He felt rather guilty where she was concerned. He had seen nothing of her for two days. The only time they met was in the evening after business hours, the only meal they took together was dinner. With every spark of affection dead between them, their married life the hollowest sham2, she had so long and so sternly trained him to be considerate of her and keep her on his mind, that he still instinctively3 followed the acquired habit of thinking of her comfort and arranging for it. He knew she would be annoyed at the two lonely dinners, and hoped to see her[448] before he left and suggest to her that she telephone for one of her sisters to join her.
The flat was very quiet when he entered, and after looking into one or two rooms for her he called the Chinaman, who said Mrs. Ryan had gone out early in the afternoon, leaving no message except that she would be home to dinner. Dominick nodded a dismissal and walked into the den1. He carried the evening papers in his hand, and looking at the clock he saw that he had an hour before it would be necessary for him to dress and leave the house. Berny would undoubtedly4 be home before then; she was rarely out after six. Meantime, the thought that she was not in and that he could read the papers in unmolested, uninterrupted silence caused a slight sense of relief to lighten the weight that was now always with him.
He had hardly opened the first sheet when a ring at the bell dispelled5 his hopes. It was one of his wife’s habits never to carry a latch-key, which she looked upon as a symbol of that bourgeois6, middle-class helpfulness that she had shaken off with her other working-girl manners and customs. Dominick dropped the paper, waiting for her entrance, and framing the words with which he would acquaint her with the fact that he was to be absent again. Instead, however, of the rustle7 of feminine skirts, he heard the Chinaman’s padding steps, and the servant[449] entered and presented him with a card. Traced on it in a sprawling8 handwriting was the name “James Defay Buford.” Dominick remembered his invitation to the man to call, and realized that this probably was the only time that the actor could conveniently do so. There was an hour yet before dinner would be served, and turning to the servant Dominick told him to show the gentleman up.
A moment later, Buford entered, smiling, almost patronizingly urbane9 and benign10. He was dressed with a rich and careful elegance11 which gave him a somewhat dandified air. After bestowing12 upon Dominick greetings that sounded as unctuous13 as a benediction14, he took his seat at the end of the cozy15 corner facing the door which led into the hall. From here he looked at the young man with a close, attentive16 scrutiny17, very friendly and yet holding, under its enfolding blandness18, something of absence, of inattention, as though his mind were not in the intimate customary connection with the words that issued from his lips. This suggestion of absence deepened, showed more plainly in an eye that wandered to the door, or, as Dominick spoke19, fell to the carpet and remained there, hidden by a down-drawn20 bush of eyebrow21. Dominick was in the middle of a query22 as to the continued success of the “Klondike Monologue” when the actor raised his head and said politely, but with a[450] politeness that contained a note of haste and eagerness beneath it,
“Is Madame at home?”
“No, she’s not at home,” said Madame’s husband. “But she may be in any moment now. She generally goes out for the afternoon and gets back about this time.”
“Perhaps you can tell me,” said Buford, looking sidewise at his gloves and cane23 as they lay on the end of the divan24, “who—you’ll pardon my seeming curiosity, but I’ll explain it presently—who was the lady that came in here last night at about half-past seven?”
He looked up and Dominick was suddenly aware that his face was charged with the tensest, the most vital interest. Thrust forward, it showed a hungriness of anticipation25 that was almost passionate26. The young man was not only surprised at the expression but at the question.
“I haven’t an idea,” he said. “I wasn’t home to dinner last night, and didn’t get in till late. Why do you want to know?”
“For many reasons, or for one, perhaps—for one exceedingly important reason.”
He paused, his eyes again turned slantingly on the stick and gloves, his lips tight-pressed, one against the other.
“How did you know any woman came in here last night at that hour? Did you come up to call?” asked Dominick.
[451]“No—no—” the other spoke with quick impatience27 evidently from the surface of his mind, “no, it was—at first, anyway—purely accidental. I saw the woman—and—and—afterward28 I saw her enter here. Mr. Ryan,” he said suddenly, looking at his vis-à-vis with piercing directness and speaking with an intensity29 of urgency that was almost a command, “can you give me half an hour of your time and your full attention? I want to speak to you of a matter, that to me, at least, is of great—the greatest—importance. You can help me; at least you can, I hope, throw some light on what is a dark subject. Have I your permission to talk freely to you, freely and at length?”
Dominick, who was beginning to feel as if he were in a play, and was exceedingly surprised and intrigued30, nodded, remarking,
“Why, certainly, go on. If I can be of any help to you or explain anything for you, nothing would give me greater pleasure. Let me hear what it is.”
The actor dropped his glance to the floor for what seemed an anxiously-considering moment, then he raised his head and, looking directly at his host, said,
“You may remember that, while at Antelope31, I once spoke to you of having been married—of having, in fact, been unfortunate enough to lose my wife.”
[452]Dominick remembered, but it seemed imperfectly, for he said in a doubtful tone, which had more than a suggestion of questioning,
“She—er—she died?”
“No,” said the other, “she did not die. I lost her in a way that I think was more painful than death. She left me, voluntarily, of her own free will.”
“Oh, of course,” said the young man hastily. “I remember perfectly32, one day by the sitting-room33 fire. I remember it all as clearly as possible now.”
“That was the time—the only time I mentioned the subject to you. On another occasion I spoke to that lovely and agreeable young lady, Miss Cannon34, on the matter, and told her more fully35 of my domestic sorrows. But to you I made but that one allusion36. May I now, more at length, tell you of the misfortunes—I may say tragedy—of my married life?”
Dominick, mystified, nodded his head. He could not imagine why Buford should come to him at this particular moment and in this particularly theatrical37 manner with the history of his domestic troubles. But he was undeniably interested, and feeling himself more than ever like a character in a play, said,
“Go on. Tell me anything you like. And if in any way I can be of use to you, I’ll be only too happy to do it.”
[453]Looking at the carpet, a heat of inward excitement showing through the professional pomposity38 of his manner, Buford began slowly and solemnly:
“I’ll go back to seven years ago, when I was in Chicago. Previous to that, Mr. Ryan, I will tell you in confidence I had been a preacher, a Methodist, of good reputation, though, I am fain to confess, of small standing39 in the church. I left that esteemed40 body as I felt there were certain tenets of the faith I could not hold to. I am nothing if not honest, and I was too honest to preach doctrines41 with all of which I could not agree. I left the church as a pastor42 though I have never deserted43 it as a disciple44, and have striven to live up to its standards.”
He paused, and Dominick, feeling that he spoke sincerely, said,
“That was the only thing to do.”
“So it seemed to me. I left the town where I was living and moved to Chicago where, through the influences of a friend, I obtained a position in a school of acting45 and elocution. I instructed the pupils in voice production. You may have noticed that I have an unusually deep and resonant46 voice. Through that, I obtained this work and received the stipend47 of thirty-five dollars a week. It was fairly good pay, the hours were not too long, there was no demand made of a sacrifice of conscience, and I confess that I[454] felt much freer and more contented48 than I had in the church.
“It was at this stage of my career that I met the lady who became my wife. We lived at the same boarding-house—Mrs. Heeney’s, a most elegant, well-kept place, and Mrs. Heeney a lovely woman of one of the best southern families. It was at her table that I met the girl who was destined49 to have such a fatal influence on my life. She was a stenographer50 and typewriter in one of the largest firms in the city, earning her twenty dollars a week, as she was an expert and not to be beaten in the state. She was very pretty, the brunette type of beauty, black-eyed, and as smart as a steel trap. She was as dainty as a pink, always well-dressed and up-to-date, never anything sloppy51 or slouchy about her. Ask her to go to the theater and there wouldn’t be a woman in the house who could beat her for looks and style. Besides that, she was a fine conversationalist, could talk as easily as a book on any subject. If I brought her a novel, she’d read it and have the whole plot at her finger-ends, and be able to talk it all over, have her own opinions about every character. Oh, she was an accomplished52, fascinating woman, if I say it myself! Any man might have taken to her. She was for ever telling me about California, and how she wanted to get back there—”
[455]“California?” interrupted Dominick. “Did she come from California?”
“From here—from San Francisco. She was a native daughter of the state and the town. I was interested in California myself at that time, though I’d never seen it, and we’d talk of that and other things till, bit by bit, we drifted nearer and nearer together and the day came when we were engaged. I thought that was the happiest day of my life, and it would have been if she’d stayed true to her promises.”
The clock struck the single silvery note of the half-hour and Dominick heard it. He was interested in the story, but he had only another half-hour to give, and said as Buford paused,
“Go on. It’s very interesting. Don’t stop.”
“The first step in our married life that seemed to me strange, that cast, not what you’d call a cloud, but a shadow, over my happiness, was that she insisted on keeping the marriage secret. She had several reasons, all of which seemed good and sufficient to her. She said her people would not like her marrying a stranger away from home, and that they’d cut up very ugly when they heard it. Her principal reason, and the only one that seemed to me to have any force, was that she feared she’d lose her job. She had it on good authority that the firm where she worked wouldn’t employ married women, and if they knew she’d got a husband who was making a[456] fair salary, they’d give her the sack. Whether it was for all the reasons together, or for just this one I don’t know, but she’d only marry me if I’d solemnly promise to keep the matter secret. I’d have promised her anything. She’d out and out bewitched me.
“So we were married and went to housekeeping in a little flat in a suburb. We had our mail sent to our old address at Mrs. Heeney’s. She was in our secret, the only person who was. We had to let her know because of the letters, and inquiries53 that might have been made for us from time to time. We were married in the winter, and that winter was the happiest time of my life. I’ll never forget it. That little flat, and that little black-eyed woman,—they were just Paradise and the angel in it for me. Not but what she had her faults; she was hot-tempered, quick to flare54 up, and sharp with her tongue. But I never cared—just let her sputter55 and fizz till she’d worked it all off and then I’d take things up where they were before the eruption56 began. It was a happy time—a man in love and a woman that keeps him loving—you can’t beat it this side of Heaven.”
Dominick made no answer. The actor for a moment was silent and then with a sigh went on.
“I suppose it was too good to last. Anyway, it ended. We’d lived that way for six months when in the beginning of June the Dramatic[457] School failed and I lost my job. It came on us with almost no warning, and it sort of knocked us out for a bit. I wasn’t as upset by it as Mrs. Carter was, but she—”
“Who’s Mrs. Carter?” said Dominick.
“My wife. That’s my name, Junius Carter. Of course the name I use on the stage is not my own. I took that in the Klondike, made it up from my mother’s and the name of a pard I had who died. Well, as I was saying, Mrs. Carter took it hard. She couldn’t seem to get reconciled to it. I tried to brace57 her up and told her it would only be temporary, and I’d get another place soon, but she was terribly upset. We’d lived well, not saved a cent, furnished the flat nicely and kept a servant. There was nothing for it but to live on what she made. It was hard on her, but I’ve often thought she might have been easier on me. I didn’t want to be idle or eat the bread she paid for, the Lord knows! I tried hard enough to get work. I tramped those streets in sun and rain till the shoes were falling off my feet. But the times were hard, money was tight, and good jobs were not to be had for the asking. One of the worst features of the case was that I hadn’t any regular line of work or profession. The kind of thing I’d been doing don’t fit a man for any kind of job. If I couldn’t do my own kind of stunt58 I’d have to be just a general handy-man or stevedore59, and I’m not what you’d call rugged60.
[458]“It was an awful summer! The heat was fierce. Our little flat was like an oven and, after my long day’s tramp after work, I used to go home just dead beat and lie on the lounge and not say a word. My wife was worn out. She wasn’t accustomed to warm weather, and that and the worry and the hard work sort of wore on her, and there were evenings when she’d slash61 round so with her tongue that I’d get up, half-dead as I was, and go out and sit on the door-step till she’d gone to bed. I’m not blaming her. She had enough to try her. Working at her machine all day in that weather would wear anybody’s temper to a frazzle. But she said some things to me that bit pretty deep. It seemed impossible it could be the same woman I’d got to know so well at Mrs. Heeney’s. We were both just about used up, thin as fiddle-strings, and like fiddle-strings ready to snap at a touch. Seems queer to think that thirty-five dollars a week could make such a difference! With it we were in Paradise; without it we were as near the other place as people can get, I guess.
“Well, it was too much for her. She was one of those women who can’t stand hardships and she couldn’t make out in the position she was in. Love wasn’t enough for her, there had to be luxury and comfort, too. One day I came home and she was gone. No,” in answer to a look of inquiry62 on Dominick’s face, “there was no other[459] man. She wasn’t that kind, always as straight as a string. No, she just couldn’t stand the grind any longer. She left a letter in which she said some pretty hard things to me, but I’ve tried to forget and not bear malice63. It was a woman half crazy with heat and nerves and overwork that wrote them. The gist64 of it was that she’d gone back to California, to her sisters who lived there, and she was not coming back. She didn’t like it,—marriage, or me, or Chicago. She was just going to throw the whole business overboard. She told me if I followed her, or tried to hold her, she’d disappear, hinted that she’d kill herself. That was enough for me. God knows if she didn’t want me I wasn’t going to force myself upon her. And, anyway, she knew fast enough I couldn’t follow her. I hadn’t money to have my shoes patched, much less buy a ticket to California.
“After that there were some dark days for me. Deserted, with no money, with no work, and no prospects—I tell you that’s the time the iron goes down into a man’s soul. I didn’t know what was going to become of me, and I didn’t care. One day on the street I met an old chum of mine, a fellow called Defay, that I hadn’t seen for years. He was going to the Klondike, and when he heard my hard-luck story, he proposed to me to join forces and go along with him. I jumped at it, anything to get away from that[460] town and state that was haunted with memories of her.
“It was just the beginning of the gold rush and we went up there and stayed for two years. Defay was one of the finest men I ever knew. Life’s all extremes and contrasts; there’s a sort of balance to it if you come to look close into it. I’d had an experience with the kind of woman that breaks a man’s heart as you might a pipe-stem, then I ran up against the kind of man that gives you back your belief in human nature. He died of typhoid a year and a half after we got there. I had it first and nearly died; in fact, the rumor65 went out that it was I that was dead and not Defay. As I changed my name and went on the stage soon afterward, it was natural enough for people to say Junius Carter was dead.
“I was pretty near starving when I drifted on the stage. I had learned some conjuring66 tricks, and that and my voice took me there. I just about made a living for a year, and then I floated back down here. I never played in San Francisco till now. I acted on the western circuits, used to go as far East as Denver and Kansas City, and then swing round the circle through the northwestern cities and Salt Lake. I managed to make a living and no more. I was cast in parts that didn’t suit me. The ‘Klondike Monologue’ was the first thing I did that was in my line.”
[461]“Did you never see or hear of your wife?”
“Not a word. I didn’t know whether she was dead or living till last night.”
Buford raised his eyes and looked piercingly into the young man’s face. Dominick forgot the time, his engagement, Berny’s anticipated entrance. He drew himself up in his chair and said in a loud, astonished voice,
“Last night? Then the woman you saw here last night was your wife?”
The actor gravely inclined his head.
“I saw my wife,” he said solemnly, “last night at Deledda’s restaurant. It was entirely67 by accident. I liked the Mexican cooking and had been more than once to that place. Last night I was about to enter the back part of the restaurant when I saw her sitting there alone in the corner. For a moment I could not believe my eyes. I got behind a lace curtain and watched her. She was changed but it was she. I heard her speak to the waiter and if I’d never seen her face I’d have known the voice among a thousand. She’d grown stouter68 and I think even prettier, and she looked as if she were prosperous. She was well-dressed and her hands were covered with rings. When she went out I followed her and she came straight here from the restaurant and rang the bell and came in.”
“Are you sure she didn’t go into one of the other flats? There are four in the building.”
[462]“No, she came in here. I compared the number on the transom with the address you’d given me on the card.”
“What an extraordinary thing!” said Dominick. “It’s evidently some one my wife knows who came to see her that evening, probably to keep her company while I was out. But I can’t think who it could be.”
He tried to run over in his mind which one of Berny’s acquaintances the description might fit and could think of no one. Probably it was some friend of her working-girl days, who had dropped out of her life and now, guided by Fate had unexpectedly reappeared.
“It’s certainly a remarkable69 coincidence,” he went on, “that she should have come to this flat, one of the few places in the city where you know the people. If she’d gone to any of the others——”
A ring at the bell stopped him.
“There!” he said, “that’s Mrs. Ryan. Now we’ll hear who it was.”
For a moment they both sat silent, listening, the actor with his face looking sharp and pale in the suspense70 of the moment, the muscles of his lean cheeks working. The rustle of Berny’s dress sounded from the stairway and grew in volume as she slowly ascended71. The two men rose to their feet.
“Come in the den for a moment, Berny,”[463] Dominick called. “There’s a gentleman here who wants to see you.”
The rustle advanced up the hall, and the portière was drawn back. Bernice, brilliantly dressed, a mauve orchid72 pinned on her bosom73, stood in the aperture74, smiling.
Buford’s back was against the light, and, for the first moment she only saw him as a tall masculine outline and her smile was frank and natural. But he saw her plain as a picture and before Dominick could frame the words of introduction, started forward, crying,
“Bernice Iverson!”
She drew back as if struck and made a movement to drag the portière over her. Her face went white to the lips, the patches of rouge75 standing out on her cheeks like rose-leaves pasted on the sickly skin.
“Mr. Ryan,” the actor cried, beside himself with excitement, “this is my wife! This is the woman I’ve been talking of! Bernice, don’t you know me? Junius Carter?”
“He’s crazy,” she faltered77, her lips so loose and tremulous they could hardly form the words. “I never saw him before. I don’t know what he’s talking about. Who’s Junius Carter?”
“This is my wife, Mr. Buford,” said Dominick, who had been staring from one to the other in[464] blank astonishment78. “We’ve been married nearly three years. I don’t understand——”
“It’s Bernice Iverson, the girl I married in Chicago, that I’ve just been telling you about, that I saw last night at the Mexican restaurant. Why, she can’t deny it. She can’t look at me and say she doesn’t know me—Junius Carter, the man she married in the Methodist chapel79, seven years ago, in Chicago. Bernice——”
He approached her and she shrank back.
“Keep away from me,” she cried hoarsely80, stretching out a trembling hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re crazy. Junius Carter’s dead—” then suddenly turning on Dominick with a blazing look of fury—“It’s you that have done this! It’s you, you snake! I’ll be even with you yet!”
She tore herself out of the folds of the portière which she had clutched to her and rushed into the hall and into her own room. The banging of the door behind her shook the house.
The two men stood as she had left them, staring at each other, not knowing what to say, speechless and aghast.
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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blandness
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| n.温柔，爽快 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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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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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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antelope
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| n.羚羊；羚羊皮 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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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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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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pomposity
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| n.浮华；虚夸；炫耀；自负 | |
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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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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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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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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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sputter
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| n.喷溅声；v.喷溅 | |
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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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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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stevedore
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| n.码头工人；v.装载货物 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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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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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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