He got back late to the inn, and after dining went to bed, and to sleep — the sleep of a young body replete1 with exercise, and a mind heavy with visions. But in the middle of the night, he sat up suddenly awake. The moon streamed across his bed and fringed with a blueish halo the chair and table between himself and the window. “Diana after all!” he thought, his brain starting into throbbing2 activity. He seemed to be in the forest road again, watching the sleeping girl; and he asked himself how he could have left her and gone on. There she had lain, mysterious goddess of the cross~roads, one of the wandering divinities a man meets when he is young, and never afterward3; yet he had turned from her, afraid of disenchantment. What cowardice4 — what lack of imagination! Because he had seen a common-looking man coming toward her, and had concluded that she must be like him, he had run away from the magic of the unknown, the possibilities that lie in the folded hour. And now it was too late, and he would never see her again, or recapture his vanished mood. . .
It was not the fear of hurting Halo which had held him back. At the moment he had not even thought of her. But now he suddenly saw that, should he ever drift into a casual love-affair, she would probably suffer far more than poor Laura Lou with all her uncontrollable fits of suspicion and resentment5. The idea was new to him; he had always pictured Halo as living above such turmoils6, in the calm upper sphere of reason. But now he understood that her very calmness probably intensified7 her underlying8 emotions. There swept back upon him the physical and mental torture of his jealousy9 of Floss Delaney, the girl who had taught him the extremes of joy and pain, and he was oppressed by the thought that he might have made Halo suffer in the same way.
He wondered now how he, who vibrated to every pang10 of the beings he created, could have been so unperceiving and unfeeling. His imagination had matured, but in life he had remained a blundering boy. He had left Paris abruptly11, without warning or excuse, he had not even followed up his vague telegram by a letter of explanation. But how explain, when the explanation would have been: “Darling, I love you, but I want to get away from you”? — After all, he mused12, they were both free, and Halo knew that there are times when a man needs his liberty . . . But what if “liberty”, in such cases, means the license13 to do what would cause suffering if found out? License to wound, and escape the consequences? He lay on his bed, and stared into the future. How did two people who had once filled each other’s universe manage to hold together as the tide receded14? Why, by the world-old compulsion of marriage, he supposed. Marriage was a trick, a sham15, if you looked at it in one way; but it was the only means man had yet devised for defending himself from his own frivolity16.
He was struck by something august and mysterious in the fact of poor humanity’s building up this barrier against itself. To the Catholic church marriage was a divine institution; but it seemed to him infinitely17 more impressive as an emanation of the will of man . . . He fell asleep muttering: “That’s it . . . we must be married . . . must be married at once . . .” and when he woke, Diana and the moon were gone, and the autumn rain clouded his window.
He woke in a mood of quiet. It was almost always so: after a phase of agitation18 and uncertainty19, in which he seemed to have frittered away his powers in the useless effort to reconcile life and art, at the moment when he felt his creative faculty20 slipping away from him forever, there it stood at his side, as though in mockery of his self-distrust. So it had been when Laura Lou was dying, so no doubt it would be whenever life and art fought out their battle in him. He dressed and called for his coffee; then he sat down to write.
That girl in the forest! He knew now why she had been put there. To make his first chapter out of — glorious destiny! He laughed, lit a cigarette, and wrote on. Oh, the freedom, the quiet, the blessed awayness from all things! One by one the pages fell from table to floor, noiseless and regular as the fall of leaves in the forest. His isolation21 seemed invulnerable. Even the rain on his window was in the conspiracy22, and hung its veil between his too~eager eyes and the solicitations of the outer world, shutting him into a magic-making solitude23. . .
The day passed in that other-dimensional world of the imagination. His pen drove on and on. The very fact that Halo was not there to pick up the pages, and transfer them to the cool mould of her Remington, gave a glorious freedom to his periods. There they lay on the floor, untrammelled and unwatched as himself. He recalled the old days of his poverty and obscurity in New York, when he had sat alone in his fireless boarding-house room, pouring out prose and poetry till his brain reeled with hunger and fatigue24; and he knew now that those hours had been the needful prelude25 to whatever he had accomplished26 since. “You have to go plumb27 down to the Mothers to fish up the real thing,” he thought exultantly28.
Night came, and he turned on the weak electric light and continued to write. To his strong young eyes the page was as clear as by day. But at last the pen slipped from his hand, and sleep overcame him.
When he woke he felt chilly29 and hungry, his wrist was stiff, his eyes and forehead ached. The scribbled-over sheets lay at his feet in a heap — dead leaves indeed! He had come back to reality, and the world where he had spent those fervid30 hours had vanished in mist. He thought of Halo, of Paris, of all the interwoven threads of his life; he felt weak and puzzled as a child. “I must get back,” he said to himself; and he gathered up his papers.
It was late when he reached Paris; but he took his way home on foot through the drizzle31, down the Boulevard Sebastopol to the Seine, and through the old streets of the left bank to the Luxembourg. He was trying to put off his home-coming; not because he was troubled by the excuses and explanations he might have to offer, but because he dreaded32 the moment when the last frail33 shreds34 of his dream should detach themselves. After one of these plunges35 into the depths he always rose to the surface sore and bewildered; it was a relief to know that at that hour Halo would probably be in bed and asleep, and explanations could be deferred36 till the morrow. “Unless,” he reflected, “she’s out — at the theatre, perhaps — or dancing.” It was the first time since they had been together that he had pictured Halo as having a life of her own, a personality of her own, plans, arrangements, perhaps interests and sympathies unknown to him. “Funny . . .” he reflected . . . “when I go away anywhere I always shut up the idea of her in a box, as if she were a toy; or turn her to the wall, like an unfinished picture. . .” And he recalled the distant days in New York, when he saw her so seldom, and when, in their long hours of separation, his feverish37 imagination followed her through every moment of her life, stored up every allusion38 to her friends, her engagements, hunted out the addresses of the people she had said she was lunching or dining with, and tried to picture the houses in which she was being entertained, what she was saying to the persons about her, and how her voice sounded when it was not to him that she was speaking. . .
He found his latchkey, and entered the narrow hall. The door leading to the studio was half-open. Through it he saw the lamp on his desk, a cluster of red dahlias in the brown jar, and a table near the fire with wineglasses, chafing-dish and a bottle of white wine. Such an intimate welcome emanated39 from the scene that he drew back with the shyness of an intruder. She was out; he had been right; but before starting she had prepared this little supper for her return. Supper for two; probably for Tolby and herself. She had always liked Tolby — the young Englishman was more like the type of man she had been used to in her own circle of friends. He had Tarrant’s social ease, the cool bantering40 manner which Vance had long since despaired of acquiring. Yes; she was probably with Tolby . . . The thought was curiously41 distasteful.
A door opened, and from the bedroom Halo came out. She had flung a crimson42 silk dressing-gown over her shoulders, and her dark hair fell about her temples in soft disordered curls. She looked sleepy, happy and unsurprised. “I thought you’d be back tonight.” She put her arm about his neck, and he plunged43 with all his senses into the familiar atmosphere of her perfume, her powder, the mossy softness of her hair. “I knew you’d be as hungry as a wolf,” she laughed, drawing him to the table by the fire. “Do you remember that night at Cordova? Come and see if I’ve provided the right things.”
He looked about him with a low satisfied laugh. “It’s good to get back,” he said, laying a kiss on her bare nape as she stooped above the chafing-dish. She turned her face, and he saw that it was all his, from trembling lashes44 to parted lips. “Well, how did the work go?” she asked, putting him aside while she bent45 to break the eggs into the dish; and he answered: “Oh, great — but the best of going away is the coming back. . .”
“Look! Fresh mushrooms!” she cried, uncovering another dish; and as the warm savour of the cooking filled the air he threw himself back into his armchair, folding his arms luxuriously46 behind his head and said, half-laughing, half-seriously: “Do you know I could have sworn I saw you yesterday in the forest, asleep under a white umbrella? But your face was hidden, so I couldn’t be sure.”
“And you didn’t look?”
“No, I didn’t look.”
She tossed him the corkscrew, scooped47 the smoking mess of eggs and mushrooms into their two plates, and said laughingly: “Come.”
He uncorked the Chablis, drew his chair up, and fell joyfully48 upon the feast. How she knew how to take a man, to ease off difficult moments, what to take for granted, what to leave unsaid! What he had told her was true; a home-coming like this was even better than the going away. A bright hearth49, good food, good wine; the sense of ease, of lifted burdens, and a great inner exhilaration at the thought of work to come — this was how love repaid him for his escapade. He looked at Halo, and surprised her eyes fixed50 on his; and suddenly he felt that at the very heart of their intimacy51 the old problem lurked52, and that never, even in their moments of closest union, would they really understand each other. But the sensation barely brushed his soul. The next moment it was expanding in the glow of fire and wine, and Halo’s eyes shone with the old confiding53 tenderness. He filled his glass and began to talk to her about the new book.
How easy it was now to pour out what he had so jealously guarded before! The fruit was ripe, and it was sweet to heap it at her feet as she sat listening in the old way, her lids lowered, her chin propped54 in her hand. Nothing escaped her — she listened with every faculty, as she used to in the long summer days at the Willows55. She said little, put few questions; but when she spoke56 it was always to single out what he knew was good, or touch interrogatively on some point still doubtful. The night was nearly over when he gathered up his pages. “Lord — what an hour! I’ve tired you out; and I’ve never even asked what you’ve been up to while I was away.” With sudden compunction he put his arm about her.
“What I’ve been up to? Accepting dinner invitations for you, for one thing! You won’t mind? Lorry wants you to dine at the studio tomorrow: a big blowout for Mrs. Glaisher, who has developed a sudden interest in theatrical57 art and may possibly — he thinks probably — help him to produce his ballet. You know how hard he’s been trying for it.”
“Mrs. Glaisher? Who on earth’s Mrs. Glaisher?”
“Why, don’t you remember? One of the principal characters in your next-but-one-novel: ‘Park Avenue’. She’s waiting to sit to you: a Museum specimen58 of the old New York millionairess. If only she would subsidize ‘Factories’ Lorry’s future would be assured — or so he thinks. And he implores59 you on his knees to come and help him out. Mrs. Glaisher’s very particular; she’s named her guests, and the author of ‘The Puritan in Spain’ was first on the list. I’m sorry for you, darling — but you’ve got to go.”
“Oh, shucks,” Vance growled60. “I don’t believe she ever heard of me.”
“How little you know of the world you’re trying to write about! Mrs. Glaisher has found out that it’s the thing for the rich to patronize the arts, and she means to eclipse Mrs. Pulsifer. Suppose she should found a prize for the longest novel ever written — just at the moment when ‘Colossus’ appears?” She put her arms about Vance’s neck and laughed up at him. “You’ll go, dear — just for Lorry?”
“Oh, all right; but don’t let’s think of boring things now.” He brushed her hair from her forehead, and looked deeply into her eyes; then, when she slipped away, he sank into his chair and abandoned himself to the joy of re-reading the words freshly illuminated61 by her praise.
When he pulled himself out of his brooding, and went to bed, Halo was asleep. He had carried in the lamp from the studio, and stood shading it with his hand while he looked down on her. Usually, when she slept, her features regained62 their girlish clearness; and she was once more the Halo Spear who had lit up the dark old library at the Willows; but now youth and laughter were gone, her face was worn and guarded. “This is the real Halo,” he thought; and he knew it was the effort to hide her anxiety behind a laughing welcome which had left those furrows63 between her eyes.
“If only,” he mused in a burst of contrition64, “I could remember beforehand not to make her unhappy. . .”
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replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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turmoils
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| n.混乱( turmoil的名词复数 )；焦虑 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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44
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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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47
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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50
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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51
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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52
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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54
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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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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56
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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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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implores
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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61
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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63
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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