Action, for him, on coming to the point, it appeared, carried with it a certain complexity7. We should have known, walking by his side, that his final prime decision hadn't been to call at the door of Sir Luke Strett, and yet that this step, though subordinate, was none the less urgent. His prime decision was for another matter, to which impatience8, once he was on the way, had now added itself; but he remained sufficiently9 aware that he must compromise with the perhaps excessive earliness. This, and the ferment10 set up within him, were together a reason for not driving; to say nothing of the absence of cabs in the dusky festal desert. Sir Luke's great square was not near, but he walked the Distance without seeing a hansom. He had his interval11 thus to turn over his view—the view to which what had happened the night before had not sharply reduced itself; but the complexity just mentioned was to be offered within the next few minutes another item to assimilate. Before Sir Luke's house, when he reached it, a brougham was drawn12 up—at the sight of which his heart had a lift that brought him for the instant to a stand. This pause wasn't long, but it was long enough to flash upon him a revelation in the light of which he caught his breath. The carriage, so possibly at such an hour and on such a day Sir Luke's own, had struck him as a sign that the great doctor was back. This would prove something else, in turn, still more intensely, and it was in the act of the double apprehension that Densher felt himself turn pale. His mind rebounded13 for the moment like a projectile14 that has suddenly been met by another: he stared at the strange truth that what he wanted more than to see Kate Croy was to see the witness who had just arrived from Venice. He wanted positively15 to be in his presence and to hear his voice—which was the spasm16 of his consciousness that produced the flash. Fortunately for him, on the spot, there supervened something in which the flash went out. He became aware within this minute that the coachman on the box of the brougham had a face known to him, whereas he had never seen before, to his knowledge, the great doctor's carriage. The carriage, as he came nearer, was simply Mrs. Lowder's; the face on the box was just the face that, in coming and going at Lancaster Gate, he would vaguely17 have noticed, outside, in attendance. With this the rest came: the lady of Lancaster Gate had, on a prompting not wholly remote from his own, presented herself for news; and news, in the house, she was clearly getting, since her brougham had stayed. Sir Luke was then back—only Mrs. Lowder was with him.
It was under the influence of this last reflexion that Densher again delayed; and it was while he delayed that something else occurred to him. It was all round, visibly—given his own new contribution—a case of pressure; and in a case of pressure Kate, for quicker knowledge, might have come out with her aunt. The possibility that in this event she might be sitting in the carriage—the thing most likely—had had the effect, before he could check it, of bringing him within range of the window. It wasn't there he had wished to see her; yet if she was there he couldn't pretend not to. What he had however the next moment made out was that if some one was there it wasn't Kate Croy. It was, with a sensible shock for him, the person who had last offered him a conscious face from behind the clear plate of a café in Venice. The great glass at Florian's was a medium less obscure, even with the window down, than the air of the London Christmas; yet at present also, none the less, between the two men, an exchange of recognitions could occur. Densher felt his own look a gaping18 arrest—which, he disgustedly remembered, his back as quickly turned, appeared to repeat itself as his special privilege. He mounted the steps of the house and touched the bell with a keen consciousness of being habitually19 looked at by Kate's friend from positions of almost insolent20 vantage. He forgot for the time the moment when, in Venice, at the palace, the encouraged young man had in a manner assisted at the departure of the disconcerted, since Lord Mark was not looking disconcerted now any more than he had looked from his bench at his café. Densher was thinking that he seemed to show as vagrant21 while another was ensconced. He was thinking of the other as—in spite of the difference of situation—more ensconced than ever; he was thinking of him above all as the friend of the person with whom his recognition had, the minute previous, associated him. The man was seated in the very place in which, beside Mrs. Lowder's, he had looked to find Kate, and that was a sufficient identity. Meanwhile at any rate the door of the house had opened and Mrs. Lowder stood before him. It was something at least that she wasn't Kate. She was herself, on the spot, in all her affluence22; with presence of mind both to decide at once that Lord Mark, in the brougham, didn't matter and to prevent Sir Luke's butler, by a firm word thrown over her shoulder, from standing23 there to listen to her passage with the gentleman who had rung. "I'll tell Mr. Densher; you needn't wait!" And the passage, promptly24 and richly, took place on the steps.
"He arrives, travelling straight, to-morrow early. I couldn't not come to learn."
"No more," said Densher simply, "could I. On my way," he added, "to Lancaster Gate."
"Sweet of you." She beamed on him dimly, and he saw her face was attuned25. It made him, with what she had just before said, know all, and he took the thing in while he met the air of portentous26, of almost functional27, sympathy that had settled itself as her medium with him and that yet had now a fresh glow. "So you have had your message?"
He knew so well what she meant, and so equally with it what he "had had" no less than what he hadn't, that, with but the smallest hesitation28, he strained the point. "Yes—my message."
"Our dear dove then, as Kate calls her, has folded her wonderful wings."
"Yes—folded them."
It rather racked him, but he tried to receive it as she intended, and she evidently took his formal assent29 for self-control. "Unless it's more true," she accordingly added, "that she has spread them the wider."
He again but formally assented30, though, strangely enough, the words fitted a figure deep in his own imagination. "Rather, yes—spread them the wider."
"For a flight, I trust, to some happiness greater—!"
"Exactly. Greater," Densher broke in; but now with a look, he feared, that did a little warn her off.
"You were certainly," she went on with more reserve, "entitled to direct news. Ours came late last night: I'm not sure otherwise I shouldn't have gone to you. But you're coming," she asked, "to me?"
He had had a minute by this time to think further, and the window of the brougham was still within range. Her rich "me," reaching him moreover through the mild damp, had the effect of a thump31 on his chest. "Squared," Aunt Maud? She was indeed squared, and the extent of it just now perversely32 enough took away his breath. His look from where they stood embraced the aperture33 at which the person sitting in the carriage might have shown, and he saw his interlocutress, on her side, understand the question in it, which he moreover then uttered. "Shall you be alone?" It was, as an immediate1 instinctive34 parley35 with the image of his condition that now flourished in her, almost hypocritical. It sounded as if he wished to come and overflow36 to her, yet this was exactly what he didn't. The need to overflow had suddenly—since the night before—dried up in him, and he had never been aware of a deeper reserve.
But she had meanwhile largely responded. "Completely alone. I should otherwise never have dreamed; feeling, dear friend, but too much!" Failing on her lips what she felt came out for him in the offered hand with which she had the next moment condolingly pressed his own. "Dear friend, dear friend!"—she was deeply "with" him, and she wished to be still more so: which was what made her immediately continue. "Or wouldn't you this evening, for the sad Christmas it makes us, dine with me tête-à-tête?"
It put the thing off, the question of a talk with her—making the difference, to his relief, of several hours; but it also rather mystified him. This however didn't diminish his need of caution. "Shall you mind if I don't tell you at once?"
"Not in the least—leave it open: it shall be as you may feel, and you needn't even send me word. I only will mention that to-day, of all days, I shall otherwise sit there alone."
Now at least he could ask. "Without Miss Croy?"
"Without Miss Croy. Miss Croy," said Mrs. Lowder, "is spending her Christmas in the bosom37 of her more immediate family."
Aunt Maud's own face for that matter met the enquiry with a consciousness in which he saw a reflexion of events. He was made sure by it, even at the moment and as he had never been before, that since he had known these two women no confessed nor commented tension, no crisis of the cruder sort would really have taken form between them: which was precisely39 a high proof of how Kate had steered40 her boat. The situation exposed in Mrs. Lowder's present expression lighted up by contrast that superficial smoothness; which afterwards, with his time to think of it, was to put before him again the art, the particular gift, in the girl, now so placed and classed, so intimately familiar for him, as her talent for life. The peace, within a day or two—since his seeing her last—had clearly been broken; differences, deep down, kept there by a diplomacy41 on Kate's part as deep, had been shaken to the surface by some exceptional jar; with which, in addition, he felt Lord Mark's odd attendance at such an hour and season vaguely associated. The talent for life indeed, it at the same time struck him, would probably have shown equally in the breach42, or whatever had occurred; Aunt Maud having suffered, he judged, a strain rather than a stroke. Of these quick thoughts, at all events, that lady was already abreast43. "She went yesterday morning—and not with my approval, I don't mind telling you—to her sister: Mrs. Condrip, if you know who I mean, who lives somewhere in Chelsea. My other niece and her affairs—that I should have to say such things to-day!—are a constant worry; so that Kate, in consequence—well, of events!—has simply been called in. My own idea, I'm bound to say, was that with such events she need have, in her situation, next to nothing to do."
"But she differed with you?"
"She differed with me. And when Kate differs with you—!"
"Oh I can imagine." He had reached the point in the scale of hypocrisy44 at which he could ask himself why a little more or less should signify. Besides, with the intention he had had he must know. Kate's move, if he didn't know, might simply disconcert him; and of being disconcerted his horror was by this time fairly superstitious45. "I hope you don't allude46 to events at all calamitous47."
"Oh!" said Merton Densher.
Mrs. Lowder's soreness, it was still not obscure, had discovered in free speech to him a momentary49 balm. "They've the misfortune to have, I suppose you know, a dreadful horrible father."
"Oh!" said Densher again.
Densher wondered at this with intensity51; and his curiosity compromised for an instant with his discretion52. "Come upon her—for money?"
"Oh for that of course always. But, at this blessed season, for refuge, for safety: for God knows what. He's there, the brute53. And Kate's with them. And that," Mrs. Lowder wound up, going down the steps, "is her Christmas."
She had stopped again at the bottom while he thought of an answer. "Yours then is after all rather better."
"It's at least more decent." And her hand once more came out. "But why do I talk of our troubles? Come if you can."
He showed a faint smile. "Thanks. If I can."
"And now—I dare say—you'll go to church?"
She had asked it, with her good intention, rather in the air and by way of sketching54 for him, in the line of support, something a little more to the purpose than what she had been giving him. He felt it as finishing off their intensities55 of expression that he found himself to all appearance receiving her hint as happy. "Why yes—I think I will": after which, as the door of the brougham, at her approach, had opened from within, he was free to turn his back. He heard the door, behind him, sharply close again and the vehicle move off in another direction than his own.
He had in fact for the time no direction; in spite of which indeed he was at the end of ten minutes aware of having walked straight to the south. That, he afterwards recognised, was, very sufficiently, because there had formed itself in his mind, even while Aunt Maud finally talked, an instant recognition of his necessary course. Nothing was open to him but to follow Kate, nor was anything more marked than the influence of the step she had taken on the emotion itself that possessed56 him. Her complications, which had fairly, with everything else, an awful sound—what were they, a thousand times over, but his own? His present business was to see that they didn't escape an hour longer taking their proper place in his life. He accordingly would have held his course hadn't it suddenly come over him that he had just lied to Mrs. Lowder—a term it perversely eased him to keep using—even more than was necessary. To what church was he going, to what church, in such a state of his nerves, could he go?—he pulled up short again, as he had pulled up in sight of Mrs. Lowder's carriage, to ask it. And yet the desire queerly stirred in him not to have wasted his word. He was just then however by a happy chance in the Brompton Road, and he bethought himself with a sudden light that the Oratory57 was at hand. He had but to turn the other way and he should find himself soon before it. At the door then, in a few minutes, his idea was really—as it struck him—consecrated: he was, pushing in, on the edge of a splendid service—the flocking crowd told of it—which glittered and resounded58, from distant depths, in the blaze of altar-lights and the swell59 of organ and choir60. It didn't match his own day, but it was much less of a discord61 than some other things actual and possible. The Oratory in short, to make him right, would do.
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1
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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4
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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8
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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9
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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10
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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11
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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12
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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13
rebounded
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| 弹回( rebound的过去式和过去分词 )； 反弹； 产生反作用； 未能奏效 | |
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projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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15
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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17
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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18
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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19
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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22
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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23
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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24
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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25
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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26
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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functional
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| adj.为实用而设计的，具备功能的，起作用的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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29
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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30
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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32
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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33
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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34
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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35
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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36
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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37
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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38
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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39
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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40
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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41
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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42
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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43
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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44
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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45
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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46
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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47
calamitous
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| adj.灾难的，悲惨的；多灾多难；惨重 | |
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48
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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49
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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50
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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52
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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53
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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54
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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55
intensities
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| n.强烈( intensity的名词复数 )；（感情的）强烈程度；强度；烈度 | |
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56
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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57
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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58
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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59
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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60
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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61
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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