This was somewhat Jean’s experience when she woke on the morning following that of the fancy-dress ball. Looking back upon the events of the previous day, it seemed to her newly-tubbed, matutinal mind almost incredible that they should have occurred. It was like a dream—life itself tricked out in fancy dress.
Stripped of the glamour of romance and adventure with which the unknown Englishman had contrived5 to clothe it, the whole episode of their day together presented itself as disagreeably open to criticism, and the memory of that final scene in the alcove6 sent the blood flying into her cheeks. She asked herself in mute amazement7 how it was possible that such a thing should have happened to her,—to “our chaste8 Diana,” as her father used laughingly to call her in recognition of the instinctive9 little air of aloofness10 with which she had been wont11 to keep men at a distance.
Of course, the Englishman had taken her by surprise, but Jean was too honest, even in her dealings with herself, to shelter behind this excuse.
She knew that she had yielded to his kiss—and knew, too, that the bare memory of it sent her heart throbbing12 in an inexplicable13 tumult14 of emotion.
The stolen day, that day embarked15 upon so unconcernedly, in a gay spirit of adventure, had flamed up at its ending into something altogether different from the light-hearted companionship with which it had begun.
Then her conscience, recreated and vigorous from its morning toilet, presented another facet16 of the affair for her inspection17. With officious detail it marshalled the whole series of events before her, dwelling18 particularly on the fact that, with hut very slight demur19, she had consented to abrogate20 the accepted conventions of her class—conventions designed to safeguard people from just such consequences as had ensued—and winding21 up triumphantly22 with the corollary that although, like most men in similar circumstances, the Englishman had not scrupled23 to avail himself of the advantages the occasion offered, he had probably, none the less, thought rather cheaply of her for permitting him to do so.
This reflection stung her pride—exactly as Conscience had intended it should, without doubt. Last night there had seemed to her no question about the quality of that farewell in the little screened-off alcove. There had been nothing common or “cheap” about it. The gathering24 incidents of the whole day, the fight through the storm, the prelude25 of Valse Triste, all seemed to have led her by imperceptible degrees to a point where she and the Englishman could kiss at parting without shame. And now, with the morning, the delicate rainbow veiling woven by romance was rudely torn asunder26, and the word “cheap” dinned27 in her ears like the clapper of a bell.
The appearance of her premier28 dejeuner came as a web come distraction29 from her thoughts, and with the consumption of caf茅 au lait and the crisp little rolls, hot from the oven, accompanying it, the whole matter began to assume a less heinous30 aspect. After all, argued Jean’s weak human nature, the unconventionality of the affair had been considerably31 tempered by the fact that the Englishman had practically saved her life during the course of the day. Alone, she would undoubtedly32 have foundered33 in the drifting snow; and when a man has rescued you from an early and unpleasantly chilly34 grave, it certainly sets the acquaintance between you, however short its duration, on a new and more intimate plane.
“Good-bye, little comrade; thank you for my magic moment.”
The words, and the manner of their utterance35, came back to Jean, bringing with them a warm and comforting reassurance36. The man who had thus spoken had not thought her cheap; he was too fine in his perceptions to have misunderstood like that. She felt suddenly certain of it. And the pendulum37 of self-respect swung back into its place once more.
Presently she caught herself wondering whether she would see him again before she left Montavan. True, he had told her he was going away the next day. But had he actually gone? Somewhere within her lurked38 a fugitive39, half-formed hope that he might have altered his intention.
She tried to brush the thought aside, refusing to recognise it and determinedly40 maintaining that it mattered nothing to her whether he stayed or went. Nevertheless, throughout the whole day—in the morning when she made a pretence41 of enjoying the skating on the rink, and again in the afternoon when she walked through the pine-woods with the Varignys—she was subconsciously42 alert for any glimpse of the lean, supple43 figure which a single day had sufficed to mate so acutely familiar.
But by evening she was driven into accepting the fact that he had quitted the mountains, and of a sudden Montavan ceased to interest her; the magic that had disguised it yesterday was gone. It had become merely a dull little village where she was awaiting Lady Anne Brennan’s answer to her father’s letter, and she grew restlessly impatient for that answer to arrive.
It came at last, during the afternoon of the following day, in the form of a telegram: “Delighted to welcome you. Letter follows.”
The letter followed in due course, two days later, the tardiness44 of its arrival accounted for by the fact that the writer had been moving about from place to place, and that Peterson’s own letter, after pursuing her for days, had only just caught up with her.
“I cannot tell you,” wrote Lady Anne in her squarish, characteristic hand, “how delighted I shall be to have the daughter of Glyn and Jacqueline with me for a time. Although Glyn with a grown-up daughter sounds quite improbable; he never really grew up himself. So you must come and convince me that the unexpected has happened.”
Jean liked the warm-hearted, unconventional tone of the letter, and the knowledge that she would so soon be leaving Montavan filled her with a sense of relief.
During the four days which had elapsed since the Englishman’s departure her restlessness had grown on her. Montavan had become too vividly45 reminiscent of the hours which they had shared together for her peace of mind. She wanted to forget that stolen day—thrust it away into the background of her thoughts.
Unfortunately for the success of her efforts in this direction, the element of the unknown which surrounded the Englishman, quite apart from anything else, would have tended to keep him in the forefront of her mind. It was only now, surveying their acquaintance in retrospect46, that she fully47 realised how complete had been his reticence48. True his figure dominated her thoughts, but it was a figure devoid49 of any background of home, or friends, or profession. He might be a king or a crossing-sweeper, for all she knew to the contrary—only that neither the members of the one nor the other profession are usually addicted50 to sojourning at Swiss chalets and forming promiscuous51 friendships on the ice.
There were moments when she felt that she detested52 this man from nowhere who had contrived to break through her feminine guard of aloofness merely to gratify his whim53 to spend a day in her company.
But there were other moments when the memory of that stolen day glowed and pulsed like some rare gem54 against the even, grey monotony of all the days that had preceded it—and of those which must come after. She could not have analysed, even to herself, the emotions it had wakened in her. They were too complex, too fluctuating.
As she packed her trunks in preparation for an early start the following day, Jean recalled with satisfaction the genuine ring of welcome which had sounded through the letter that had come from England. Until she had received it, she had been the prey55 of an increasing diffidence with regard to suddenly billeting herself for an indefinite period upon even such an old friend of her father’s as Lady Anne—a timidity Peterson himself had certainly not shared when he penned his request.
“Give my little girl house-room, will you, Anne?” he had written with that candid56 and charming simplicity57 which had made and kept for him a host of friends through all the vicissitudes58 of his varied59 and irresponsible career. “I am off once more on a wander-year, and I can’t be tripped up by a petticoat—certainly not my own daughter’s—at every yard. This isn’t quite as cynical60 as it sounds. You’ll understand, I know. Frankly61, a man whose life, to all intents and purposes, is ended, is not fit company for youth and beauty standing62 palpitating on the edge of the world. By the way, did I tell you that Jean is rather beautiful? I forget. Let her see England—that little corner where you live, down Devonshire way, always means England to my mind. And let her learn to love Englishwomen—if there are any more there like you.”
And, having accomplished63 this characteristic, if somewhat; sketchy64 provision for his daughter’s welfare, Peterson had gone cheerfully on his way, convinced that he had done all that was paternally65 encumbent on him.
Madame de Varigny was voluble in her regrets at the prospect66 of losing her “ch猫re Mademoiselle Peterson,” yet in spite of her protestations of dismay Jean was conscious of an impression that the Countess derived67 some kind of satisfaction from the imminence68 of her departure.
She could not reconcile the contradiction, and it worried her a little. She believed—quite justly—that Madame de Varigny had conceived a real affection for her, and, as far as she herself was concerned, she had considerably revised her first impressions of the other, finding more to like in her than she had anticipated, noticeably a genuine warmth and fervour of nature, and a certain kind-hearted capacity for interesting herself in other people.
And, liking69 her so much better than she had at first conceived possible, Jean resented the sudden recurrence70 of her original distrust produced by the suggestion of insincerity which she thought she detected in the Countess’s expressions of regret.
On the face of it the thing seemed absurd. She could imagine no conceivable reason why her departure should give Madame de Varigny any particular cause for complacency, which only made the more perplexing her impression that this was the actual feeling underlying71 the latter’s cordial interest in her projected visit to England.
On the morning of her departure, Jean’s mind was too preoccupied72 with the small details attendant upon starting off on a journey dwell upon the matter. But, as she shook bands with Madame de Varigny for the last time, the recollection surged over her afresh, and she was strongly conscious that beneath the other woman’s pleasant, “Adieu, mademoiselle! Bon voyage!” something stirred that was less pleasant—even inimical—just as some slimy and repulsive73 form of life may stir amid the ooze74 at the bottom of a sunlit stream.
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1
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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2
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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clogging
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| 堵塞，闭合 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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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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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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15
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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16
facet
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| n.(问题等的)一个方面；(多面体的)面 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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abrogate
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| v.废止，废除 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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23
scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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dinned
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| vt.喧闹（din的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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30
heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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31
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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38
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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40
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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42
subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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43
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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44
tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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45
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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46
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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48
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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49
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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50
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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51
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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52
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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54
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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55
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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56
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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58
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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60
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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73
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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