The words restored his self-possession. “Ill? Of course not. They told me you were out and I came upstairs.”
The books lay between them on the table; he wondered when she would see them. She lingered tentatively on the threshold, with the air of leaving his explanation on his hands. She was not the kind of woman who could be counted on to fortify2 an excuse by appearing to dispute it.
“Where have you been?” Glennard asked, moving forward so that he obstructed3 her vision of the books.
“I walked over to the Dreshams for tea.”
“I can’t think what you see in those people,” he said with a shrug4; adding, uncontrollably—“I suppose Flamel was there?”
“No; he left on the yacht this morning.”
An answer so obstructing5 to the natural escape of his irritation6 left Glennard with no momentary7 resource but that of strolling impatiently to the window. As her eyes followed him they lit on the books.
“Ah, you’ve brought them! I’m so glad,” she exclaimed.
He answered over his shoulder, “For a woman who never reads you make the most astounding8 exceptions!”
Her smile was an exasperating9 concession10 to the probability that it had been hot in town or that something had bothered him.
“Do you mean it’s not nice to want to read the book?” she asked. “It was not nice to publish it, certainly; but after all, I’m not responsible for that, am I?” She paused, and, as he made no answer, went on, still smiling, “I do read sometimes, you know; and I’m very fond of Margaret Aubyn’s books. I was reading ‘Pomegranate Seed’ when we first met. Don’t you remember? It was then you told me all about her.”
Glennard had turned back into the room and stood staring at his wife. “All about her?” he repeated, and with the words remembrance came to him. He had found Miss Trent one afternoon with the novel in her hand, and moved by the lover’s fatuous11 impulse to associate himself in some way with whatever fills the mind of the beloved, had broken through his habitual12 silence about the past. Rewarded by the consciousness of figuring impressively in Miss Trent’s imagination he had gone on from one anecdote13 to another, reviving dormant14 details of his old Hillbridge life, and pasturing his vanity on the eagerness with which she received his reminiscences of a being already clothed in the impersonality15 of greatness.
The incident had left no trace in his mind; but it sprang up now like an old enemy, the more dangerous for having been forgotten. The instinct of self-preservation—sometimes the most perilous16 that man can exercise—made him awkwardly declare—“Oh, I used to see her at people’s houses, that was all;” and her silence as usual leaving room for a multiplication17 of blunders, he added, with increased indifference18, “I simply can’t see what you can find to interest you in such a book.”
She seemed to consider this intently. “You’ve read it, then?”
“I glanced at it—I never read such things.”
“Is it true that she didn’t wish the letters to be published?”
Glennard felt the sudden dizziness of the mountaineer on a narrow ledge19, and with it the sense that he was lost if he looked more than a step ahead.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” he said; then, summoning a smile, he passed his hand through her arm. “I didn’t have tea at the Dreshams, you know; won’t you give me some now?” he suggested.
That evening Glennard, under pretext20 of work to be done, shut himself into the small study opening off the drawing-room. As he gathered up his papers he said to his wife: “You’re not going to sit indoors on such a night as this? I’ll join you presently outside.”
But she had drawn21 her armchair to the lamp. “I want to look at my book,” she said, taking up the first volume of the “Letters.”
Glennard, with a shrug, withdrew into the study. “I’m going to shut the door; I want to be quiet,” he explained from the threshold; and she nodded without lifting her eyes from the book.
He sank into a chair, staring aimlessly at the outspread papers. How was he to work, while on the other side of the door she sat with that volume in her hand? The door did not shut her out—he saw her distinctly, felt her close to him in a contact as painful as the pressure on a bruise22.
The sensation was part of the general strangeness that made him feel like a man waking from a long sleep to find himself in an unknown country among people of alien tongue. We live in our own souls as in an unmapped region, a few acres of which we have cleared for our habitation; while of the nature of those nearest us we know but the boundaries that march with ours. Of the points in his wife’s character not in direct contact with his own, Glennard now discerned his ignorance; and the baffling sense of her remoteness was intensified23 by the discovery that, in one way, she was closer to him than ever before. As one may live for years in happy unconsciousness of the possession of a sensitive nerve, he had lived beside his wife unaware24 that her individuality had become a part of the texture25 of his life, ineradicable as some growth on a vital organ; and he now felt himself at once incapable26 of forecasting her judgment27 and powerless to evade28 its effects.
To escape, the next morning, the confidences of the breakfast-table, he went to town earlier than usual. His wife, who read slowly, was given to talking over what she read, and at present his first object in life was to postpone29 the inevitable30 discussion of the letters. This instinct of protection in the afternoon, on his way uptown, guided him to the club in search of a man who might be persuaded to come out to the country to dine. The only man in the club was Flamel.
Glennard, as he heard himself almost involuntarily pressing Flamel to come and dine, felt the full irony31 of the situation. To use Flamel as a shield against his wife’s scrutiny32 was only a shade less humiliating than to reckon on his wife as a defence against Flamel.
He felt a contradictory33 movement of annoyance34 at the latter’s ready acceptance, and the two men drove in silence to the station. As they passed the bookstall in the waiting-room Flamel lingered a moment and the eyes of both fell on Margaret Aubyn’s name, conspicuously35 displayed above a counter stacked with the familiar volumes.
“We shall be late, you know,” Glennard remonstrated36, pulling out his watch.
“Go ahead,” said Flamel, imperturbably37. “I want to get something—”
Glennard turned on his heel and walked down the platform. Flamel rejoined him with an innocent-looking magazine in his hand; but Glennard dared not even glance at the cover, lest it should show the syllables38 he feared.
The train was full of people they knew, and they were kept apart till it dropped them at the little suburban39 station. As they strolled up the shaded hill, Glennard talked volubly, pointing out the improvements in the neighborhood, deploring40 the threatened approach of an electric railway, and screening himself by a series of reflex adjustments from the imminent41 risk of any allusion42 to the “Letters.” Flamel suffered his discourse43 with the bland44 inattention that we accord to the affairs of someone else’s suburb, and they reached the shelter of Alexa’s tea-table without a perceptible turn toward the dreaded45 topic.
The dinner passed off safely. Flamel, always at his best in Alexa’s presence, gave her the kind of attention which is like a beaconing light thrown on the speaker’s words: his answers seemed to bring out a latent significance in her phrases, as the sculptor46 draws his statue from the block. Glennard, under his wife’s composure, detected a sensibility to this manoeuvre47, and the discovery was like the lightning-flash across a nocturnal landscape. Thus far these momentary illuminations had served only to reveal the strangeness of the intervening country: each fresh observation seemed to increase the sum-total of his ignorance. Her simplicity48 of outline was more puzzling than a complex surface. One may conceivably work one’s way through a labyrinth49; but Alexa’s candor50 was like a snow-covered plain where, the road once lost, there are no landmarks51 to travel by.
Dinner over, they returned to the veranda52, where a moon, rising behind the old elm, was combining with that complaisant53 tree a romantic enlargement of their borders. Glennard had forgotten the cigars. He went to his study to fetch them, and in passing through the drawing-room he saw the second volume of the “Letters” lying open on his wife’s table. He picked up the book and looked at the date of the letter she had been reading. It was one of the last... he knew the few lines by heart. He dropped the book and leaned against the wall. Why had he included that one among the others? Or was it possible that now they would all seem like that...?
Alexa’s voice came suddenly out of the dusk. “May Touchett was right—it is like listening at a key-hole. I wish I hadn’t read it!”
Flamel returned, in the leisurely54 tone of the man whose phrases are punctuated55 by a cigarette, “It seems so to us, perhaps; but to another generation the book will be a classic.”
“Then it ought not to have been published till it had become a classic. It’s horrible, it’s degrading almost, to read the secrets of a woman one might have known.” She added, in a lower tone, “Stephen did know her—”
“Did he?” came from Flamel.
“He knew her very well, at Hillbridge, years ago. The book has made him feel dreadfully... he wouldn’t read it... he didn’t want me to read it. I didn’t understand at first, but now I can see how horribly disloyal it must seem to him. It’s so much worse to surprise a friend’s secrets than a stranger’s.”
“Oh, Glennard’s such a sensitive chap,” Flamel said, easily; and Alexa almost rebukingly56 rejoined, “If you’d known her I’m sure you’d feel as he does....”
Glennard stood motionless, overcome by the singular infelicity with which he had contrived57 to put Flamel in possession of the two points most damaging to his case: the fact that he had been a friend of Margaret Aubyn’s, and that he had concealed58 from Alexa his share in the publication of the letters. To a man of less than Flamel’s astuteness59 it must now be clear to whom the letters were addressed; and the possibility once suggested, nothing could be easier than to confirm it by discreet60 research. An impulse of self-accusal drove Glennard to the window. Why not anticipate betrayal by telling his wife the truth in Flamel’s presence? If the man had a drop of decent feeling in him, such a course would be the surest means of securing his silence; and above all, it would rid Glennard of the necessity of defending himself against the perpetual criticism of his wife’s belief in him....
The impulse was strong enough to carry him to the window; but there a reaction of defiance61 set in. What had he done, after all, to need defence and explanation? Both Dresham and Flamel had, in his hearing, declared the publication of the letters to be not only justifiable62 but obligatory63; and if the disinterestedness64 of Flamel’s verdict might be questioned, Dresham’s at least represented the impartial65 view of the man of letters. As to Alexa’s words, they were simply the conventional utterance66 of the “nice” woman on a question already decided67 for her by other “nice” women. She had said the proper thing as mechanically as she would have put on the appropriate gown or written the correct form of dinner-invitation. Glennard had small faith in the abstract judgments68 of the other sex; he knew that half the women who were horrified69 by the publication of Mrs. Aubyn’s letters would have betrayed her secrets without a scruple70.
The sudden lowering of his emotional pitch brought a proportionate relief. He told himself that now the worst was over and things would fall into perspective again. His wife and Flamel had turned to other topics, and coming out on the veranda, he handed the cigars to Flamel, saying, cheerfully—and yet he could have sworn they were the last words he meant to utter!—“Look here, old man, before you go down to Newport you must come out and spend a few days with us—mustn’t he, Alexa?”
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收听单词发音
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1
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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2
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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obstructing
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| 阻塞( obstruct的现在分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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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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9
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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impersonality
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| n.无人情味 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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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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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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23
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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32
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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34
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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40
deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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41
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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42
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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44
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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45
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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46
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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47
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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48
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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49
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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50
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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51
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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52
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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53
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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54
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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55
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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56
rebukingly
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57
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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58
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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59
astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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60
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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61
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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62
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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64
disinterestedness
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65
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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66
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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68
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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69
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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70
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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