JUNE again at Hanaford--and Cicely's birthday. The anniversary was to coincide, this year, with the opening of the old house at Hopewood, as a kind of pleasure-palace--gymnasium, concert-hall and museum--for the recreation of the mill-hands.
The idea had first come to Amherst on the winter afternoon when Bessy Westmore had confessed her love for him under the snow-laden trees of Hopewood. Even then the sense that his personal happiness was enlarged and secured by its promise of happiness to others had made him wish that the scene associated with the opening of his new life should be made to commemorate1 a corresponding change in the fortunes of Westmore. But when the control of the mills passed into his hands other and more necessary improvements pressed upon him; and it was not till now that the financial condition of the company had permitted the execution of his plan.
Justine, on her return to Hanaford, had found the work already in progress, and had been told by her husband that he was carrying out a projected scheme of Bessy's. She had felt a certain surprise, but had concluded that the plan in question dated back to the early days of his first marriage, when, in his wife's eyes, his connection with the mills still invested them with interest.
Since Justine had come back to her husband, both had tacitly avoided all allusions2 to the past, and the recreation-house at Hopewood being, as she divined, in some sort an expiatory3 offering to Bessy's plaintive4 shade, she had purposely refrained from questioning Amherst about its progress, and had simply approved the plans he submitted to her.
Fourteen months had passed since her return, and now, as she sat beside her husband in the carriage which was conveying them to Hopewood, she said to herself that her life had at last fallen into what promised to be its final shape--that as things now were they would probably be to the end. And outwardly at least they were what she and Amherst had always dreamed of their being. Westmore prospered5 under the new rule. The seeds of life they had sown there were springing up in a promising6 growth of bodily health and mental activity, and above all in a dawning social consciousness. The mill-hands were beginning to understand the meaning of their work, in its relation to their own lives and to the larger economy. And outwardly, also, the new growth was showing itself in the humanized aspect of the place. Amherst's young maples7 were tall enough now to cast a shade on the grass-bordered streets; and the well-kept turf, the bright cottage gardens, the new central group of library, hospital and club-house, gave to the mill-village the hopeful air of a "rising" residential8 suburb.
In the bright June light, behind their fresh green mantle9 of trees and creepers, even the factory buildings looked less stern and prison-like than formerly10; and the turfing and planting of the adjoining river-banks had transformed a waste of foul11 mud and refuse into a little park where the operatives might refresh themselves at midday.
Yes--Westmore was alive at last: the dead city of which Justine had once spoken had risen from its grave, and its blank face had taken on a meaning. As Justine glanced at her husband she saw that the same thought was in his mind. However achieved, at whatever cost of personal misery13 and error, the work of awakening14 and freeing Westmore was done, and that work had justified15 itself.
She looked from Amherst to Cicely, who sat opposite, eager and rosy16 in her mourning frock--for Mr. Langhope had died some two months previously--and as intent as her step-parents on the scene before her. Cicely was old enough now to regard her connection with Westmore as something more than a nursery game. She was beginning to learn a great deal about the mills, and to understand, in simple, friendly ways, something of her own relation to them. The work and play of the children, the interests and relaxations17 provided for their elders, had been gradually explained to her by Justine, and she knew that this shining tenth birthday of hers was to throw its light as far as the clouds of factory-smoke extended.
As they mounted the slope to Hopewood, the spacious18 white building, with its enfolding colonnades19, its broad terraces and tennis-courts, shone through the trees like some bright country-house adorned20 for its master's home-coming; and Amherst and his wife might have been driving up to the house which had been built to shelter their wedded21 happiness. The thought flashed across Justine as their carriage climbed the hill. She was as much absorbed as Amherst in the welfare of Westmore, it had become more and more, to both, the refuge in which their lives still met and mingled22; but for a moment, as they paused before the flower-decked porch, and he turned to help her from the carriage, it occurred to her to wonder what her sensations would have been if he had been bringing her home--to a real home of their own--instead of accompanying her to another philanthropic celebration. But what need had they of a real home, when they no longer had any real life of their own? Nothing was left of that secret inner union which had so enriched and beautified their outward lives. Since Justine's return to Hanaford they had entered, tacitly, almost unconsciously, into a new relation to each other: a relation in which their personalities23 were more and more merged24 in their common work, so that, as it were, they met only by avoiding each other.
From the first, Justine had accepted this as inevitable25; just as she had understood, when Amherst had sought her out in New York, that his remaining at Westmore, which had once been contingent26 on her leaving him, now depended on her willingness to return and take up their former life.
She accepted the last condition as she had accepted the other, pledged to the perpetual expiation27 of an act for which, in the abstract, she still refused to hold herself to blame. But life is not a matter of abstract principles, but a succession of pitiful compromises with fate, of concessions28 to old tradition, old beliefs, old charities and frailties29. That was what her act had taught her--that was the word of the gods to the mortal who had laid a hand on their bolts. And she had humbled30 herself to accept the lesson, seeing human relations at last as a tangled31 and deep-rooted growth, a dark forest through which the idealist cannot cut his straight path without hearing at each stroke the cry of the severed32 branch: "_Why woundest thou me?_"
* * * * *
The lawns leading up to the house were already sprinkled with holiday-makers, while along the avenue came the rolling of wheels, the throb33 of motor-cars; and Justine, with Cicely beside her, stood in the wide hall to receive the incoming throng34, in which Hanaford society was indiscriminately mingled with the operatives in their Sunday best.
While his wife welcomed the new arrivals, Amherst, supported by some young Westmore cousins, was guiding them into the concert-hall, where he was to say a word on the uses of the building before declaring it open for inspection35. And presently Justine and Cicely, summoned by Westy Gaines, made their way through the rows of seats to a corner near the platform. Her husband was there already, with Halford Gaines and a group of Hanaford dignitaries, and just below them sat Mrs. Gaines and her daughters, the Harry36 Dressels, and Amherst's radiant mother.
As Justine passed between them, she wondered how much they knew of the events which had wrought37 so profound and permanent change in her life. She had never known how Hanaford explained her absence or what comments it had made on her return. But she saw to-day more clearly than ever that Amherst had become a power among his townsmen, and that if they were still blind to the inner meaning of his work, its practical results were beginning to impress them profoundly. Hanaford's sociological creed38 was largely based on commercial considerations, and Amherst had won Hanaford's esteem39 by the novel feat40 of defying its economic principles and snatching success out of his defiance41.
And now he had advanced a step or two in front of the "representative" semi-circle on the platform, and was beginning to speak.
Justine did not hear his first words. She was looking up at him, trying to see him with the eyes of the crowd, and wondering what manner of man he would have seemed to her if she had known as little as they did of his inner history.
He held himself straight, the heavy locks thrown back from his forehead, one hand resting on the table beside him, the other grasping a folded blue-print which the architect of the building had just advanced to give him. As he stood there, Justine recalled her first sight of him in the Hope Hospital, five years earlier--was it only five years? They had dealt deep strokes to his face, hollowing the eye-sockets, accentuating42 the strong modelling of nose and chin, fixing the lines between the brows; but every touch had a meaning--it was not the languid hand of time which had remade his features, but the sharp chisel43 of thought and action.
She roused herself suddenly to the consciousness of what he was saying.
"For the idea of this building--of a building dedicated44 to the recreation of Westmore--is not new in my mind; but while it remained there as a mere45 idea, it had already, without my knowledge, taken definite shape in the thoughts of the owner of Westmore."
There was a slight drop in his voice as he designated Bessy, and he waited a moment before continuing: "It was not till after the death of my first wife that I learned of her intention--that I found by accident, among her papers, this carefully-studied plan for a pleasure-house at Hopewood."
He paused again, and unrolling the blue-print, held it up before his audience.
"You cannot, at this distance," he went on, "see all the admirable details of her plan; see how beautifully they were imagined, how carefully and intelligently elaborated. She who conceived them longed to see beauty everywhere--it was her dearest wish to bestow47 it on her people here. And her ardent48 imagination outran the bounds of practical possibility. We cannot give you, in its completeness, the beautiful thing she had imagined--the great terraces, the marble porches, the fountains, lily-tanks, and cloisters49. But you will see that, wherever it was possible--though in humbler materials, and on a smaller scale--we have faithfully followed her design; and when presently you go through this building, and when, hereafter, you find health and refreshment50 and diversion here, I ask you to remember the beauty she dreamed of giving you, and to let the thought of it make her memory beautiful among you and among your children...."
Justine had listened with deepening amazement51. She was seated so close to her husband that she had recognized the blue-print the moment he unrolled it. There was no mistaking its origin--it was simply the plan of the gymnasium which Bessy had intended to build at Lynbrook, and which she had been constrained52 to abandon owing to her husband's increased expenditure53 at the mills. But how was it possible that Amherst knew nothing of the original purpose of the plans, and by what mocking turn of events had a project devised in deliberate defiance of his wishes, and intended to declare his wife's open contempt for them, been transformed into a Utopian vision for the betterment of the Westmore operatives?
A wave of anger swept over Justine at this last derisive54 stroke of fate. It was grotesque55 and pitiable that a man like Amherst should create out of his regrets a being who had never existed, and then ascribe to her feelings and actions of which the real woman had again and again proved herself incapable56!
Ah, no, Justine had suffered enough--but to have this imaginary Bessy called from the grave, dressed in a semblance57 of self-devotion and idealism, to see her petty impulses of vindictiveness58 disguised as the motions of a lofty spirit--it was as though her small malicious59 ghost had devised this way of punishing the wife who had taken her place!
Justine had suffered enough--suffered deliberately60 and unstintingly, paying the full price of her error, not seeking to evade61 its least consequence. But no sane62 judgment63 could ask her to sit quiet under this last hallucination. What! This unreal woman, this phantom64 that Amherst's uneasy imagination had evoked65, was to come between himself and her, to supplant66 her first as his wife, and then as his fellow-worker? Why should she not cry out the truth to him, defend herself against the dead who came back to rob her of such wedded peace as was hers? She had only to tell the true story of the plans to lay poor Bessy's ghost forever!
The confused throbbing67 impulses within her were stifled68 under a long burst of applause--then she saw Westy Gaines at her side again, and understood that he had come to lead Cicely to the platform. For a moment she clung jealously to the child's hand, hardly aware of what she did, feeling only that she was being thrust farther and farther into the background of the life she had helped to call out of chaos69. Then a contrary impulse moved her. She gently freed Cicely's hand, and a moment later, as she sat with bent70 head and throbbing breast, she heard the child's treble piping out above her:
"In my mother's name, I give this house to Westmore."
Applause again--and then Justine found herself enveloped71 in a general murmur72 of compliment and congratulation. Mr. Amherst had spoken admirably--a "beautiful tribute--" ah, he had done poor Bessy justice! And to think that till now Hanaford had never fully46 known how she had the welfare of the mills at heart--how it was really only _her_ work that he was carrying on there! Well, he had made that perfectly73 clear--and no doubt Cicely was being taught to follow in her mother's footsteps: everyone had noticed how her step-father was associating her with the work at the mills. And his little speech would, as it were, consecrate74 the child's relation to that work, make it appear to her as the continuance of a beautiful, a sacred tradition....
* * * * *
And now it was over. The building had been inspected, the operatives had dispersed75, the Hanaford company had rolled off down the avenue, Cicely, among them, driving away tired and happy in Mrs. Dressel's victoria, and Amherst and his wife were alone.
Amherst, after bidding good-bye to his last guests, had gone back to the empty concert-room to fetch the blue-print lying on the platform. He came back with it, between the uneven76 rows of empty chairs, and joined Justine, who stood waiting in the hall. His face was slightly flushed, and his eyes had the light which in happy moments burned through their veil of thought.
He laid his hand on his wife's arm, and drawing her toward a table spread out the blueprint77 before her.
"You haven't seen this, have you?" he said.
She looked down at the plan without answering, reading in the left-hand corner the architect's conventional inscription78: "Swimming-tank and gymnasium designed for Mrs. John Amherst."
Amherst looked up, perhaps struck by her silence.
"But perhaps you _have_ seen it--at Lynbrook? It must have been done while you were there."
The quickened throb of her blood rushed to her brain like a signal. "Speak--speak now!" the signal commanded.
Justine continued to look fixedly79 at the plan. "Yes, I have seen it," she said at length.
"At Lynbrook?"
"At Lynbrook."
"_She_ showed it to you, I suppose--while I was away?"
Justine hesitated again. "Yes, while you were away."
"And did she tell you anything about it, go into details about her wishes, her intentions?"
Now was the moment--now! As her lips parted she looked up at her husband. The illumination still lingered on his face--and it was the face she loved. He was waiting eagerly for her next word.
"No, I heard no details. I merely saw the plan lying there."
She saw his look of disappointment. "She never told you about it?"
"No--she never told me."
It was best so, after all. She understood that now. It was now at last that she was paying her full price.
Amherst rolled up the plan with a sigh and pushed it into the drawer of the table. It struck her that he too had the look of one who has laid a ghost. He turned to her and drew her hand through his arm.
"You're tired, dear. You ought to have driven back with the others," he said.
"No, I would rather stay with you."
"You want to drain this good day to the dregs, as I do?"
"Yes," she murmured, drawing her hand away.
"It _is_ a good day, isn't it?" he continued, looking about him at the white-panelled walls, the vista80 of large bright rooms seen through the folding doors. "I feel as if we had reached a height, somehow--a height where one might pause and draw breath for the next climb. Don't you feel that too, Justine?"
"Yes--I feel it."
"Do you remember once, long ago--one day when you and I and Cicely went on a picnic to hunt orchids--how we got talking of the one best moment in life--the moment when one wanted most to stop the clock?"
The colour rose in her face while he spoke12. It was a long time since he had referred to the early days of their friendship--the days _before_....
"Yes, I remember," she said.
"And do you remember how we said that it was with most of us as it was with Faust? That the moment one wanted to hold fast to was not, in most lives, the moment of keenest personal happiness, but the other kind--the kind that would have seemed grey and colourless at first: the moment when the meaning of life began to come out from the mists--when one could look out at last over the marsh81 one had drained?"
A tremor82 ran through Justine. "It was you who said that," she said, half-smiling.
"But didn't you feel it with me? Don't you now?"
"Yes--I do now," she murmured.
He came close to her, and taking her hands in his, kissed them one after the other.
"Dear," he said, "let us go out and look at the marsh we have drained."
He turned and led her through the open doorway83 to the terrace above the river. The sun was setting behind the wooded slopes of Hopewood, and the trees about the house stretched long blue shadows across the lawn. Beyond them rose the smoke of Westmore.
Transcriber's Note:
Most inconsistencies in hyphenation and spelling have been left as in the original. Missing or wrong punctuation84 has been added or corrected, where it is obvious (missing punctuation is often a result of the scanning/OCR process). In one case, a missing letter has also been added, and the following misspellings have been corrected: involuntairly to involuntarily, sensastions to sensations, Wetsmore to Westmore, Cilfton to Clifton, It to If.
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1
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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expiatory
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| adj.赎罪的，补偿的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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relaxations
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| n.消遣( relaxation的名词复数 )；松懈；松弛；放松 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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accentuating
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| v.重读( accentuate的现在分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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50
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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51
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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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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54
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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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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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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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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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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blueprint
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| n.蓝图，设计图，计划；vt.制成蓝图，计划 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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punctuation
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| n.标点符号，标点法 | |
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