章节正文
"Yes. A very good fight. I heard all about it. It is easy to
blame her, but, as she asked me despairingly, could she go through
life veiled from head to foot or go out of it altogether into a
convent? No, she isn't guilty. She is simply - what she is."
"And what's that?"
"Very much of a woman. Perhaps a little more at the mercy of
contradictory impulses than other women. But that's not her fault.
I really think she has been very honest."
The voices sank suddenly to a still lower murmur and presently the
shape of the man went out of the room. Monsieur George heard
distinctly the door open and shut. Then he spoke for the first
time, discovering, with a particular pleasure, that it was quite
easy to speak. He was even under the impression that he had
shouted:
"Who is here?"
From the shadow of the room (he recognized at once the
characteristic outlines of the bulky shape) Mills advanced to the
side of the bed. Dona Rita had telegraphed to him on the day of
the duel and the man of books, leaving his retreat, had come as
fast as boats and trains could carry him South. For, as he said
later to Monsieur George, he had become fully awake to his part of
responsibility. And he added: "It was not of you alone that I was
thinking." But the very first question that Monsieur George put to
him was:
"How long is it since I saw you last?"
"Something like ten months," answered Mills' kindly voice.
"Ah! Is Therese outside the door? She stood there all night, you
know."
"Yes, I heard of it. She is hundreds of miles away now."
"Well, then, ask Rita to come in."
"I can't do that, my dear boy," said Mills with affectionate
gentleness. He hesitated a moment. "Dona Rita went away
yesterday," he said softly.
"Went away? Why?" asked Monsieur George.
"Because, I am thankful to say, your life is no longer in danger.
And I have told you that she is gone because, strange as it may
seem, I believe you can stand this news better now than later when
you get stronger."
It must be believed that Mills was right. Monsieur George fell
asleep before he could feel any pang at that intelligence. A sort
of confused surprise was in his mind but nothing else, and then his
eyes closed. The awakening was another matter. But that, too,
Mills had foreseen. For days he attended the bedside patiently
letting the man in the bed talk to him of Dona Rita but saying
little himself; till one day he was asked pointedly whether she had
ever talked to him openly. And then he said that she had, on more
than one occasion. "She told me amongst other things," Mills said,
"if this is any satisfaction to you to know, that till she met you
she knew nothing of love. That you were to her in more senses than
one a complete revelation."
"And then she went away. Ran away from the revelation," said the
man in the bed bitterly.
"What's the good of being angry?" remonstrated Mills, gently. "You
know that this world is not a world for lovers, not even for such
lovers as you two who have nothing to do with the world as it is.
No, a world of lovers would be impossible. It would be a mere ruin
of lives which seem to be meant for something else. What this
something is, I don't know; and I am certain," he said with playful
compassion, "that she and you will never find out."
A few days later they were again talking of Dona Rita Mills said:
"Before she left the house she gave me that arrow she used to wear
in her hair to hand over to you as a keepsake and also to prevent
you, she said, from dreaming of her. This message sounds rather
cryptic."
"Oh, I understand perfectly," said Monsieur George. "Don't give me
the thing now. Leave it somewhere where I can find it some day
when I am alone. But when you write to her you may tell her that
now at last - surer than Mr. Blunt's bullet - the arrow has found
its mark. There will be no more dreaming. Tell her. She will
understand."
"I don't even know where she is," murmured Mills.
"No, but her man of affairs knows. . . . Tell me, Mills, what will
become of her?"
"She will be wasted," said Mills sadly. "She is a most unfortunate
creature. Not even poverty could save her now. She cannot go back
to her goats. Yet who can tell? She may find something in life.
She may! It won't be love. She has sacrificed that chance to the
integrity of your life - heroically. Do you remember telling her
once that you meant to live your life integrally - oh, you lawless
young pedant! Well, she is gone; but you may be sure that whatever
she finds now in life it will not be peace. You understand me?
Not even in a convent."
"She was supremely lovable," said the wounded man, speaking of her
as if she were lying dead already on his oppressed heart.
"And elusive," struck in Mills in a low voice. "Some of them are
like that. She will never change. Amid all the shames and shadows
of that life there will always lie the ray of her perfect honesty.
I don't know about your honesty, but yours will be the easier lot.
You will always have your . . . other love - you pig-headed
enthusiast of the sea."
"Then let me go to it," cried the enthusiast. "Let me go to it."
He went to it as soon as he had strength enough to feel the
crushing weight of his loss (or his gain) fully, and discovered
that he could bear it without flinching. After this discovery he
was fit to face anything. He tells his correspondent that if he
had been more romantic he would never have looked at any other
woman. But on the contrary. No face worthy of attention escaped
him. He looked at them all; and each reminded him of Dona Rita,
either by some profoundresemblance or by the startling force of
contrast.
The faithful austerity of the sea protected him from the rumours
that fly on the tongues of men. He never heard of her. Even the
echoes of the sale of the great Allegre collection failed to reach
him. And that event must have made noise enough in the world. But
he never heard. He does not know. Then, years later, he was
deprived even of the arrow. It was lost to him in a stormy
catastrophe; and he confesses that next day he stood on a rocky,
wind-assaulted shore, looking at the seas raging over the very spot
of his loss and thought that it was well. It was not a thing that
one could leave behind one for strange hands - for the cold eyes of
ignorance. Like the old King of Thule with the gold goblet of his
mistress he would have had to cast it into the sea, before he died.
He says he smiled at the romantic notion. But what else could he
have done with it?
End
blame her, but, as she asked me despairingly, could she go through
life veiled from head to foot or go out of it altogether into a
convent? No, she isn't guilty. She is simply - what she is."
"And what's that?"
"Very much of a woman. Perhaps a little more at the mercy of
contradictory impulses than other women. But that's not her fault.
I really think she has been very honest."
The voices sank suddenly to a still lower murmur and presently the
shape of the man went out of the room. Monsieur George heard
distinctly the door open and shut. Then he spoke for the first
time, discovering, with a particular pleasure, that it was quite
easy to speak. He was even under the impression that he had
shouted:
"Who is here?"
From the shadow of the room (he recognized at once the
characteristic outlines of the bulky shape) Mills advanced to the
side of the bed. Dona Rita had telegraphed to him on the day of
the duel and the man of books, leaving his retreat, had come as
fast as boats and trains could carry him South. For, as he said
later to Monsieur George, he had become fully awake to his part of
responsibility. And he added: "It was not of you alone that I was
thinking." But the very first question that Monsieur George put to
him was:
"How long is it since I saw you last?"
"Something like ten months," answered Mills' kindly voice.
"Ah! Is Therese outside the door? She stood there all night, you
know."
"Yes, I heard of it. She is hundreds of miles away now."
"Well, then, ask Rita to come in."
"I can't do that, my dear boy," said Mills with affectionate
gentleness. He hesitated a moment. "Dona Rita went away
yesterday," he said softly.
"Went away? Why?" asked Monsieur George.
"Because, I am thankful to say, your life is no longer in danger.
And I have told you that she is gone because, strange as it may
seem, I believe you can stand this news better now than later when
you get stronger."
It must be believed that Mills was right. Monsieur George fell
asleep before he could feel any pang at that intelligence. A sort
of confused surprise was in his mind but nothing else, and then his
eyes closed. The awakening was another matter. But that, too,
Mills had foreseen. For days he attended the bedside patiently
letting the man in the bed talk to him of Dona Rita but saying
little himself; till one day he was asked pointedly whether she had
ever talked to him openly. And then he said that she had, on more
than one occasion. "She told me amongst other things," Mills said,
"if this is any satisfaction to you to know, that till she met you
she knew nothing of love. That you were to her in more senses than
one a complete revelation."
"And then she went away. Ran away from the revelation," said the
man in the bed bitterly.
"What's the good of being angry?" remonstrated Mills, gently. "You
know that this world is not a world for lovers, not even for such
lovers as you two who have nothing to do with the world as it is.
No, a world of lovers would be impossible. It would be a mere ruin
of lives which seem to be meant for something else. What this
something is, I don't know; and I am certain," he said with playful
compassion, "that she and you will never find out."
A few days later they were again talking of Dona Rita Mills said:
"Before she left the house she gave me that arrow she used to wear
in her hair to hand over to you as a keepsake and also to prevent
you, she said, from dreaming of her. This message sounds rather
cryptic."
"Oh, I understand perfectly," said Monsieur George. "Don't give me
the thing now. Leave it somewhere where I can find it some day
when I am alone. But when you write to her you may tell her that
now at last - surer than Mr. Blunt's bullet - the arrow has found
its mark. There will be no more dreaming. Tell her. She will
understand."
"I don't even know where she is," murmured Mills.
"No, but her man of affairs knows. . . . Tell me, Mills, what will
become of her?"
"She will be wasted," said Mills sadly. "She is a most unfortunate
creature. Not even poverty could save her now. She cannot go back
to her goats. Yet who can tell? She may find something in life.
She may! It won't be love. She has sacrificed that chance to the
integrity of your life - heroically. Do you remember telling her
once that you meant to live your life integrally - oh, you lawless
young pedant! Well, she is gone; but you may be sure that whatever
she finds now in life it will not be peace. You understand me?
Not even in a convent."
"She was supremely lovable," said the wounded man, speaking of her
as if she were lying dead already on his oppressed heart.
"And elusive," struck in Mills in a low voice. "Some of them are
like that. She will never change. Amid all the shames and shadows
of that life there will always lie the ray of her perfect honesty.
I don't know about your honesty, but yours will be the easier lot.
You will always have your . . . other love - you pig-headed
enthusiast of the sea."
"Then let me go to it," cried the enthusiast. "Let me go to it."
He went to it as soon as he had strength enough to feel the
crushing weight of his loss (or his gain) fully, and discovered
that he could bear it without flinching. After this discovery he
was fit to face anything. He tells his correspondent that if he
had been more romantic he would never have looked at any other
woman. But on the contrary. No face worthy of attention escaped
him. He looked at them all; and each reminded him of Dona Rita,
either by some profoundresemblance or by the startling force of
contrast.
The faithful austerity of the sea protected him from the rumours
that fly on the tongues of men. He never heard of her. Even the
echoes of the sale of the great Allegre collection failed to reach
him. And that event must have made noise enough in the world. But
he never heard. He does not know. Then, years later, he was
deprived even of the arrow. It was lost to him in a stormy
catastrophe; and he confesses that next day he stood on a rocky,
wind-assaulted shore, looking at the seas raging over the very spot
of his loss and thought that it was well. It was not a thing that
one could leave behind one for strange hands - for the cold eyes of
ignorance. Like the old King of Thule with the gold goblet of his
mistress he would have had to cast it into the sea, before he died.
He says he smiled at the romantic notion. But what else could he
have done with it?
End
- altogether [,ɔ:ltə´geðə]
ad.完全；总而言之 (初中英语单词) - guilty [´gilti] a.有罪的；心虚的 (初中英语单词)
- presently [´prezəntli] ad.不久；目前 (初中英语单词)
- monsieur [mə´sjə:] n.先生 (初中英语单词)
- impression [im´preʃən] n.印刷；印象；效果 (初中英语单词)
- advanced [əd´vɑ:nst] a.先进的；高级的 (初中英语单词)
- retreat [ri´tri:t] v.&n.退却；撤退；放弃 (初中英语单词)
- intelligence [in´telidʒəns] n.智力；消息 (初中英语单词)
- satisfaction [,sætis´fækʃən] n.满意；满足 (初中英语单词)
- gently [´dʒentli] ad.温和地；静静地 (初中英语单词)
- bullet [´bulit] n.子弹 (初中英语单词)
- poverty [´pɔvəti] n.贫穷(乏，瘠)；不足 (初中英语单词)
- correspondent [,kɔri´spɔndənt] n.记者 a.符合的 (初中英语单词)
- romantic [rəu´mæntik] a.传奇(式)的；浪漫的 (初中英语单词)
- contrary [´kɔntrəri] a.相反的 n.相反 (初中英语单词)
- worthy [´wə:ði] a.有价值的；值得的 (初中英语单词)
- faithful [´feiθfəl] a.忠实的；可靠的 (初中英语单词)
- collection [kə´lekʃən] n.收集；征收；募捐 (初中英语单词)
- thankful [´θæŋkfəl] a.感激的；欣慰的 (高中英语单词)
- openly [´əupənli] ad.公开地；直率地 (高中英语单词)
- amongst [ə´mʌŋst] prep.其中之一 =among (高中英语单词)
- honesty [´ɔnisti] n.诚实，老实 (高中英语单词)
- profound [prə´faund] a.深奥的；渊博的 (高中英语单词)
- resemblance [ri´zembləns] n.类似；肖像；外表 (高中英语单词)
- startling [´stɑ:tliŋ] a.惊人的 (高中英语单词)
- bedside [´bedsaid] n.床边 a.护理的 (英语四级单词)
- goblet [´gɔblit] n.高脚玻璃杯 (英语四级单词)
- awakening [ə´weikəniŋ] n.&a.觉醒(中的) (英语六级单词)
- foreseen [fɔ:´si:n] foresee的过去分词 (英语六级单词)
- speaking [´spi:kiŋ] n.说话 a.发言的 (英语六级单词)
- enthusiast [in´θju:ziæst] n.热衷者，渴慕者 (英语六级单词)
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章节正文
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