Spring was in the air—late comer to this eastern corner of Europe—but, at last, even here the fragrance1 of fresh growing things was permeating2 the atmosphere, strips of vivid blue rent the grey skies, and splashes of golden sunshine lay dappled over the shining roofs of the village that nestled in the valley.
But no responsive light had lit itself in Jean’s wistful eyes. She was out of tune3 with the season. Spring and hope go hand in hand, the one symbolical4 of the other, and the promise of spring-time, the blossom of hope, was dead within her heart—withered almost before it had had time to bud.
The months since she had quitted England had sufficed to blunt the keen edge of her pain, but always she was conscious of a dull, unending ache—a corroding5 sense of the uselessness and emptiness of life.
Yet she had learned to be thankful for even this much respite6 from the piercing agony of the first few weeks which she had spent at Beirnfels. Whatever the coming years might bring her of relief from pain, or even of some modicum7 of joy, those weeks when she had suffered the torments9 of the damned would remain stamped indelibly upon her memory.
During the last days at Charnwood she had been keyed up to a high pitch of endurance by the very magnitude of the renunciation she had made. It seems as though, when the soul strains upwards10 to the accomplishment11 of some deed that is almost beyond the power of weak human nature to achieve, there is vouchsafed12, for the time being, a merciful oblivion to the immensity of pain involved. A transport of spiritual fervour lifts the martyr14 beyond any ordinary recognition of the physical fire that burns and chars15 his flesh, and some such ecstasy16 of sacrifice had supported Jean through the act of abnegation by which she had surrendered her love, and with it her life’s happiness, at the foot of the stern altar of Duty.
Afterwards had followed the preparations and bustle17 of departure, the necessary arrangements to be made and telegraphed to Beirnfels, and finally the long journey across Europe and the hundred and one small details that required settlement before she and Claire were fully18 installed at Beirnfels and the wheels of the household machinery19 running smoothly20.
But when all this was accomplished21, when the need to arrange and plan and make decisions had gone by and her mind was free to concern itself again with her own affairs, then Jean realised the full price of her renunciation.
And she paid it. In days that were an endless procession of anguished22 hours; in sleepless23 nights that were a mental and physical torment8 of unbearable24 longing25 such as she had never dreamed of; in tears and in dumb, helpless silences, she paid it. And at last, out of those racked and tortured weeks she emerged into a numbed26, listless capacity to pick up once more the torn and mutilated threads of life.
Looking backward, she marvelled27 at the wonderful patience with which Claire had borne with her, at the selfless way in which she had devoted28 all her energies to ministering to one who was suffering from heart-sickness—that most wearying of all complaints to the sufferer’s friends because so difficult of comprehension by those not similarly afflicted29.
Nick’s “pale golden narcissus!” To Jean, who had clung to her, helped inexpressibly by her tranquil30, steadfast31, unswerving faith and loving-kindness, it seemed as though the staunch and sturdy oak were a more appropriate metaphor32 in which to express the soul of Claire.
She heard her now, coming with light steps across the court. She rarely left Jean brooding long alone these days, exercising all her tact33 and ingenuity34 to devise some means by which she might distract her thoughts when she could see they had slipped back into the past.
Jean turned to greet her with a faint smile.
“Well, my good angel? Come to rout35 me out? I suppose”—teasingly—“you want me to ride down to the village and bring back two lemons urgently demanded by the cook?”
Claire laughed a little. Many had been the transparent36 little devices she had employed to beguile37 Jean into the saddle, knowing well that once she was on the back of her favourite mare38 the errand which was the ostensible39 purpose of the occasion would quite probably be entirely40 forgotten. But Jean would return from a long ride over the beloved hills and valleys that had been familiar to her from childhood with a faint colour in her pale cheeks, and with the shadow in her eyes a little lightened. There is no cure for sickness of the soul like the big, open spaces of the earth and God’s clean winds and sunlight.
“No,” said Claire, “it’s not lemons this time.”
“Then what is it?” demanded Jean. “You didn’t come out here just to look at the view. There’s an air of importance about you.”
It was true. Claire wore a little fluttering aspect of excitement. The colour came and went swiftly in her cheeks, and her eyes had a bright, almost dazzled look, while a small anxious frown kept appearing between her pretty brows. She regarded Jean uncertainly.
“Well—yes, it is something,” she acknowledged. “I had a letter from Lady Anne this morning.”
Both girls had their premiers41 d茅jeuners served to them in their rooms, so that each one’s morning mail was an unknown quantity to the other until they met downstairs.
“From Lady Anne?” Jean looked interested. “What does she say?”
“She says—she writes———” Here Claire floundered and came to a stop as though uncertain how to proceed, the little puzzled frown deepening between her brows. “Oh, Jean, she had a special reason for writing—some news——”
Jean’s arm, hanging slackly at her side, jerked suddenly. Something in Claire’s half-frightened, deprecating air sent a thrill of foreboding through her. Her heart turned to ice within her.
“News?” she said in a harsh, strangled voice. “Tell me quick—what is it?... Blaise? He’s not—dead?” Her face, drained of every drop of colour, her suddenly pinched nostrils42 and eyes stricken with quick fear drew a swift cry from Claire.
“No—no!” she exclaimed in hasty reassurance43. “It’s good news! Good—-not bad!”
Jean’s taut44 muscles relaxed and she leaned against the wall as though seeking support.
“You frightened me,” she said dully. “Good news? Then it can’t be for me. What is it, Claire? Is Nick”—forcing a smile—“coming out here to see you?”
Claire nodded.
“Yes, Nick—and Blaise with him.”
Jean stared at her.
“Blaise—coming here? Oh, but he must not—he mustn’t come!”—in sudden panic. “I couldn’t go through it all again! I couldn’t!”
Claire slipped an arm round her.
“You won’t have to,” she answered. “Because, Jean-Jean! Blaise has the right to come now. He’s free!”
“Free? Free?” repeated Jean. “What do you mean! How can he be free?”
“Nesta is dead,” said Claire simply.
“Dead?” Jean began to laugh a trifle hysterically45.
“Oh, yes, she’s been ‘dead’ before. But——”
“She is really dead this time,” said Claire. “That is why Lady Anne has written—to tell us.”
“I can’t believe it!” muttered Jean. “I can’t believe it.”
“You must believe it,” insisted Claire quietly. “It is all quite true. She was buried last week in the little churchyard at Coombe Eavie, and Lady Anne writes that Nick and Blaise will be here almost as soon as her letter. They’re on their way now—now, Jean! Do you understand?” Her eyes filling with tears, Claire watched the gradual realisation of the amazing truth dawn in Jean’s face. That face so tragically46 worn, so fined and spiritualised by suffering, glowed with a new light; a glory of unimaginable hope lit itself in the tired golden eyes, and on the half-parted lips there seemed to quiver those kisses which still waited to be claimed.
Jean passed her hand across her eyes like one who has seen some bright light of surpassing radiance.
“Tell me, Claire,” she said at last, tremulously. “Tell me...” She broke off, unable to manage her voice.
“I’ll read you what Lady Anne says,” replied Claire quickly. “After writing that Nesta is dead and Nick and Blaise are coming here, she goes on: ‘Poor Nesta! One cannot help feeling sorry for her—killed so suddenly and so tragically. And yet such a death seems quite in the picture with her lawless, wayward nature! She was shot, Claire, shot in the Boundary Woods by a Frenchman who had apparently47 followed her to England for the express purpose. It appears he met her at Ch芒teau Varigny, in the days when she was posing as Madame de Varigny’s niece, and fell violently in love with her. Of course Nesta could not marry him, and equally of course the Frenchman—he was the Vicomte de Chassaigne—did not know that she had a husband already. So, naturally, he hoped eventually to win her, and Nesta, (who, as you know, would flirt48 with the butcher’s boy if there were no one else handy) encouraged him and allowed him to make love to her to his heart’s content. Then, after her return to Staple49, he learned of her marriage, and, furious at having been so utterly50 deceived, he followed. He must have watched her very carefully for some days, as he apparently knew her favourite walks, and waylaid51 her one afternoon in the woods. What passed between them we shall never know, for Chassaigne killed her and then immediately turned the revolver on himself. Blaise and Nick heard the shots and rushed down to the Boundary Woods where the shots had sounded—you’ll know where I mean, the woods that lie along the border between Willow52 Ferry and Staple. There they found them. Nesta was dead, and de Chassaigne dying. He had just strength enough to confide53 in Blaise all that I have written. I am writing to you, because I think it might come as too great a shock to Jean as you say she is still so far from strong. You must tell her——”
Jean interrupted the reading with a shout of laughter.
“Oh, Claire! Claire! You blessed infant! I suppose all those preliminary remarks of yours about ‘a letter from Lady Anne’ and the ‘news’ it contained were by way of preparing me for the shock—‘breaking the news’ in fact?”
“Yes,” admitted Claire, flushing a little.
Jean rocked with laughter—gay, spontaneous laughter such as Claire had not heard issue from her lips since the day when Madame de Varigny had come to Staple.
“And you just about succeeded in frightening me to death!” continued Jean. “Oh, Claire, Claire, you adorable little goose, didn’t you know that good news never kills?”
“I didn’t feel at all sure,” returned Claire, laughing a little, too, in spite of herself. “You’ve looked lately as though it wouldn’t take very much of anything—good or bad—to kill you.”
“Well, it would now,” Jean assured her solemnly. “Not all the powers of darkness would prevail against me, I verily believe.” She paused, frowning a little. “How beastly it is though, to feel outrageously54 happy because someone is dead! It’s indecent. Poor little Nesta! Oh, Claire! Is it hateful of me to feel like this? Do say it isn’t, because—because I can’t help it!”
“Of course it isn’t,” protested Claire. “It’s only natural.”
“I suppose it is. And I really am sorry for Nesta—though I’m so happy myself that it sort of swamps it. Oh, Claire darling”—the shadow passing and sheer gladness of soul bubbling up again into her voice—“I’m bound to kiss someone—at once. It’ll have to be you! And look! Those two may be here any moment—Lady Anne said so. I’m going to make myself beautiful—if I can. I wish I hadn’t grown so thin! The most ravishing frock in the world would look a failure draped on a clothes-horse. Still, I’ll do what I can to conceal55 from Blaise the hideous56 ravages57 of time. And I’m not going to wear black—I won’t welcome him back in sackcloth and ashes! I won’t! I won’t! I’ve got the darlingest frock upstairs—a filmy grey thing like moonlight. I’m going to wear that. I know—I know”—-softly—“that Glyn would understand.”
And if he knew anything at all about it—and one would like to think he did—it is quite certain Peterson would have approved his daughter’s decision. For to his incurably58 romantic spirit, the idea of a woman going to meet the lover of whom a malign59 fate had so nearly robbed her altogether, clad in the sable60 habiliments with which she had paid filial tribute to her father’s death, would have appeared of all things the most incongruous and irreconcilable61.
So that when at last a prehistoric62 vehicle, chartered from the inn of the Green Dragon in the village below, toiled63 slowly up the hill to Peirnfels and Blaise and Nick climbed down from its musty interior, a slender, moon-grey figure, which might have been observed standing64 within the shadow of a tall stone pillar and following with straining eyes the snail-like progress of the old-fashioned carriage up the steep white road, flitted swiftly hack65 into the shelter of the house. Claire, dimpling and smiling at the great gateway66 of the castle, alone received the travellers.
“Go along that corridor,” she said to Blaise, when they had exchanged greetings. “To the end door of all. That’s the sun-parlour. You’ll find Jean there. She thought it appropriate”—smiling at him.
Then, as Blaise strode down the corridor indicated, she turned to Nick and asked him with an adorable coquetry why he, too, had come to Beirnfels?
“I’ve heard it is the House of Dreams-Come-True,” replied Nick promptly67. “It seemed a likely place in which to find you, most beautiful.”
Claire beamed at him.
“Oh, am I that—really, Nick?”
“Of course you are. The most beautiful in all the world. Claire”—tucking his arm into hers—“tell me, how is the ‘soul-rebuilding’ process getting on? That’s why I came, really, you know, to find out if you had completely finished redecorating your interior?—I can vouch13 for the outer woman myself”—with an adoring glance at the fluffy68 ash-blonde hair and pure little Greuze profile.
Claire rubbed her cheek against his sleeve. To a woman who has been for four months limited almost exclusively to the society of one other woman—even though that other woman be her chosen friend—the rough ‘feel’ of a man’s coat-sleeve (more particularly if he should happen to be the man) and the faint fragrance of tobacco which pervades69 it form an almost delirious70 combination.
Claire hauled down her flag precipitately71.
“I’m ready to go back to England any time now, Nick,” she murmured.
“Are you? Darling! How soon can you be ready? In a week? To-morrow? Next day?”
“Quite soon. And meanwhile, mightn’t you—you and Blaise—stay for a bit at the Green Dragon?”
“We might,” replied Nick solemnly, quite omitting to mention that something of the sort had been precisely72 their intention when leaving England.
Meanwhile Blaise had made his way to the door at the end of the corridor. Outside it he paused, overwhelmed by the sudden realisation that beyond that wooden harrier lay holy ground—Paradise! And the Angel with the Flaming Sword stood at the gate no longer....
She was waiting for him over by the window, straight and slim and tall in her moon-grey, her hands hanging in front of her tight-clasped like those of a child. But her eyes were woman’s eyes.
With a little inarticulate cry she ran to him—to the place that was hers, now and for all time, against his heart—and his arms, that had been so long empty, held her as though he would never let her go.
“Beloved of my heart!” he murmured. “Oh, my sweet—my sweet!”
They spoke73 but little. Only those foolish, tender words that seem so meaningless to those who are not lovers, but which are pearls strung on a thread of gold to those who love—a rosary of memory which will be theirs to keep and tell again when the beloved voice that uttered them shall sound no more.
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1
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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permeating
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| 弥漫( permeate的现在分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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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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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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chars
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| abbr.characters （复数）角色，人物（剧本中用语）v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的第三人称单数 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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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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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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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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anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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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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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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premiers
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| n.总理，首相( premier的名词复数 )；首席官员， | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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49
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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53
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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54
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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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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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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66
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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68
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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69
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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70
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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71
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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72
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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73
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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