第 20 页

"Ah, you don't like us!" Archer exclaimed.

They were walking past the house of the old Patroon, with its squat walls and small square windows compactly grouped about a central chimney. The shutters stood wide, and through one of the newly-washed windows Archer caught the light of a fire.

"Why--the house is open!" he said.

She stood still. "No; only for today, at least. I wanted to see it, and Mr. van der Luyden had the fire lit and the windows opened, so that we might stop there on the way back from church this morning." She ran up the steps and tried the door. "It's still unlocked--what luck! Come in and we can have a quiet talk. Mrs. van der Luyden has driven over to see her old aunts at Rhinebeck and we shan't be missed at the house for another hour."

He followed her into the narrow passage. His spirits, which had dropped at her last words, rose with an irrational leap. The homely little house stood there, its panels and brasses shining in the firelight, as if magically created to receive them. A big bed of embers still gleamed in the kitchen chimney, under an iron pot hung from an ancient crane. Rush-bottomed arm-chairs faced each other across the tiled hearth, and rows of Delft plates stood on shelves against the walls. Archer stooped over and threw a log upon the embers.

Madame Olenska, dropping her cloak, sat down in one of the chairs. Archer leaned against the chimney and looked at her.

"You're laughing now; but when you wrote me you were unhappy," he said.

"Yes." She paused. "But I can't feel unhappy when you're here."

"I sha'n't be here long," he rejoined, his lips stiffening with the effort to say just so much and no more.

"No; I know. But I'm improvident: I live in the moment when I'm happy."

The words stole through him like a temptation, and to close his senses to it he moved away from the hearth and stood gazing out at the black tree-boles against the snow. But it was as if she too had shifted her place, and he still saw her, between himself and the trees, drooping over the fire with her indolent smile. Archer's heart was beating insubordinately. What if it were from him that she had been running away, and if she had waited to tell him so till they were here alone together in this secret room?

"Ellen, if I'm really a help to you--if you really wanted me to come--tell me what's wrong, tell me what it is you're running away from," he insisted.

He spoke without shifting his position, without even turning to look at her: if the thing was to happen, it was to happen in this way, with the whole width of the room between them, and his eyes still fixed on the outer snow.

For a long moment she was silent; and in that moment Archer imagined her, almost heard her, stealing up behind him to throw her light arms about his neck. While he waited, soul and body throbbing with the miracle to come, his eyes mechanically received the image of a heavily-coated man with his fur collar turned up who was advancing along the path to the house. The man was Julius Beaufort.

"Ah--!" Archer cried, bursting into a laugh.

Madame Olenska had sprung up and moved to his side, slipping her hand into his; but after a glance through the window her face paled and she shrank back.

"So that was it?" Archer said derisively.

"I didn't know he was here," Madame Olenska murmured. Her hand still clung to Archer's; but he drew away from her, and walking out into the passage threw open the door of the house.

"Hallo, Beaufort--this way! Madame Olenska was expecting you," he said.

During his journey back to New York the next morning, Archer relived with a fatiguing vividness his last moments at Skuytercliff.

Beaufort, though clearly annoyed at finding him with Madame Olenska, had, as usual, carried off the situation high-handedly. His way of ignoring people whose presence inconvenienced him actually gave them, if they were sensitive to it, a feeling of invisibility, of nonexistence. Archer, as the three strolled back through the park, was aware of this odd sense of disembodiment; and humbling as it was to his vanity it gave him the ghostly advantage of observing unobserved.

Beaufort had entered the little house with his usual easy assurance; but he could not smile away the vertical line between his eyes. It was fairly clear that Madame Olenska had not known that he was coming, though her words to Archer had hinted at the possibility; at any rate, she had evidently not told him where she was going when she left New York, and her unexplained departure had exasperated him. The ostensible reason of his appearance was the discovery, the very night before, of a "perfect little house," not in the market, which was really just the thing for her, but would be snapped up instantly if she didn't take it; and he was loud in mock-reproaches for the dance she had led him in running away just as he had found it.

"If only this new dodge for talking along a wire had been a little bit nearer perfection I might have told you all this from town, and been toasting my toes before the club fire at this minute, instead of tramping after you through the snow," he grumbled, disguising a real irritation under the pretence of it; and at this opening Madame Olenska twisted the talk away to the fantastic possibility that they might one day actually converse with each other from street to street, or even-- incredible dream!--from one town to another. This struck from all three allusions to Edgar Poe and Jules Verne, and such platitudes as naturally rise to the lips of the most intelligent when they are talking against time, and dealing with a new invention in which it would seem ingenuous to believe too soon; and the question of the telephone carried them safely back to the big house.

Mrs. van der Luyden had not yet returned; and Archer took his leave and walked off to fetch the cutter, while Beaufort followed the Countess Olenska indoors. It was probable that, little as the van der Luydens encouraged unannounced visits, he could count on being asked to dine, and sent back to the station to catch the nine o'clock train; but more than that he would certainly not get, for it would be inconceivable to his hosts that a gentleman travelling without luggage should wish to spend the night, and distasteful to them to propose it to a person with whom they were on terms of such limited cordiality as Beaufort.

Beaufort knew all this, and must have foreseen it; and his taking the long journey for so small a reward gave the measure of his impatience. He was undeniably in pursuit of the Countess Olenska; and Beaufort had only one object in view in his pursuit of pretty women. His dull and childless home had long since palled on him; and in addition to more permanent consolations he was always in quest of amorous adventures in his own set. This was the man from whom Madame Olenska was avowedly flying: the question was whether she had fled because his importunities displeased her, or because she did not wholly trust herself to resist them; unless, indeed, all her talk of flight had been a blind, and her departure no more than a manoeuvre.

Archer did not really believe this. Little as he had actually seen of Madame Olenska, he was beginning to think that he could read her face, and if not her face, her voice; and both had betrayed annoyance, and even dismay, at Beaufort's sudden appearance. But, after all, if this were the case, was it not worse than if she had left New York for the express purpose of meeting him? If she had done that, she ceased to be an object of interest, she threw in her lot with the vulgarest of dissemblers: a woman engaged in a love affair with Beaufort "classed" herself irretrievably.

No, it was worse a thousand times if, judging Beaufort, and probably despising him, she was yet drawn to him by all that gave him an advantage over the other men about her: his habit of two continents and two societies, his familiar association with artists and actors and people generally in the world's eye, and his careless contempt for local prejudices. Beaufort was vulgar, he was uneducated, he was purse-proud; but the circumstances of his life, and a certain native shrewdness, made him better worth talking to than many men, morally and socially his betters, whose horizon was bounded by the Battery and the Central Park. How should any one coming from a wider world not feel the difference and be attracted by it?

Madame Olenska, in a burst of irritation, had said to Archer that he and she did not talk the same language; and the young man knew that in some respects this was true. But Beaufort understood every turn of her dialect, and spoke it fluently: his view of life, his tone, his attitude, were merely a coarser reflection of those revealed in Count Olenski's letter. This might seem to be to his disadvantage with Count Olenski's wife; but Archer was too intelligent to think that a young woman like Ellen Olenska would necessarily recoil from everything that reminded her of her past. She might believe herself wholly in revolt against it; but what had charmed her in it would still charm her, even though it were against her will.

Thus, with a painful impartiality, did the young man make out the case for Beaufort, and for Beaufort's victim. A longing to enlighten her was strong in him; and there were moments when he imagined that all she asked was to be enlightened.

That evening he unpacked his books from London. The box was full of things he had been waiting for impatiently; a new volume of Herbert Spencer, another collection of the prolific Alphonse Daudet's brilliant tales, and a novel called "Middlemarch," as to which there had lately been interesting things said in the reviews. He had declined three dinner invitations in favour of this feast; but though he turned the pages with the sensuous joy of the book-lover, he did not know what he was reading, and one book after another dropped from his hand. Suddenly, among them, he lit on a small volume of verse which he had ordered because the name had attracted him: "The House of Life." He took it up, and found himself plunged in an atmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed in books; so warm, so rich, and yet so ineffably tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions. All through the night he pursued through those enchanted pages the vision of a woman who had the face of Ellen Olenska; but when he woke the next morning, and looked out at the brownstone houses across the street, and thought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair's office, and the family pew in Grace Church, his hour in the park of Skuytercliff became as far outside the pale of probability as the visions of the night.

"Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!" Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added: "Newland, dear, I've noticed lately that you've been coughing; I do hope you're not letting yourself be overworked?" For it was the conviction of both ladies that, under the iron despotism of his senior partners, the young man's life was spent in the most exhausting professional labours--and he had never thought it necessary to undeceive them.

The next two or three days dragged by heavily. The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future. He heard nothing of the Countess Olenska, or of the perfect little house, and though he met Beaufort at the club they merely nodded at each other across the whist-tables. It was not till the fourth evening that he found a note awaiting him on his return home. "Come late tomorrow: I must explain to you. Ellen." These were the only words it contained.

The young man, who was dining out, thrust the note into his pocket, smiling a little at the Frenchness of the "to you." After dinner he went to a play; and it was not until his return home, after midnight, that he drew Madame Olenska's missive out again and re-read it slowly a number of times. There were several ways of answering it, and he gave considerable thought to each one during the watches of an agitated night. That on which, when morning came, he finally decided was to pitch some clothes into a portmanteau and jump on board a boat that was leaving that very afternoon for St. Augustine.

纽兰•阿切尔周五傍晚来到奇弗斯的家，星期六他真心诚意地履行了在海班克度周末的全部礼节。

上午他与女主人及几位勇敢的客人一起划了冰船；下午他同里吉“视察了农场”，并在精心指定的马厩里听取了有关马的颇为感人的专题演讲；下午用过茶点之后，他在炉火映照的客厅一角与一位年轻女士进行了交谈，后者曾声称在他订婚消息宣布之时她伤心欲绝，但现在却迫不及待地要告诉他自己对婚姻的抱负。最后，在午夜时分，他又协助在一位客人床上摆上金鱼，装修好一位胆小的姑妈浴室里的报警器，后半夜又和别人一起观看了一场从育儿室闹到地下室的小争执。然而星期日午餐过后，他却借了一辆单马拉的小雪橇，向斯库特克利夫驶去。

过去人们一直听说斯库特克利夫那所宅院是一座意大利别墅。未去过意大利的人信以为真，有些去过的人也无异议。那房子是范德卢顿先生年轻时候建造的，那时他刚结束“伟大的旅行”归来，期待着与路易莎•达戈内特小姐行将举办的婚事。那是个巨大的方形木制建筑物，企口接缝的墙壁涂成淡绿色和白色，一道科林斯式的圆柱门廊，窗与窗之间是刻有四槽的半露柱。从宅院所在的高地下来是一个接一个的平台，平台边缘都有扶栏和蕨壶树，钢板雕刻似地一级级下降，通向一个形状不规则的小湖，湖的沿岸铺了沥青，岸边悬垂着珍稀垂枝针叶树。左右两侧是没有杂草的一流草坪，其间点缀着“标本”树（每一株都属不同品种），一直起伏绵延至漫长的草地，草地最高处装有精心制作的铸铁装饰。下面一块谷地中有一幢四居室的石头宅院，是第一位大庄园主1612年在封赐给他的土地上建造的。

笼罩在冬季灰蒙蒙的天空与一片皑皑白雪之间的这座意大利别墅显得相当阴郁，即使在夏季它也保持几分冷淡，连最无拘无束的锦紫苏苗也不敢越雷池半步，始终与别墅威严的前沿保持在30英尺开外的距离。此刻阿切尔摁响了门铃，拖长的丁零声好像经过一座陵墓反转回来，终于反应过来的管家无比惊讶，仿佛从长眠中被唤醒一般。

值得庆幸的是阿切尔属于家族成员，因此，尽管他的光临十分唐突，但仍有资格被告知奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人不在家，她在三刻钟前与范德卢顿太太一起乘车去做下午的礼拜了。

“范德卢顿先生在家，”管家接着说，“不过我想，他现在要么刚要从午睡中醒来，要么正在阅读昨天的《晚邮报》。上午他从教堂回来时，大人，我听他说要在午饭后浏览一下《晚邮报》；如果你乐意，大人，我可以到图书室门口去听一听——”

然而阿切尔却谢绝了他，说他愿去迎一迎夫人们。管家显然松了口气，对着他庄严地把门关上了。

一名马夫把小雪橇赶到马厩里，阿切尔穿过停车场到了大路上。斯库特克利夫村离这儿只有一英里半远，可他知道范德卢顿太太决不会步行，他必须盯在大路上才能看见马车。然而不久，在与大路交叉的人行小道上，他瞥见一个披红斗篷的苗条身影，一条大狗跑在前面。他急忙赶上前去，奥兰斯卡夫人猛然停住脚步，脸上露出欢迎的笑容。

“啊，你来啦！”她说着，从手筒里抽出手来。

红斗篷使她显得活泼愉快，很像从前那位埃伦•明戈特。他笑着抓起她的手，回答说：“我来是要看一看你在逃避什么。”

她脸上掠过一片阴云，不过却回答道：“哦——很快你就明白了。”

她的回答令他困惑不解。“怎么——你是说你遇到了意外？”

她耸了耸肩膀，外加一个很像娜斯塔西娅的小动作，用比较轻松的语气说：“我们往前走走好吗？听过讲道之后我觉得特别冷。现在有你在这儿保护我，还怕什么呢？”

热血涌上了他的额头，他抓住她斗篷的一条褶说：“埃伦——是什么事？你一定得告诉我。”

“啊，现在——咱们先来一次赛跑，我的脚冻得快要不能走了，”她喊着说，一面抓起斗篷，在雪地上跑开了。那条狗在她身旁跳跃着，发出挑战的吠声。一时间，阿切尔站在那儿注目观看，雪野上那颗闪动的红色流星令他赏心说目。接着他拔腿追赶，在通向停车场的栅门处赶上了她，两人一边喘息一边笑。

她抬眼望着他，嫣然一笑说：“我知道你会来的！”

“这说明你希望我来，”他回答道，对他们的嘻闹显得兴奋异常。银白色的树木在空中闪着神秘的光亮。他们踏雪向前行进，大地仿佛在他们脚下欢唱。

“你是从哪儿来的？”奥兰斯卡夫人问道。

他告诉了她，并补充说：“因为我收到了你的信。”

停了一会儿，她说：“原来是梅要求你照顾我的。”声音里明显带着几分扫兴。

“我用不着谁来要求。”

“你是说——我明摆着是孤立无助？你们一定都把我想得太可怜了！不过这儿的女人好像并不——好像决不会有这种需要，一点儿也不需要。”

他放低了声音问：“什么样的需要？”

“唉，你别问我！我和你们没有共同语言，”她任性地顶撞他道。

这回答给了他当头一棒，他默然地站在小路上，低头望着她。

“如果我和你没有共同语言，我来这儿是干什么呢？”

“唉，我的朋友——！”她把手轻轻放在他的臂上。他恳切地请求道：“埃伦——你为什么不告诉我发生了什么事？”

她又耸了耸肩膀。“难道真的会有什么事发生吗？”

他沉默了。他们一声不吭地向前走了几英尺。她终于说道：“我会告诉你的——可在哪儿，在哪儿告诉你呢？在大温床一样的家里，独自呆一分钟也办不到，所有的门都开着，老是有仆人送茶，送取暖的木柴，送报纸！美国的家庭中难道没有个人的独处之地吗？你们那么怕见人，又那么无遮无掩。我老觉得仿佛又进了修道院 ——或者上了舞台，面对着一群彬彬有礼却决不会鼓掌的可怕观众。”

“哦，你不喜欢我们！”阿切尔大声说。

他们正走过老庄园主的那栋住宅，它那低矮的墙壁与方形的小窗密集分布在中央烟筒周围。百叶窗全开着，透过一个新刷过的窗口，阿切尔瞥见了炉火的亮光。

“啊——这房子开着呢！”他说。

她站着不动。“不；只是今天才打开。我想要看看它，范德卢顿先生就让人把炉火生着，把窗子打开了，以便我们上午从教堂回来的路上可以在里面歇歇脚。”她跑上门阶，试着推了推门。“门还没有锁——大幸运了！进来吧，我们可以安静地谈一谈了。范德卢顿太太乘车去莱因贝克看她老姑去了，我们在这房子里再呆一小时也不会有人惦念的。”