It was Marian Lesley who asked the question.
Esterbrook Elliott unpinned with a masterful touch the delicate cluster of Noisette rosebuds2 she wore at her throat and transferred them to his buttonhole as he answered courteously3: "Certainly. My time, as you know, is entirely5 at your disposal."
They were standing6 in the garden under the creamy bloom of drooping7 acacia trees. One long plume8 of blossoms touched lightly the soft, golden-brown coils of the girl's hair and cast a wavering shadow over the beautiful, flower-like face beneath it.
Esterbrook Elliott, standing before her, thought proudly that he had never seen a woman who might compare with her. In every detail she satisfied his critical, fastidious taste. There was not a discordant9 touch about her.
Esterbrook Elliott had always loved Marian Lesley—or thought he had. They had grown up together from childhood. He was an only son and she an only daughter. It had always been an understood thing between the two families that the boy and girl should marry. But Marian's father had decreed that no positive pledge should pass between them until Marian was twenty-one.
Esterbrook accepted his mapped-out destiny and selected bride with the conviction that he was an exceptionally lucky fellow. Out of all the women in the world Marian was the very one whom he would have chosen as mistress of his fine, old home. She had been his boyhood's ideal. He believed that he loved her sincerely, but he was not too much in love to be blind to the worldly advantages of his marriage with his cousin.
His father had died two years previously11, leaving him wealthy and independent. Marian had lost her mother in childhood; her father died when she was eighteen. Since then she had lived alone with her aunt. Her life was quiet and lonely. Esterbrook's companionship was all that brightened it, but it was enough. Marian lavished12 on him all the rich, womanly love of her heart. On her twenty-first birthday they were formally betrothed13. They were to be married in the following autumn.
No shadow had drifted across the heaven of her happiness. She believed herself secure in her lover's unfaltering devotion. True, at times she thought his manner lacked a lover's passionate15 ardour. He was always attentive16 and courteous4. She had only to utter a wish to find that it had been anticipated; he spent every spare minute at her side.
Yet sometimes she half wished he would betray more lover-like impatience17 and intensity18. Were all lovers as calm and undemonstrative?
She reproached herself for this incipient19 disloyalty as often as it vexingly21 intruded22 its unwelcome presence across her inner consciousness. Surely Esterbrook was fond and devoted23 enough to satisfy the most exacting24 demands of affection. Marian herself was somewhat undemonstrative and reserved. Passing acquaintances called her cold and proud. Only the privileged few knew the rich depths of womanly tenderness in her nature.
Esterbrook thought that he fully26 appreciated her. As he had walked homeward the night of their betrothal27, he had reviewed with unconscious criticism his mental catalogue of Marian's graces and good qualities, admitting, with supreme28 satisfaction, that there was not one thing about her that he could wish changed.
This afternoon, under the acacias, they had been planning about their wedding. There was no one to consult but themselves.
They were to be married early in September and then go abroad. Esterbrook mapped out the details of their bridal tour with careful thoughtfulness. They would visit all the old-world places that Marian wished to see. Afterwards they would come back home. He discussed certain changes he wished to make in the old Elliott mansion29 to fit it for a young and beautiful mistress.
He did most of the planning. Marian was content to listen in happy silence. Afterwards she had proposed this walk to the Cove.
"What particular object of charity have you found at the Cove now?" asked Esterbrook, with lazy interest, as they walked along.
"Mrs. Barrett's little Bessie is very ill with fever," answered Marian. Then, catching30 his anxious look, she hastened to add, "It is nothing infectious—some kind of a slow, sapping variety. There is no danger, Esterbrook."
"I was not afraid for myself," he replied quietly. "My alarm was for you. You are too precious to me, Marian, for me to permit you to risk health and life, if it were dangerous. What a Lady Bountiful you are to those people at the Cove. When we are married you must take me in hand and teach me your creed10 of charity. I'm afraid I've lived a rather selfish life. You will change all that, dear. You will make a good man of me."
"You are that now, Esterbrook," she said softly. "If you were not, I could not love you."
"It is a negative sort of goodness, I fear. I have never been tried or tempted31 severely32. Perhaps I should fail under the test."
"I am sure you would not," answered Marian proudly.
Esterbrook laughed; her faith in him was pleasant. He had no thought but that he would prove worthy33 of it.
The Cove, so-called, was a little fishing hamlet situated34 on the low, sandy shore of a small bay. The houses, clustered in one spot, seemed like nothing so much as larger shells washed up by the sea, so grey and bleached35 were they from long exposure to sea winds and spray.
Dozens of ragged36 children were playing about them, mingled37 with several disreputable yellow curs that yapped noisily at the strangers.
Down on the sandy strip of beach below the houses groups of men were lounging about. The mackerel, season had not yet set in; the spring herring netting was past. It was holiday time among the sea folks. They were enjoying it to the full, a happy, ragged colony, careless of what the morrows might bring forth38.
Out beyond, the boats were at anchor, floating as gracefully39 on the twinkling water as sea birds, their tall masts bowing landward on the swell40. A lazy, dreamful calm had fallen over the distant seas; the horizon blues41 were pale and dim; faint purple hazes42 blurred43 the outlines of far-off headlands and cliffs; the yellow sands sparkled in the sunshine as if powdered with jewels.
A murmurous45 babble46 of life buzzed about the hamlet, pierced through by the shrill47 undertones of the wrangling48 children, most of whom had paused in their play to scan the visitors with covert49 curiosity.
Marian led the way to a house apart from the others at the very edge of the shelving rock. The dooryard was scrupulously50 clean and unlittered; the little footpath51 through it was neatly52 bordered by white clam53 shells; several thrifty54 geraniums in bloom looked out from the muslin-curtained windows.
A weary-faced woman came forward to meet them.
"Bessie's much the same, Miss Lesley," she said, in answer to Marian's inquiry55. "The doctor you sent was here today and did all he could for her. He seemed quite hopeful. She don't complain or nothing—just lies there and moans. Sometimes she gets restless. It's very kind of you to come so often, Miss Lesley. Here, Magdalen, will you put this basket the lady's brought up there on the shelf?"
A girl, who had been sitting unnoticed with her back to the visitors, at the head of the child's cot in one corner of the room, stood up and slowly turned around. Marian and Esterbrook Elliott both started with involuntary surprise. Esterbrook caught his breath like a man suddenly awakened56 from sleep. In the name of all that was wonderful, who or what could this girl be, so little in harmony with her surroundings?
Standing in the crepuscular57 light of the corner, her marvellous beauty shone out with the vivid richness of some rare painting. She was tall, and the magnificent proportions of her figure were enhanced rather than marred58 by the severely plain dress of dark print that she wore. The heavy masses of her hair, a shining auburn dashed with golden foam59, were coiled in a rich, glossy60 knot at the back of the classically modelled head and rippled61 back from a low brow whose waxen fairness even the breezes of the ocean had spared.
The girl's face was a full, perfect oval, with features of faultless regularity62, and the large, full eyes were of tawny63 hazel, darkened into inscrutable gloom in the dimness of the corner.
Not even Marian Lesley's face was more delicately tinted64, but not a trace of colour appeared in the smooth, marble-like cheeks; yet the waxen pallor bore no trace of disease or weakness, and the large, curving mouth was of an intense crimson65.
She stood quite motionless. There was no trace of embarrassment67 or self-consciousness in her pose. When Mrs. Barrett said, "This is my niece, Magdalen Crawford," she merely inclined her head in grave, silent acknowledgement. As she moved forward to take Marian's basket, she seemed oddly out of place in the low, crowded room. Her presence seemed to throw a strange restraint over the group.
Marian rose and went over to the cot, laying her slender hand on the hot forehead of the little sufferer. The child opened its brown eyes questioningly.
"How are you today, Bessie?"
Magdalen came over and stood beside Marian Lesley.
"She wants me," she said in a low, thrilling voice; free from all harsh accent or intonation69. "I am the only one she seems to know always. Yes, darling, Mad'len is here—right beside you. She will not leave you."
She knelt by the little cot and passed her arm under the child's neck, drawing the curly head close to her throat with a tender, soothing70 motion.
Esterbrook Elliott watched the two women intently—the one standing by the cot, arrayed in simple yet costly71 apparel, with her beautiful, high-bred face, and the other, kneeling on the bare, sanded floor in her print dress, with her splendid head bent72 low over the child and the long fringe of burnished73 lashes74 sweeping75 the cold pallor of the oval cheek.
From the moment that Magdalen Crawford's haunting eyes had looked straight into his for one fleeting76 second, an unnamable thrill of pain and pleasure stirred his heart, a thrill so strong and sudden and passionate that his face paled with emotion; the room seemed to swim before his eyes in a mist out of which gleamed that wonderful face with its mesmeric, darkly radiant eyes, burning their way into deeps and abysses of his soul hitherto unknown to him.
When the mist cleared away and his head grew steadier, he wondered at himself. Yet he trembled in every limb and the only clear idea that struggled out of his confused thoughts was an overmastering desire to take that cold face between his hands and kiss it until its passionless marble glowed into warm and throbbing78 life.
"Who is that girl?" he said abruptly79, when they had left the cottage. "She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—present company always excepted," he concluded, with a depreciatory80 laugh.
The delicate bloom on Marian's face deepened slightly.
"You had much better to have omitted that last sentence," she said quietly, "it was so palpably an afterthought. Yes, she is wonderfully lovely—a strange beauty, I fancied. There seemed something odd and uncanny about it to me. She must be Mrs. Barrett's niece. I remember that when I was down here about a month ago Mrs. Barrett told me she expected a niece of hers to live with her—for a time at least. Her parents were both dead, the father having died recently. Mrs. Barrett seemed troubled about her. She said that the girl had been well brought up and used to better things than the Cove could give her, and she feared that she would be very discontented and unhappy. I had forgotten all about it until I saw the girl today. She certainly seems to be a very superior person; she will find the Cove very lonely, I am sure. It is not probable she will stay there long. I must see what I can do for her, but her manner seemed rather repellent, don't you think?"
"Hardly," responded Esterbrook curtly81. "She seemed surprisingly dignified82 and self-possessed, I fancied, for a girl in her position. A princess could not have looked and bowed more royally. There was not a shadow of embarrassment in her manner, in spite of the incongruity83 of her surroundings. You had much better leave her alone, Marian. In all probability she would resent any condescension84 on your part. What wonderful, deep, lovely eyes she has."
Again the sensitive colour flushed Marian's cheek as his voice lapsed85 unconsciously into a dreamy, retrospective tone, and a slight restraint came over her manner, which did not depart. Esterbrook went away at sunset. Marian asked him to remain for the evening, but he pleaded some excuse.
"I shall come tomorrow afternoon," he said, as he stooped to drop a careless good-bye kiss on her face.
Marian watched him wistfully as he rode away, with an unaccountable pain in her heart. She felt more acutely than ever that there were depths in her lover's nature that she was powerless to stir into responsive life.
Had any other that power? She thought of the girl at the Cove, with her deep eyes and wonderful face. A chill of premonitory fear seized upon her.
"I feel exactly as if Esterbrook had gone away from me forever," she said slowly to herself, stooping to brush her cheek against a dew-cold, milk-white acacia bloom, "and would never come back to me again. If that could happen, I wonder what there would be left to live for?"
Esterbrook Elliott meant, or honestly thought he meant, to go home when he left Marian. Nevertheless, when he reached the road branching off to the Cove he turned his horse down it with a flush on his dark cheek. He realized that the motive86 of the action was disloyal to Marian and he felt ashamed of his weakness.
But the desire to see Magdalen Crawford once more and to look into the depths of her eyes was stronger than all else, and overpowered every throb77 of duty and resistance.
He saw nothing of her when he reached the Cove. He could think of no excuse for calling at the Barrett cottage, so he rode slowly past the hamlet and along the shore.
The sun, red as a smouldering ember, was half buried in the silken violet rim66 of the sea; the west was a vast lake of saffron and rose and ethereal green, through which floated the curved shallop of a thin new moon, slowly deepening from lustreless87 white, through gleaming silver, into burnished gold, and attended by one solitary88, pearl-white star. The vast concave of sky above was of violet, infinite and flawless. Far out dusky amethystine89 islets clustered like gems90 on the shining breast of the bay. The little pools of water along the low shores glowed like mirrors of polished jacinth. The small, pine-fringed headlands ran out into the water, cutting its lustrous91 blue expanse like purple wedges.
As Esterbrook turned one of them he saw Magdalen standing out on the point of the next, a short distance away. Her back was towards him, and her splendid figure was outlined darkly against the vivid sky.
Esterbrook sprang from his horse and left the animal standing by itself while he walked swiftly out to her. His heart throbbed92 suffocatingly93. He was conscious of no direct purpose save merely to see her.
She turned when he reached her with a slight start of surprise. His footsteps had made no sound on the tide-rippled sand.
For a few moments they faced each other so, eyes burning into eyes with mute soul-probing and questioning. The sun had disappeared, leaving a stain of fiery94 red to mark his grave; the weird95, radiant light was startlingly vivid and clear. Little crisp puffs96 and flakes97 of foam scurried98 over the point like elfin things. The fresh wind, blowing up the bay, tossed the lustrous rings of hair about Magdalen's pale face; all the routed shadows of the hour had found refuge in her eyes.
Not a trace of colour appeared in her face under Esterbrook Elliott's burning gaze. But when he said "Magdalen!" a single, hot scorch99 of crimson flamed up into her cheeks protestingly. She lifted her hand with a splendid gesture, but no word passed her lips.
"Magdalen, have you nothing to say to me?" he asked, coming closer to her with an imploring100 passion in his face never seen by Marian Lesley's eyes. He reached out his hand, but she stepped back from his touch.
"What should I have to say to you?"
"Say that you are glad to see me."
"I am not glad to see you. You have no right to come here. But I knew you would come."
"You knew it? How?"
"Your eyes told me so today. I am not blind—I can see further than those dull fisher folks. Yes, I knew you would come. That is why I came here tonight—so that you would find me alone and I could tell you that you were not to come again."
"Why must you tell me that, Magdalen?"
"Because, as I have told you, you have no right to come."
"You would stamp yourself as a madman, then," she said coldly. "I know that you are Miss Lesley's promised husband. Therefore, you are either false to her or insulting to me. In either case the companionship of Magdalen Crawford is not what you must seek. Go!"
She turned away from him with an imperious gesture of dismissal. Esterbrook Elliott stepped forward and caught one firm, white wrist.
"I shall not obey you," he said in a low, intense tone; his fine eyes burned into hers. "You may send me away, but I will come back, again and yet again until you have learned to welcome me. Why should you meet me like an enemy? Why can we not be friends?"
The girl faced him once more.
"Because," she said proudly, "I am not your equal. There can be no friendship between us. There ought not to be. Magdalen Crawford, the fisherman's niece, is no companion for you. You will be foolish, as well as disloyal, if you ever try to see me again. Go back to the beautiful, high-bred woman you love and forget me. Perhaps you think I am talking strangely. Perhaps you think me bold and unwomanly to speak so plainly to you, a stranger. But there are some circumstances in life when plain-speaking is best. I do not want to see you again. Now, go back to your own world."
Esterbrook Elliott slowly turned from her and walked in silence back to the shore. In the shadows of the point he stopped to look back at her, standing out like some inspired prophetess against the fiery background of the sunset sky and silver-blue water. The sky overhead was thick-sown with stars; the night breeze was blowing up from its lair104 in distant, echoing sea caves. On his right the lights of the Cove twinkled out through the dusk.
"I feel like a coward and a traitor105," he said slowly. "Good God, what is this madness that has come over me? Is this my boasted strength of manhood?"
Magdalen Crawford lingered on the point until the last dull red faded out into the violet gloom of the June sea dusk, than which nothing can be rarer or diviner, and listened to the moan and murmur44 of the sea far out over the bay with sorrowful eyes and sternly set lips.
The next day, when the afternoon sun hung hot and heavy over the water, Esterbrook Elliott came again to the Cove. He found it deserted107. A rumour108 of mackerel had come, and every boat had sailed out in the rose-red dawn to the fishing grounds. But down on a strip of sparkling yellow sand he saw Magdalen Crawford standing, her hand on the rope that fastened a small white dory to the fragment of a half-embedded wreck109.
She was watching a huddle110 of gulls111 clustered on the tip of a narrow, sandy spit running out to the left. She turned at the sound of his hurried foot-fall behind her. Her face paled slightly, and into the depths of her eyes leapt a passionate, mesmeric glow that faded as quickly as it came.
"You see I have come back in spite of your command, Magdalen."
"I do see it," she answered in a gravely troubled voice. "You are a madman who refuses to be warned."
"Where are you going, Magdalen?" She had loosened the rope from the wreck.
"I am going to row over to Chapel112 Point for salt. They think the boats will come in tonight loaded with mackerel—look at them away out there by the score—and salt will be needed."
"Can you row so far alone?"
"Easily. I learned to row long ago—for a pastime then. Since coming here I find it of great service to me."
She stepped lightly into the tiny shallop and picked up an oar113. The brilliant sunshine streamed about her, burnishing114 the rich tints115 of her hair into ruddy gold. She balanced herself to the swaying of the dory with the grace of a sea bird. The man looking at her felt his brain reel.
"Good-bye, Mr. Elliott."
For answer he sprang into the dory and, snatching an oar, pushed against the old wreck with such energy that the dory shot out from the shore like a foam bell. His sudden spring had set it rocking violently. Magdalen almost lost her footing and caught blindly at his arm. As her fingers closed on his wrist a thrill as of fire shot through his every vein116.
"Why have you done this, Mr. Elliott? You must go back."
"But I will not," he said masterfully, looking straight into her eyes with an imperiousness that sat well upon him. "I am going to row you over to Chapel Point. I have the oars117—I will be master this once, at least."
For an instant her eyes flashed defiant118 protest, then drooped119 before his. A sudden, hot blush crimsoned120 her pale face. His will had mastered hers; the girl trembled from head to foot, and the proud, sensitive, mouth quivered.
Into the face of the man watching her breathlessly flashed a triumphant121, passionate joy. He put out his hand and gently pushed her down into the seat. Sitting opposite, he took up the oars and pulled out over the sheet of sparkling blue water, through which at first the bottom of white sand glimmered122 wavily123 but afterwards deepened to translucent124, dim depths of greenness.
His heart throbbed tumultuously. Once the thought of Marian drifted across his mind like a chill breath of wind, but it was forgotten when his eyes met Magdalen's.
"Tell me about yourself, Magdalen," he said at last, breaking the tremulous, charmed, sparkling silence.
"There is nothing to tell," she answered with characteristic straightforwardness125. "My life has been a very uneventful one. I have never been rich, or very well educated, but—it used to be different from now. I had some chance before—before Father died."
"You must have found it very lonely and strange when you came here first."
"Yes. At first I thought I should die—but I do not mind it now. I have made friends with the sea; it has taught me a great deal. There is a kind of inspiration in the sea. When one listens to its never-ceasing murmur afar out there, always sounding at midnight and midday, one's soul goes out to meet Eternity126. Sometimes it gives me so much pleasure that it is almost pain."
She stopped abruptly.
"I don't know why I am talking to you like this."
"You are a strange girl, Magdalen. Have you no other companion than the sea?"
"No. Why should I wish to have? I shall not be here long."
"You are not going away, Magdalen?"
"Yes—in the fall. I have my own living to earn, you know. I am very poor. Uncle and Aunt are very kind, but I cannot consent to burden them any longer than I can help."
A sigh that was almost a moan broke from Esterbrook Elliott's lips.
"You must not go away, Magdalen. You must stay here—with me!"
"You forget yourself," she said proudly. "How dare you speak to me so? Have you forgotten Miss Lesley? Or are you a traitor to us both?"
The breast of the bay sparkled with its countless129 gems like the breast of a fair woman. The shores were purple and amethystine in the distance. Far out, bluish, phantom-like sails clustered against the pallid130 horizon. The dory danced like a feather over the ripples131. They were close under the shadow of Chapel Point.
Marian Lesley waited in vain for her lover that afternoon. When he came at last in the odorous dusk of the June night she met him on the acacia-shadowed verandah with cold sweetness. Perhaps some subtle woman-instinct whispered to her where and how he had spent the afternoon, for she offered him no kiss, nor did she ask him why he had failed to come sooner.
His eyes lingered on her in the dim light, taking in every detail of her sweet womanly refinement132 and loveliness, and with difficulty he choked back a groan133. Again he asked himself what madness had come over him, and again for an answer rose up the vision of Magdalen Crawford's face as he had seen it that day, crimsoning134 beneath his gaze.
It was late when he left. Marian watched him out of sight, standing under the acacias. She shivered as with a sudden chill. "I feel as I think Vashti must have felt," she murmured aloud, "when, discrowned and unqueened, she crept out of the gates of Shushan to hide her broken heart. I wonder if Esther has already usurped135 my sceptre. Has that girl at the Cove, with her pale, priestess-like face and mysterious eyes, stolen his heart from me? Perhaps not, for it may never have been mine. I know that Esterbrook Elliott will be true to the letter of his vows136 to me, no matter what it may cost him. But I want no pallid shadow of the love that belongs to another. The hour of abdication137 is at hand, I fear. And what will be left for throneless Vashti then?"
Esterbrook Elliott, walking home through the mocking calm of the night, fought a hard battle with himself.
He was face to face with the truth at last—the bitter knowledge that he had never loved Marian Lesley, save with a fond, brotherly affection, and that he did love Magdalen Crawford with a passion that threatened to sweep before it every vestige138 of his honour and loyalty20.
He had seen her but three times—and his throbbing heart lay in the hollow of her cold white hand.
He shut his eyes and groaned139. What madness. What unutterable folly140! He was not free—he was bound to another by every cord of honour and self-respect. And, even were he free, Magdalen Crawford would be no fit wife for him—in the eyes of the world, at least. A girl from the Cove—a girl with little education and no social standing—aye! but he loved her.
He groaned again and again in his misery141. Afar down the slope the bay waters lay like an inky strip and the distant, murmurous plaint of the sea came out of the stillness of the night; the lights at the Cove glimmered faintly.
In the week that followed he went to the Cove every day. Sometimes he did not see Magdalen; at other times he did. But at the end of the week he had conquered in the bitter, heart-crushing struggle with himself. If he had weakly given way to the first mad sweep of a new passion, the strength of his manhood reasserted itself at last. Faltering14 and wavering were over, though there was passionate pain in his voice when he said at last, "I am not coming back again, Magdalen."
They were standing in the shadow of the pine-fringed point that ran out to the left of the Cove. They had been walking together along the shore, watching the splendour of the sea sunset that flamed and glowed in the west, where there was a sea of mackerel clouds, crimson and amber142 tinted, with long, ribbon-like strips of apple-green sky between. They had walked in silence, hand in hand, as children might have done, yet with the stir and throb of a mighty143 passion seething144 in their hearts.
Magdalen turned as Esterbrook spoke145, and looked at him in a long silence. The bay stretched out before them, tranced and shimmering146; a few stars shone down through the gloom of dusk. Right across the translucent greens and roses and blues of the west hung a dark, unsightly cloud, like the blurred outline of a monstrous147 bat. In the dim, reflected light the girl's mournful face took on a weird, unearthly beauty. She turned her eyes from Esterbrook Elliott's set white face to the radiant gloom of the sea.
"That is best," she answered at last, slowly.
"Best—yes! Better that we had never met! I love you—you know it—words are idle between us. I never loved before—I thought I did. I made a mistake and I must pay the penalty of that mistake. You understand me?"
"I understand," she answered simply.
"I do not excuse myself—I have been weak and cowardly and disloyal. But I have conquered myself—I will be true to the woman to whom I am pledged. You and I must not meet again. I will crush this madness to death. I think I have been delirious148 ever since that day I saw you first, Magdalen. My brain is clearer now. I see my duty and I mean to do it at any cost. I dare not trust myself to say more. Magdalen, I have much for which to ask your forgiveness."
"There is nothing to forgive," she said steadily149. "I have been as much to blame as you. If I had been as resolute150 as I ought to have been—if I had sent you away the second time as I did the first—this would not have come to pass. I have been weak too, and I deserve to atone151 for my weakness by suffering. There is only one path open to us. Esterbrook, good-bye." Her voice quivered with an uncontrollable spasm of pain, but the misty152, mournful eyes did not swerve153 from his. The man stepped forward and caught her in his arms.
"Magdalen, good-bye, my darling. Kiss me once—only once—before I go."
She loosened his arms and stepped back proudly.
"No! No man kisses my lips unless he is to be my husband. Good-bye, dear."
He bowed his head silently and went away, looking back not once, else he might have seen her kneeling on the damp sand weeping noiselessly and passionately154.
Marian Lesley looked at his pale, determined155 face the next evening and read it like an open book.
She had grown paler herself; there were purple shadows under the sweet violet eyes that might have hinted of her own sleepless156 nights.
She greeted him calmly, holding out a steady, white hand of welcome. She saw the traces of the struggle through which he had passed and knew that he had come off victor.
The knowledge made her task a little harder. It would have been easier to let slip the straining cable than to cast it from her when it lay unresistingly in her hand.
For an instant her heart thrilled with an unutterably sweet hope. Might he not forget in time? Need she snap in twain the weakened bond between them after all? Perhaps she might win back her lost sceptre, yet if—
Womanly pride throttled157 the struggling hope. No divided allegiance, no hollow semblance158 of queenship for her!
Her opportunity came when Esterbrook asked with grave earnestness if their marriage might not be hastened a little—could he not have his bride in August? For a fleeting second Marian closed her eyes and the slender hands, lying among the laces in her lap, clasped each other convulsively.
Then she said quietly, "Sometimes I have thought, Esterbrook, that it might be better—if we were never married at all."
Esterbrook turned a startled face upon her.
"Not married at all! Marian, what do you mean?"
"Just what I say. I do not think we are as well suited to each other after all as we have fancied. We have loved each other as brother and sister might—that is all. I think it will be best to be brother and sister forever—nothing more."
Esterbrook sprang to his feet.
"Marian, do you know what you are saying? You surely cannot have heard—no one could have told you—"
"I have heard nothing," she interrupted hurriedly. "No one has told me anything. I have only said what I have been thinking of late. I am sure we have made a mistake. It is not too late to remedy it. You will not refuse my request, Esterbrook? You will set me free?"
"Good heavens, Marian!" he said hoarsely159. "I cannot realize that you are in earnest. Have you ceased to care for me?" The rigidly160 locked hands were clasped a little tighter.
"No—I shall always care for you as my friend if you will let me. But I know we could not make each other happy—the time for that has gone by. I would never be satisfied, nor would you. Esterbrook, will you release me from a promise which has become an irksome fetter161?"
He looked down on her upturned face mistily162. A great joy was surging up in his heart—yet it was mingled with great regret.
He knew—none better—what was passing out of his life, what he was losing when he lost that pure, womanly nature.
"If you really mean this, Marian," he said slowly, "if you really have come to feel that your truest love is not and never can be mine—that I cannot make you happy—then there is nothing for me to do but to grant your request. You are free."
"Thank you, dear," she said gently, as she stood up.
She slipped his ring from her finger and held it out to him. He took it mechanically. He still felt dazed and unreal.
Marian held out her hand.
"Good-night, Esterbrook," she said, a little wearily. "I feel tired. I am glad you see it all in the same light as I do."
"Marian," he said earnestly, clasping the outstretched hand, "are you sure that you will be happy—are you sure that you are doing a wise thing?"
"Quite sure," she answered, with a faint smile. "I am not acting25 rashly. I have thought it all over carefully. Things are much better so, dear. We will always be friends. Your joys and sorrows will be to me as my own. When another love comes to bless your life, Esterbrook, I will be glad. And now, good-night. I want to be alone now."
At the doorway163 he turned to look back at her, standing in all her sweet stateliness in the twilight164 duskness, and the keen realization165 of all he had lost made him bow his head with a quick pang166 of regret.
Then he went out into the darkness of the summer night.
An hour later he stood alone on the little point where he had parted with Magdalen the night before. A restless night wind was moaning through the pines that fringed the bank behind him; the moon shone down radiantly, turning the calm expanse of the bay into a milk-white sheen.
He took Marian's ring from his pocket and kissed it reverently167. Then he threw it from him far out over the water. For a second the diamond flashed in the moonlight; then, with a tiny splash, it fell among the ripples.
Esterbrook turned his face to the Cove, lying dark and silent in the curve between the crescent headlands. A solitary light glimmered from the low eaves of the Barrett cottage.
Tomorrow, was his unspoken thought, I will be free; to go back to Magdalen.
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1
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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2
rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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3
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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4
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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5
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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6
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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7
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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8
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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9
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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10
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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11
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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12
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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14
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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15
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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16
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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17
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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18
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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19
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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20
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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21
vexingly
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| 使人烦恼的，使人恼火的 | |
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22
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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23
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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24
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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25
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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26
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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27
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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28
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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29
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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30
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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31
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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32
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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33
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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34
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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35
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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36
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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37
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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39
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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40
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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41
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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42
hazes
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| n.（烟尘等的）雾霭( haze的名词复数 )；迷蒙；迷糊；（尤指热天引起的）薄雾v.（使）笼罩在薄雾中( haze的第三人称单数 )；戏弄，欺凌（新生等，有时作为加入美国大学生联谊会的条件） | |
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43
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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44
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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45
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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46
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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47
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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48
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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49
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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50
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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51
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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52
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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53
clam
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| n.蛤，蛤肉 | |
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54
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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55
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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56
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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57
crepuscular
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| adj.晨曦的；黄昏的；昏暗的 | |
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58
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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59
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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60
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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61
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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62
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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63
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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64
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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66
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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67
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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68
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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69
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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70
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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71
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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72
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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73
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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74
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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75
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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76
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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77
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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78
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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79
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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80
depreciatory
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| adj.贬值的，蔑视的 | |
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81
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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82
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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83
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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84
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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85
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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86
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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87
lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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88
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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89
amethystine
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| adj.紫水晶质的，紫色的；紫晶 | |
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90
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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91
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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92
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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93
suffocatingly
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| 令人窒息地 | |
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94
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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95
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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96
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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97
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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98
scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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100
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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101
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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102
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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103
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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104
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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105
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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106
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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107
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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108
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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109
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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110
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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111
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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112
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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113
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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114
burnishing
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| n.磨光，抛光，擦亮v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的现在分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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115
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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116
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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117
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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119
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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122
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
wavily
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| adv.波状地；有波纹地；起伏地；波浪地 | |
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124
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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125
straightforwardness
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| n.坦白，率直 | |
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126
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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127
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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128
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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129
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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130
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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131
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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132
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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133
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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134
crimsoning
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| 变为深红色（crimson的现在分词形式） | |
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135
usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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136
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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137
abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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138
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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139
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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140
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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141
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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142
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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143
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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144
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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145
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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146
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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147
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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148
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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149
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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150
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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151
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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152
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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153
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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154
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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156
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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157
throttled
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| v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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158
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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159
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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160
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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161
fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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162
mistily
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| adv.有雾地，朦胧地，不清楚地 | |
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163
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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164
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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165
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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166
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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167
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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