It had been part of Peterson’s expressed programme that, before going their separate ways, he and Jean should make a brief stay at Montavan, there to await Lady Anne Brennan’s answer to his letter. Jean had divined in this determination an excuse, covering his need to take farewell of that grave on the lonely mountain-side before he set out upon the solitary5 journey which could not fail to hold poignant6 memories of other, former wanderings—wanderings invested with the exquisite7 joy of sharing each adventure with a beloved fellow-wayfarer.
Instinctively8 though Jean had recognised the desire at the back of Glyn’s decision to stop at Montavan, she was scrupulously10 careful not to let him guess her recognition. She took her cue from his own demeanour, which was outwardly that of a man merely travelling for pleasure, and she listened with a grim sense of amusement when poor Monsieur Vautrinot, the ma卯tre d’h么tel, recognising Peterson as a former client, sympathetically recalled the sad circumstances of his previous visit and was roundly snubbed for his pains.
To Jean the loss of her mother had meant far less than it would have done to a girl in more commonplace circumstances. It was true that Jacqueline had shown herself all that was kindhearted and generous in her genuine wish to compass the girl’s happiness, and that Jean had been frankly12 fond of her and attracted by her, but in no sense of the words had there been any interpretation13 of a maternal14 or filial relationship. As Jean herself, to the huge entertainment of her parents, had on one occasion summed up the situation: “Of course I know I’m a quite superfluous15 third at Beirnfels, but, all the same, you two really do make the most perfect host and hostess, and you try awfully16 hard not to let me feel de trop.”
But, despite the fact that Jacqueline had represented little more to her daughter than a brilliant and delightful17 personality with whom circumstances happened to have brought her into contact, Jean was conscious of a sudden thrill of pain as her glance travelled across the wide stretches of snow and came at last to rest on the little burial ground which lay half hidden beneath the shoulder of a hill. She was moved by an immense consciousness of loss—not just the mere11 sense of bereavement18 which the circumstances would naturally have engendered19, but something more absolute—a sense of all the exquisite maternal element which she had missed in the woman who was dead.
And then came recognition of the uselessness of such regret. Nothing could have made Jacqueline other than she was—one of the world’s great lovers. Mated to the man she loved, she asked nothing more of Nature, nor had she herself anything more to give. And the same reasoning, though perhaps in a less degree, could be applied20 to Peterson’s own attitude of detachment towards his daughter; although Jean was intuitively aware that she had come to mean much more to him since her mother’s death, even though it might be, perhaps, only because she represented a tangible21 link with his past happiness.
Thrusting aside the oppression of thought conjured22 up by her glimpse of that quiet God’s Acre, set high up among the hills, she turned abruptly23 from the window and made her way downstairs to the hotel vestibule.
Here she discovered that Peterson had been claimed by some acquaintances. The encounter was obviously not of his own choosing, for, to Jean’s experienced eye, his face bore the slightly restive24 expression common to it when circumstances had momentarily got the better of him.
His companions were a somewhat elaborate little Frenchman of fifty or thereabouts, with an unmistakable air of breeding about him, and a stately-looking woman some fifteen years younger, whose warm brunette colouring and swift, mobile gesture proclaimed her of Latin blood. All three were conversing25 in French.
“Ah! La voici qui vient!,” Peterson turned as Jean approached, his quick exclamation26 tinctured with relief. Still in French, which both he and Jean spoke27 as fluently and with as little accent as English, he continued rapidly: “Jean, let me present you to Madame la Comtesse de Varigny.”
The girl found herself looking straight into a pair of eyes of that peculiarly opaque28, dense29 brown common to Southern races. They were heavily fringed with long black lashes30, giving them a fictitiously31 soft and disarming32 expression, yet Jean was vaguely33 conscious that their real expression held something secret and implacable, almost repellant, an impression strengthened by the virile34, strongly-marked black brows that lay so close above them.
For the rest, Madame de Varigny was undeniably a beautiful woman, her blue-black, rather coarse hair framing an oval face, extraordinarily35 attractive in contour, with somewhat high cheek bones and a clever, flexible mouth.
Jean’s first instinctive9 feeling was one of distaste. In spite of her knowledge that Varigny was one of the oldest names in France, the Countess struck her as partaking a little of the adventuress—of the type of woman of no particular birth who has climbed by her wits—and she wondered what position she had occupied prior to her marriage.
She was sharply recalled from her thoughts to find that Madame de Varigny was introducing the little middle-aged36 Frenchman to her as her husband, and immediately she spoke Jean felt her suspicions melting away beneath the warm, caressing37 cadences38 of an unusually beautiful voice. Such a voice was a straight passport to the heart. It seemed to clothe even the prosaic39 little Count in an almost romantic atmosphere of tender charm, an effect which he speedily dispelled40 by giving Jean a full, true, and particular account of the various pulmonary symptoms which annually41 induced him to seek the high, dry air of Montavan.
“It is as an insurance of good health that I come,” he informed Jean gravely.
“Oh, yes, we are not here merely for pleasure—comme ces autres”—-Madame de Varigny gestured smilingly towards a merry party of men and girls who had just come in from luging and were stamping the snow from off their feet amid gay little outbursts of chaff42 and laughter. “We are here just as last year, when we first made the acquaintance of Monsieur Peterson”—the suddenly muted quality of her voice implied just the right amount of sympathetic recollection—“so that mon pauvre mari may assure himself of yet another year of health.”
The faintly ironical43 gleam in her eyes convinced Jean that, as she had shrewdly begun to suspect, the little Count was a malade imaginaire, and once she found herself wondering what could be the circumstances responsible for the union of two such dissimilar personalities44 as the high-bred, hypochondriacal little Count and the rather splendid-looking but almost certainly plebeian-born woman who was his wife.
She intended, later on, to ask her father if he could supply the key to the riddle45, but he had contrived46 to drift off during the course of her conversation with the Varignys, and, when at last she found herself free to join him, he had disappeared altogether.
She thought it very probable that he had gone out to watch the progress of a ski-ing match to which he had referred with some enthusiasm earlier in the day, and she smiled a little at the characteristic way in which he had extricated47 himself, at her expense, from the inconvenience of his unexpected recontre with the Varignys.
But, two hours later, she realised that once again his superficial air of animation48 had deceived her. From her window she saw him coming along the frozen track that led from the hillside cemetery49, and for a moment she hardly recognised her father in that suddenly shrank, huddled50 figure of a man, stumbling down the path, his head thrust forward and sunken on his breast.
Her first imperative51 instinct was to go and meet him. Her whole being ached with the longing52 to let him feel the warm rush of her sympathy, to assure him that he was not utterly53 alone. But she checked the impulse, recognising that he had no use for any sympathy or love which she could give.
She had never really been anything other than exterior54 to his life, outside his happiness, and now she felt intuitively that he would wish her to remain equally outside the temple of his grief.
He was the type of man who would bitterly resent the knowledge that any eyes had seen him at a moment of such utter, pitiable self-revelation, and it was the measure of her understanding that Jean waited quietly till he should choose to come to her.
“When he came, he had more or less regained55 his customary poise56, though he still looked strained and shaken. He addressed her abruptly.
“I’ve decided57 to go straight on to Marseilles and sail by the next boat, Jean. There’s one I can catch if I start at once.”
“At once?” she exclaimed, taken aback. “You don’t mean—to-day?”
He nodded.
“Yes, this very evening. I find I can get down to Montreux in time for the night mail.” Then, answering her unspoken thought: “You’ll be quite all right. You will be certain to hear from Lady Anne in a day or two, and, meanwhile, I’ll ask Madame de Varigny to play chaperon. She’ll be delighted”—with a flash of the ironical humour that was never long absent from him.
“Who was she before she married the Count?” queried58 Jean.
“I can’t tell you. She is very reticent59 about her antecedents—probably with good reason”—smiling grimly. “But she is a big and beautiful person, and our little Count is obviously quite happy in his choice.”
“She is rather a fascinating woman,” commented Jean.
“Yes—but preferable as a friend rather than an enemy. I don’t know anything about her, but I wouldn’t mind wagering60 that she has a dash of Corsican blood in her. Anyway, she will look after you all right till Anne Brennan writes.”
“And if no letter comes?” suggested Jean. “Or supposing Lady Anne can’t have me? We’re rather taking things for granted, you know.”
His face clouded, but cleared again almost instantly.
“She will have you. Anne would never refuse a request of mine. If not, you must come on to me, and I’ll make other arrangements,”—vaguely. “I’ll let the next boat go, and stay in Paris till I hear from you. But I can’t wait here any longer.”
He paused, then broke out hurriedly:
“I ought never to have come to this place. It’s haunted. I know you’ll understand—you always do understand, I think, you quiet child—why I must go.”
And Jean, looking with the clear eyes of unhurt youth into the handsome, grief-ravaged face, was suddenly conscious of a shrinking fear of that mysterious force called love, which can make, and so swiftly, terribly unmake the lives of men and women.
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1
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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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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11
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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12
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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15
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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16
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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17
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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21
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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22
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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23
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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26
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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27
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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28
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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29
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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30
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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31
fictitiously
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| adv.虚构地；假地 | |
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32
disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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33
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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35
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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38
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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39
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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40
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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42
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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43
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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44
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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45
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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46
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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47
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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49
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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50
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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52
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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53
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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54
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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55
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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56
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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57
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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58
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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59
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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60
wagering
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| v.在（某物）上赌钱，打赌( wager的现在分词 )；保证，担保 | |
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