But Jacqueline was never a primer to be spelled out with simplicity1 and accuracy. She met my anxious and significant glance–and I took care not to ask questions–with smiling and open-eyed composure. She was evidently relieved to see me, but she made no effort to see me alone. Rather, she seemed to avoid me; at least, until my visit drew to a close. That close was sudden and startling. My departure from the Hotel Grande Bretagne was nothing less than a dismissal.
It was not until after dinner that Mrs. Gordon gave me any clue as to why she had asked me to spend a few days with Jacqueline and herself at Lake Como. Just how long my visit was to 115last I was in dubious2 ignorance. I was smoking my postprandial cigar on the terrace, wondering how I might tactfully sound the formidable Mrs. Gordon for this information, when she appeared with her niece. Jacqueline was reading a letter from home. Mrs. Gordon held up a jeweled hand impressively, and waved it significantly toward her.
“My dear, will you fetch me my shawl? Pray do not throw away your cigar, Mr. Hume. Be seated. I am anxious to have a talk with you.”
My heart thumped3 ridiculously. Had Jacqueline confessed to her aunt her love for me?
I professed4 myself properly at her disposal. She cleared her throat and folded her arms across her ample person. Unconsciously she was assuming the airs of one of the Council of Ten. But that was Mrs. Gordon’s way, and I waited expectantly.
“It is a great pleasure to have you with us, Mr. Hume,” she began with ponderous5 cordiality.
I hastened to assure her that there was no place more beautiful than Como in April, and looked wistfully after Jacqueline, who had brought the shawl, and was now strolling about the shrubbery.
“You are the only person to whom I can turn in perplexity, that is, while we are here in Italy. 116It so happens that I am sadly in need of advice and information.”
I assured her that I would do all in my power to help her.
“It is with regard to Jacqueline.”
I was careful to show nothing more than a friendly interest. One needed to be wary6 with the worldly Mrs. Gordon.
“Or, rather, it is with regard to Duke da Sestos.”
“The Duke da Sestos!” I exclaimed, startled. “I can not see, Mrs. Gordon, how a matter touching7 the Duke da Sestos can affect your niece,” I said after a pause.
“No?” She looked after her niece thoughtfully. “But if I tell you that the duke is in love with her, Mr. Hume?”
“And–and, her feeling toward the duke?”
“I have reason to believe that Jacqueline’s wishes will coincide with mine,” she answered complacently8.
Jacqueline’s wishes would coincide with hers! There was little doubt as to what her wishes were. So the worst had really come. I looked out toward the lake, hardly trusting myself to speak. The tender blue of the still waters; the purple mountains; the song of birds; the cries of children; the toll9 of a church-bell; and Jacqueline, 117in white, slipping through the green trees–everything had charmed me only a moment ago. But now I saw only Jacqueline–not the laughing Jacqueline, my Jacqueline, who waved her hand back at me smiling, but the Duchess da Sestos, neglected wife, scorning her husband, and hating him, doomed10 to a slow and wretched death in life, sacrificed by this miserable11 old worldling.
“I could imagine nothing more unfortunate than that she should feel any interest in Duke da Sestos,” I said with feeling.
She looked at me anxiously.
“Do you know anything derogatory to him, Mr. Hume?”
“No,” I answered bluntly, “I know nothing of him.”
She sighed out her relief.
A large person, with an English accent carefully modulated12, Mrs. Gordon was not easily moved to anxiety. Her nerves were padded in leather. One could not prick13 them with anything less formidable than a pitchfork. But my remarks had ruffled14 her complacency for the moment, that colossal15 complacency as immense as her wardrobe, and silly and moveless as her pride. But even she would hesitate to encourage the duke’s suit if I could show her it was quite 118impossible. Could I do that? At least, I intended to try.
She pondered a moment. “So you know nothing. But it would not be difficult for you to make inquiries16. Understanding Italian life, as you do, living in Venice so long––”
“Make inquiries, Mrs. Gordon?” I interrupted coldly. I should have thought my cool stare would have disconcerted her somewhat.
“And,” she continued frostily (evidently the stare had been wholly in vain, then), “it seems to me that my appeal to you should be received in the light of a duty. You are one of our oldest friends. You ought to have Jacqueline’s interests at heart.”
“God knows I have her interests at heart,” I cried bitterly. “But I fail to see––”
“Of his rank and station,” she continued, waving my protest aside, “I can judge for myself. I am told he is a personal friend of the king. His family antedates17 the very founding of Venice. I know not how many quarterings his coat of arms may boast. As to his finances, that, naturally, is a serious question. I could not, as a matter of duty, permit myself to ignore that important phase of the case. Still, Jacqueline’s dot, if she has due regard to my wishes, will not make his lack of means an insurmountable 119obstacle. But, Mr. Hume, his character, that is of importance.”
“Yes,” I said significantly, “it is.”
“I do not mean,” she hastened to add, “that–er–he–er–may not have been guilty of some of the indiscretions of youth. That is to be expected of a nobleman of his rank.”
“Then, Mrs. Gordon, may I ask just what you do mean?” I inquired suavely18.
“That at least there must have been no scandal, Mr. Hume, no open scandal. I could not permit dear Jacqueline’s position to be in any way equivocal.”
“Your concern as to that is most sensible,” I said sarcastically19. “Still, I am in ignorance as to just how I may help you.”
“Really, Mr. Hume, you are strangely heedless of my words. Did I not say a moment ago that I looked to you to make certain inquiries for me?”
“In other words, Mrs. Gordon,” I said coldly, “you are asking me to be your private detective, are you not?”
She held up her hands in horror.
“An office that I can not undertake, even for you or your niece. I can think of no marriage for Jacqueline that could possibly be more distasteful or more disastrous20.”
120“If you know nothing about Duke da Sestos, how can you say that his possible marriage with my niece could be a misfortune? I may be very dense21, but I fail to follow your reasoning, Mr. Hume.”
“But, Mrs. Gordon,” I said earnestly, “can you not guess something of a man’s character without knowing all about him?”
“If I could,” she answered slowly, “I should say that you do not appear to me to be quite disinterested22 in your statements.”
“And if that is true, Mrs. Gordon?” I flung away my cigar and my caution. “If I confess that I am not disinterested, as you call it? What then? Say that I love your niece, and I suppose it is right that you should know that. My love for Jacqueline is great enough not to grudge23 her happiness, even if that happiness is to be with another man. But to see her persuaded into a marriage that every instinct tells me is wrong, that I know must prove unhappy–I can not allow that to be done without a protest, though in making that protest I have betrayed my own love for her. Mrs. Gordon, if I know nothing of Duke da Sestos, I do know something of his class. Can I say nothing that will influence you?”
She gathered her shawl about her, and looked 121at me with stony24 indifference25. I might as well have appealed to the little waves that lapped the shore. But I continued desperately26:
“I can not help it that you misjudge me. I must speak. I must plead Jacqueline’s cause for her, even though she should resent my doing that, for I am pleading for her happiness. You lay emphasis on the rank of this Duke da Sestos. He is a duke. But, Mrs. Gordon, there are seventy ducal houses in Sicily alone. There is no law of primogeniture in Italy. Titles carry no distinction with them. Princes, dukes, marquises, counts, they are infinitely27 more numerous in Italy than decent men.
“As to the character of this aristocracy–you ask me of the duke’s, I will tell you the characteristics of most. He is an officer in the cavalry28, therefore he lives beyond his pay. He is a gambler, a spendthrift. His property is mortgaged to the hilt. A rich marriage is his only hope. He hunts, shoots, wears English clothes, and that is as far as he approximates the manly29 habits of the Englishman. The Italian’s idea of a sportsman is to ride to the meet in a dog-cart with a fat poodle at his side. The smaller the pony30, the fatter the poodle, the more of a sportsman he is. Cards, gossip, his mistress–they make up his life, his real life.”
122“And supposing that all this is true, I do not forget that you are speaking of a class and not of an individual, Mr. Hume.”
“I am only imploring31 you to be very careful.”
“After you have refused to make inquiries? You are inconsistent.”
She rose and confronted me with a placidity32 as obstinate33 as if I had not spoken.
“All that you have said I will try to put to the best of motives34, but you have not shown a generous spirit. In my turn I must appear ungenerous, I fear. I must protect Jacqueline, and unfortunately, in my opinion, her marriage with you would be quite as disastrous as you pretend hers would be with the duke.”
“I did not mean to speak ungenerously, Mrs. Gordon,” I said humbly35.
“And, as I was about to say, though it may appear ungracious, I am compelled to withdraw my invitation that you remain our guest here. Unless, of course, you will give me your promise that in no way––”
“I understand,” I said stiffly. “I should not feel happy to stay under those circumstances. I shall leave to-night.”
I bowed. Then I turned to her for a last appeal.
123“Mrs. Gordon, it is natural that you should listen to me with suspicion, but try to believe that I speak disinterestedly37. Do all you can to discourage Jacqueline. She is very young. She is romantic, like so many girls. It is so easy for her to make a mistake, if there is no one to guide, to advise. Take her away from Italy, at least for the present. Will you?” I held out my hand.
“Mr. Hume,” she retorted spitefully, “in these affairs of the heart each must decide for oneself.”
“Yes, yes,” I cried eagerly. Then something in her strange smile made the words die on my lips, and I faltered38, “Jacqueline has already decided39 that–that she loves the duke?”
“I have reason to believe so. The duke himself assures me that she has given him encouragement. More than that, Jacqueline herself does not deny it.”
“Thank you,” I said miserably40, and went into the hotel to pack my things. The worst had come, then, for, much as I disliked Mrs. Gordon, I did not do her the injustice41 to suppose that she was lying.
Perhaps I ought to have trusted Jacqueline more. I should have known that no good woman listens lightly to a man’s declaration of love; and 124she had listened to mine. But, again, Jacqueline had given me no assurance whatever that she returned my love. She had found it difficult to make up her mind, not only as to whether she really loved me, but whether I were really in earnest in declaring my love for her. And so that evening I walked very soberly toward the steamboat-landing, followed by the porter with my bag.
The little steamer had given its warning toot, my bag was aboard, I was about to follow, when I turned, hoping for one last glimpse of Jacqueline. To my surprise, she was running toward me. She was in distress42. In an instant I was at her side.
“What, what does it mean, you going away like this?” she panted.
“I am going back to Venice, Jacqueline,” I answered her gravely.
“To Venice!” she cried, dismayed. “To Venice this evening, and without saying good-by to me? Why?”
“I have had a tiff36, dear Jacqueline, with your aunt, and she has ordered me off. I leave the field,” I added a little bitterly, “to a handsomer, and I wish I could say to a better, man.”
She withdrew the hand she had given me, and flushed angrily. Then her face became very pale.
125“Forgive me, Jacqueline, I did not mean to hurt you.”
“And what has my aunt told you?” she almost whispered.
“She has told me, Jacqueline, that Duke da Sestos has asked you to be his wife. She wishes you to consent. She believes that you have not refused him.”
Her color came and went. She drew in a little breath, and her brown eyes looked over at the mountains beyond Cadenabbia. Tears gathered in them and began to fall slowly down her cheeks.
“But it is not true,” I cried, and seized her hand. “It is impossible that you should have done that.”
“It is quite true,” she said almost impassively. “He has asked me to be his wife. I have encouraged him.”
“Then there is nothing more to be said. Good-by, dear Jacqueline.”
She caught my coat in her eagerness.
“Listen, Dick. It is because of that I telegraphed you. You must help me. I need you. Would you do something for me that was quite useless–that would give you infinite trouble–that would bring you no reward except my thanks?”
126“I think it quite possible,” I said, smiling. “What is it?”
“It is so difficult to make you understand,” she cried, distressed43.
“I will wait till to-morrow.”
“No, no; if you are to help me in this, you can not do it too quickly.”
We began to walk toward the boat, which had emitted another piercing wail44.
“I told you that Duke da Sestos has asked me to marry him, and that I encouraged him. I did. But, oh, so unconsciously.”
“You encouraged him unconsciously? Impossible!”
“It is true, Dick,” she insisted tearfully. “I wished to show him how impossible it was that I could ever care for him–that nothing but a miracle could make me love him. It happened that the steel chest he gave me from the Palazzo stood on the drawing-room table. Quite impulsively45 I said: ‘When you bring me the casket that fitted into that steel box, I will listen to you.’ I said it lightly, Dick, as a bitter jest. I thought I was asking him to do something quite impossible. To my surprise, to my dismay, instead of being indignant or angry, he took my words quite seriously. He refused to see that I had asked him to accomplish an impossibility. In that intense 127foreign way of his, he kissed my hand, bidding me good-by for the present, but he promised me that, sooner or later, he would return with the casket. I was so astonished I could say nothing. Before I could recover myself he had gone. And if he should find it! Oh, Dick, if he should!”
I laughed joyously–happily. “He shall not,” I cried, “because I am going to find it myself. And if I do find it, Jacqueline?”
“I shall be so glad,” she said shyly.
“But my book of legends,” I said with affected46 seriousness. “Am I to give up writing the legend of the clock? I thought I was to persist in my task. Nothing was to turn me from it.”
“But I am giving you this new task, Dick,” she said, laughing happily.
“Yes, yes,” I said, as I leapt aboard at the last moment. “I think I may find time to do this new task for you, and my legend of the clock as well.”
Not until the boat touched the farther shores of Lake Como did it occur to me that Jacqueline would think this promise but a half-hearted one. That there was any connection between the clock and the casket she had, of course, no idea.
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1
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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3
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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10
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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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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modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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14
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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15
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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antedates
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| v.（在历史上）比…为早( antedate的第三人称单数 )；先于；早于；（在信、支票等上）填写比实际日期早的日期 | |
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suavely
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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35
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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36
tiff
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| n.小争吵，生气 | |
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disinterestedly
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38
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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41
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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42
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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43
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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44
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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45
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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46
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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