"I began to find out," he was saying, "even on that first afternoon at Hill Street two months ago, that there was only friendship on your side. My blindness helped me. With your face and your eyes in view I should have believed without question just what you wished me to believe. But you had no longer those defences. I on my side had grown quicker. I began in a word to see. For the first time in my life I began to see."
Mrs. Adair did not move. Durrance, upon his side, appeared to expect no answer or acknowledgment. He spoke with the voice of enjoyment9 which a man uses recounting difficulties which have ceased to hamper10 him, perplexities which have been long since unravelled11.
"I should have definitely broken off our engagement, I suppose, at once. For I still believed, and as firmly as ever, that there must be more than friendship on both sides. But I had grown selfish. I warned you, Ethne, selfishness was the blind man's particular fault. I waited and deferred12 the time of marriage. I made excuses. I led you to believe that there was a chance of recovery when I knew there was none. For I hoped, as a man will, that with time your friendship might grow into more than friendship. So long as there was a chance of that, I—Ethne, I could not let you go. So, I listened for some new softness in your voice, some new buoyancy in your laughter, some new deep thrill of the heart in the music which you played, longing13 for it—how much! Well, to-night I have burnt my boats. I have admitted to you that I knew friendship limited your thoughts of me. I have owned to you that there is no hope my sight will be restored. I have even dared to-night to tell you what I have kept secret for so long, my meeting with Harry14 Feversham and the peril15 he has run. And why? Because for the first time I have heard to-night just those signs for which I waited. The new softness, the new pride, in your voice, the buoyancy in your laughter—they have been audible to me all this evening. The restraint and the tension were gone from your manner. And when you played, it was as though some one with just your skill and knowledge played, but some one who let her heart speak resonantly16 through the music as until to-night you have never done. Ethne, Ethne!"
But at that moment Ethne was in the little enclosed garden whither she had led Captain Willoughby that morning. Here she was private; her collie dog had joined her; she had reached the solitude17 and the silence which had become necessities to her. A few more words from Durrance and her prudence18 would have broken beneath the strain. All that pretence19 of affection which during these last months she had so sedulously20 built up about him like a wall which he was never to look over, would have been struck down and levelled to the ground. Durrance, indeed, had already looked over the wall, was looking over it with amazed eyes at this instant, but that Ethne did not know, and to hinder him from knowing it she had fled. The moonlight slept in silver upon the creek21; the tall trees stood dreaming to the stars; the lapping of the tide against the bank was no louder than the music of a river. She sat down upon the bench and strove to gather some of the quietude of that summer night into her heart, and to learn from the growing things of nature about her something of their patience and their extraordinary perseverance22.
But the occurrences of the day had overtaxed her, and she could not. Only this morning, and in this very garden, the good news had come and she had regained23 Harry Feversham. For in that way she thought of Willoughby's message. This morning she had regained him, and this evening the bad news had come and she had lost him, and most likely right to the very end of mortal life. Harry Feversham meant to pay for his fault to the uttermost scruple24, and Ethne cried out against his thoroughness, which he had learned from no other than herself. "Surely," she thought, "he might have been content. In redeeming25 his honour in the eyes of one of the three he has done enough, he has redeemed26 it in the eyes of all."
But he had gone south to join Colonel Trench27 in Omdurman. Of that squalid and shadowless town, of its hideous28 barbarities, of the horrors of its prison-house, Ethne knew nothing at all. But Captain Willoughby had hinted enough to fill her imagination with terrors. He had offered to explain to her what captivity29 in Omdurman implied, and she wrung30 her hands, as she remembered that she had refused to listen. What cruelties might not be practised? Even now, at that very hour perhaps, on this night of summer—but she dared not let her thoughts wander that way....
The lapping of the tide against the banks was like the music of a river. It brought to Ethne's mind one particular river which had sung and babbled31 in her ears when five years ago she had watched out another summer night till dawn. Never had she so hungered for her own country and the companionship of its brown hills and streams. No, not even this afternoon, when she had sat at her window and watched the lights change upon the creek. Donegal had a sanctity for her, it seemed when she dwelled in it to set her in a way apart from and above earthly taints32; and as her heart went out in a great longing towards it now, a sudden fierce loathing33 for the concealments, the shifts and maneuvers35 which she had practised, and still must practise, sprang up within her. A great weariness came upon her, too. But she did not change from her fixed36 resolve. Two lives were not to be spoilt because she lived in the world. To-morrow she could gather up her strength and begin again. For Durrance must never know that there was another whom she placed before him in her thoughts. Meanwhile, however, Durrance within the drawing-room brought his confession37 to an end.
"So you see," he said, "I could not speak of Harry Feversham until to-night. For I was afraid that what I had to tell you would hurt you very much. I was afraid that you still remembered him, in spite of those five years. I knew, of course, that you were my friend. But I doubted whether in your heart you were not more than that to him. To-night, however, I could tell you without fear."
Now at all events he expected an answer. Mrs. Adair, still standing38 by the window, heard him move in the shadows.
"Ethne!" he said, with some surprise in his voice; and since again no answer came, he rose, and walked towards the chair in which Ethne had sat. Mrs. Adair could see him now. His hands felt for and grasped the back of the chair. He bent39 over it, as though he thought Ethne was leaning forward with her hands upon her knees.
"Ethne," he said again, and there was in this iteration of her name more trouble and doubt than surprise. It seemed to Mrs. Adair that he dreaded40 to find her silently weeping. He was beginning to speculate whether after all he had been right in his inference from Ethne's recapture of her youth to-night, whether the shadow of Feversham did not after all fall between them. He leaned farther forward, feeling with his hand, and suddenly a string of Ethne's violin twanged loud. She had left it lying on the chair, and his fingers had touched it.
Durrance drew himself up straight and stood quite motionless and silent, like a man who had suffered a shock and is bewildered. He passed his hand across his forehead once or twice, and then, without calling upon Ethne again, he advanced to the open window.
Mrs. Adair did not move, and she held her breath. There was just the width of the sill between them. The moonlight struck full upon Durrance, and she saw a comprehension gradually dawn in his face that some one was standing close to him.
"Ethne," he said a third time, and now he appealed.
He stretched out a hand timidly and touched her dress.
"It is not Ethne," he said with a start.
"No, it is not Ethne," Mrs. Adair answered quickly. Durrance drew back a step from the window, and for a little while was silent.
"Where has she gone?" he asked at length.
"Into the garden. She ran across the terrace and down the steps very quickly and silently. I saw her from my chair. Then I heard you speaking alone."
"Can you see her now in the garden?"
"No; she went across the lawn towards the trees and their great shadows. There is only the moonlight in the garden now."
Durrance stepped across the window sill and stood by the side of Mrs. Adair. The last slip which Ethne had made betrayed her inevitably41 to the man who had grown quick. There could be only one reason for her sudden unexplained and secret flight. He had told her that Feversham had wandered south from Wadi Halfa into the savage42 country; he had spoken out his fears as to Feversham's fate without reserve, thinking that she had forgotten him, and indeed rather inclined to blame her for the callous43 indifference44 with which she received the news. The callousness45 was a mere46 mask, and she had fled because she no longer had the strength to hold it up before her face. His first suspicions had been right. Feversham still stood between Ethne and himself and held them at arm's length.
"She ran as though she was in great trouble and hardly knew what she was doing," Mrs. Adair continued. "Did you cause that trouble?"
"Yes."
"I thought so, from what I heard you say."
Mrs. Adair wanted to hurt, and in spite of Durrance's impenetrable face, she felt that she had succeeded. It was a small sort of compensation for the weeks of mortification47 which she had endured. There is something which might be said for Mrs. Adair; extenuations might be pleaded, even if no defence was made. For she like Ethne was overtaxed that night. That calm pale face of hers hid the quick passions of the South, and she had been racked by them to the limits of endurance. There had been something grotesque48, something rather horrible, in that outbreak and confession by Durrance, after Ethne had fled from the room. He was speaking out his heart to an empty chair. She herself had stood without the window with a bitter longing that he had spoken so to her and a bitter knowledge that he never would. She was sunk deep in humiliation49. The irony50 of the position tortured her; it was like a jest of grim selfish gods played off upon ineffectual mortals to their hurt. And at the bottom of all the thoughts rankled51 that memory of the extinguished lamp, and the low, hushed voices speaking one to the other in darkness. Therefore she spoke to give pain and was glad that she gave it, even though it was to the man whom she coveted52.
"There's one thing which I don't understand," said Durrance. "I mean the change which we both noticed in Ethne to-night. I mistook the cause of it, that's evident. I was a fool. But there must have been a cause. The gift of laughter had been restored to her. Her gravity, her air of calculation, had vanished. She became just what she was five years ago."
"Exactly," Mrs. Adair answered. "Just what she was before Mr. Feversham disappeared from Ramelton. You are so quick, Colonel Durrance. Ethne had good news of Mr. Feversham this morning."
Durrance turned quickly towards her, and Mrs. Adair felt a pleasure at his abrupt53 movement. She had provoked the display of some emotion, and the display of emotion was preferable to his composure.
"Are you quite sure?" he asked.
"As sure as that you gave her the worst of news to-night," she replied.
But Durrance did not need the answer. Ethne had made another slip that evening, and though unnoticed at the time, it came back to Durrance's memory now. She had declared that Feversham still drew an allowance from his father. "I heard it only to-day," she had said.
"Yes, Ethne heard news of Feversham to-day," he said slowly. "Did she make a mistake five years ago? There was some wrong thing Harry Feversham was supposed to have done. But was there really more misunderstanding than wrong? Did she misjudge him? Has she to-day learnt that she misjudged him?"
"I will tell you what I know. It is not very much. But I think it is fair that you should know it."
"Wait a moment, please, Mrs. Adair," said Durrance, sharply. He had put his questions rather to himself than to his companion, and he was not sure that he wished her to answer them. He walked abruptly54 away from her and leaned upon the balustrade with his face towards the garden.
It seemed to him rather treacherous55 to allow Mrs. Adair to disclose what Ethne herself evidently intended to conceal34. But he knew why Ethne wished to conceal it. She wished him never to suspect that she retained any love for Harry Feversham. On the other hand, however, he did not falter56 from his own belief. Marriage between a man crippled like himself and a woman active and vigorous like Ethne could never be right unless both brought more than friendship. He turned back to Mrs. Adair.
"I am no casuist," he said. "But here disloyalty seems the truest loyalty57 of all. Tell me what you know, Mrs. Adair. Something might be done perhaps for Feversham. From Assouan or Suakin something might be done. This news—this good news came, I suppose, this afternoon when I was at home."
"No, this morning when you were here. It was brought by a Captain Willoughby, who was once an officer in Mr. Feversham's regiment58."
"He is now Deputy-Governor of Suakin," said Durrance. "I know the man. For three years we were together in that town. Well?"
"He sailed down from Kingsbridge. You and Ethne were walking across the lawn when he landed from the creek. Ethne left you and went forward to meet him. I saw them meet, because I happened to be looking out of this window at the moment."
"Yes, Ethne went forward. There was a stranger whom she did not know. I remember."
"They spoke for a few moments, and then Ethne led him towards the trees, at once, without looking back—as though she had forgotten," said Mrs. Adair. That little stab she had not been able to deny herself, but it evoked59 no sign of pain.
"As though she had forgotten me, you mean," said Durrance, quietly completing her sentence. "No doubt she had."
"They went together into the little enclosed garden on the bank," and Durrance started as she spoke. "Yes, you followed them," continued Mrs. Adair, curiously60. She had been puzzled as to how Durrance had missed them.
"They were there then," he said slowly, "on that seat, in the enclosure, all the while."
Mrs. Adair waited for a more definite explanation of the mystery, but she got none.
"Well?" he asked.
"They stayed there for a long while. You had gone home across the fields before they came outside into the open. I was in the garden, and indeed happened to be actually upon the bank."
"So you saw Captain Willoughby. Perhaps you spoke to him?"
"Yes. Ethne introduced him, but she would not let him stay. She hurried him into his boat and back to Kingsbridge at once."
"Then how do you know Captain Willoughby brought good news of Harry Feversham?"
"Ethne told me that they had been talking of him. Her manner and her laugh showed me no less clearly that the news was good."
"Yes," said Durrance, and he nodded his head in assent61. Captain Willoughby's tidings had begotten62 that new pride and buoyancy in Ethne which he had so readily taken to himself. Signs of the necessary something more than friendship—so he had accounted them, and he was right so far. But it was not he who had inspired them. His very penetration63 and insight had led him astray. He was silent for a few minutes, and Mrs. Adair searched his face in the moonlight for some evidence that he resented Ethne's secrecy. But she searched in vain.
"And that is all?" said Durrance.
"Not quite. Captain Willoughby brought a token from Mr. Feversham. Ethne carried it back to the house in her hand. Her eyes were upon it all the way, her lips smiled at it. I do not think there is anything half so precious to her in all the world."
"A token?"
"A little white feather," said Mrs. Adair, "all soiled and speckled with dust. Can you read the riddle64 of that feather?"
"Not yet," Durrance replied. He walked once or twice along the terrace and back, lost in thought. Then he went into the house and fetched his cap from the hall. He came back to Mrs. Adair.
"It was kind of you to tell me this," he said. "I want you to add to your kindness. When I was in the drawing-room alone and you came to the window, how much did you hear? What were the first words?"
Mrs. Adair's answer relieved him of a fear. Ethne had heard nothing whatever of his confession.
"Yes," he said, "she moved to the window to read a letter by the moonlight. She must have escaped from the room the moment she had read it. Consequently she did not hear that I had no longer any hope of recovering my sight, and that I merely used the pretence of a hope in order to delay our marriage. I am glad of that, very glad." He shook hands with Mrs. Adair, and said good-night. "You see," he added absently, "if I hear that Harry Feversham is in Omdurman, something might perhaps be done—from Suakin or Assouan, something might be done. Which way did Ethne go?"
"Over to the water."
"She had her dog with her, I hope."
"The dog followed her," said Mrs. Adair.
"I am glad," said Durrance. He knew quite well what comfort the dog would be to Ethne in this bad hour, and perhaps he rather envied the dog. Mrs. Adair wondered that at a moment of such distress65 to him he could still spare a thought for so small an alleviation66 of Ethne's trouble. She watched him cross the garden to the stile in the hedge. He walked steadily67 forward upon the path like a man who sees. There was nothing in his gait or bearing to reveal that the one thing left to him had that evening been taken away.
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1
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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resonantly
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| adv.共鸣地，反响地 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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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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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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taints
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| n.变质( taint的名词复数 )；污染；玷污；丑陋或腐败的迹象v.使变质( taint的第三人称单数 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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maneuvers
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| n.策略，谋略，花招( maneuver的名词复数 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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callousness
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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57
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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62
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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63
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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64
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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65
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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66
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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67
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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