spent itself in all the tender planning of this little place? How had it happened? Not with deceit! Even in her blindness she prayed to God that he had not wounded her with willing hand.
“Oh, God, not that, not that!”
She rose, catching45 her breath in short, sharp spasms46, shaking back the hair from off her shoulders. The torture was too sharp with her for tears. It was a wringing47 of the heart, a dashing of all devotion, a falling away of happiness from beneath her feet! She stretched out her arms in the dark like a woman who reaches out to a love just dead.
Catherine turned, saw the empty bed, and the white face of the moon. The memories of the evening rushed back on her, wistful and infinitely48 tender. “No, no, no!” Her heart beat out the contradiction like a bell. It was unbelievable, unimaginable, that he should have played the hypocrite that night. They had spoken of the children, their children, and would he have lied to her, knowing that this vile49 devil’s drug was in the house? Her heart cried out against the thought. Her love came forth50 like an angel with a burning sword.
With white hands trembling in the moonlight, Catherine lit her candle, slipped her bare feet into her shoes, and went down the stairs. The inarticulate and pitiable mumbling51 still came from the little room. In the hall she halted, irresolute52, the candle wavering in her hand. The shame of it, the pity of it! Could she go in and see the “animal” stammering53 in triumph over the “man”? No, no, it would be desecration54, ignominy, an unhallowed wounding of the heart. He would sleep presently. The madness would flicker55 down like fire and die. Yes, she would wait and watch till he had fallen asleep. To see him in the throes of it, no, she could not suffer that!
With a dry sob56 in the throat, Catherine set the candle down on the table, beside the bowl of roses that she had arranged but yesterday with her own hands. How cold the house was, even for summer! She returned to her bedroom, took down her dressing-gown from behind the door, and wrapped it round her, thanking Heaven in her heart that she was alone with her husband in the house. The village woman slept away, and came at seven in the morning. She had all the night before her to recover her husband from his shame.
Going down to the hall again, she walked to and fro, listening from time to time at the closed door. The restless babbling of the voice had ceased. The fumes57 were dulling the wine fire in his brain. She prayed fervently58 that he would fall asleep.
An hour passed, and she heard no sound save the sighing of her own breath. For a moment the pathos59 of it overcame her as she leaned against the wall, the child in her crying out for comfort, for she felt alone in the emptiness of the night. The weakness lasted but a second. She grappled herself, opened the door noiselessly and looked in.
The lamp was still burning in the room, its shade of crocus yellow tempering the light into an atmosphere of mellow60 gold. On the gate-legged table stood Porteus Carmagee’s ill-omened hamper, the lid open, and straw scattered61 about the floor. Fragments of broken glass glittered among the litter, with the twisted stem of the Venetian goblet. An empty bottle had trackled its lees in a dark blot62 on the green of the carpet.
Catherine would not look at her husband for the moment. She was conscious of a shrunken and huddled63 figure, a red and gaping64 face, the reek22 of the wine, the heavy sighing of his breath. Her nerve had returned to her with the opening of the closed door. Her heart knew but one great yearning65, the prayer that the downfall had not been deliberately cruel.
A sheet of note paper lay crumbled66 amid the straw. She stooped and reached for it, and recognized the writing. It was Porteus Carmagee’s half-jesting letter, and she learned the truth, how the fatal stuff had come.
“I know that you are an abstemious67 beggar, but take the stuff for the tonic68 it is, and drink to an ‘incomparable’ wife’s health. . . . Gage69 is smuggling70 this over for me in the car.”
She stood holding the letter in her two hands, and looking at the senseless figure on the floor. Love triumphed in that ordeal71 of the night. There was nothing but pity and great tenderness in her eyes.
“Thank God!” and she caught her breath; “thank God, you did not do this wilfully72! Oh, my beloved, if I had known!”
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1
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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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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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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combative
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| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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28
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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32
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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40
jabbering
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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41
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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42
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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44
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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45
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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46
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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47
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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49
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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50
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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51
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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52
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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53
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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54
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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55
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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56
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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57
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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58
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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60
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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61
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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63
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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64
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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66
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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67
abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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68
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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69
gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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70
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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71
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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