A fortunate interval3 of hard work brought respite4 from this phase of sterile5 misery6. He went West to argue an important case, won it, and came back to fresh preoccupations. His own affairs were thriving enough to engross7 him in the pauses of his professional work, and for over two months he had little time to look himself in the face. Not unnaturally—for he was as yet unskilled in the subtleties8 of introspection—he mistook his temporary insensibility for a gradual revival9 of moral health.
He told himself that he was recovering his sense of proportion, getting to see things in their true light; and if he now thought of his rash appeal to his wife’s sympathy it was as an act of folly10 from the consequences of which he had been saved by the providence11 that watches over madmen. He had little leisure to observe Alexa; but he concluded that the common-sense momentarily denied him had counselled her uncritical acceptance of the inevitable12. If such a quality was a poor substitute for the passionate13 justness that had once seemed to characterize her, he accepted the alternative as a part of that general lowering of the key that seems needful to the maintenance of the matrimonial duet. What woman ever retained her abstract sense of justice where another woman was concerned? Possibly the thought that he had profited by Mrs. Aubyn’s tenderness was not wholly disagreeable to his wife.
When the pressure of work began to lessen14, and he found himself, in the lengthening15 afternoons, able to reach home somewhat earlier, he noticed that the little drawing-room was always full and that he and his wife seldom had an evening alone together. When he was tired, as often happened, she went out alone; the idea of giving up an engagement to remain with him seemed not to occur to her. She had shown, as a girl, little fondness for society, nor had she seemed to regret it during the year they had spent in the country. He reflected, however, that he was sharing the common lot of husbands, who proverbially mistake the early ardors of housekeeping for a sign of settled domesticity. Alexa, at any rate, was refuting his theory as inconsiderately as a seedling16 defeats the gardener’s expectations. An undefinable change had come over her. In one sense it was a happy one, since she had grown, if not handsomer, at least more vivid and expressive17; her beauty had become more communicable: it was as though she had learned the conscious exercise of intuitive attributes and now used her effects with the discrimination of an artist skilled in values. To a dispassionate critic (as Glennard now rated himself) the art may at times have been a little too obvious. Her attempts at lightness lacked spontaneity, and she sometimes rasped him by laughing like Julia Armiger; but he had enough imagination to perceive that, in respect of the wife’s social arts, a husband necessarily sees the wrong side of the tapestry18.
In this ironical19 estimate of their relation Glennard found himself strangely relieved of all concern as to his wife’s feelings for Flamel. From an Olympian pinnacle20 of indifference21 he calmly surveyed their inoffensive antics. It was surprising how his cheapening of his wife put him at ease with himself. Far as he and she were from each other they yet had, in a sense, the tacit nearness of complicity. Yes, they were accomplices22; he could no more be jealous of her than she could despise him. The jealousy23 that would once have seemed a blur24 on her whiteness now appeared like a tribute to ideals in which he no longer believed....
Glennard was little given to exploring the outskirts25 of literature. He always skipped the “literary notices” in the papers and he had small leisure for the intermittent26 pleasures of the periodical. He had therefore no notion of the prolonged reverberations which the “Aubyn Letters” had awakened27 in the precincts of criticism. When the book ceased to be talked about he supposed it had ceased to be read; and this apparent subsidence of the agitation28 about it brought the reassuring29 sense that he had exaggerated its vitality30. The conviction, if it did not ease his conscience, at least offered him the relative relief of obscurity: he felt like an offender31 taken down from the pillory32 and thrust into the soothing33 darkness of a cell.
But one evening, when Alexa had left him to go to a dance, he chanced to turn over the magazines on her table, and the copy of the Horoscope, to which he settled down with his cigar, confronted him, on its first page, with a portrait of Margaret Aubyn. It was a reproduction of the photograph that had stood so long on his desk. The desiccating air of memory had turned her into the mere34 abstraction of a woman, and this unexpected evocation35 seemed to bring her nearer than she had ever been in life. Was it because he understood her better? He looked long into her eyes; little personal traits reached out to him like caresses—the tired droop36 of her lids, her quick way of leaning forward as she spoke37, the movements of her long expressive hands. All that was feminine in her, the quality he had always missed, stole toward him from her unreproachful gaze; and now that it was too late life had developed in him the subtler perceptions which could detect it in even this poor semblance38 of herself. For a moment he found consolation39 in the thought that, at any cost, they had thus been brought together; then a flood of shame rushed over him. Face to face with her, he felt himself laid bare to the inmost fold of consciousness. The shame was deep, but it was a renovating40 anguish41; he was like a man whom intolerable pain has roused from the creeping lethargy of death....
He rose next morning to as fresh a sense of life as though his hour of mute communion with Margaret Aubyn had been a more exquisite42 renewal43 of their earlier meetings. His waking thought was that he must see her again; and as consciousness affirmed itself he felt an intense fear of losing the sense of her nearness. But she was still close to him; her presence remained the sole reality in a world of shadows. All through his working hours he was re-living with incredible minuteness every incident of their obliterated44 past; as a man who has mastered the spirit of a foreign tongue turns with renewed wonder to the pages his youth has plodded45 over. In this lucidity46 of retrospection the most trivial detail had its significance, and the rapture47 of recovery was embittered48 to Glennard by the perception of all that he had missed. He had been pitiably, grotesquely49 stupid; and there was irony50 in the thought that, but for the crisis through which he was passing, he might have lived on in complacent51 ignorance of his loss. It was as though she had bought him with her blood....
That evening he and Alexa dined alone. After dinner he followed her to the drawing-room. He no longer felt the need of avoiding her; he was hardly conscious of her presence. After a few words they lapsed52 into silence and he sat smoking with his eyes on the fire. It was not that he was unwilling53 to talk to her; he felt a curious desire to be as kind as possible; but he was always forgetting that she was there. Her full bright presence, through which the currents of life flowed so warmly, had grown as tenuous54 as a shadow, and he saw so far beyond her—
Presently she rose and began to move about the room. She seemed to be looking for something and he roused himself to ask what she wanted.
“Only the last number of the Horoscope. I thought I’d left it on this table.” He said nothing, and she went on: “You haven’t seen it?”
“No,” he returned coldly. The magazine was locked in his desk.
His wife had moved to the mantel-piece. She stood facing him and as he looked up he met her tentative gaze. “I was reading an article in it—a review of Mrs. Aubyn’s letters,” she added, slowly, with her deep, deliberate blush.
Glennard stooped to toss his cigar into the fire. He felt a savage55 wish that she would not speak the other woman’s name; nothing else seemed to matter. “You seem to do a lot of reading,” he said.
She still earnestly confronted him. “I was keeping this for you—I thought it might interest you,” she said, with an air of gentle insistence56.
He stood up and turned away. He was sure she knew that he had taken the review and he felt that he was beginning to hate her again.
“I haven’t time for such things,” he said, indifferently. As he moved to the door he heard her take a precipitate57 step forward; then she paused and sank without speaking into the chair from which he had risen.
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1
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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13
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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14
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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seedling
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| n.秧苗，树苗 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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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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accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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24
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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32
pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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evocation
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| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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37
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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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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40
renovating
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的现在分词 ) | |
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41
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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42
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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43
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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44
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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45
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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46
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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47
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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48
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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50
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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51
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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52
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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53
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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54
tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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55
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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56
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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57
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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