Since Dinny said no further word on the subject occupying every mind, no word was said by anyone; and for this she was truly thankful. She spent the next three days trying to hide the fact that she was very unhappy. No letter had come from Wilfrid, no message from Stack; surely, if anything had happened, HE would have let her know. On the fourth day, feeling that she could bear the suspense1 no longer, she telephoned to Fleur and asked if she might come up to them.
The expressions on her father’s and her mother’s faces when she said she was going affected2 her as do the eyes and tails of dogs whom one must leave. How much more potent3 was the pressure put by silent disturbance4 than by nagging5!
Panic assailed6 her in the train. Had her instinct to wait for Wilfrid to make the first move been wrong? Ought she not to have gone straight to him? And on reaching London she told her driver: “Cork7 Street.”
But he was out, and Stack did not know when he would be in. The henchman’s demeanour seemed to her strangely different, as if he had retreated to a fence and were sitting on it. Was Mr. Desert well? Yes. And the dog? Yes, the dog was well. Dinny drove away disconsolate8. At South Square again no one was in; it seemed as if the world were in conspiracy9 to make her feel deserted10. She had forgotten Wimbledon, the Horse Show, and other activities of the time of year. All such demonstrations11 of interest in life were, indeed, so far from her present mood that she could not conceive people taking part in them.
She sat down in her bedroom to write to Wilfrid. There was no longer any reason for silence, for Stack would tell him she had called.
She wrote:
“South Square, Westminster.
“Ever since Saturday I’ve been tortured by the doubt whether to write, or wait for you to write to me. Darling, I never meant to interfere12 in any way. I had come down to see Mr. Muskham and tell him that it’s I only who was responsible for what he so absurdly called the limit. I never expected you to be there. I didn’t really much hope even to find him. Please let me see you.
“Your unhappy
“DINNY.”
She went out herself to post it. On the way back she came on Kit13, with his governess, the dog, and the two youngest of her Aunt Alison’s children. They seemed entirely14 happy; she was ashamed not to seem so too, so they all went together to Kit’s schoolroom to have tea. Before it was over Michael came in. Dinny, who had seldom seen him with his little son, was fascinated by the easy excellence15 of their relationship. It was, perhaps, a little difficult to tell which was the elder, though a certain difference in size and the refusal of a second helping16 of strawberry jam seemed to favour Michael. That hour, in fact, brought her the nearest approach to happiness she had known since she left Wilfrid five days ago. After it was over she went with Michael to his study.
“Anything wrong, Dinny?”
Wilfrid’s best friend, and the easiest person in the world to confide17 in, and she did not know what to say! And then suddenly she began to talk, sitting in his armchair, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, staring not at him, but at her future. And Michael sat on the window-sill, his face now rueful, now whimsical, making little soothing18 sounds. Nothing would matter, she said, neither public opinion, the Press, nor even her family, if only there were not in Wilfrid himself this deep bitter unease, this basic doubt of his own conduct, this permanent itch19 to prove to others, and, above all, to himself, that he was not ‘yellow.’ Now that she had given way, it poured out of her, all that bottled-up feeling that she was walking on a marsh20, where at any moment she might sink in some deep, unlooked-for hole thinly covered by specious21 surface. She ceased and lay back in the chair exhausted22.
“But, Dinny,” said Michael, gently, “isn’t he really fond of you?”
“I don’t know, Michael; I thought so — I don’t know. Why should he be? I’m an ordinary person, he’s not.”
“We all seem ordinary to ourselves. I don’t want to flatter you, but you seem to me less ordinary than Wilfrid.”
“Oh, no!”
“Poets,” said Michael gloomily, “give a lot of trouble. What are we going to do about it?”
That evening after dinner he went forth23, ostensibly to the House, in fact to Cork Street.
Wilfrid was not in, so he asked Stack’s permission to wait. Sitting on the divan24 in that unconventional, dimly-lighted room, he twitted himself for having come. To imply that he came from Dinny would be worse than useless. Besides, he hadn’t. No! He had come to discover, if he could, whether Wilfrid really was in love with her. If not, then — well, then the sooner she was out of her misery25 the better. It might half break her heart, but that was better than pursuing a substance which wasn’t there. He knew, or thought he knew, that Wilfrid was the last person to endure a one-sided relationship. The worst of all disasters for Dinny would be to join herself to him under a misconception of his feelings for her. On a little table close to the divan, with the whisky, were the night’s letters — only two, one of them, he could see, from Dinny herself. The door was opened slightly and a dog came in. After sniffing26 at Michael’s trousers, it lay down with its head on its paws and its eyes fixed27 on the door. He spoke28 to it, but it took no notice — the right sort of dog. ‘I’ll give him till eleven,’ thought Michael. And almost immediately Wilfrid came. He had a bruise29 on one cheek and some plaster on his chin. The dog fluttered round his legs.
“Well, old man,” said Michael, “that must have been a hearty30 scrap31.”
“It was. Whisky?”
“No, thanks.”
He watched Wilfrid take up the letters and turn his back to open them.
‘I ought to have known he’d do that,’ thought Michael; ‘there goes my chance! He’s bound to pretend to be in love with her!’
Before turning round again Wilfrid made himself a drink and finished it. Then, facing Michael, he said: “Well?”
Disconcerted by the abruptness32 of that word, and by the knowledge that he had come to pump his friend, Michael did not answer.
“What d’you want to know?”
Michael said abruptly33: “Whether you’re in love with Dinny.”
Wilfrid laughed. “Really, Michael!”
“I know. But things can’t go on like this. Damn it! Wilfrid, you ought to think of her.”
“I do.” He said it with a face so withdrawn34 and unhappy that Michael thought: ‘He means that.’
“Then for God’s sake,” he said, “show it! Don’t let her eat her heart out like this!”
Wilfrid had turned to the window. Without looking round he said:
“You’ve never had occasion to try and prove yourself the opposite of yellow. Well, don’t! You won’t find the chance. It comes when you don’t want it, not when you do.”
“Naturally! But, my dear fellow, that’s not Dinny’s fault.”
“Her misfortune.”
“Well, then?”
Wilfrid wheeled round.
“Oh! damn you, Michael! Go away! No one can interfere in this. It’s much too intimate.”
Michael rose and clutched his hat. Wilfrid had said exactly what he himself had really been thinking ever since he came.
“You’re quite right,” he said humbly35. “Good-night, old man! That’s a nice dog.”
“I’m sorry,” said Wilfrid; “you meant well, but you can’t help. No one can. Good-night!”
Michael got out, and all the way downstairs he looked for the tail between his legs.
When he reached home Dinny had gone up, but Fleur was waiting down for him. He had not meant to speak of his visit, but, after looking at him keenly, she said:
“You haven’t been to the House, Michael. You’ve been to see Wilfrid.”
Michael nodded.
“Well?”
“No go!”
“I could have told you that. If you come across a man and woman quarrelling in the street, what do you do?”
“Pass by on the other side, if you can get there in time.”
“Well?”
“They’re NOT quarrelling.”
“No, but they’ve got a special world no one else can enter.”
“That’s what Wilfrid said.”
“Naturally.”
Michael stared. Yes, of course. She had once had her special world, and not with — him!
“It was stupid of me. But I AM stupid.”
“No, not stupid; well-intentioned. Are you going up?”
“Yes.”
As he went upstairs he had the peculiar36 feeling that it was she who wanted to go to bed with him rather than he with her. And yet, once in bed, that would all change, for of such was the nature of man!
Dinny, in her room above theirs, through her open window could hear the faint murmur37 of their voices, and, bowing her face on her hands, gave way to a feeling of despair. The stars in their courses fought against her! External opposition38 one could cut through or get round; but this deep spiritual unease in the loved one’s soul, that — ah! that — one could not reach; and the unreachable could not be pushed away, cut through, or circumvented39. She looked up at the stars that fought against her. Did the ancients really believe that, or was it, with them, as with her, just a manner of speaking? Did those bright wheeling jewels on the indigo40 velvet41 of all space really concern themselves with little men, the lives and loves of human insects, who, born from an embrace, met and clung and died and became dust? Those candescent worlds, circled by little offsplit planets — were their names taken in vain, or were they really in their motions and their relative positions the writing on the wall for men to read?
No! That was only human self-importance! To his small wheel man bound the Universe. Swing low, sweet chariots! But they didn’t! Man swung with them — in space . . . .
收听单词发音 |
1
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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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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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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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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30
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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circumvented
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| v.设法克服或避免（某事物），回避( circumvent的过去式和过去分词 )；绕过，绕行，绕道旅行 | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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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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