Her hat, with its cheap blue enamel1 pins sticking in the crown, lay on his desk; her hair, partly loosened, shadowed a young face grown pinched with weariness; and the reaction from shock was already making her grey eyes heavy and edging the under lids with bluish shadows.
She had not come there with the intention of telling him anything. All she had wanted was a place in which to rest, a glass of water, and somebody to help her find the train to Gayfield. She told him this; remained reticent2 under his questioning; finally turned her haggard face to the chairback and refused to answer.
For an hour or more she remained obstinately3 dumb, motionless except for the uncontrollable trembling of her body; he brought her a glass of water, sat watching her at intervals4; rose once or twice to pace the studio, his well-shaped head bent5, his hands clasped behind his back, always returning to the corner-chair before the desk to sit there, eyeing her askance, waiting for some decision.
But it was not the recurrent waves of terror, the ever latent fear of Brandes, or even her appalling6 loneliness that broke her down; it was sheer fatigue7—nature’s 123merciless third degree—under which mental and physical resolution disintegrated—went all to pieces.
And when at length she finally succeeded in reconquering self-possession, she had already stammered8 out answers to his gently persuasive9 questions—had told him enough to start the fuller confession10 to which he listened in utter silence.
And now she had told him everything, as far as she understood the situation. She lay sideways, deep in the armchair, tired, yet vaguely11 conscious that she was resting mind and body, and that calm was gradually possessing the one, and the nerves of the other were growing quiet.
Listlessly her grey eyes wandered around the big studio where shadowy and strangely beautiful but incomprehensible things met her gaze, like iridescent12, indefinite objects seen in dreams.
These radiantly unreal splendours were only Neeland’s rejected Academy pictures and studies; a few cheap Japanese hangings, cheaper Nippon porcelains13, and several shaky, broken-down antiques picked up for a song here and there. All the trash and truck and dust and junk characteristic of the conventional artist’s habitation were there.
But to Ruhannah this studio embodied14 all the wonders and beauties of that magic temple to which, from her earliest memory, her very soul had aspired—the temple of the unknown God of Art.
Vaguely she endeavoured to realise that she was now inside one of its myriad15 sanctuaries16; that here under her very tired and youthful eyes stood one of its countless17 altars; that here, also, near by, sat one of those blessed acolytes18 who aided in the mysteries of its wondrous19 service.124
“Ruhannah,” he said, “are you calm enough to let me tell you what I think about this matter?”
“Yes. I am feeling better.”
“Good work! There’s no occasion for panic. What you need is a cool head and a clear mind.”
She said, without stirring from where she lay resting her cheek on the chairback:
“My mind has become quite clear again.”
“That’s fine! Well, then, I think the thing for you to do is––” He took out his watch, examined it, replaced it—“Good Lord!” he said. “It is three o’clock!”
She watched him but offered no comment. He went to the telephone, called the New York Central Station, got General Information, inquired concerning trains, hung up, and came back to the desk where he had been sitting.
“The first train out leaves at six three,” he said. “I think you’d better go into my bedroom and lie down. I’m not tired; I’ll call you in time, and I’ll get a taxi and take you to your train. Does that suit you, Ruhannah?”
She shook her head slightly.
“Why not?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking. I can’t go back.”
“Can’t go back! Why not?”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you’d feel too deeply humiliated20?”
“I wasn’t thinking of my own disgrace. I was thinking of mother and father.” There was no trace of emotion in her voice; she stated the fact calmly.
“I can’t go back to Brookhollow. It’s ended. I couldn’t bear to let them know what has happened to me.”
“What did you think of doing?” he asked uneasily.125
“I must think of mother—I must keep my disgrace from touching21 them—spare them the sorrow—humiliation––” Her voice became tremulous, but she turned around and sat up in her chair, meeting his gaze squarely. “That’s as far as I have thought,” she said.
Both remained silent for a long while. Then Ruhannah looked up from her pale preoccupation:
“I told you I had three thousand dollars. Why can’t I educate myself in art with that? Why can’t I learn how to support myself by art?”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Yes. But what are you going to say to your parents when you write? They suppose you are on your way to Paris.”
She nodded, looking at him thoughtfully.
“By the way,” he added, “is your trunk on board the Lusitania?”
“Yes.”
“That won’t do! Have you the check for it?”
“Yes, in my purse.”
“We’ve got to get that trunk off the ship,” he said. “There’s only one sure way. I’d better go down now, to the pier22. Where’s your steamer ticket?”
“I—I have both tickets and both checks in my bag. He—let me have the p-pleasure of carrying them––” Again her voice broke childishly, but the threatened emotion was strangled and resolutely23 choked back.
“Give me the tickets and checks,” he said. “I’ll go down to the dock now.”
She drew out the papers, sat holding them for a few moments without relinquishing24 them. Then she raised her eyes to his, and a bright flush stained her face:126
“Why should I not go to Paris by myself?” she demanded.
“You mean now? On this ship?”
“Yes. Why not? I have enough money to go there and study, haven’t I?”
“Yes. But––”
“Why not!” she repeated feverishly25, her grey eyes sparkling. “I have three thousand dollars; I can’t go back to Brookhollow and disgrace them. What does it matter where I go?”
“It would be all right,” he said, “if you’d ever had any experience––”
“Experience! What do you call what I’ve had today!” She exclaimed excitedly. “To lose in a single day my mother, my home—to go through in this city what I have gone through—what I am going through now—is not that enough experience? Isn’t it?”
He said:
“You’ve had a rotten awakening26, Rue27—a perfectly28 devilish experience. Only—you’ve never travelled alone––” Suddenly it occurred to him that his lively friend, the Princess Mistchenka, was sailing on the Lusitania; and he remained silent, uncertain, looking with vague misgivings29 at this girl in the armchair opposite—this thin, unformed, inexperienced child who had attained30 neither mental nor physical maturity31.
“I think,” he said at length, “that I told you I had a friend sailing on the Lusitania tomorrow.”
She remembered and nodded.
“But wait a moment,” he added. “How do you know that this—this fellow Brandes will not attempt to sail on her, also––” Something checked him, for in the girl’s golden-grey eyes he saw a flame glimmer32; something almost terrible came into the child’s still 127gaze; and slowly died out like the afterglow of lightning.
And Neeland knew that in her soul something had been born under his very eyes—the first emotion of maturity bursting from the chrysalis—the flaming consciousness of outrage34, and the first, fierce assumption of womanhood to resent it.
She had lost her colour now; her grey eyes still remained fixed35 on his, but the golden tinge36 had left them.
“I am going.”
“All right! And if he has the nerve to go—if he bothers you—appeal to the captain.”
She nodded absently.
“But I don’t believe he’ll try to sail. I don’t believe he’d dare, mixed up as he is in a dirty mess. He’s afraid of the law, I tell you. That’s why he denied marrying you. It meant bigamy to admit it. Anyway, I don’t think a fake ceremony like that is binding38; I mean that it isn’t even real enough to put him in jail. Which means that you’re not married, Rue.”
“Does it?”
“I think so. Ask a lawyer, anyway. There may be steps to take—I don’t know. All the same—do you really want to go to France and study art? Do you really mean to sail on this ship?”
“Yes.”
“You feel confidence in yourself? You feel sure of yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. It’s got to be done.”
“All right, if you feel that way.” He made no move, 128however, but sat there watching her. After a while he looked at his watch again:
“I’m going to ring up a taxi,” he said. “You might as well go on board and get some sleep. What time does she sail?”
“At five thirty, I believe.”
“Well, we haven’t so very long, then. There’s my bedroom—if you want to fix up.”
She rose wearily.
When she emerged from his room with her hat and gloves on, the taxicab was audible in the street below.
Together they descended40 the dark stairway up which she had toiled41 with trembling knees. He carried her suitcase, aided her into the taxi.
Already in the darkness of early morning the city was awake; workmen were abroad; lighted tramcars passed with passengers; great wains, trucks, and country wagons43 moved slowly toward markets and ferries.
He had begun to tell her almost immediately all that he knew about Paris, the life there in the students’ quarters, methods of living economically, what to seek and what to avoid—a homily rather hurried and condensed, as they sped toward the pier.
She seemed to be listening; he could not be sure that she understood or that her mind was fixed at all on what he was saying. Even while speaking, numberless objections to her going occurred to him, but as he had no better alternatives to suggest he did not voice them.
In his heart he really believed she ought to go back to Brookhollow. It was perfectly evident she would not consent to go there. As for her remaining in New York, perhaps the reasons for her going to Paris were as good. He was utterly44 unable to judge; he only knew 129that she ought to have the protection of experience, and that was lacking.
“I’m going to remain on board with you,” he said, “until she sails. I’m going to try to find my very good friend, the Princess Mistchenka, and have you meet her. She has been very kind to me, and I shall ask her to keep an eye on you while you are crossing, and to give you a lot of good advice.”
“A—princess,” said Rue in a tired, discouraged voice, “is not very likely to pay any attention to me, I think.”
“She’s one of those Russian or Caucasian princesses. You know they don’t rank very high. She told me herself. She’s great fun—full of life and wit and intelligence and wide experience. She knows a lot about everything and everybody; she’s been everywhere, travelled all over the globe.”
“I don’t think,” repeated Rue, “that she would care for me at all.”
“Yes, she would. She’s young and warm-hearted and human. Besides, she is interested in art—knows a lot about it—even paints very well herself.”
“She must be wonderful.”
“No—she’s just a regular woman. It was because she was interested in art that she came to the League, and I was introduced to her. That is how I came to know her. She comes sometimes to my studio.”
“Yes, but you are already an artist, and an interesting man––”
“Oh, Rue, I’m just beginning. She’s kind, that’s all—an energetic, intelligent woman, full of interest in life. I know she’ll give you some splendid advice—tell you how to get settled in Paris—Lord! You don’t even know French, do you?”130
“No.”
“Not a word?”
“No.... I don’t know anything, Mr. Neeland.”
He tried to laugh reassuringly45:
“I thought it was to be Jim, not Mister,” he reminded her.
But she only looked at him out of troubled eyes.
In the glare of the pier’s headlights they descended. Passengers were entering the vast, damp enclosure; porters, pier officers, ship’s officers, sailors, passed to and fro as they moved toward the gangway where, in the electric glare of lamps, the clifflike side of the gigantic liner loomed46 up.
At sight of the monster ship Rue’s heart leaped, quailed47, leaped again. As she set one slender foot on the gangway such an indescribable sensation seized her that she caught at Neeland’s arm and held to it, almost faint with the violence of her emotion.
A steward48 took the suitcase, preceded them down abysmal49 and gorgeous stairways, through salons50, deep into the dimly magnificent bowels51 of the ocean giant, then through an endless white corridor twinkling with lights, to a stateroom, where a stewardess52 ushered53 them in.
There was nobody there; nobody had been there.
“He dare not come,” whispered Neeland in Ruhannah’s ear.
The girl stood in the centre of the stateroom looking silently about her.
“Have you any English and French money?” he asked.
“No.”
“Give me—well, say two hundred dollars, and I’ll have the purser change it.”131
She went to her suitcase, where it stood on the lounge; he unstrapped it for her; she found the big packet of treasury54 notes and handed them to him.
“Good heavens!” he muttered. “This won’t do. I’m going to have the purser lock them in the safe and give me a receipt. Then when you meet the Princess Mistchenka, tell her what I’ve done and ask her advice. Will you, Rue?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You’ll wait here for me, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
So he noted55 the door number and went away hastily in search of the purser, to do what he could in the matter of foreign money for the girl. And on the upper companionway he met the Princess Mistchenka descending56, preceded by porters with her luggage.
“James!” she exclaimed. “Have you come aboard to elope with me? Otherwise, what are you doing on the Lusitania at this very ghastly hour in the morning?”
She was smiling into his face and her daintily gloved hand retained his for a moment; then she passed her arm through his.
“Follow the porter,” she said, “and tell me what brings you here, my gay young friend. You see I am wearing the orchids57 you sent me. Do you really mean to add yourself to this charming gift?”
He told her the story of Ruhannah Carew as briefly as he could; at her stateroom door they paused while he continued the story, the Princess Mistchenka looking at him very intently while she listened, and never uttering a word.
She was a pretty woman, not tall, rather below middle stature58, perhaps, beautifully proportioned and 132perfectly gowned. Hair and eyes were dark as velvet59; her skin was old ivory and rose; and always her lips seemed about to part a little in the faint and provocative60 smile which lay latent in the depths of her brown eyes.
“Mon Dieu!” she said, “what a history of woe61 you are telling me, my friend James! What a tale of innocence62 and of deception63 and outraged64 trust is this that you relate to me! Allons! Vite! Let us find this poor, abandoned infant—this unhappy victim of your sex’s well-known duplicity!”
“She isn’t a victim, you know,” he explained.
“I see. Only almost—a—victim. Yes? Where is this child, then?”
“May I bring her to you, Princess?”
“But of course! Bring her. I am not afraid—so far—to look any woman in the face at five o’clock in the morning.” And the threatened smile flashed out in her fresh, pretty face.
When he came back with Rue Carew, the Princess Mistchenka was conferring with her maid and with her stewardess. She turned to look at Rue as Neeland came up—continued to scrutinise her intently while he was presenting her.
There ensued a brief silence; the Princess glanced at Neeland, then her dark eyes returned directly to the young girl before her, and she held out her hand, smilingly:
“Miss Carew—I believe I know exactly what your voice is going to be like. I think I have heard, in America, such a voice once or twice. Speak to me and prove me right.”
Rue flushed:
“What am I to say?” she asked naïvely.133
“I knew I was right,” exclaimed the Princess Mistchenka gaily65. “Come into my stateroom and let each one of us discover how agreeable is the other. Shall we—my dear child?”
When Neeland returned from a visit to the purser with a pocket full of British and French gold and silver for Ruhannah, he knocked at the stateroom door of the Princess Mistchenka.
That lively personage opened it, came out into the corridor holding the door partly closed behind her.
“She’s almost dead with fatigue and grief. I undressed her myself. She’s in my bed. She has been crying.”
“Poor little thing,” said Neeland.
“Yes.”
“Here’s her money,” he said, a little awkwardly.
“Shall I—call good-bye to her?” he asked.
“You may go in, James.”
They entered together; and he was startled to see how young she seemed there on the pillows—how pitifully immature67 the childish throat, the tear-flushed face lying in its mass of chestnut68 hair.
“Good-bye, Rue,” he said, still awkward, offering his hand.
Slowly she held out one slim hand from the covers.
“Good voyage, good luck,” he said. “I wish you would write a line to me.”
“I will.”
“Then––” He smiled; released her hand.
“Thank you for—for all you have done,” she said. “I shall not forget.”134
Something choked him slightly; he forced a laugh:
“Come back a famous painter, Rue. Keep your head clear and your heart full of courage. And let me know how you’re getting on, won’t you?”
“Yes.... Good-bye.”
So he went out, and at the door exchanged adieux with the smiling Princess.
“Do you—like her a little?” he whispered.
“I do, my friend. Also—I like you. I am old enough to say it safely, am I not?”
“If you think so,” he said, a funny little laugh in his eyes, “you are old enough to let me kiss you good-bye.”
But she backed away, still smiling:
“On the brow—the hair—yes; if you promise discretion69, James.”
“What has tottering70 age like yours to do with discretion, Princess Naïa?” he retorted impudently71. “A kiss on the mouth must of itself be discreet72 when bestowed73 on youth by such venerable years as are yours.”
But the Princess, the singularly provocative smile still edging her lips, merely looked at him out of dark and slightly humorous eyes, gave him her hand, withdrew it with decision, and entered her stateroom, closing the door rather sharply behind her.
When Neeland got back to the studio he took a couple of hours’ sleep, and, being young, perfectly healthy, and perhaps not unaccustomed to the habits of the owl33 family, felt pretty well when he went out to breakfast.
Over his coffee cup he propped74 up his newspaper against a carafe75; and the heading on one of the columns immediately attracted his attention.135
ROW BETWEEN SPORTING MEN
EDDIE BRANDES, FIGHT PROMOTER AND
THEATRICAL76 MAN, MIXES IT WITH
MAXY VENEM
A WOMAN SAID TO BE THE CAUSE: AFFRAY DRAWS
A BIG CROWD IN FRONT OF THE HOTEL
KNICKERBOCKER
POLICE ARRIVE
Breakfasting leisurely78, he read the partly humorous, partly contemptuous account of the sordid79 affair. Afterward80 he sent for all the morning papers. But in none of them was Ruhannah Carew mentioned at all, nobody, apparently81, having noticed her in the exciting affair between Venem, Brandes, the latter’s wife, and the chauffeur82.
Nor did the evening papers add anything material to the account, except to say that Brandes had been interviewed in his office at the Silhouette83 Theatre and that he stated that he had not engaged in any personal encounter with anybody, had not seen Max Venem in months, had not been near the Hotel Knickerbocker, and knew nothing about the affair in question.
He also permitted a dark hint or two to escape him concerning possible suits for defamation84 of character against irresponsible newspapers.
The accounts in the various evening editions agreed, however, that when interviewed, Mr. Brandes was nursing a black eye and a badly swollen85 lip, which, according to him, he had acquired in a playful sparring 136encounter with his business manager, Mr. Benjamin Stull.
And that was all; the big town had neither time nor inclination86 to notice either Brandes or Venem any further; Broadway completed the story for its own edification, and, by degrees, arrived at its own conclusions. Only nobody could discover who was the young girl concerned, or where she came from or what might be her name. And, after a few days, Broadway, also, forgot the matter amid the tarnished87 tinsel and raucous88 noises of its own mean and multifarious preoccupations.
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收听单词发音
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1
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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5
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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8
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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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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porcelains
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| n.瓷，瓷器( porcelain的名词复数 ) | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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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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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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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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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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41
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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44
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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stewardess
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| n.空中小姐，女乘务员 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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impudently
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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carafe
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| n.玻璃水瓶 | |
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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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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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83
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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defamation
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| n.诽谤；中伤 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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