第 21 页

他跟随她走进狭窄的过道。他刚才听了她那几句话，情绪有些低落，这时却又无端地高涨起来。这所温馨的小房子就在眼前，里面的镶板与铜器在炉火映照下烟烟生辉，就像是魔术师变出来迎接他们的。在厨房的壁炉里，炉底的余烬还在发着微光，上方一个旧式吊钩上挂着一把铁壶。两把灯心草根做的扶手椅面对面摆在铺了瓷砖的壁炉地面两侧，靠墙的架子里是一排排德尔夫特生产的陶瓷盘子。阿切尔弯下身，往余烬上扔了一块木柴。

奥兰斯卡夫人放下斗篷，坐在一把扶手椅里，阿切尔倚在壁炉上，眼睛看着她。

“你现在笑了，可给我写信的时候却很不愉快，”他说。

“是啊，”她停顿一会儿又说：“可你在这儿我就不会觉得不愉快了。”

“我在这儿呆不多久，”他答道，接着闭紧双唇，努力做到适可而止。

“是的，我知道。不过我目光短浅：我只图一时快乐。”

他渐渐领悟到这些话的诱惑性，为了阻止这种感受，他从炉边挪开，站在那儿凝视外面白雪映衬下的黑树干。然而她仿佛也变换了位置，在他与那些树之间，他仍然看见她低头朝着炉火，脸上带着懒洋洋的微笑。阿切尔的心激烈跳动着，不肯就范。假如她逃避的原来是他，假如她是特意等他们单独到这间密室告诉他这件事，那该怎么办？

“埃伦，假如我真的对你能有所帮助——假如你真的想让我来——那么请告诉我，你究竟在逃避什么？”他坚持地问。

他讲话时没有改换姿势，甚至没有转身看她：假如那种事情要发生，就让它这样发生好了。整个房间的宽度横在他们中间，他的眼睛仍然盯着外面的雪景。

很长一段时间她默然无语；其间阿切尔想象着——几乎是听见了——她从后面悄悄走上来，要伸开轻盈的双臂，搂住他的脖子。他等待着，正在为这一奇迹的即将来临而身心激动时，他的目光无意间落到一个穿厚外套的人影上，那人皮领立起，正沿着小路朝住宅这边走来——原来是朱利叶斯，博福特。

“噢——！”阿切尔喊了一声，猛地大笑起来。

奥兰斯卡夫人早已跃身而起，来到他身边，把手伸到他的手里；但她从窗口瞥了一眼，脸色立即白了，赶忙缩了回去。

“原来是这么回事！”阿切尔嘲笑地说。

“我并不知道他在这儿，”奥兰斯卡夫人慑儒道。她的手仍然抓着阿切尔的手，但他把手抽了出去，走到外面的过道里，把大门推开。

“你好，博福特——到这边来！奥兰斯卡夫人正等着你呢，”他说。

第二天上午回纽约的途中，阿切尔带着倦意回顾起他在斯库特克利夫的最后那段时光。

尽管博福特发现他跟奥兰斯卡夫人在一起显然很心烦，但他跟往常一样专横地处理这种局面。他根本不理睬那些妨碍了他的人，他那副样子使对方产生一种无形的、不存在的感觉——如果他对此敏感的话。他们三人溜达着穿过停车场的时候，阿切尔就产生了这种奇怪的失去形体的感觉。这虽然使他的虚荣心受到屈辱，同时也鬼使神差地给了他观察看不到的东西的便利。

博福特带着惯常的悠然自信走进那所小房子，但他的笑容却抹不掉眉心那道垂直的皱纹。很明显奥兰斯卡夫人事先并不知道他要来，尽管她对阿切尔的话中暗示过这种可能性。不管怎样，她离开纽约的时候显然没告诉他去哪儿，她未加说明地离走激怒了他。他出现在这儿的公开理由是前一天晚上发现了一所“理想的小房子”（还未出售），房子确实正适合她，她若是不买，马上就会被别人抢走。他还为舞会的事大声地假装责备她：他刚找到地方她就把他带走了。

“假如那种通过导线交谈的新玩意儿再完善一点，我就从城里告诉你这件事了。这个时候我就会在俱乐部的火炉前烤脚，用不着踩着雪迫你了，”他抱怨地说，装出真的为此而生气的样子。面对这个开场白，奥兰斯卡夫人巧妙地把话题转向那种荒诞的可能性：有一大，他们也许真的可以在两条不同的街上，甚至——像神奇的梦想般——在两个不同的城市互相对话。她的话使他们三人都想到了埃伦•坡与儒尔•凡尔纳，以及那些聪明人在消磨时间、谈论新发明——过早地相信它会显得天真——时脱口而出的那些老生常谈。有关电话的谈论把他们安全地带回到大院子里。

范德卢顿太太还没有回来。阿切尔告辞去取他的小雪橇，博福特则跟随奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人到屋里去了。由于范德卢顿太太不喜欢鼓励未经通报的拜访，他也许可以指望她请他吃顿晚饭，然后便送他回车站去赶9点钟的火车；但也只能如此而已，因为在范德卢顿夫妇看来，一位不带行李旅行的绅士若是想留下过夜，那简直不可思议。他们决不会乐意向博福特这样一位与他们的友谊十分有限的人提这种建议的。

这一切博福特都很明白，而且一定已经预料到了。他为了这么一个小小的报偿而长途跋涉，足见他的急不可耐。无庸讳言他是在追求奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人；而博福特追求漂亮女人只有一个目的。他没有子女，沉闷无聊的家庭生活早已令他厌倦，除了长久性的慰藉之外，他总是按自己的口味寻求艳遇。他就是奥兰斯卡夫人声言要逃避的那个人——问题是，她的逃避是因为被他的纠缠所触怒呢，还是因为她不完全相信自己能抵御那些纠缠——除非她所说的逃避实际上是个挡箭牌，她离开纽约不过是玩的一个花招。

阿切尔对此并不真的相信。尽管他与奥兰斯卡夫人实际见面不多，他却开始认为自己可以从她的脸色——也可以从她的声音——看清她的内心，而她的脸色与声音都对博福特的突然出现流露出厌烦，甚至是惊愕。可话又说回来，假如情况果真如此，那么，她专为会见他而离开纽约不是更糟吗？如果是这样，她就不再是个令人感兴趣的目标了，她就是把自己的命运交给了最卑鄙的伪君子：一个与博福特发生桃色事件的女人，她已经无可救药地把自己“归了类”。

不！假如她能看透博福特，或许还瞧不起他，却仍然因为他有优于她周围其他男人的那些条件被他所吸引——他在两个大陆和两个社会的生活习惯，他与艺术家、演员及那些出头露面的人物的密切关系，以及他对狭隘偏见的冷漠轻蔑——那么，情况更要糟一万倍！博福特粗俗、没教养、财大气粗，但他的生活环境、他的生性机灵使他比许多道德上以及社会地位上比他强的人更有谈趣，后者的视野仅局限于巴特利与中央公园。一个来自广阔天地的人怎么会感觉不到这种差别，怎么会不受其吸引呢？

奥兰斯卡夫人虽然是出于激愤，才对阿切尔说她与他没有共同语言，但年轻人明白这话在某些方面不无道理。然而博福特却通晓她的语言，而且讲起来驾轻就熟。他的处世态度、情调、看法，与奥兰斯基伯爵那封信中流露的那些东西完全相同，只是稍显粗俗而已。面对奥兰斯基伯爵的妻子，这可能对他不利；但阿切尔大聪明了，他认为像埃伦•奥兰斯卡这样的年轻女子未必会畏惧任何使她回想起过去的东西。她可能以为自己已完全背叛了过去，然而过去诱惑过她的东西现在对她仍然会有诱惑力，即使这违背她的心愿。

就这样，年轻人以一种充满痛苦的公正态度，为博福特、为博福特的牺牲品理清了来龙去脉。他强烈地渴望开导她。他不时想到，她的全部需要就是让人开导。

这天晚上他打开了从伦敦寄来的书，满箱子都是他急切等待的东西：赫伯特•斯宾塞的一部新作，多产作家阿尔冯斯•都德又一卷精品故事集，还有一本据评论界说是十分有趣的小说，名叫《米德尔马奇》。为了这一享受，他已经谢绝了三次晚宴的邀请，然而，尽管他怀着爱书人的审美乐趣翻阅这些书，但却不知道自己读的是什么，书一本接一本地从他手里丢下来。突然，他眼睛一亮，从中发现了一本薄薄的诗集，他订购此书是因为它的书名吸引了他：《生命之家》。他拿起来读，不知不觉沉浸在一种与过去他对书籍的任何感受都不相同的气氛中。它是那样强烈，那样丰富，又那样说不出的温柔，它赋予人类最基本的感情一种新鲜的、缠绵不绝的美。整个通宵他透过那些迷人的篇章追踪一位女子的幻影，那幻影有一张埃伦•奥兰斯卡的脸庞。然而翌晨醒来，他望着街对面一所所棕石的住宅，想起莱特布赖事务所他的办公桌，想到格雷斯教堂里他们家的座位，他在斯库特克利夫园林中度过的那几个小时却变得像夜间的幻影一样虚无飘渺。

“天哪，你脸色多苍白呀，纽兰！”早饭喝咖啡时詹尼说。他母亲补充道：“亲爱的纽兰，最近我注意到你老是咳嗽，我希望你不是劳累过度了吧？”因为两位女士都深信，在那几位资深合伙人的专制统治之下，年轻人的精力全部消耗在职业的俗务中了——而他却从未想到过有必要让她们了解真相。

接下来两三天过得特别慢。按部就班的俗套使他觉得味同嚼蜡，有时他觉得自己仿佛被前途活埋了一样。他没有听到奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人或那所理想的小房子的任何消息，尽管他在俱乐部遇见过博福特，但他们仅仅隔着几张牌桌互相点了点头而已。直到第四天傍晚他回到家时，才发现有一封便函等着他。“明天傍晚过来：我一定要给你解释。埃伦。”信中只有这几个字。

年轻人要外出吃饭，他把信塞进口袋，对“给你”这种法语味微微一笑。饭后他去看了一场戏，直到午夜过后他回到家才把奥兰斯卡夫人的信又取了出来，慢慢重读了几遍。复信可以用好几种方式，在激动不安的不眠之夜，他对每一种都做了一番考虑。时至清晨，他最后的决定是把几件衣服扔进旅行箱，去乘当天下午起锚驶往圣奥古斯丁的轮船。

Chapter 16

When Archer walked down the sandy main street of St. Augustine to the house which had been pointed out to him as Mr. Welland's, and saw May Welland standing under a magnolia with the sun in her hair, he wondered why he had waited so long to come.

Here was the truth, here was reality, here was the life that belonged to him; and he, who fancied himself so scornful of arbitrary restraints, had been afraid to break away from his desk because of what people might think of his stealing a holiday!

Her first exclamation was: "Newland--has anything happened?" and it occurred to him that it would have been more "feminine" if she had instantly read in his eyes why he had come. But when he answered: "Yes--I found I had to see you," her happy blushes took the chill from her surprise, and he saw how easily he would be forgiven, and how soon even Mr. Letterblair's mild disapproval would be smiled away by a tolerant family.

Early as it was, the main street was no place for any but formal greetings, and Archer longed to be alone with May, and to pour out all his tenderness and his impatience. It still lacked an hour to the late Welland breakfast-time, and instead of asking him to come in she proposed that they should walk out to an old orange-garden beyond the town. She had just been for a row on the river, and the sun that netted the little waves with gold seemed to have caught her in its meshes. Across the warm brown of her cheek her blown hair glittered like silver wire; and her eyes too looked lighter, almost pale in their youthful limpidity. As she walked beside Archer with her long swinging gait her face wore the vacant serenity of a young marble athlete.

To Archer's strained nerves the vision was as soothing as the sight of the blue sky and the lazy river. They sat down on a bench under the orange-trees and he put his arm about her and kissed her. It was like drinking at a cold spring with the sun on it; but his pressure may have been more vehement than he had intended, for the blood rose to her face and she drew back as if he had startled her.

"What is it?" he asked, smiling; and she looked at him with surprise, and answered: "Nothing."

A slight embarrassment fell on them, and her hand slipped out of his. It was the only time that he had kissed her on the lips except for their fugitive embrace in the Beaufort conservatory, and he saw that she was disturbed, and shaken out of her cool boyish composure.

"Tell me what you do all day," he said, crossing his arms under his tilted-back head, and pushing his hat forward to screen the sun-dazzle. To let her talk about familiar and simple things was the easiest way of carrying on his own independent train of thought; and he sat listening to her simple chronicle of swimming, sailing and riding, varied by an occasional dance at the primitive inn when a man-of-war came in. A few pleasant people from Philadelphia and Baltimore were picknicking at the inn, and the Selfridge Merrys had come down for three weeks because Kate Merry had had bronchitis. They were planning to lay out a lawn tennis court on the sands; but no one but Kate and May had racquets, and most of the people had not even heard of the game.

All this kept her very busy, and she had not had time to do more than look at the little vellum book that Archer had sent her the week before (the "Sonnets from the Portuguese"); but she was learning by heart "How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix," because it was one of the first things he had ever read to her; and it amused her to be able to tell him that Kate Merry had never even heard of a poet called Robert Browning.

Presently she started up, exclaiming that they would be late for breakfast; and they hurried back to the tumble-down house with its pointless porch and unpruned hedge of plumbago and pink geraniums where the Wellands were installed for the winter. Mr. Welland's sensitive domesticity shrank from the discomforts of the slovenly southern hotel, and at immense expense, and in face of almost insuperable difficulties, Mrs. Welland was obliged, year after year, to improvise an establishment partly made up of discontented New York servants and partly drawn from the local African supply.

"The doctors want my husband to feel that he is in his own home; otherwise he would be so wretched that the climate would not do him any good," she explained, winter after winter, to the sympathising Philadelphians and Baltimoreans; and Mr. Welland, beaming across a breakfast table miraculously supplied with the most varied delicacies, was presently saying to Archer: "You see, my dear fellow, we camp--we literally camp. I tell my wife and May that I want to teach them how to rough it."

Mr. and Mrs. Welland had been as much surprised as their daughter by the young man's sudden arrival; but it had occurred to him to explain that he had felt himself on the verge of a nasty cold, and this seemed to Mr. Welland an all-sufficient reason for abandoning any duty.

"You can't be too careful, especially toward spring," he said, heaping his plate with straw-coloured griddle- cakes and drowning them in golden syrup. "If I'd only been as prudent at your age May would have been dancing at the Assemblies now, instead of spending her winters in a wilderness with an old invalid."

"Oh, but I love it here, Papa; you know I do. If only Newland could stay I should like it a thousand times better than New York."

"Newland must stay till he has quite thrown off his cold," said Mrs. Welland indulgently; and the young man laughed, and said he supposed there was such a thing as one's profession.

He managed, however, after an exchange of telegrams with the firm, to make his cold last a week; and it shed an ironic light on the situation to know that Mr. Letterblair's indulgence was partly due to the satisfactory way in which his brilliant young junior partner had settled the troublesome matter of the Olenski divorce. Mr. Letterblair had let Mrs. Welland know that Mr. Archer had "rendered an invaluable service" to the whole family, and that old Mrs. Manson Mingott had been particularly pleased; and one day when May had gone for a drive with her father in the only vehicle the place produced Mrs. Welland took occasion to touch on a topic which she always avoided in her daughter's presence.

"I'm afraid Ellen's ideas are not at all like ours. She was barely eighteen when Medora Manson took her back to Europe--you remember the excitement when she appeared in black at her coming-out ball? Another of Medora's fads--really this time it was almost prophetic! That must have been at least twelve years ago; and since then Ellen has never been to America. No wonder she is completely Europeanised."

"But European society is not given to divorce: Countess Olenska thought she would be conforming to American ideas in asking for her freedom." It was the first time that the young man had pronounced her name since he had left Skuytercliff, and he felt the colour rise to his cheek.

Mrs. Welland smiled compassionately. "That is just like the extraordinary things that foreigners invent about us. They think we dine at two o'clock and countenance divorce! That is why it seems to me so foolish to entertain them when they come to New York. They accept our hospitality, and then they go home and repeat the same stupid stories."

Archer made no comment on this, and Mrs. Welland continued: "But we do most thoroughly appreciate your persuading Ellen to give up the idea. Her grandmother and her uncle Lovell could do nothing with her; both of them have written that her changing her mind was entirely due to your influence--in fact she said so to her grandmother. She has an unbounded admiration for you. Poor Ellen--she was always a wayward child. I wonder what her fate will be?"

"What we've all contrived to make it," he felt like answering. "if you'd all of you rather she should be Beaufort's mistress than some decent fellow's wife you've certainly gone the right way about it."

He wondered what Mrs. Welland would have said if he had uttered the words instead of merely thinking them. He could picture the sudden decomposure of her firm placid features, to which a lifelong mastery over trifles had given an air of factitious authority. Traces still lingered on them of a fresh beauty like her daughter's; and he asked himself if May's face was doomed to thicken into the same middle-aged image of invincible innocence.

Ah, no, he did not want May to have that kind of innocence, the innocence that seals the mind against imagination and the heart against experience!

"I verily believe," Mrs. Welland continued, "that if the horrible business had come out in the newspapers it would have been my husband's death-blow. I don't know any of the details; I only ask not to, as I told poor Ellen when she tried to talk to me about it. Having an invalid to care for, I have to keep my mind bright and happy. But Mr. Welland was terribly upset; he had a slight temperature every morning while we were waiting to hear what had been decided. It was the horror of his girl's learning that such things were possible--but of course, dear Newland, you felt that too. We all knew that you were thinking of May."

"I'm always thinking of May," the young man rejoined, rising to cut short the conversation.

He had meant to seize the opportunity of his private talk with Mrs. Welland to urge her to advance the date of his marriage. But he could think of no arguments that would move her, and with a sense of relief he saw Mr. Welland and May driving up to the door.

His only hope was to plead again with May, and on the day before his departure he walked with her to the ruinous garden of the Spanish Mission. The background lent itself to allusions to European scenes; and May, who was looking her loveliest under a wide-brimmed hat that cast a shadow of mystery over her too-clear eyes, kindled into eagerness as he spoke of Granada and the Alhambra.

"We might be seeing it all this spring--even the Easter ceremonies at Seville," he urged, exaggerating his demands in the hope of a larger concession.

"Easter in Seville? And it will be Lent next week!" she laughed.

"Why shouldn't we be married in Lent?" he rejoined; but she looked so shocked that he saw his mistake.

"Of course I didn't mean that, dearest; but soon after Easter--so that we could sail at the end of April. I know I could arrange it at the office."

She smiled dreamily upon the possibility; but he perceived that to dream of it sufficed her. It was like hearing him read aloud out of his poetry books the beautiful things that could not possibly happen in real life.

"Oh, do go on, Newland; I do love your descriptions."

"But why should they be only descriptions? Why shouldn't we make them real?"

"We shall, dearest, of course; next year." Her voice lingered over it.

"Don't you want them to be real sooner? Can't I persuade you to break away now?"