Chapter 18
What are you two plotting together, aunt Medora?" Madame Olenska cried as she came into the room.
She was dressed as if for a ball. Everything about her shimmered and glimmered softly, as if her dress had been woven out of candle-beams; and she carried her head high, like a pretty woman challenging a roomful of rivals.
"We were saying, my dear, that here was something beautiful to surprise you with," Mrs. Manson rejoined, rising to her feet and pointing archly to the flowers.
Madame Olenska stopped short and looked at the bouquet. Her colour did not change, but a sort of white radiance of anger ran over her like summer lightning. "Ah," she exclaimed, in a shrill voice that the young man had never heard, "who is ridiculous enough to send me a bouquet? Why a bouquet? And why tonight of all nights? I am not going to a ball; I am not a girl engaged to be married. But some people are always ridiculous."
She turned back to the door, opened it, and called out: "Nastasia!"
The ubiquitous handmaiden promptly appeared, and Archer heard Madame Olenska say, in an Italian that she seemed to pronounce with intentional deliberateness in order that he might follow it: "Here--throw this into the dustbin!" and then, as Nastasia stared protestingly: "But no--it's not the fault of the poor flowers. Tell the boy to carry them to the house three doors away, the house of Mr. Winsett, the dark gentleman who dined here. His wife is ill--they may give her pleasure . . . The boy is out, you say? Then, my dear one, run yourself; here, put my cloak over you and fly. I want the thing out of the house immediately! And, as you live, don't say they come from me!"
She flung her velvet opera cloak over the maid's shoulders and turned back into the drawing-room, shutting the door sharply. Her bosom was rising high under its lace, and for a moment Archer thought she was about to cry; but she burst into a laugh instead, and looking from the Marchioness to Archer, asked abruptly: "And you two--have you made friends!"
"It's for Mr. Archer to say, darling; he has waited patiently while you were dressing."
"Yes--I gave you time enough: my hair wouldn't go," Madame Olenska said, raising her hand to the heaped-up curls of her chignon. "But that reminds me: I see Dr. Carver is gone, and you'll be late at the Blenkers'. Mr. Archer, will you put my aunt in the carriage?"
She followed the Marchioness into the hall, saw her fitted into a miscellaneous heap of overshoes, shawls and tippets, and called from the doorstep: "Mind, the carriage is to be back for me at ten!" Then she returned to the drawing-room, where Archer, on re-entering it, found her standing by the mantelpiece, examining herself in the mirror. It was not usual, in New York society, for a lady to address her parlour-maid as "my dear one," and send her out on an errand wrapped in her own opera-cloak; and Archer, through all his deeper feelings, tasted the pleasurable excitement of being in a world where action followed on emotion with such Olympian speed.
Madame Olenska did not move when he came up behind her, and for a second their eyes met in the mirror; then she turned, threw herself into her sofa- corner, and sighed out: "There's time for a cigarette."
He handed her the box and lit a spill for her; and as the flame flashed up into her face she glanced at him with laughing eyes and said: "What do you think of me in a temper?"
Archer paused a moment; then he answered with sudden resolution: "It makes me understand what your aunt has been saying about you."
"I knew she'd been talking about me. Well?"
"She said you were used to all kinds of things-- splendours and amusements and excitements--that we could never hope to give you here."
Madame Olenska smiled faintly into the circle of smoke about her lips.
"Medora is incorrigibly romantic. It has made up to her for so many things!"
Archer hesitated again, and again took his risk. "Is your aunt's romanticism always consistent with accuracy?"
"You mean: does she speak the truth?" Her niece considered. "Well, I'll tell you: in almost everything she says, there's something true and something untrue. But why do you ask? What has she been telling you?"
He looked away into the fire, and then back at her shining presence. His heart tightened with the thought that this was their last evening by that fireside, and that in a moment the carriage would come to carry her away.
"She says--she pretends that Count Olenski has asked her to persuade you to go back to him."
Madame Olenska made no answer. She sat motionless, holding her cigarette in her half-lifted hand. The expression of her face had not changed; and Archer remembered that he had before noticed her apparent incapacity for surprise.
"You knew, then?" he broke out.
She was silent for so long that the ash dropped from her cigarette. She brushed it to the floor. "She has hinted about a letter: poor darling! Medora's hints--"
"Is it at your husband's request that she has arrived here suddenly?"
Madame Olenska seemed to consider this question also. "There again: one can't tell. She told me she had had a `spiritual summons,' whatever that is, from Dr. Carver. I'm afraid she's going to marry Dr. Carver . . . poor Medora, there's always some one she wants to marry. But perhaps the people in Cuba just got tired of her! I think she was with them as a sort of paid companion. Really, I don't know why she came."
"But you do believe she has a letter from your husband?"
Again Madame Olenska brooded silently; then she said: "After all, it was to be expected."
The young man rose and went to lean against the fireplace. A sudden restlessness possessed him, and he was tongue-tied by the sense that their minutes were numbered, and that at any moment he might hear the wheels of the returning carriage.
"You know that your aunt believes you will go back?"
Madame Olenska raised her head quickly. A deep blush rose to her face and spread over her neck and shoulders. She blushed seldom and painfully, as if it hurt her like a burn.
"Many cruel things have been believed of me," she said.
"Oh, Ellen--forgive me; I'm a fool and a brute!"
She smiled a little. "You are horribly nervous; you have your own troubles. I know you think the Wellands are unreasonable about your marriage, and of course I agree with you. In Europe people don't understand our long American engagements; I suppose they are not as calm as we are." She pronounced the "we" with a faint emphasis that gave it an ironic sound.
Archer felt the irony but did not dare to take it up. After all, she had perhaps purposely deflected the conversation from her own affairs, and after the pain his last words had evidently caused her he felt that all he could do was to follow her lead. But the sense of the waning hour made him desperate: he could not bear the thought that a barrier of words should drop between them again.
"Yes," he said abruptly; "I went south to ask May to marry me after Easter. There's no reason why we shouldn't be married then."
"And May adores you--and yet you couldn't convince her? I thought her too intelligent to be the slave of such absurd superstitions."
"She IS too intelligent--she's not their slave."
Madame Olenska looked at him. "Well, then--I don't understand."
Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush. "We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."
"Merciful heavens--a bad sign?"
"She thinks it means that I can't trust myself to go on caring for her. She thinks, in short, I want to marry her at once to get away from some one that I--care for more."
Madame Olenska examined this curiously. "But if she thinks that--why isn't she in a hurry too?"
"Because she's not like that: she's so much nobler. She insists all the more on the long engagement, to give me time--"
"Time to give her up for the other woman?"
"If I want to."
Madame Olenska leaned toward the fire and gazed into it with fixed eyes. Down the quiet street Archer heard the approaching trot of her horses.
"That IS noble," she said, with a slight break in her voice.
"Yes. But it's ridiculous."
"Ridiculous? Because you don't care for any one else?"
"Because I don't mean to marry any one else."
"Ah." There was another long interval. At length she looked up at him and asked: "This other woman-- does she love you?"
"Oh, there's no other woman; I mean, the person that May was thinking of is--was never--"
"Then, why, after all, are you in such haste?"
"There's your carriage," said Archer.
She half-rose and looked about her with absent eyes. Her fan and gloves lay on the sofa beside her and she picked them up mechanically.
"Yes; I suppose I must be going."
"You're going to Mrs. Struthers's?"
"Yes." She smiled and added: "I must go where I am invited, or I should be too lonely. Why not come with me?"
Archer felt that at any cost he must keep her beside him, must make her give him the rest of her evening. Ignoring her question, he continued to lean against the chimney-piece, his eyes fixed on the hand in which she held her gloves and fan, as if watching to see if he had the power to make her drop them.
"May guessed the truth," he said. "There is another woman--but not the one she thinks."
Ellen Olenska made no answer, and did not move. After a moment he sat down beside her, and, taking her hand, softly unclasped it, so that the gloves and fan fell on the sofa between them.
She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don't make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning.
Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us."
"Possible for either of us?" She looked at him with unfeigned astonishment. "And you say that--when it's you who've made it impossible?"
He stared at her, groping in a blackness through which a single arrow of light tore its blinding way.
"I'VE made it impossible--?"
"You, you, YOU!" she cried, her lip trembling like a child's on the verge of tears. "Isn't it you who made me give up divorcing--give it up because you showed me how selfish and wicked it was, how one must sacrifice one's self to preserve the dignity of marriage . . . and to spare one's family the publicity, the scandal? And because my family was going to be your family--for May's sake and for yours--I did what you told me, what you proved to me that I ought to do. Ah," she broke out with a sudden laugh, "I've made no secret of having done it for you!"
She sank down on the sofa again, crouching among the festive ripples of her dress like a stricken masquerader; and the young man stood by the fireplace and continued to gaze at her without moving.
"Good God," he groaned. "When I thought--"
"You thought?"
"Ah, don't ask me what I thought!"
Still looking at her, he saw the same burning flush creep up her neck to her face. She sat upright, facing him with a rigid dignity.
"I do ask you."
"Well, then: there were things in that letter you asked me to read--"
"My husband's letter?"
"Yes."
"I had nothing to fear from that letter: absolutely nothing! All I feared was to bring notoriety, scandal, on the family--on you and May."
"Good God," he groaned again, bowing his face in his hands.
The silence that followed lay on them with the weight of things final and irrevocable. It seemed to Archer to be crushing him down like his own grave-stone; in all the wide future he saw nothing that would ever lift that load from his heart. He did not move from his place, or raise his head from his hands; his hidden eyeballs went on staring into utter darkness.
"At least I loved you--" he brought out.
On the other side of the hearth, from the sofa-corner where he supposed that she still crouched, he heard a faint stifled crying like a child's. He started up and came to her side.
"Ellen! What madness! Why are you crying? Nothing's done that can't be undone. I'm still free, and you're going to be." He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shrivelling up like ghosts at sunrise. The one thing that astonished him now was that he should have stood for five minutes arguing with her across the width of the room, when just touching her made everything so simple.
She gave him back all his kiss, but after a moment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and she put him aside and stood up.
"Ah, my poor Newland--I suppose this had to be. But it doesn't in the least alter things," she said, looking down at him in her turn from the hearth.
"It alters the whole of life for me."
"No, no--it mustn't, it can't. You're engaged to May Welland; and I'm married."
He stood up too, flushed and resolute. "Nonsense! It's too late for that sort of thing. We've no right to lie to other people or to ourselves. We won't talk of your marriage; but do you see me marrying May after this?"
She stood silent, resting her thin elbows on the mantelpiece, her profile reflected in the glass behind her. One of the locks of her chignon had become loosened and hung on her neck; she looked haggard and almost old.
"I don't see you," she said at length, "putting that question to May. Do you?"
He gave a reckless shrug. "It's too late to do anything else."
"You say that because it's the easiest thing to say at this moment--not because it's true. In reality it's too late to do anything but what we'd both decided on."
"Ah, I don't understand you!"
She forced a pitiful smile that pinched her face instead of smoothing it. "You don't understand because you haven't yet guessed how you've changed things for me: oh, from the first--long before I knew all you'd done."
"All I'd done?"
"Yes. I was perfectly unconscious at first that people here were shy of me--that they thought I was a dreadful sort of person. It seems they had even refused to meet me at dinner. I found that out afterward; and how you'd made your mother go with you to the van der Luydens'; and how you'd insisted on announcing your engagement at the Beaufort ball, so that I might have two families to stand by me instead of one--"
At that he broke into a laugh.
"Just imagine," she said, "how stupid and unobservant I was! I knew nothing of all this till Granny blurted it out one day. New York simply meant peace and freedom to me: it was coming home. And I was so happy at being among my own people that every one I met seemed kind and good, and glad to see me. But from the very beginning," she continued, "I felt there was no one as kind as you; no one who gave me reasons that I understood for doing what at first seemed so hard and--unnecessary. The very good people didn't convince me; I felt they'd never been tempted. But you knew; you understood; you had felt the world outside tugging at one with all its golden hands--and yet you hated the things it asks of one; you hated happiness bought by disloyalty and cruelty and indifference. That was what I'd never known before--and it's better than anything I've known."
She spoke in a low even voice, without tears or visible agitation; and each word, as it dropped from her, fell into his breast like burning lead. He sat bowed over, his head between his hands, staring at the hearthrug, and at the tip of the satin shoe that showed under her dress. Suddenly he knelt down and kissed the shoe.
She bent over him, laying her hands on his shoulders, and looking at him with eyes so deep that he remained motionless under her gaze.
"Ah, don't let us undo what you've done!" she cried. "I can't go back now to that other way of thinking. I can't love you unless I give you up."
His arms were yearning up to her; but she drew away, and they remained facing each other, divided by the distance that her words had created. Then, abruptly, his anger overflowed.
"And Beaufort? Is he to replace me?"
As the words sprang out he was prepared for an answering flare of anger; and he would have welcomed it as fuel for his own. But Madame Olenska only grew a shade paler, and stood with her arms hanging down before her, and her head slightly bent, as her way was when she pondered a question.
"He's waiting for you now at Mrs. Struthers's; why don't you go to him?" Archer sneered.
She turned to ring the bell. "I shall not go out this evening; tell the carriage to go and fetch the Signora Marchesa," she said when the maid came.
After the door had closed again Archer continued to look at her with bitter eyes. "Why this sacrifice? Since you tell me that you're lonely I've no right to keep you from your friends."
She smiled a little under her wet lashes. "I shan't be lonely now. I WAS lonely; I WAS afraid. But the emptiness and the darkness are gone; when I turn back into myself now I'm like a child going at night into a room where there's always a light."
Her tone and her look still enveloped her in a soft inaccessibility, and Archer groaned out again: "I don't understand you!"
"Yet you understand May!"
He reddened under the retort, but kept his eyes on her. "May is ready to give me up."
"What! Three days after you've entreated her on your knees to hasten your marriage?"
"She's refused; that gives me the right--"
"Ah, you've taught me what an ugly word that is," she said.
He turned away with a sense of utter weariness. He felt as though he had been struggling for hours up the face of a steep precipice, and now, just as he had fought his way to the top, his hold had given way and he was pitching down headlong into darkness.
If he could have got her in his arms again he might have swept away her arguments; but she still held him at a distance by something inscrutably aloof in her look and attitude, and by his own awed sense of her sincerity. At length he began to plead again.
"If we do this now it will be worse afterward--worse for every one--"
"No--no--no!" she almost screamed, as if he frightened her.
At that moment the bell sent a long tinkle through the house. They had heard no carriage stopping at the door, and they stood motionless, looking at each other with startled eyes.
Outside, Nastasia's step crossed the hall, the outer door opened, and a moment later she came in carrying a telegram which she handed to the Countess Olenska.
"The lady was very happy at the flowers," Nastasia said, smoothing her apron. "She thought it was her signor marito who had sent them, and she cried a little and said it was a folly."
Her mistress smiled and took the yellow envelope. She tore it open and carried it to the lamp; then, when the door had closed again, she handed the telegram to Archer.
It was dated from St. Augustine, and addressed to the Countess Olenska. In it he read: "Granny's telegram successful. Papa and Mamma agree marriage after Easter. Am telegraphing Newland. Am too happy for words and love you dearly. Your grateful May."
Half an hour later, when Archer unlocked his own front-door, he found a similar envelope on the hall-table on top of his pile of notes and letters. The message inside the envelope was also from May Welland, and ran as follows: "Parents consent wedding Tuesday after Easter at twelve Grace Church eight bridesmaids please see Rector so happy love May."
Archer crumpled up the yellow sheet as if the gesture could annihilate the news it contained. Then he pulled out a small pocket-diary and turned over the pages with trembling fingers; but he did not find what he wanted, and cramming the telegram into his pocket he mounted the stairs.
A light was shining through the door of the little hall-room which served Janey as a dressing-room and boudoir, and her brother rapped impatiently on the panel. The door opened, and his sister stood before him in her immemorial purple flannel dressing-gown, with her hair "on pins." Her face looked pale and apprehensive.
"Newland! I hope there's no bad news in that telegram? I waited on purpose, in case--" (No item of his correspondence was safe from Janey.)
He took no notice of her question. "Look here-- what day is Easter this year?"
She looked shocked at such unchristian ignorance. "Easter? Newland! Why, of course, the first week in April. Why?"
"The first week?" He turned again to the pages of his diary, calculating rapidly under his breath. "The first week, did you say?" He threw back his head with a long laugh.
"For mercy's sake what's the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter, except that I'm going to be married in a month."
Janey fell upon his neck and pressed him to her purple flannel breast. "Oh Newland, how wonderful! I'm so glad! But, dearest, why do you keep on laughing? Do hush, or you'll wake Mamma."
“你们俩在搞什么阴谋呀，梅多拉姑妈？”奥兰斯卡夫人大声说着，走进屋来。
她打扮得像是要参加舞会的样子，周身散发着柔和的亮光，仿佛她的衣服是用烛光编织成的一样。她高昂着头，像个傲视满屋竞争者的漂亮女子。
“我们正在说，亲爱的，这儿有件美丽的东西让你吃惊，”曼森夫人回答说，她站起身，诡秘地指着那些鲜花。
奥兰斯卡夫人突然停住脚步，看着那束花。她的脸色并没有变，但一种无色透明的怒气像夏天的闪电般从她身上溢出。“咳，”她喊道，那尖厉的声音是年轻人从未听到过的，“谁这么荒唐给我送花来？为什么送花？而且，为什么单单选在今天晚上？我又不去参加舞会，我也不是订了婚准备出嫁的姑娘。可有些人老是这么荒唐。”
她回身走到门口，打开门，喊道：“娜斯塔西娅！”
那位无所不在的侍女立即出现了。奥兰斯卡夫人似乎是为了让他听懂，故意把意大利语讲得很慢。只听她说：“来——把这东西扔进垃圾箱！”接着，由于娜斯塔西娅表示异议地瞪着眼睛，她又说：“先甭扔了——这些可怜的花并没有错。告诉男仆把它送到隔三个门的那家去，在这儿吃晚饭的那位阴郁的绅士温塞特先生家。他妻子正生病——这些花会给她快乐的……你说男仆出去了？那么，亲爱的，你亲自跑一趟。给，披上我的斗篷，快去。我要这东西立刻离开我的家！可千万别说是我送的！”
她把她看歌剧的丝绒斗篷拨到女佣肩上，转身回到客厅，并猛地把门关上。她的胸部在剧烈地起伏，一时间，阿切尔以为她马上要哭了。可她反而爆发出一阵笑声，看看侯爵夫人，又看看阿切尔，冷不丁地问道：“你们两个——已经是朋友了？”
“这要让阿切尔先生说，亲爱的。你梳妆的时候他一直耐心等着。”
“是啊——我给你们留了足够的时间，我的头发老不听话，”奥兰斯卡夫人说，一面抬手摸着假髻上那一堆发鬈。“可我倒想起来了：我看卡弗博士已经走了，你要去布兰克家，也该走了。阿切尔先生，请你把我姑妈送上车好吗？”
她跟着侯爵夫人走进门厅，照看她穿戴上那一堆套鞋、披肩和斗篷。她在门阶上大声说：“记着，马车要在10点钟回来接我！”然后就回客厅去了。阿切尔重新进屋的时候，发现她正站在壁炉旁，对着镜子审视自己。一位夫人喊自己的客厅女佣“亲爱的”，并派她穿着自己的斗篷出去办事，这在纽约上流社会可是非同寻常的举动。面对这种随心所欲、雷厉风行的作法，阿切尔全身心地感到兴奋、惬意。
他从后面走过来，奥兰斯卡夫人没有动。一瞬间，他们两人的目光在镜中相遇了。这时她转过身来，猛地坐到沙发角里，叹口气说：“还来得及吸支香烟。”
他递给她烟盒，并为她点着一片引柴，火苗燃起来照到她的脸上，她两眼笑着瞧了他一眼说：“你觉得我发起火来怎么样？”
阿切尔停了一会儿，接着毅然决然地说：“它使我明白了你姑妈刚才讲的你那些事。”
“我就知道她在谈论我，是吗？”
“她讲到你过去习惯的各种事情——显赫、娱乐、刺激——我们这儿根本不可能向你提供的那些东西。”
奥兰斯卡夫人淡然一笑，嘴里吐出一团烟圈。
“梅多拉的罗曼蒂克是根深蒂固的，这使她在许多方面得到了补偿！”
阿切尔又犹豫了，但他又大着胆子问：“你姑妈的浪漫主义是否一贯与准确性保持一致呢？”
“你是说，她是否讲真话？”她的侄女推敲说，“唔，我来告诉你：差不多她说的每一件事都既有真实的成分，又有不真实的成分。不过你干吗问这件事？她对你讲什么啦？”
他把目光移开，盯住炉火，然后又返回来看着她那光灿照人的姿容。想到这是他们在这个炉边相会的最后一个晚上，而且再过一会儿马车就要来把她接走，他的心不由绷紧了。
“她说——她说奥兰斯基伯爵要求她劝你回到他身边去。”
奥兰斯卡夫人没有回答。她坐着纹丝不动，举到半途的手里握着香烟，面部的表情也没有变化。阿切尔记得以前就注意到她明显没有惊讶的反应。
“这么说你早已知道了？”他喊道。
她沉默了许久，烟灰从她的香烟上掉了下来，她把它掸到地上。“她暗示过一封信的事。可怜的东西！梅多拉的暗示——”
“她是不是应你丈夫的要求才突然来这儿的？”
奥兰斯卡夫人似乎也在思考这个问题。“又来了，谁知道呢？她对我说是受卡弗博士的什么‘精神召唤’而来的。我看她打算嫁给卡弗博士……可怜的梅多拉，总是有那么个人她想嫁。但也许是古巴的那些人对她厌倦了。我想她跟他们在一起，身份是拿工钱的陪伴。真的，我搞不清她为什么来这儿。”
“可你确实相信她手上有一封你丈夫的信？”
奥兰斯卡夫人又一次默然沉思起来，过了一会儿，她说：“毕竟，这是预料中的事。”
年轻人站起来，走过去倚在了壁炉架上。他突然变得紧张不安，舌头像是被扎住了似的，因为他意识到他们没有多少时间了，他随时都可能听到归来的车轮声。
“你知道你姑妈相信你会回去吗？”
奥兰斯卡夫人迅速抬起头来，一片深红色在她脸上泛起，漫过她的脖颈。肩头。她很少脸红，而脸红的时候显得很痛苦，仿佛被烫伤了似的。
“人们相信我会做很多残忍的事，”她说。
“唉，埃伦——原谅我；我是个可恶的傻瓜！”
她露出一点笑容说：“你非常紧张，你有自己的烦恼。我知道，你觉得韦兰夫妇对你的婚事十分不通情理，我当然赞同你的意见。欧洲人不理解我们美国人漫长的订婚期，我想他们不如我们镇定。”她讲“我们”时稍稍加重了语气，使人听起来有一点讽刺的意味。
阿切尔感觉到了这种讽刺，但却不敢接过话头。毕竟，她也许只是有意地把话题从自己身上转开，在他最后那句话显然引起了她的痛苦之后，他觉得现在只能随着她说。然而时间的流逝使他不顾一切：他不能忍受再让口舌的障碍把他们隔开了。
“不错，”他突然说，“我曾到南方要求梅复活节后与我结婚，到那时还不结婚，是没有道理的。”
“而且梅很崇拜你——可你没能说服她，是吗？我原来以为她很聪明，不会对那种荒唐的迷信习惯惟命是从呢。”
“她是太聪明了——她没有惟命是从。”
奥兰斯卡夫人看着他说：“哦，这样——我就不明白了。”
阿切尔涨红了脸，急忙说下去。“我们俩坦率地交谈了一次——一差不多是第一次。她以为我的急不可耐是一种坏兆头。”
“老大爷——坏兆头？”
“她以为这说明我对自己能否继续喜欢她缺乏信心。总之，她以为，我想立即同她结婚，是为了逃避某一个——我更喜欢的人。”
奥兰斯卡大人好奇地推敲这件事。“可如果她那样想——干吗不也急着结婚呢？”
“因为她不是那种人：她非常地高尚，反而越发坚持订婚期要长，以便给我时间——”
“给你时间抛弃她，去找另一个女人？”
“假如我想那样做的话。”
奥兰斯卡夫人朝炉火探了探身，目光凝视着炉火。阿切尔听见下面安静的街道上传来她的马越来越近的奔跑声。
“这的确很高尚，”她说，声音有点儿沙哑。
“是的，不过很荒唐。”
“荒唐？因为你根本不喜欢别的人？”
“因为我不打算娶别的人。”
“噢。”又是一阵长时间的停顿。最后，她抬头看着他问道：“这位另一个女人——她爱你吗？”
“咳，根本就没有另一个女人；我是说，梅所想象的那个人决不——从来没——”
“那么，你究竟为什么这样着急呢？”
“你的马车来了，”阿切尔说。
她半立起身子，目光茫然地打量一下身边。她的扇子和手套摆在她身旁的沙发上，她心不在焉地拾了起来。
“是啊，我想我得准备走了。”
“是到斯特拉瑟斯太太家去吗？”
“是的。”她露出笑容补充说：“我必须到受欢迎的地方去，不然我会感到太孤单，干吗不跟我一块儿去？”
阿切尔觉得不论付出什么代价他都必须把她留在身边，必须让她把今晚的时间给他。他没有回答她的询问，继续倚在壁炉架上，目光凝视着她那只拿着手套和扇子的手，仿佛要看一看，他是否有力量让她放下那两件东西。
“梅猜对了，”他说。“是有另外一个女人——但不是她想的那一位”
埃伦•奥兰斯卡没有搭言，也没有动弹。过了一会儿，他坐到她身旁，拿起她的手，轻轻把它伸开，结果手套和扇子落在了他俩中间的沙发上。
她跳了起来，挣开他的手，移到壁炉另一边。“哎哟，可别向我求爱！这样做的人可太多了，”她皱起眉头说。
阿切尔脸色都变了，他也站了起来。这是她能够给他的最苛刻的指责了。“我从来没向你求过爱，”他说，“而且今后也永远不会。但是，假如不是我们两人都没有了这种可能，你正是我会娶的那个女人。”
“我们两人都没有了可能？”她面带真诚的惊讶看着他说。“你还说这话——当你亲自制造了这种不可能的时候？”
他睁大眼睛看着她，在黑暗中搜索着，一支闪光的箭令人眩目地划破了黑暗。
“是我制造了这种不可能——？”
“你，是你，是你！”她喊道，嘴唇像小孩子似的颤抖着，眼看要涕泪横溢了。“让我放弃离婚的不正是你吗——不正是因为你向我说明离婚多么自私、多么有害，为了维护婚姻的尊严……为了家庭避免舆论、避免丑闻，必须自我牺牲，我才放弃了吗？因为我的家庭即将变成你的家庭——为了你和梅的关系——我按你说的做了，按你向我指明应当做的做了。啊，”她突然爆发出一阵笑声。“我可没有隐瞒：我是为了你才这样做的！”
她重新坐到沙发上，蜷缩在她那节日盛装的波纹中间，像个受了挫折的跳假面舞的人。年轻人站在壁炉跟前，依旧一动不动地凝视着她。
“我的老天，”他沉吟道，“当我想到——”
“你想到什么？”
“唉，别问我想到什么！”
他仍然在盯着她，只见那种像火一般的深红色又涌上了她的脖颈和脸。她坐直身体，十分威严地面对着他。
“我偏要问。”
“唔，好吧：你当时让我读的那封信里有些内容——”
“我丈夫那封信？”
“是啊。”
“那封信中没有什么可怕的东西，绝对没有！我全部的担心就是给家庭——也给你和梅——带来恶名和丑闻。”
“我的老天，”他又沉吟道，同时低下头，两手捂住了脸。
随后的那一阵沉默对他们具有决定性的、无可挽回的意义。阿切尔觉得仿佛是他自己的墓碑正把他压倒在下面，前景尽管广阔，他却找不到任何能够除去他心头重负的东西。他站在原地不动，也没有从双手中抬起头，遮藏着的两只眼睛继续凝望着一片黑暗。
“至少我爱过你——”他开口说。
在壁炉的另一侧，从他猜测她依然蜷缩的沙发角里，他听见一声小孩子似的抽噎声。他大吃一惊，急忙走到她的身边。
“埃伦！你疯啦！干吗要哭？天下没有不能更改的事。我还是自由的，你不久也可以。”他把她搂在怀里，他唇下那张脸就像被雨水打湿的一朵鲜花。他们所有徒然的恐惧都像日出后的鬼魂一样消逝了，惟一使他吃惊的是，当着一触摸她便使一切变得如此简单的时候，他竟然站了5分钟时间，在屋子另一端与她争论。
她回报他所有的吻。但过了一会儿，他觉得她在他怀中僵挺起来，她把他推到一边，站起身来。
“啊，可怜的纽兰——我想这是早已注定了的，那样说一点也改变不了现实，”她说，这回是她从炉边低头望着他。
“它会改变我的整个生活。”
“不，不——那不应该，不可能。你已经和梅•韦兰订了婚，而我又是个已婚的女人。”
他也站了起来，脸色通红，毅然决然地说：“瞎说！说这种话已经太晚了，我们没有权力对别人撒谎、对我们自己撒谎。且不谈你的婚事，经过这一切之后，你想我还会娶梅吗？”
她沉默无言地站着，将瘦削的两肘支在壁炉台上，她的侧影映射在身后的玻璃上。她那假髻有一个发鬈松开了，垂挂在脖于上，她看上去很憔悴，甚至有点儿衰老。
“我想，”她终于说，“你没法向梅提这个问题，你说呢？”
他满不在乎地耸了耸肩说：“现在太晚了，已经别无选择。”
“你说这话是因为眼前这样讲最容易——而不是因为当真如此。事实上，除了我们既定的事实，其他事才是太晚了呢。”
“唉，我不懂你的意思！”
她勉强苦笑了一下，她的脸非但没有舒展开，反而皱缩起来。“你不懂是因为你还没有估计到，你已经为我扭转了局面：啊，从一开始——远在我了解你所做的一切之前。”
“我所做的一切？”
“是的。开始我一点儿也不知道这里的人对我存有戒心——不知道他们都认为我是个讨厌的人。好像他们都不肯在宴会上见我。后来我才明白了，明白了你怎样说服你母亲跟你去范德卢顿家，怎样坚持要在博福特家的舞会上宣布你的订婚消息，以便可以有两个家庭——而不是一个——支持我——”
听到这儿，阿切尔突然大笑起来。
“你想想看，”她说，“我是多么蠢，多么没眼力呀！我对这些事一无所知，直到有一天祖母漏嘴说了出来。那时候，纽约对我来说就等于太平，等于自由：这是回到了家。回到自己人中间我是那样高兴，我遇到的每一个人似乎都很善良，很高兴见我。不过从一开始，”她接着说，“我就觉得，没有人像你那样友好，没有人向我讲述我能听得懂的道理，劝我去做那些起初看来很苦并且很——没有必要的事。那些好人却不来劝我，我觉得他们从没有过那种想法。可是你懂，你理解；你体验过外面的世界竭力用金手铐拖你下水的滋味——但你讨厌它让人付出的代价，你讨厌以不忠诚、冷酷、麻木换取的幸福。这些是我过去从来不懂的事——它比什么都宝贵。”
她的声音低沉平静，没有眼泪，也看不出激动。从她口中说出的每一个字，都像烧红的铅块一样落在他的心上。他弯腰坐着，两手抱头，凝视着炉边的地毯，凝视着露在她衣服底下那只缎鞋的脚尖。突然，他跪下来，亲吻起那只鞋。
她在他上方弯下身，把两手放在他的肩头，用那么深沉的目光看着他，在她的注视下，他呆着一动不动。
“啊，我们还是不要更改你已经做了的事吧！”她喊道。“现在我无法再恢复以前那种思维方式了。只有放弃你，我才能够爱你。”
他渴望地向她伸开双臂，但她却退缩了。他们依然面对着面，被她这句话制造的距离分开了。这时，他的怒气勃然而起。
“那么是博福特？他要取代我的位置？”
随着这句话冲口而出，他也做好了准备，等待一场怒火迸发的回答，他倒会欢迎为他火上添油。然而奥兰斯卡夫人仅仅脸色更苍白了些，她站在那儿，两臂垂挂在身前，头略前倾，就像她平时思考问题时的样子。
“他正在斯特拉瑟斯太太家等你呢，干吗不去找他？”阿切尔冷笑着说。
她转过身去摇了摇铃。女佣进来后，她说：“今晚我不出去了，通知马车去接西格诺拉•马西哑去吧。”
门关上之后，阿切尔继续用讥讽的目光看着她说：“何必做这种牺牲呢？既然你告诉我你很孤单，那么我没有权力让你离开你的朋友们。”
她那湿润的眼睫毛下露出一丝笑意。“现在我不会孤单了。我孤单过，害怕过，但空虚与黑暗已经消逝了。现在，当我重新清醒过来之后，我就像个小孩子晚上走进一直有灯光的房间一样。”
她的语气与神色仍然像一层外壳一样包围着她，使她处于一种不可接近的朦胧之中。阿切尔又抱怨地说：“我不理解你！”
“可你却理解梅！”
听了这句反责，他脸红了，但眼睛依然看着她说：“梅随时准备放弃我。”
“什么？在你下跪恳求她赶紧结婚刚过3天之后？”
“她拒绝了我；这就给了我权力——”
“啊，你让我明白了这个字有多丑恶，”她说。
他非常厌烦地转过脸去，他觉得仿佛挣扎了好几个小时攀登一块陡峭的悬崖，现在，当他奋力到达顶峰时，他的手又把不住了，他又一头扎向黑暗之中。
假如他再次把她搂到怀里，他会轻而易举地驳倒她那些观点，然而，她神色态度中那种不可思议的冷漠，以及他对她的认真所产生的敬畏，使他依然与她保持着一定的距离。最后他又开始恳求了。
“假如我们像现在这样，以后事情会更糟——对每个人都更糟——”
“不——不——不！”她几乎是尖叫着说，仿佛他把她吓坏了。
这时从院于里传来一阵了零零的铃声。他们没听见马车停在门口的声音，两人一动不动地站在那儿，用惊异的目光对视着。
只听外面娜斯塔西娅的脚步声穿过了门厅，外门打开，随即她拿着一封电报进屋，交给了奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人。
“那位夫人见到花非常高兴，”娜斯塔西娅说，一面抚平她的围裙。“她还以为是她先生送的呢，哭了一阵子，还说他乱花钱。”
女主人嫣然一笑，接过信封。她把电报拆开，拿到灯前。接着，等门又关上之后，她把电报递给了阿切尔。
电报注明发自圣奥古斯丁，寄给奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人，里面写道：“外婆电报成功，爸妈同意复活节后结婚。将致电纽兰，兴奋难言。爱你，谢谢。梅。”
半小时之后，阿切尔打开前门的门锁，在门厅桌子上他那一堆笔记和信函顶上，他见到一个类似的信封。信封里的电报也是梅•韦兰发来的，电文如下：“父母同意复活节后周二12点在格雷斯教堂举行婚礼。8名伴娘。请见教区长。很高兴。爱你，梅。”
阿切尔把那张黄纸揉成，一团，仿佛这样可以消除上面的消息似的。接着他抽出一本小小的袖珍日记，用颤抖的手指翻着纸页，但没有找到他想要的内容，于是把电报塞进口袋，上了楼。
一缕灯光从小小的门厅里照射出来，那儿是詹尼的化妆室兼闺房。哥哥焦急地拍打门板，门开了，妹妹站在他面前，穿着那件远古式的紫色丝绒晨衣，头发上“戴着夹”。她脸色苍白，一副忧心忡忡的样儿。
“纽兰！我希望电报里没什么坏消息吧？我特意在等着，万———”（他的信件没有一件能躲得过詹尼。）
他没有注意她的问题。“听我说——今年的复活节是哪一天！”
她看起来对这种不信基督的愚昧大为震惊。
“复活节？纽兰！怎么啦，当然是4月第一周啊。什么事？”
“第一周？”他重又翻起他日记的纸页，压低嗓音迅速计算着。“你说是第一周？”他扭回头去，大声笑个不停。
“老天爷，出了什么事？”
“啥事也没有，只是再过一个月我就要结婚了。”
詹尼趴到他的脖子上，把他紧紧搂在紫丝绒衣的胸前。“啊，纽兰，太好了！我太高兴了！可是，亲爱的，你干吗笑个不停？安静些吧，不然会吵醒妈妈的。”