In this mood, wakeful and dreamful by turns, a cold compress on his bruised13 head, Grey worried through the early hours of the morning. With the first sign of the blue dawn, however, he became more composed. His meditations14 took on a more gentle guise15; his brow, which had been wrinkled with frowns, smoothed; into his eyes came a tenderness that routed spleen, and his mouth softened16 its tensity of line. The day held for him a joy the anticipation17 of which was a benison18.
After all, heaven was not wholly unkind. He had been made to suffer cruelly and undeservedly, but there was at least one compensation—the woman he loved was here, near him, in the same city; in a few hours he would meet her, talk with her, feel the warmth of her hand in his, experience the benignant sympathy of her eyes and the caressing20 graciousness of her voice. With the dawn had come confidence, and he smiled as he recalled his doubts of the previous afternoon. Her love was steadfast21, enduring, immutable22. Of this he felt assured. And her faith and loyalty23 were163 like her love. He lay for hours in blissful contemplation of the character, disposition24, mind, manner and person of the woman he adored.
He recalled their first meeting at a barn dance at Newport, when she was in her débutante year; and then, an event of the following day came back to him vividly25 as in a picture. The scene was the polo field at Point Judith. He had just made a goal by dint26 of hard riding and unerring strokes, and a hurricane of applause had followed, led, it seemed to him, by a tall young woman in white, with great, shining brown eyes and flushed cheeks, who was standing27 up in her place atop a coach, clapping her hands in frantic28 delight. And this picture was followed by others—a panorama29 in which the same girl figured again and again—always beautiful, always smart, always gracious.
He attired30 himself, this fine Sunday morning, with more than usual care, despite the absence of his valet, and set forth31 early for the rendezvous32 he had chosen. Already the boulevards were alive. Many of the chairs in front of the cafés were occupied by sippers of absinthe and drinkers of black164 bitters. From the gratings in the sidewalks arose the appetising aroma33 of the Parisian déjeuner à la fourchette. He crossed the Avenue de l’Opéra and, turning into the rue19 de la Paix, was presently passing the entrance of the hotel that sheltered her who filled his thoughts—her whom he had come out to meet. A fiacre was at the curb34, and, fancying that it might be awaiting her, he hastened his steps so that he should not encounter her in so public a place. From the summit of the Vend35?me Column the imperial-robed Napoleon cast an abbreviated36 shadow across his path as he cut across the place into the rue de Castiglione. A man he did not remember bowed graciously as he passed him at the corner of the rue de Rivoli, and a little further on a somewhat showily gowned woman in an enormous picture hat, probably on her way to the Madeleine, leaned from her carriage to smile upon him. And she, likewise, was without his recollection.
At the corner of the rue Cambon he made a diagonal cut to the garden side of the street, and a minute later reached the broad and imposing37 Place de la Concorde in all its bravery of bronzed165 iron and granite38 fountains, sculptured stone figures, rostral columns and majestic39 Obelisk40.
As he turned into the gardens of the Tuileries, Grey glanced at his watch to discover that the time still lacked five minutes of eleven. He looked back in expectation of seeing a cab approaching, but, though there were many crossing the place at various angles, there was none headed in his direction. He strolled off between the flower-beds into the little grove41 at his right. Just ahead of him he descried42 a figure in pink, and his heart bounded; but he overtook it only to meet disappointment. He lighted a cigarette, sat down on a bench, and dug in the gravel43 with his walking-stick; his eyes, though, ever on the alert, looking now one way, now another. He took out his watch again. The minute hand was still a single space short of twelve. He got up and retraced44 his steps towards the entrance with the object of meeting her as she came in. Again he gazed across the wide, sun-washed area of the place, but without reward, and then a dour45 melancholy46 threatened him. He was assailed47 by forebodings. She would not come. He had offended her beyond166 reparation. The day suddenly grew dull. A cloud hid the sun. The gaiety of those who passed him became offensive. The sight of a youth with his sweetheart hanging on his arm filled him with rancour. He walked back and forth irritably48. He was depressed49, heavy-hearted, apprehensive50.
Another five minutes dragged by, with a corresponding increase in the young man’s dejection. His imagination was now active. It was quite possible she had left Paris. His messenger, perhaps, had failed to deliver his note. He wondered if by any chance she might be ill.
He was standing, pensive51, by the fountain, undecided whether to wait longer or to go on to the Ritz in search of her, when the rustle52 of skirts behind him caused him to turn.
“Ah—h!” exclaimed a laughing voice, “it is then you after all. I was not sure. I looked and I looked, but you are so changed, Mr. Grey!”
It was Marcelle, Miss Van Tuyl’s maid, and at the sound of her peculiar53 accent Grey recognised her instantly. He realised, too, that it was she whom he had seen on the moment of his coming—the figure in the pink frock.
167 “Miss Van Tuyl sent this note, Mr. Grey,” she went on, handing him an envelope which he noticed was unaddressed.
His spirits rose a trifle. She had not left Paris, then, and she had received his message.
“Miss Van Tuyl is not ill, I hope?” he questioned, anxiously.
“Oh, no, Mr. Grey,” and Marcelle shrugged54 her plump shoulders and raised her black eyebrows55, “but—” and she hesitated just the shade of a second “she is—oh, I fear she is most unhappy.”
“Thank you very much, Marcelle,” he said, ignoring her comment, though the words were as a sword-thrust, and handing her a louis. “Is there an answer?”
“I do not know, monsieur; but I think not.”
Grey tore open the envelope and glanced over the inclosure.
“No,” he announced, his face very set and suddenly pale. “Give my compliments to Miss Van Tuyl,” he added, “that is all.”
When the girl had gone he turned again into the little grove and once more found the seat under168 the trees where a few minutes before he had impatiently dug the gravel with his walking-stick. He sat now with his forearms resting on his thighs56, the note crushed in his hand, his eyes bent57, thoughtful but unseeing, on the grass across the walk.
She had refused to come to him. It was probably better, she had written, that they should not meet again. She could imagine nothing in the way of explanation that would form an adequate excuse for his action of the afternoon before. And that was all. Only five lines in a large hand.
The self-chastisement of the man was pitiless; his contrition58 pathetic. He was willing now to make any sacrifice, to suffer any abasement59, to risk any punishment, to sustain any loss if by so doing he could gain forgiveness, achieve reinstatement in favour—aye, even attain60 the privilege of pleading his cause. He had been so sure of her; it had not seemed possible that she could ever be other than love and devotion and loyalty personified. Her smile was the one sun he thought would never set and never be clouded. And now she had taken this light from his life forever. With that gone,169 he asked himself, what else in all the world mattered? What were honour, position, credit, fortune, if she were not to share them?
He smoothed out the crumpled61 sheet and read it again, slowly, carefully, weighing each word, measuring each phrase, considering each sentence. And then the utter hopelessness of his expression changed. “It is probably better,” he repeated, quoting from the note, and the “probably” seemed larger and more prominent than any other eight letters on the page. There was nothing absolutely final about that. It was an assertion, to be sure, but there was a lot of qualification in that “probably.” And further on, she had not said: “There is nothing in the way of explanation you can offer,” but “I can imagine nothing.” He thanked God for that “I can imagine.” Oh, yes, indeed, there was a very large loophole there; and so he took heart of grace, and even smiled, and got up swinging his stick jauntily62. All he wanted was a fighting chance. He had won her a year ago from a score of rivals, and he would win her now from herself. And not from herself, either, for with the return of hope he felt that he170 would have no more stanch63 ally than she. It was with her sense of what was fit and becoming that he must battle—her pride and her self-esteem which he had outraged64. He would go to her, bravely, as he should have done before, instead of asking her to meet him in this clandestine65 fashion. He had been a fool, but he would make amends66 and she would forgive him. Yes, he was quite sanguine67 now that he could win her pardon.
He retraced his steps briskly to the Place Vend?me and turned in at the Ritz with head erect68 and chin thrust forward. He had no cards, of course, but he scribbled69 “Carey Grey” upon a slip of paper and asked that it be sent to Miss Van Tuyl at once. And then he waited, nervously70, smoking one cigarette after another, walking back and forth, sitting down, only to get up again, agitatedly71, and to resume his pacing to and fro.
“Miss Van Tuyl is not at home, monsieur.”
It was the portier who delivered the message. Grey stood for a full half-minute, staring stupidly. He had not counted upon this. He had been all confidence. That she was in the hotel he felt very certain; but she would not see him. He might171 have foreseen that consistency72 demanded this attitude of her. To send him a note one moment refusing to permit him to explain and at the next to grant him an audience was not to be expected of a young woman of Hope Van Tuyl’s sterling73 character. There was, therefore, but one course open to him. What he had to say he must put in writing.
“I’ll leave a note,” he said to the portier; and he went into the writing-room and sat down at a table. But when he came to write he was embarrassed by the flood of matter that craved expression. There was so much to tell, so much to make clear, so much to plead that he was staggered by the contemplation. Again and again he began, and again and again he tore the sheet of paper into tiny bits. He dipped his pen into the ink and held it poised74 while he made effort to frame an opening sentence; and the ink dried on the nib75 as one thought after another was evolved only to be rejected.
For the fifth time he wrote: “My Very Dearest,” and then, nettled76 over his laggard77 powers, he dove straight and determinedly78 into the midst of172 the subject that engrossed79 him, writing rapidly and without pause until he had finished:
“I cannot find it in my heart to question the justice of your decision,” he began. “Viewed in the light of your meagre knowledge, or rather ignorance, of facts, I must look indeed very black. But I am guiltless; that I swear. Under the circumstances you must know how anxious I am to prove this, and how, in justice to you and myself, I must let no opportunity pass to discover and convict the real culprits. To have recognised you at Versailles yesterday before the man you were with would have been to ruin every chance of accomplishing what I have set out to do. Imagine, my dear, the alternative from which I had to choose. Had it been simply a question of my personal liberty, you cannot doubt which course I should have taken. I was burning to speak to you—to look into the eyes I love, to hear the voice I adore—and yet for both our sakes I had to deny myself. The child who was with me is sweet and charming, and in no way implicated80 in the plot against me. When you know her, as I hope you will one day, you will be very fond of her. But I173 can understand how the situation must have appeared to you. I would give all I have and all I hope for if I could but be with you and tell you everything. All I ask now is that you trust me. I am leaving Paris this afternoon for Kürschdorf by the Orient Express. I cannot say when I shall return. But when I do it will be to search for you, and with honour vindicated81 and no further need of secrecy82. My heart is with you always, my darling. ’Au revoir.”
The letter dulled, in a measure, the keenness of Grey’s disappointment and reinspired him to the accomplishment83 of the task that lay before him. After luncheon84 he had up his trunks from the hotel storeroom and with Baptiste’s assistance accomplished85 his packing. Already O’Hara had engaged places for three on the train, for Miss von Altdorf’s destination was the same as theirs. She had a married sister living in Kürschdorf, and she was most anxious to join her at the earliest possible moment.
By half-past five everything was in readiness for their departure; Baptiste had retired86 with a liberal tip, and Grey and O’Hara were making174 themselves ready for the journey. Just at this juncture87 there was a knock at the door, and in answer to Grey’s command to enter, it swung open to reveal, bowing on the threshold, the sturdy little figure, pale face, and close-cropped yellow head of Johann.
The two occupants of the room stood astonished, their eyes wide with surprise.
“Johann!” they exclaimed together.
“Yes, Herr Arndt,” said the lad, bowing again; “it is as you see—I have come back.”
“Back from where, Johann?” Grey asked.
“I started for Kürschdorf with the Herr Captain Lindenwald; but I am come back from Strasburg.”
“And why?” queried88 the American, very much puzzled.
“Because, Herr Arndt, I knew it was not right for me to be going with the Herr Captain. I was in your service, and perhaps if you were seized with madness you have all the more need of me.”
“Madness!” repeated Grey, frowning. “What is this? Who said I was mad?”
“The Herr Captain and Lutz,” confessed Johann,175 stolidly89, with scarce a change of expression.
O’Hara laughed. “Oh, ho!” he shouted, dropping into a chair, “now we have it. You are mad, and so you cannot go to Budavia to claim your own.”
Johann nodded; and Grey, leaning against the edge of the table, was lost for a moment in thought.
“But the Fraülein?” O’Hara questioned. “What did they say of her? Was she to be left with the madman?”
“No, Herr O’Hara; only for a little. The Herr Captain Lindenwald had arranged, Lutz told me, to have Herr Arndt taken to an asylum90 by the doctors and then the Fraülein was to be brought to Kürschdorf.”
Grey smiled, grimly. “The doctors were the gentlemen you chased out of the window last night, Jack,” he said. And then he asked of Johann: “Did they say anything of Baron91 von Einhard?”
“No, Herr Arndt.”
“You are quite sure?”
176 “I have not heard of his name, Herr Arndt.”
Then Johann was told of the plan of departure and was sent off to telephone for another place on the Orient Express for himself. When he returned the American said to him:
“It was very good of you, Johann, to come back.”
“Ah, Herr Arndt,” he returned, in a tone of appreciation92, “I could not do less. Can I ever, do you think, forget that it was you who saved my life?”
Grey’s surprise must have shown in his eyes, but he asked no questions. Later, however, just as they were about to start for the Gare de Strasbourg, he found himself alone with O’Hara for a moment and put the query93 to him:
“What is this about my having saved Johann’s life?”
“You don’t remember it? Oh, of course not,” the Irishman answered. “Well, you had your pluck with you, lad, if you didn’t have your memory. We were in that fire at the Folsonham, in Piccadilly. It happened in the early morning when the whole house was asleep, and that the death list177 was not larger was little short of a miracle. The front stairs were burning as Schlippenbach, the Fraülein and you and I reached them. When I got to the bottom I missed you, and looking back saw you through the smoke still standing at the top. ‘For God’s sake, make haste, man!’ I called, ‘the stairs may fall at any minute.’ But you had seen a figure staggering down, half suffocated94, from the floor above. Well, instead of saving yourself you went back to help that figure, which proved to be Johann. And even at that moment the staircase fell with a crash. But you caught the stumbling, dazed Budavian from out a hurricane of sparks, rushed him through a room filled with blinding smoke and climbed with him hanging limp over your shoulder out of a window onto an already burning ten-inch cornice. And there you held him, against the wall, God only knows how, until a ladder was run up and the pair of you brought safely to the street just as the cornice crumbled95 and went down. And, good Lord, but didn’t the crowd cheer! Only fancy your not remembering anything of it!”
“I’m glad I managed it,” said Grey, simply.178 But the story depressed him. What else had he done in those five months of somnambulism? The thought of that period and its possibilities had grown distressful96 to him. He had committed a great crime and he had performed a brave deed. They were the opposite poles of that world of sleep. But what other acts lay between? What other incidents of right and wrong filled the intermediate zones? He shrank from asking general questions on the subject, and speculation97 was as distasteful as it was futile98. When, as in this instance, accident had revealed something, the result was a sort of emotional nausea99.
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1
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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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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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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benison
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| n.祝福 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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vividly
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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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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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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panorama
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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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forth
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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vend
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| v.公开表明观点，出售，贩卖 | |
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abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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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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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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54
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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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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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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abasement
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| n.滥用 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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63
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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66
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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67
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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69
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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70
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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71
agitatedly
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| 动摇，兴奋； 勃然 | |
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72
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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73
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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75
nib
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| n.钢笔尖；尖头 | |
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76
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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78
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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80
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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81
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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82
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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83
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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84
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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85
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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86
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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87
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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88
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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90
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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92
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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93
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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94
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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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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96
distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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97
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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98
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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99
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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