Rosamond, whose life purpose had so long been to avoid the haunting of the past, awoke in the dawn of her first day at Saltwoods to find herself in a very habitation of memories; nay7, more, to feel, in some inexplicable8 manner, that the dead were more alive in this house than the quick, and yet—strange mystery of the heart—that she was glad of it. She watched the dawn wax as on one memorable9 morning in her far-off Indian palace; not here on beetle's-wing green and eastern glow of carmine10 and purple, but upon brown of wainscot oak and dim rosebud11 of faded chintz. And, as the lights spread between the gaps of the shutters12, there grew upon her from the panelled wall a strong young face with bold wide-open eyes—eyes very young, set under brows already thoughtful. A very English face, despite the olive of the cheek, the darkness of the hair, close-cut, that still had a crisp wave under the cock of the Sandhurst cap.
"I felt I was not alone," said Rosamond, half in dream, supporting herself on her elbow to look more nearly, "and so it was you!"
But the eyes were gazing past her, out on life, full of eagerness. And the close lips were set with a noble determination. What great things this boy soldier was going to make of his future!
Rosamond let herself fall back upon her pillows, something like a sob13 in her throat. Then, opposite to her, between the windows, she met full the glance of the same eyes that had but now avoided hers. They were child's eyes this time, gazing, full of soft wonder, out of a serious child's face, framed by an aureole of copper14 curls—the wonderful tint15 that is destined16 to turn to densest17 black.
Rosamond stretched at ease, resting her eyes on those of the lovely child's—childless woman, who had never desired children, began to picture to herself how proud a mother would be of such a little son as this. And then her mind wandered to the mother, who, lying where she now lay, had feasted her waking heart and gratified her maternal18 pride, so many mornings with this vision.
Then something began to stir in her that had not yet stirred before; an inchoate19 desire, an ache, a jealousy20; yes, a jealousy of the dead woman who had borne such a child! She turned restlessly from the sight of the two pictures, flung herself to the far side of the bed, and sent her glance and thought determinedly21 wandering into the recess22 of an alcove23 where night still kept the growing light at bay.
A drowsiness24 fell over her mind again; with vague interest she found herself speculating what might the different objects be that the darkness still enwrapt partly from her sight.
Here was a high chair of unusual shape—a Prie-Dieu? Here was a gothic bracket, jutting25 from the wall above; thereon something glimmered26 palely forth27; a statuette perchance, or alabaster28 vase of special slender art? Nay, not so, for now she could distinguish the wide-stretched arms, the pendant form; it was the carven ivory of a crucifix. The late Mrs. English's shrine29, her altar? Rosamond's interest quickened—she had heard of this unknown relative's goodness from the son's lips, but had never heard this goodness specified30 as regarded religion. His mother, then, had been High Church ... Roman Catholic perhaps? Rosamond was almost amused, with the detached amusement of one to whom religion means little personal.
Under this impulse of curiosity she rose from her bed, pulled the window shutters aside to let in the day, and then went back to examine the alcove.
It held a shrine indeed, an altar to inevitable31 sacrifice, to the most sacred relics33. Beneath the pallid34 symbol, figure of the Great Renunciation, was placed a closed frame. And all around and about, in ordered array, the records of a boy's life: medals for prowess in different sports; a cup or two; a framed certificate of merit; in front of the frame, a case bulging35 with letters. Upon each side of the altar hung shelves filled with books, some in the handsome livery of school prizes, some in the battered36 covers of the much-perused playroom favourite.
Rosamond stood and looked. A moment or two she hesitated, then she began to tremble. There was within her the old desire of flight, the old sick longing37 to hide away, to bury, to ignore. But something stronger than herself held her. The day was past when she could deny herself to sorrow. The cup was at her lips and she knew that she must drink.
She would open that letter-case, she would gaze at the face in the closed frame; her coward heart was to be spared no longer.
She took up a volume. As it fell apart she saw the full-page book-plate engraved38 with the arms of Winchester School and the fine copperplate inscription39:
Anno S?culari 1884
Pr?mium in re Mathematica
Meritus et consecutus est Henricus English.
(H?c olim meminisse juvabit).
The life of Christopher Columbus.... It was bound in crimson40 calf41, and the gilt42 edges of its unopened pages clung crisply together.
She replaced it on the shelf and, with the same dreary43 mechanical determination, drew forth another. The "Boy's own Book"; a veteran, this; from too much loving usage, dogs'-eared, scored with small grimy finger-prints; its quaint44 woodcuts highly coloured here and there by a very juvenile45 artist.
"To Henry English, on his ninth birthday, from his affectionate mother," ran the dedication46, in a flowing Italian hand. A gift that had made a little lad very happy, some twenty-five years ago.
And now Rosamond's fingers hovered47 over the case of letters. Well did her heart forebode whose missives lay treasured there. Nevertheless, the sight of the handwriting struck her like a stab. Not yet could she summon strength to read those close-marked pages. Nay—were they even hers to read?
"Darling old Mammy—" this was not for her.
Yet she turned the sheets over and over, lingering upon them. Here was an envelope, endorsed48 in the same fair running hand as the book: "My beloved son's last letter." And here, on a card, was gummed a piece of white heather—memorial of God knows what pretty coquetry between the stalwart soldier and his "darling old Mammy."
What things must people live through—people who dare to love!
Rosamond had never loved. Had she not done well? When love offered itself to her she had been too young to know its face. And now.... She dropped the case from her hands as if it burnt her, and stood, poised49 for flight; then, as if driven by an invincible50 force, seized upon the closed frame, almost with anger. Fate held her, she could not escape.
Harry51 English, looking at her! Not the child, not the adolescent, but Harry the man as she, his wife, had known him. Even through the incomplete medium of a photograph, the strong black and white of his colouring, the bold line of his features, the concentrated purposeful expression, was reproduced with an effect of extraordinary vitality52.
It seemed almost impossible to think of him as dead who could look at her so livingly from this little portrait.
* * * * *
Old Mary came in hurriedly.
"Here I am, ma'am, here I am! I heard you call."
Rosamond lifted dazed eyes. It took a perceptible space of time for the meaning of the words to filter to her brain. Then she said with vague impatience53:
"I did not call."
"But you wanted me, surely," said the woman. Her glance wandered from the portrait in her new mistress's hand to the disorder54 on her old mistress's altar. "Surely you wanted me, ma'am."
She took a warm wrapper from the bed and folded it round Lady Gerardine. She supported her to an armchair and placed a cushion to her feet. The ministering hands were warm and strong; and Rosamond felt suddenly that in truth she was cold and weak, and that these attentions were grateful to her. She looked up again at the withered55 face, ethereally aged, at the blue eyes that seemed illumined from some source not of this world.
"Perhaps I did want you," she said.
A thin, self-absorbed, silent woman was old Mary. She regarded the world as with the gaze of the seer and moved within the small circlet of her duty wrapped in a mystic dignity of her own. Some held her in contempt, as madwoman; others in awe56, as having "seen things."
If the manor-house had the reputation of being haunted, it was doubtless due to Mary's ways. No one from the neighbourhood would have consented to inhabit the ancient place with her. But fortunately Mary had a stout57 niece of her own, who averred58 that ghosts were indigestion, and who slept the sleep of the scrubber and the just, no matter what else might walk.
The housekeeper59's strange eyes softened60 as she looked down into the fair pale face of her young master's widow.
"My dear lady that's gone," she said, "must be glad to know that there is another heart keeping watch here."
Her voice was soft and had a muffled61 sound as of one used to long silence. The tone seemed to harmonise with the singularity of the words. A small cold shiver ran over Rosamond; she stared without replying.
"The day the news came," proceeded the housekeeper, dreamily, "she set up that altar to him. And there she found peace."
As old Mary spoke62, the habit of the trained servant was still strong upon her. She stooped to tuck in the fold of Rosamond's dressing-gown closer round her feet.
"There she prayed," she went on, as she straightened herself again, "and then, he came back to her in peace."
Rosamond closed the frame in her hands with a snap. She felt every impulse within her strike out against the mystic atmosphere that seemed to be closing round her.
"What are you saying?" she cried sharply. "In Heaven's name what do you mean? Who came back—the dead?"
Old Mary smiled again. She bent63 over the chair.
"Why, ma'am," she said, as if speaking to a frightened child, "you don't need to be told, a good lady like you: to those that have faith, there is no death."
"No death!" echoed Rosamond. "All life is death. Everything is full of death."
There was a strangling bitterness in her throat that broke forth in a harsh laugh. The placid64 room seemed to swim round with her; when she came to herself the servant was holding her hands once more. Her voice was falling into her ears with a measured soothing65 cadence66:
"Not here. There is no death in this house. Don't you feel it, ma'am? It's not death that is here. Why, her that is gone, she passed from me there, in that bed, as the night passes into day. That is not death. Not an hour before the summons came for her she was wandering—as the doctor called it. I knew better. She saw him and was speaking to him. 'Ah, Harry,' she says, joyful67, 'I knew you were not dead.' And then she turns to me. 'He is not dead, Mary,' she says, 'it was all a mistake.'"
Rosamond listened, her pale lips apart, her gaze dark and wondering.
"Why, ma'am," went on old Mary. "Haven't you felt it yourself, this night; didn't you feel his sweet company the minute you set foot in the house? I think it was my lady's great love that brought him back here. And now that she is gone, he's still here. And it's strange, he's here more than she is. She does not come as he does."
Her eyes became fixed68 on far-off things. Still clasping Rosamond's hand she seemed to transmit a glow, a warmth that reached to the heart. Rosamond's sick and cowering69 soul felt at rest as upon a strength greater than her own.
His company! Was that not what she had felt? Was it not that to which she had awakened70? Ay, the old woman was right: it was sweet!
"There is no death," asserted old Mary, once again, "no death unless we make it. It's our fault if our dead do not live for us; it's our earthly bodies that won't acknowledge the spirit. It's we who make our dead dead, who bury them, who make corpses72 of them and coffins73 for them, to hide them away in the cold earth."
Rosamond wrenched75 her hands from the wrinkled grasp. She sprang to her feet, seized by a sudden anguish76 that was actual physical pain.
"Go, go!" she cried wildly. She was caught up as in a whirlwind of unimaginable terror. What had she done? Had she laid Harry English in the grave? Was he dead to her through her own deed, he that had lived on for his mother? Had she in her cowardice77 hammered him into his coffin74, and would he always be a corpse71 to her because she had made him dead?
Through the inarticulate voices of her torment78, she heard the door close and felt she was alone. And then she found herself upon her knees before the shrine, the photograph case still clenched79 between her fingers, praying blindly, madly, inarticulately—to what? she knew not. To the white Christ on the cross, who had risen from the dead? Or to the strong soldier whose image she held, and for whom there could be no rising again?
When the storm passed at length she was broken, chilled, and unconsoled. Old Mary's words came back to her: "She prayed there and she got peace." Well, the mother may have found peace in prayer. But for the wife, there was none! "He came back in peace"; he had not come back to her—to Rosamond, his wife!
A wave of revolt broke over her; against the God who had invented death for his creatures, or against stupid blind fate disposing of those human lives that have no God.
She rose slowly to her feet; her glance swept the homely80 room—the bed where the mother had died—to end once again upon the altar. What right had she, the old woman, to lay claim to Rosamond English's husband? The babe, the boy, may have been hers, let her have him! But the man—the man belonged to the wife. "And ye shall leave father and mother and cleave81 to one." "There is authority for it in your very scriptures," cried Rosamond, aloud. And, with fingers trembling with passionate82 eagerness she set to work to rob the frame of its treasure, the shrine of its chief relic32.
Soon it lay in her hand, the clipped photograph. She carried it away, from the altar to the window, and stood a long, long while, devouring83 it with her gaze. So had he looked. No man had ever bolder, truer eyes. Ah, and no woman but Rosamond had seen them flame into passion—passion that yet then had had no meaning for her who saw! And those lips, folded into sternness, had any one known them to break into lines of tenderness as they were used for her? None at least, not even his mother, had heard them whisper what they had whispered to the wife—to the wife whose ears had been deaf, then, as a child's, because of her uncomprehending heart!
What was it old Mary had said? "It is we who make our dead dead." And had he lived on in this house because of the love of a withered heart, and should he not live again for her, his wife who was young and strong—and still virgin84 to love?
What she had buried she would dig out of the earth again, were it with bleeding fingers. That voice should speak once more, were each accent to stab her with its poignancy85 of loss. He should live, were it to be her death.
With dilated86 nostrils87, panting for breath, her hair floating behind her, beautiful in her thrall88 of passion like some Valkyrie rising over blood and death, she rushed to the door and summoned Jani with ringing call. There is an exaltation of spirit to which pain is highest joy, and Rosamond ran now to her sorrow as the mystic to his cross.
"Jani!" she called. "Bring me Captain English's box."
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1
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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8
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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14
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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16
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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densest
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| 密集的( dense的最高级 )； 密度大的； 愚笨的； （信息量大得）难理解的 | |
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18
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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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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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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endorsed
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| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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50
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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51
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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52
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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53
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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54
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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55
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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56
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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59
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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60
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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61
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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62
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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63
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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64
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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66
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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67
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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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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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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70
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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75
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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77
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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78
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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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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80
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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81
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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83
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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84
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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85
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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86
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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88
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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