OVER the tea-table Justine forgot the note in her muff; but when she went upstairs to dress it fell to the floor, and she picked it up and laid it on her dressing-table.
She had already recognized the hand as Wyant's, for it was not the first letter she had received from him.
Three times since her marriage he had appealed to her for help, excusing himself on the plea of difficulties and ill-health. The first time he wrote, he alluded1 vaguely2 to having married, and to being compelled, through illness, to give up his practice at Clifton. On receiving this letter she made enquiries, and learned that, a month or two after her departure from Lynbrook, Wyant had married a Clifton girl--a pretty piece of flaunting3 innocence4, whom she remembered about the lanes, generally with a young man in a buggy. There had evidently been something obscure and precipitate5 about the marriage, which was a strange one for the ambitious young doctor. Justine conjectured6 that it might have been the cause of his leaving Clifton--or or perhaps he had already succumbed7 to the fatal habit she had suspected in him. At any rate he seemed, in some mysterious way, to have dropped in two years from promise to failure; yet she could not believe that, with his talents, and the name he had begun to make, such a lapse8 could be more than temporary. She had often heard Dr. Garford prophesy9 great things for him; but Dr. Garford had died suddenly during the previous summer, and the loss of this powerful friend was mentioned by Wyant among his misfortunes.
Justine was anxious to help him, but her marriage to a rich man had not given her the command of much money. She and Amherst, choosing to regard themselves as pensioners10 on the Westmore fortune, were scrupulous11 in restricting their personal expenditure12; and her work among the mill-hands brought many demands on the modest allowance which her husband had insisted on her accepting. In reply to Wyant's first appeal, which reached her soon after her marriage, she had sent him a hundred dollars; but when the second came, some two months later--with a fresh tale of ill-luck and ill-health--she had not been able to muster13 more than half the amount. Finally a third letter had arrived, a short time before their leaving for New York. It told the same story of persistent14 misfortune, but on this occasion Wyant, instead of making a direct appeal for money, suggested that, through her hospital connections, she should help him to establish a New York practice. His tone was half-whining, half-peremptory, his once precise writing smeared15 and illegible16; and these indications, combined with her former suspicions, convinced her that, for the moment, he was unfit for medical work. At any rate, she could not assume the responsibility of recommending him; and in answering she advised him to apply to some of the physicians he had worked with at Lynbrook, softening17 her refusal by the enclosure of a small sum of money. To this letter she received no answer. Wyant doubtless found the money insufficient18, and resented her unwillingness19 to help him by the use of her influence; and she felt sure that the note before her contained a renewal20 of his former request.
An obscure reluctance21 made her begin to undress before opening it. She felt slightly tired and indolently happy, and she did not wish any jarring impression to break in on the sense of completeness which her husband's coming always put into her life. Her happiness was making her timid and luxurious22: she was beginning to shrink from even trivial annoyances23.
But when at length, in her dressing-gown, her loosened hair about her shoulders, she seated herself before the toilet-mirror, Wyant's note once more confronted her. It was absurd to put off reading it--if he asked for money again, she would simply confide24 the whole business to Amherst.
She had never spoken to her husband of her correspondence with Wyant. The mere26 fact that the latter had appealed to her, instead of addressing himself to Amherst, made her suspect that he had a weakness to hide, and counted on her professional discretion27. But his continued importunities would certainly release her from any such supposed obligation; and she thought with relief of casting the weight of her difficulty on her husband's shoulders.
She opened the note and read.
"I did not acknowledge your last letter because I was ashamed to tell you that the money was not enough to be of any use. But I am past shame now. My wife was confined three weeks ago, and has been desperately28 ill ever since. She is in no state to move, but we shall be put out of these rooms unless I can get money or work at once. A word from you would have given me a start in New York--and I'd be willing to begin again as an interne or a doctor's assistant.
"I have never reminded you of what you owe me, and I should not do so now if I hadn't been to hell and back since I saw you. But I suppose you would rather have me remind you than apply to Mr. Amherst. You can tell me when to call for my answer."
Justine laid down the letter and looked up. Her eyes rested on her own reflection in the glass, and it frightened her. She sat motionless, with a thickly-beating heart, one hand clenched29 on the letter.
_"I suppose you would rather have me remind you than apply to Mr. Amherst."_
That was what his importunity30 meant, then! She had been paying blackmail31 all this time.... Somewhere, from the first, in an obscure fold of consciousness, she had felt the stir of an unnamed, unacknowledged fear; and now the fear raised its head and looked at her. Well! She would look back at it, then: look it straight in the malignant32 eye. What was it, after all, but a "bugbear to scare children"--the ghost of the opinion of the many? She had suspected from the first that Wyant knew of her having shortened the term of Bessy Amherst's sufferings--returning to the room when he did, it was almost impossible that he should not have guessed what had happened; and his silence had made her believe that he understood her motive33 and approved it. But, supposing she had been mistaken, she still had nothing to fear, since she had done nothing that her own conscience condemned34. If the act were to do again she would do it--she had never known a moment's regret!
Suddenly she heard Amherst's step in the passage--heard him laughing and talking as he chased Cicely up the stairs to the nursery.
_If she was not afraid, why had she never told Amherst?_
Why, the answer to that was simple enough! She had not told him _because she was not afraid_. From the first she had retained sufficient detachment to view her act impartially35, to find it completely justified36 by circumstances, and to decide that, since those circumstances could be but partly and indirectly37 known to her husband, she not only had the right to keep her own counsel, but was actually under a kind of obligation not to force on him the knowledge of a fact that he could not alter and could not completely judge.... Was there any flaw in this line of reasoning? Did it not show a deliberate weighing of conditions, a perfect rectitude of intention? And, after all, she had had Amherst's virtual consent to her act! She knew his feelings on such matters--his independence of traditional judgments38, his horror of inflicting39 needless pain--she was as sure of his intellectual assent40 as of her own. She was even sure that, when she told him, he would appreciate her reasons for not telling him before....
For now of course he must know everything--this horrible letter made it inevitable41. She regretted that she had decided42, though for the best of reasons, not to speak to him of her own accord; for it was intolerable that he should think of any external pressure as having brought her to avowal43. But no! he would not think that. The understanding between them was so complete that no deceptive45 array of circumstances could ever make her motives46 obscure to him. She let herself rest a moment in the thought....
Presently she heard him moving in the next room--he had come back to dress for dinner. She would go to him now, at once--she could not bear this weight on her mind the whole evening. She pushed back her chair, crumpling47 the letter in her hand; but as she did so, her eyes again fell on her reflection. She could not go to her husband with such a face! If she was not afraid, why did she look like that?
Well--she was afraid! It would be easier and simpler to admit it. She was afraid--afraid for the first time--afraid for her own happiness! She had had just eight months of happiness--it was horrible to think of losing it so soon.... Losing it? But why should she lose it? The letter must have affected48 her brain...all her thoughts were in a blur49 of fear.... Fear of what? Of the man who understood her as no one else understood her? The man to whose wisdom and mercy she trusted as the believer trusts in God? This was a kind of abominable50 nightmare--even Amherst's image had been distorted in her mind! The only way to clear her brain, to recover the normal sense of things, was to go to him now, at once, to feel his arms about her, to let his kiss dispel51 her fears.... She rose with a long breath of relief.
She had to cross the length of the room to reach his door, and when she had gone half-way she heard him knock.
"May I come in?"
She was close to the fire-place, and a bright fire burned on the hearth52.
"Come in!" she answered; and as she did so, she turned and dropped Wyant's letter into the fire. Her hand had crushed it into a little ball, and she saw the flames spring up and swallow it before her husband entered.
It was not that she had changed her mind--she still meant to tell him everything. But to hold the letter was like holding a venomous snake--she wanted to exterminate53 it, to forget that she had ever seen the blotted54 repulsive55 characters. And she could not bear to have Amherst's eyes rest on it, to have him know that any man had dared to write to her in that tone. What vile56 meanings might not be read between Wyant's phrases? She had a right to tell the story in her own way--the true way....
As Amherst approached, in his evening clothes, the heavy locks smoothed from his forehead, a flower of Cicely's giving in his button-hole, she thought she had never seen him look so kind and handsome.
"Not dressed? Do you know that it's ten minutes to eight?" he said, coming up to her with a smile.
She roused herself, putting her hands to her hair. "Yes, I know--I forgot," she murmured, longing58 to feel his arms about her, but standing44 rooted to the ground, unable to move an inch nearer.
It was he who came close, drawing her lifted hands into his. "You look worried--I hope it was nothing troublesome that made you forget?"
The divine kindness in his voice, his eyes! Yes--it would be easy, quite easy, to tell him....
"No--yes--I was a little troubled...." she said, feeling the warmth of his touch flow through her hands reassuringly59.
"Dear! What about?"
She drew a deep breath. "The letter----"
He looked puzzled. "What letter?"
"Downstairs...when we came in...it was not an ordinary begging-letter."
"No? What then?" he asked, his face clouding.
She noticed the change, and it frightened her. Was he angry? Was he going to be angry? But how absurd! He was only distressed61 at her distress60.
"What then?" he repeated, more gently.
She looked up into his eyes for an instant. "It was a horrible letter----" she whispered, as she pressed her clasped hands against him.
His grasp tightened62 on her wrists, and again the stern look crossed his face. "Horrible? What do you mean?"
She had never seen him angry--but she felt suddenly that, to the guilty creature, his anger would be terrible. He would crush Wyant--she must be careful how she spoke25.
"I didn't mean that--only painful...."
"Where is the letter? Let me see it."
"Oh, no" she exclaimed, shrinking away.
"Justine, what has happened? What ails63 you?"
On a blind impulse she had backed toward the hearth, propping64 her arms against the mantel-piece while she stole a secret glance at the embers. Nothing remained of it--no, nothing.
But suppose it was against herself that his anger turned? The idea was preposterous65, yet she trembled at it. It was clear that she must say _something_ at once--must somehow account for her agitation66. But the sense that she was unnerved--no longer in control of her face, her voice--made her feel that she would tell her story badly if she told it now.... Had she not the right to gain a respite67, to choose her own hour? Weakness--weakness again! Every delay would only increase the phantom68 terror. Now, _now_--with her head on his breast!
She turned toward him and began to speak impulsively69.
"I can't show you the letter, because it's not--not my secret----"
"Ah?" he murmured, perceptibly relieved.
"It's from some one--unlucky--whom I've known about...."
"And whose troubles have been troubling you? But can't we help?"
She shone on him through gleaming lashes70. "Some one poor and ill--who needs money, I mean----" She tried to laugh away her tears. "And I haven't any! That's _my_ trouble!"
"Foolish child! And to beg you are ashamed? And so you're letting your tears cool Mr. Langhope's soup?" He had her in his arms now, his kisses drying her cheek; and she turned her head so that their lips met in a long pressure.
"Will a hundred dollars do?" he asked with a smile as he released her.
_A hundred dollars!_ No--she was almost sure they would not. But she tried to shape a murmur57 of gratitude71. "Thank you--thank you! I hated to ask...."
"I'll write the cheque at once."
"No--no," she protested, "there's no hurry."
But he went back to his room, and she turned again to the toilet-table. Her face was painful to look at still--but a light was breaking through its fear. She felt the touch of a narcotic72 in her veins73. How calm and peaceful the room was--and how delicious to think that her life would go on in it, safely and peacefully, in the old familiar way!
As she swept up her hair, passing the comb through it, and flinging it dexterously74 over her lifted wrist, she heard Amherst cross the floor behind her, and pause to lay something on her writing-table.
"Thank you," she murmured again, lowering her head as he passed.
When the door had closed on him she thrust the last pin into her hair, dashed some drops of Cologne on her face, and went over to the writing-table. As she picked up the cheque she saw it was for three hundred dollars.
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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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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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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exterminate
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| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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propping
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| 支撑 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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narcotic
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| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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74
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
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