One thing it was bringing, he told his sullen4 heart—the new day of the new life of Raymond Bethune. Raymond Bethune, the disgraced, who had failed his comrade.
When that wild cry had rung out into the night, "Harry5, Harry, Harry!" it had sounded, in his ears, like the death-cry of his honour; a parting from all that he had held dear; a parting from his highest and closest, than which no parting between soul and body could be more bitter.
He had sat on his bed, and listened—listened, expecting he knew not what. What, indeed, had he now to expect? He had heard the running of feet, the opening and shutting of doors, all the busy noises of a house alarmed. Was she dead? Dead of her joy, in that supreme6 moment of reunion? Would there not be a heaven, even in his anguish7, for him who could thus take her dying kiss!
By-and-by he had roused himself; and, after a look of horror upon that bed of dreams, mechanically dressed for his departure. To go away—that was all that was left to him—the last decency8. He put a grim control upon his nerves as he wielded9 the razor and the brushes that Harry English's fingers had so recently touched.
Harry English ... out of the grave!
Bethune could not yet face the marvel10 of the situation. He had yet no power over his dazed brain to bring it to realise that for so long he had been living near his old comrade in the flesh, and had not known—he who had not passed a day, since their parting, without living with him in the spirit! Still less could he speculate upon the reasons of English's incognito11, upon his singular scheme, his recklessness of his own reputation; nor by what miracle he had been saved from death; nor by what freakish cruelty of fate he had been buried from their ken12 till the irreparable had been worked on other lives.
No; Bethune had no single thought to spare from the overwhelming fact of what he had himself done.
How silent was this house, now, in the dawn! And how much worse was silence than the most ominous13 sounds. Was it not his own silence that had betrayed both himself and his friend?
He packed deliberately14, feeling the while a fleeting15 childish warmth of comfort in the thought that Harry wore his old shooting-jacket—that Harry had still something of his about him. He folded the discarded babu garments with almost tender touch. Then he paused and hesitated.
There were the papers—the damnable, foolish papers that had started all the mischief16; and these he must sort. Some must be destroyed; some, not his to deal with, must be laid by before he could leave the place.
He stole to the door, carrying his portmanteau. There was no fear of his meeting any of those whom he dreaded17; for, in the rambling18 old house, his floor had a little breakneck stairs to itself which landed him in a passage outside the hall.
There was a stir of life and a leap of firelight behind the half-open door of the kitchen; but, in a panic, he passed quickly out of reach of the voices lest he should hear. Was she dying ... or dead? Or, since joy does not kill, was she happy in a sublime19 egotism of two? He had no courage for the tidings—whatever they might be.
The little room where he had worked with such fervour was filled with a grey glimmer20 that filtered in through the mist-hung orchard21 trees. The fire had been set but not yet lit. He put a match to it; he would have much to burn. Then he sat down by the table and drew forth22 his manuscripts. The last line he had written—that line set only yesterday from a full heart—met his eye:
English was then in the perfection of his young manhood—a splendid specimen23 of an Englishman, athletic24, handsome, intellectual, a born leader of men, and withal, the truest comrade ever a man had.
Out of the half-finished page, the past rose at Raymond Bethune and smote25 him in the face. So had he written, so had he thought of Harry English yesterday, when he believed him dead.
A man of more sanguine26 temperament27, of more imaginative mind, might well have comforted himself with explanatory reflections, with reasons so plausible28 for his own behaviour, that he must end by believing in them himself, regarding his own act in a gradually changing light, till it assumed a venial29, not to say meritorious30, aspect. But Raymond Bethune, with his narrow conception of life, with his few, deep-cut affections, had this in him—virtue or deficiency—that he could not lie. And now he knew the naked truth. He knew that, when his only friend had come from out the dead and laid claim upon him, in the overwhelming surprise of the moment he had betrayed friendship—that some unknown base self had sprung into life. He had not been glad—he had not been glad ... and Harry had seen it. Harry had read into his heart—and there had read, not gladness but dismay.
The sweat started again upon Bethune's forehead as he re-lived that moment and again saw his failing soul mirrored in the wide pupils of English's eyes.
* * * * *
Outside, upon the grey-brown twisted boughs31 of the apple-tree nearest the window, a robin32 began to sing. The insidious33 sweetness of the little voice pierced the lonely man to the marrow34, with an intolerable pang35 of self-pity. He looked out on the bleak36 winter scene of the garden, where the mist hung in shreds37 across the sodden38 grass, over the bare boughs. It was an old, old orchard and the trees were leprous with grey lichen39. It seemed as though they could not bear flower or fruit again. Vaguely40, for his brain was not apt to image, he thought: "In some such desolation lies the future for me." And if the robin sang—oh, if the robin sang—its message never could be for him!
His eye wandered back into the room. Here had he worked so many days, in austere41, high ardour of loyalty42. Aye, and yonder, in the armchair, had she sat; and he had judged her from this same altitude of mind. Now he knew himself better, saw the earthy soul of him as it really was. All his anger, all his scorn, all his antagonism43, from the very first instant when her pale luminous44 beauty had dawned upon him, had been but fine-sounding words in his own mind to hide the thing, the fact—his passion for Harry English's wife!
He took some of the manuscript into his hands, rough sheets as well as neatly45 typed copy; and, standing46 before the now leaping fire, began slowly to tear it, page by page, and fling it into the blaze. He smiled as he watched the red twists fly up the chimney. There was subtle irony47 in the situation. Major Bethune calling upon his friend's widow to wake from her sleep of oblivion, forcing her back to the sorrow she would fain forget, sparing her no pang, watching her as the warder watches the convict to see that not a jot48 of her task escape her; seeing, as he watched, the old love reclaim49 her with strong hands, so that, wooed once more and once more won, she was ready, as surely no woman was before, to greet the dead returned! ... "Harry, Harry, Harry!" He would never get that cry out of his head.
He let himself fall into the chair upon the hearth50, his hands resting listlessly from their task. How was he to endure life, how carry out the most trivial business with this sick distaste of all things upon him?
* * * * *
Aspasia opened the door and looked in. She gave a cry of pleasure as she saw him.
"How cosy51!" she said, and came over to the fire.
Then she stood, gazing down at him, with a small smile trembling on her lips. She had evidently been crying, and the curves of these same lips looked softer and more childish than ever. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes darkly shadowed.
Bethune sat motionless. After a pause she spoke52, still staring reflectively at the flames.
"I wondered where you had been all this dreadful night. You know what has happened? Of course you know."
"I know."
Nothing in his voice or manner struck her—she was so full of the tremendous occasion.
"Ah!" she cried, suddenly flashing upon him, "I think I'm sorry you already know. I should have liked to have been the first to tell you. For you—for you, at least, it's all glorious. Oh, how glad you must be! What it must mean to you!"
He sat like stone: she was worse than the robin. He had thought he had suffered to the fullest capacity; but the girl, with her clear voice and her honest eyes, was tearing his heart to pieces. Then she became conscious that in his silence, though she had known him ever as a silent man, there was something almost sinister.
"What is it?" she asked him. "Oh, I suppose you knew all along? No—you didn't, you couldn't!"
He shook his head.
"Ah!" Her bright face clouded. "It is because of her, of poor Aunt Rosamond—of him, rather? You think he has come back to her too late, only to lose her?"
He resumed the tearing up of his manuscript with fingers clenched53 upon the page.
"What are you doing?" she cried, quickly diverted. "Oh, Major Bethune, why? Don't tear up all that beautiful life—all you've been working at so long. Oh, what a pity—what a pity!"
He crumpled54 a mass of paper violently together and flung it into the flames, thrusting it down among the embers with his hand. He felt the startled amazement55 growing upon her, and forced his pale lips to speak.
"He would hate it."
Saying this, he tried to smile. Aspasia contemplated56 him for a while, her eyes wondering. Then she stretched out her hand and touched his timidly.
"Don't be unhappy—let me tell you; I think I understand. Oh! I'm sure I understand, for we have been friends a little, too, have we not? You think it's worse for him to come back. You think he had better be dead, if she is to die. But she won't." Aspasia nodded confidently. "I tell you she won't die. I've just seen Dr. Chatelard; he's quite satisfied. I have seen him—Captain English—too. I said to him: 'She won't die.' And he said to me: 'I know it.' He is there outside her room—so strong and patient. Now," said the girl, and was not, in her innocent wish to comfort, aware how tenderly she spoke, "now you will let yourself be glad for yourself, since you've got him back, will you not?"
Bethune suddenly turned and caught the gentle hand that touched him in both his. He broke into sobs57—a man's difficult, ugly, tearing sobs, that surprise no one more than him whom they overtake. For an instant Aspasia was terrified. But for that desperate clutch she would have fled. The next moment, however, all the woman in her awoke.
"Oh, don't cry!" she said, as if she were speaking to a child, and laid her free hand upon his close-cropped hair.
And then—neither of them knew how it happened—her arm was round his shoulder, and his head was lying upon her tender breast. The dry agony that shook him passed; and tears that fell like balm rolled down his cheeks.
Baby, carried quite out of herself in this astounding58 whirl of events, began to weep, too, quite softly, to herself. And, as he lifted his face to hers and drew her down to him, their lips met upon the bitter of their tears, and yet in sweetness undreamed of. At the touch of that child-mouth and at her voiceless surrender, Bethune knelt before her in his heart and consecrated59 himself to her for ever. Closed henceforth for him the magic casement60 on "perilous61 seas" of passion, "on fa?ry lands forlorn." Gone those visions, exquisite62 and deadly! A faithful loving hand, a child's hand, had been held out to him in his moment of utmost misery63; it had lifted him from the deeps; it he would clasp and go to meet life's duty, content—aye, humbly64 grateful—that his winter should have harboured a robin after all; ready to open his heart to its song of spring.
* * * * *
Afterwards, he knew, he would blame himself for that moment of weakness which had won him, unworthy, so true and unsuspecting a heart. But the deed was irrevocable, and he would not have been human not to rejoice.
* * * * *
The secret of the sorrow that had given to Aspasia the man she loved, she would never know. And even her frank lips could never seek the story. As sacred as the memory of their first kiss, she would hide in her heart the memory of those strange and terrible sobs.
Wiser than Psyche65 she would light no lamp, but keep this first mystery of love in unprofaned shadow.
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1
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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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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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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10
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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11
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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13
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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17
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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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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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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31
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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32
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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36
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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40
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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41
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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42
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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44
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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46
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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47
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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48
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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49
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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50
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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51
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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52
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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53
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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54
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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55
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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56
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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57
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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58
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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59
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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62
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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63
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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64
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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