lumineuse et parce qu’elle est impenetrable. Vous avez aupres
de vous un plus doux rayonnement et un pas grand mystere, la femme.”
Les Miserables.
AND now followed days in which I seemed to make little or no progress. Mr. Clavering, disturbed perhaps by my presence, forsook2 his usual haunts, thus depriving me of all opportunity of making his acquaintance in any natural manner, while the evenings spent at Miss Leavenworth’s were productive of little else than constant suspense3 and uneasiness.
The manuscript required less revision than I supposed. But, in the course of making such few changes as were necessary, I had ample opportunity of studying the character of Mr. Harwell. I found him to be neither more nor less than an excellent amanuensis. Stiff, unbending, and sombre, but true to his duty and reliable in its performance, I learned to respect him, and even to like him; and this, too, though I saw the liking4 was not reciprocated5, whatever the respect may have been. He never spoke6 of Eleanore Leavenworth or, indeed, mentioned the family or its trouble in any way; till I began to feel that all this reticence7 had a cause deeper than the nature of the man, and that if he did speak, it would be to some purpose. This suspicion, of course, kept me restlessly eager in his presence. I could not forbear giving him sly glances now and then, to see how he acted when he believed himself unobserved; but he was ever the same, a passive, diligent8, unexcitable worker.
This continual beating against a stone wall, for thus I regarded it, became at last almost unendurable. Clavering shy, and the secretary unapproachable—how was I to gain anything? The short interviews I had with Mary did not help matters. Haughty9, constrained10, feverish11, pettish12, grateful, appealing, everything at once, and never twice the same, I learned to dread13, even while I coveted14, an interview. She appeared to be passing through some crisis which occasioned her the keenest suffering. I have seen her, when she thought herself alone, throw up her hands with the gesture which we use to ward15 off a coming evil or shut out some hideous16 vision. I have likewise beheld17 her standing18 with her proud head abased19, her nervous hands drooping20, her whole form sinking and inert21, as if the pressure of a weight she could neither upbear nor cast aside had robbed her even of the show of resistance. But this was only once. Ordinarily she was at least stately in her trouble. Even when the softest appeal came into her eyes she stood erect22, and retained her expression of conscious power. Even the night she met me in the hall, with feverish cheeks and lips trembling with eagerness, only to turn and fly again without giving utterance23 to what she had to say, she comported24 herself with a fiery25 dignity that was well nigh imposing26.
That all this meant something, I was sure; and so I kept my patience alive with the hope that some day she would make a revelation. Those quivering lips would not always remain closed; the secret involving Eleanore’s honor and happiness would be divulged27 by this restless being, if by no one else. Nor was the memory of that extraordinary, if not cruel, accusation28 I had heard her make enough to destroy this hope—for hope it had grown to be—so that I found myself insensibly shortening my time with Mr. Harwell in the library, and extending my tete-a-tete visits with Mary in the reception room, till the imperturbable29 secretary was forced to complain that he was often left for hours without work.
But, as I say, days passed, and a second Monday evening came round without seeing me any further advanced upon the problem I had set myself to solve than when I first started upon it two weeks before. The subject of the murder had not even been broached30; nor was Hannah spoken of, though I observed the papers were not allowed to languish32 an instant upon the stoop; mistress and servants betraying equal interest in their contents. All this was strange to me. It was as if you saw a group of human beings eating, drinking, and sleeping upon the sides of a volcano hot with a late eruption34 and trembling with the birth of a new one. I longed to break this silence as we shiver glass: by shouting the name of Eleanore through those gilded35 rooms and satin-draped vestibules. But this Monday evening I was in a calmer mood. I was determined36 to expect nothing from my visits to Mary Leavenworth’s house; and entered it upon the eve in question with an equanimity37 such as I had not experienced since the first day I passed under its unhappy portals.
But when, upon nearing the reception room, I saw Mary pacing the floor with the air of one who is restlessly awaiting something or somebody, I took a sudden resolution, and, advancing towards her, said: “Do I see you alone, Miss Leavenworth?”
She paused in her hurried action, blushed and bowed, but, contrary to her usual custom, did not bid me enter.
“Will it be too great an intrusion on my part, if I venture to come in?” I asked.
Her glance flashed uneasily to the clock, and she seemed about to excuse herself, but suddenly yielded, and, drawing up a chair before the fire, motioned me towards it. Though she endeavored to appear calm, I vaguely38 felt I had chanced upon her in one of her most agitated39 moods, and that I had only to broach31 the subject I had in mind to behold40 her haughtiness41 disappear before me like melting snow. I also felt that I had but few moments in which to do it. I accordingly plunged42 immediately into the subject.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “in obtruding43 upon you to-night, I have a purpose other than that of giving myself a pleasure. I have come to make an appeal.”
Instantly I saw that in some way I had started wrong. “An appeal to make to me?” she asked, breathing coldness from every feature of her face.
“Yes,” I went on, with passionate44 recklessness. “Balked in every other endeavor to learn the truth, I have come to you, whom I believe to be noble at the core, for that help which seems likely to fail us in every other direction: for the word which, if it does not absolutely save your cousin, will at least put us upon the track of what will.”
“I do not understand what you mean,” she protested, slightly shrinking.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I pursued, “it is needless for me to tell you in what position your cousin stands. You, who remember both the form and drift of the questions put to her at the inquest, comprehend it all without any explanation from me. But what you may not know is this, that unless she is speedily relieved from the suspicion which, justly or not, has attached itself to her name, the consequences which such suspicion entails45 must fall upon her, and——”
“Good God!” she cried; “you do not mean she will be——”
“Subject to arrest? Yes.”
It was a blow. Shame, horror, and anguish33 were in every line of her white face. “And all because of that key!” she murmured.
“Key? How did you know anything about a key?”
“Why,” she cried, flushing painfully; “I cannot say; didn’t you tell me?”
“No,” I returned.
“The papers, then?”
“The papers have never mentioned it.”
She grew more and more agitated. “I thought every one knew. No, I did not, either,” she avowed47, in a sudden burst of shame and penitence48. “I knew it was a secret; but—oh, Mr. Raymond, it was Eleanore herself who told me.”
“Eleanore?”
“Yes, that last evening she was here; we were together in the drawing-room.”
“What did she tell?”
“That the key to the library had been seen in her possession.”
I could scarcely conceal49 my incredulity. Eleanore, conscious of the suspicion with which her cousin regarded her, inform that cousin of a fact calculated to add weight to that suspicion? I could not believe this.
“But you knew it?” Mary went on. “I have revealed nothing I ought to have kept secret?”
“No,” said I; “and, Miss Leavenworth, it is this thing which makes your cousin’s position absolutely dangerous. It is a fact that, left unexplained, must ever link her name with infamy50; a bit of circumstantial evidence no sophistry51 can smother52, and no denial obliterate53. Only her hitherto spotless reputation, and the efforts of one who, notwithstanding appearances, believes in her innocence54, keeps her so long from the clutch of the officers of justice. That key, and the silence preserved by her in regard to it, is sinking her slowly into a pit from which the utmost endeavors of her best friends will soon be inadequate55 to extricate56 her.”
“And you tell me this——”
“That you may have pity on the poor girl, who will not have pity on herself, and by the explanation of a few circumstances, which cannot be mysteries to you, assist in bringing her from under the dreadful shadow that threatens to overwhelm her.”
“And would you insinuate57, sir,” she cried, turning upon me with a look of great anger, “that I know any more than you do of this matter? that I possess any knowledge which I have not already made public concerning the dreadful tragedy which has transformed our home into a desert, our existence into a lasting58 horror? Has the blight59 of suspicion fallen upon me, too; and have you come to accuse me in my own house——”
“Miss Leavenworth,” I entreated60; “calm yourself. I accuse you of nothing. I only desire you to enlighten me as to your cousin’s probable motive61 for this criminating silence. You cannot be ignorant of it. You are her cousin, almost her sister, have been at all events her daily companion for years, and must know for whom or for what she seals her lips, and conceals62 facts which, if known, would direct suspicion to the real criminal—that is, if you really believe what you have hitherto stated, that your cousin is an innocent woman.”
She not making any answer to this, I rose and confronted her. “Miss Leavenworth, do you believe your cousin guiltless of this crime, or not?”
“Guiltless? Eleanore? Oh! my God; if all the world were only as innocent as she!”
“Then,” said I, “you must likewise believe that if she refrains from speaking in regard to matters which to ordinary observers ought to be explained, she does it only from motives63 of kindness towards one less guiltless than herself.”
“What? No, no; I do not say that. What made you think of any such explanation?”
“The action itself. With one of Eleanore’s character, such conduct as hers admits of no other construction. Either she is mad, or she is shielding another at the expense of herself.”
Mary’s lip, which had trembled, slowly steadied itself. “And whom have you settled upon, as the person for whom Eleanore thus sacrifices herself?”
“Ah,” said I, “there is where I seek assistance from you. With your knowledge of her history——”
But Mary Leavenworth, sinking haughtily64 back into her chair, stopped me with a quiet gesture. “I beg your pardon,” said she; “but you make a mistake. I know little or nothing of Eleanore’s personal feelings. The mystery must be solved by some one besides me.”
I changed my tactics.
“When Eleanore confessed to you that the missing key had been seen in her possession, did she likewise inform you where she obtained it, and for what reason she was hiding it?”
“No.”
“Merely told you the fact, without any explanation?”
“Yes.”
“Was not that a strange piece of gratuitous65 information for her to give one who, but a few hours before, had accused her to the face of committing a deadly crime?”
“What do you mean?”’ she asked, her voice suddenly sinking.
“You will not deny that you were once, not only ready to believe her guilty, but that you actually charged her with having perpetrated this crime.”
“Explain yourself!” she cried.
“Miss Leavenworth, do you not remember what you said in that room upstairs, when you were alone with your cousin on the morning of the inquest, just before Mr. Gryce and myself entered your presence?”
Her eyes did not fall, but they filled with sudden terror.
“You heard?” she whispered.
“I could not help it. I was just outside the door, and——”
“What did you hear?”
I told her.
“And Mr. Gryce?”
“He was at my side.”
“No.”
“You, however, have never forgotten it?”
“How could we, Miss Leavenworth?”
Her head fell forward in her hands, and for one wild moment she seemed lost in despair. Then she roused, and desperately67 exclaimed:
“And that is why you come here to-night. With that sentence written upon your heart, you invade my presence, torture me with questions——”
“Pardon me,” I broke in; “are my questions such as you, with reasonable regard for the honor of one with whom you are accustomed to associate, should hesitate to answer? Do I derogate68 from my manhood in asking you how and why you came to make an accusation of so grave a nature, at a time when all the circumstances of the case were freshly before you, only to insist fully46 as strongly upon your cousin’s innocence when you found there was even more cause for your imputation69 than you had supposed?”
She did not seem to hear me. “Oh, my cruel fate!” she murmured. “Oh, my cruel fate!”
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, rising, and taking my stand before her; “although there is a temporary estrangement70 between you and your cousin, you cannot wish to seem her enemy. Speak, then; let me at least know the name of him for whom she thus immolates71 herself. A hint from you——”
But rising, with a strange look, to her feet, she interrupted me with a stern remark: “If you do not know, I cannot inform you; do not ask me, Mr. Raymond.” And she glanced at the clock for the second time.
I took another turn.
“Miss Leavenworth, you once asked me if a person who had committed a wrong ought necessarily to confess it; and I replied no, unless by the confession72 reparation could be made. Do you remember?”
Her lips moved, but no words issued from them.
“I begin to think,” I solemnly proceeded, following the lead of her emotion, “that confession is the only way out of this difficulty: that only by the words you can utter Eleanore can be saved from the doom73 that awaits her. Will you not then show yourself a true woman by responding to my earnest entreaties74?”
I seemed to have touched the right chord; for she trembled, and a look of wistfulness filled her eyes. “Oh, if I could!” she murmured.
“And why can you not? You will never be happy till you do. Eleanore persists in silence; but that is no reason why you should emulate75 her example. You only make her position more doubtful by it.”
“I know it; but I cannot help myself. Fate has too strong a hold upon me; I cannot break away.”
“That is not true. Any one can escape from bonds imaginary as yours.”
“No, no,” she protested; “you do not understand.”
“I understand this: that the path of rectitude is a straight one, and that he who steps into devious76 byways is going astray.”
A flicker77 of light, pathetic beyond description, flashed for a moment across her face; her throat rose as with one wild sob78; her lips opened; she seemed yielding, when—A sharp ring at the front door-bell!
“Oh,” she cried, sharply turning, “tell him I cannot see him; tell him——”
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, taking her by both hands, “never mind the door; never mind anything but this. I have asked you a question which involves the mystery of this whole affair; answer me, then, for your soul’s sake; tell me, what the unhappy circumstances were which could induce you—”
But she tore her hands from mine. “The door!” she cried; “it will open, and—”
Stepping into the hall, I met Thomas coming up the basement stairs. “Go back,” said I; “I will call you when you are wanted.”
With a bow he disappeared.
“You expect me to answer,” she exclaimed, when I re-entered, “now, in a moment? I cannot.”
“But——”
“Impossible!” fastening her gaze upon the front door.
“Miss Leavenworth!”
“I fear the time will never come, if you do not speak now.”
“Impossible,” she reiterated80.
Another twang at the bell.
“You hear!” said she.
I went into the hall and called Thomas. “You may open the door now,” said I, and moved to return to her side.
But, with a gesture of command, she pointed81 up-stairs. “Leave me!” and her glance passed on to Thomas, who stopped where he was.
“I will see you again before I go,” said I, and hastened up-stairs.
Thomas opened the door. “Is Miss Leavenworth in?” I heard a rich, tremulous voice inquire.
“Yes, sir,” came in the butler’s most respectful and measured accents, and, leaning over the banisters I beheld, to my amazement82, the form of Mr. Clavering enter the front hall and move towards the reception room.
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1
motifs
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| n. （文艺作品等的）主题( motif的名词复数 )；中心思想；基本模式；基本图案 | |
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forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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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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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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comported
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| v.表现( comport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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divulged
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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obtruding
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的现在分词 ) | |
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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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45
entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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derogate
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| v.贬低，诽谤 | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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71
immolates
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| vt.宰杀…作祭品（immolate的第三人称单数形式） | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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74
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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75
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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