第 31 页

"Gad," Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say, "not one of the lot holds the bow as she does"; and Beaufort retorted: "Yes; but that's the only kind of target she'll ever hit."

Archer felt irrationally angry. His host's contemptuous tribute to May's "niceness" was just what a husband should have wished to hear said of his wife. The fact that a coarseminded man found her lacking in attraction was simply another proof of her quality; yet the words sent a faint shiver through his heart. What if "niceness" carried to that supreme degree were only a negation, the curtain dropped before an emptiness? As he looked at May, returning flushed and calm from her final bull's-eye, he had the feeling that he had never yet lifted that curtain.

She took the congratulations of her rivals and of the rest of the company with the simplicity that was her crowning grace. No one could ever be jealous of her triumphs because she managed to give the feeling that she would have been just as serene if she had missed them. But when her eyes met her husband's her face glowed with the pleasure she saw in his.

Mrs. Welland's basket-work pony-carriage was waiting for them, and they drove off among the dispersing carriages, May handling the reins and Archer sitting at her side.

The afternoon sunlight still lingered upon the bright lawns and shrubberies, and up and down Bellevue Avenue rolled a double line of victorias, dog-carts, landaus and "vis-a-vis," carrying well-dressed ladies and gentlemen away from the Beaufort garden-party, or homeward from their daily afternoon turn along the Ocean Drive.

"Shall we go to see Granny?" May suddenly proposed. "I should like to tell her myself that I've won the prize. There's lots of time before dinner."

Archer acquiesced, and she turned the ponies down Narragansett Avenue, crossed Spring Street and drove out toward the rocky moorland beyond. In this unfashionable region Catherine the Great, always indifferent to precedent and thrifty of purse, had built herself in her youth a many-peaked and cross-beamed cottage- orne on a bit of cheap land overlooking the bay. Here, in a thicket of stunted oaks, her verandahs spread themselves above the island-dotted waters. A winding drive led up between iron stags and blue glass balls embedded in mounds of geraniums to a front door of highly-varnished walnut under a striped verandah-roof; and behind it ran a narrow hall with a black and yellow star-patterned parquet floor, upon which opened four small square rooms with heavy flock-papers under ceilings on which an Italian house-painter had lavished all the divinities of Olympus. One of these rooms had been turned into a bedroom by Mrs. Mingott when the burden of flesh descended on her, and in the adjoining one she spent her days, enthroned in a large armchair between the open door and window, and perpetually waving a palm-leaf fan which the prodigious projection of her bosom kept so far from the rest of her person that the air it set in motion stirred only the fringe of the anti-macassars on the chair-arms.

Since she had been the means of hastening his marriage old Catherine had shown to Archer the cordiality which a service rendered excites toward the person served. She was persuaded that irrepressible passion was the cause of his impatience; and being an ardent admirer of impulsiveness (when it did not lead to the spending of money) she always received him with a genial twinkle of complicity and a play of allusion to which May seemed fortunately impervious.

She examined and appraised with much interest the diamond-tipped arrow which had been pinned on May's bosom at the conclusion of the match, remarking that in her day a filigree brooch would have been thought enough, but that there was no denying that Beaufort did things handsomely.

"Quite an heirloom, in fact, my dear," the old lady chuckled. "You must leave it in fee to your eldest girl." She pinched May's white arm and watched the colour flood her face. "Well, well, what have I said to make you shake out the red flag? Ain't there going to be any daughters--only boys, eh? Good gracious, look at her blushing again all over her blushes! What--can't I say that either? Mercy me--when my children beg me to have all those gods and goddesses painted out overhead I always say I'm too thankful to have somebody about me that NOTHING can shock!"

Archer burst into a laugh, and May echoed it, crimson to the eyes.

"Well, now tell me all about the party, please, my dears, for I shall never get a straight word about it out of that silly Medora," the ancestress continued; and, as May exclaimed: "Cousin Medora? But I thought she was going back to Portsmouth?" she answered placidly: "So she is--but she's got to come here first to pick up Ellen. Ah--you didn't know Ellen had come to spend the day with me? Such fol-de-rol, her not coming for the summer; but I gave up arguing with young people about fifty years ago. Ellen--ELLEN!" she cried in her shrill old voice, trying to bend forward far enough to catch a glimpse of the lawn beyond the verandah.

There was no answer, and Mrs. Mingott rapped impatiently with her stick on the shiny floor. A mulatto maid-servant in a bright turban, replying to the summons, informed her mistress that she had seen "Miss Ellen" going down the path to the shore; and Mrs. Mingott turned to Archer.

"Run down and fetch her, like a good grandson; this pretty lady will describe the party to me," she said; and Archer stood up as if in a dream.

He had heard the Countess Olenska's name pronounced often enough during the year and a half since they had last met, and was even familiar with the main incidents of her life in the interval. He knew that she had spent the previous summer at Newport, where she appeared to have gone a great deal into society, but that in the autumn she had suddenly sub-let the "perfect house" which Beaufort had been at such pains to find for her, and decided to establish herself in Washington. There, during the winter, he had heard of her (as one always heard of pretty women in Washington) as shining in the "brilliant diplomatic society" that was supposed to make up for the social short-comings of the Administration. He had listened to these accounts, and to various contradictory reports on her appearance, her conversation, her point of view and her choice of friends, with the detachment with which one listens to reminiscences of some one long since dead; not till Medora suddenly spoke her name at the archery match had Ellen Olenska become a living presence to him again. The Marchioness's foolish lisp had called up a vision of the little fire-lit drawing-room and the sound of the carriage-wheels returning down the deserted street. He thought of a story he had read, of some peasant children in Tuscany lighting a bunch of straw in a wayside cavern, and revealing old silent images in their painted tomb . . .

The way to the shore descended from the bank on which the house was perched to a walk above the water planted with weeping willows. Through their veil Archer caught the glint of the Lime Rock, with its white-washed turret and the tiny house in which the heroic light-house keeper, Ida Lewis, was living her last venerable years. Beyond it lay the flat reaches and ugly government chimneys of Goat Island, the bay spreading northward in a shimmer of gold to Prudence Island with its low growth of oaks, and the shores of Conanicut faint in the sunset haze.

From the willow walk projected a slight wooden pier ending in a sort of pagoda-like summer-house; and in the pagoda a lady stood, leaning against the rail, her back to the shore. Archer stopped at the sight as if he had waked from sleep. That vision of the past was a dream, and the reality was what awaited him in the house on the bank overhead: was Mrs. Welland's pony- carriage circling around and around the oval at the door, was May sitting under the shameless Olympians and glowing with secret hopes, was the Welland villa at the far end of Bellevue Avenue, and Mr. Welland, already dressed for dinner, and pacing the drawing- room floor, watch in hand, with dyspeptic impatience-- for it was one of the houses in which one always knew exactly what is happening at a given hour.

"What am I? A son-in-law--" Archer thought.

The figure at the end of the pier had not moved. For a long moment the young man stood half way down the bank, gazing at the bay furrowed with the coming and going of sailboats, yacht-launches, fishing-craft and the trailing black coal-barges hauled by noisy tugs. The lady in the summer-house seemed to be held by the same sight. Beyond the grey bastions of Fort Adams a long-drawn sunset was splintering up into a thousand fires, and the radiance caught the sail of a catboat as it beat out through the channel between the Lime Rock and the shore. Archer, as he watched, remembered the scene in the Shaughraun, and Montague lifting Ada Dyas's ribbon to his lips without her knowing that he was in the room.

"She doesn't know--she hasn't guessed. Shouldn't I know if she came up behind me, I wonder?" he mused; and suddenly he said to himself: "If she doesn't turn before that sail crosses the Lime Rock light I'll go back."

The boat was gliding out on the receding tide. It slid before the Lime Rock, blotted out Ida Lewis's little house, and passed across the turret in which the light was hung. Archer waited till a wide space of water sparkled between the last reef of the island and the stern of the boat; but still the figure in the summer- house did not move.

He turned and walked up the hill.

"I'm sorry you didn't find Ellen--I should have liked to see her again," May said as they drove home through the dusk. "But perhaps she wouldn't have cared--she seems so changed."

"Changed?" echoed her husband in a colourless voice, his eyes fixed on the ponies' twitching ears.

"So indifferent to her friends, I mean; giving up New York and her house, and spending her time with such queer people. Fancy how hideously uncomfortable she must be at the Blenkers'! She says she does it to keep cousin Medora out of mischief: to prevent her marrying dreadful people. But I sometimes think we've always bored her."

Archer made no answer, and she continued, with a tinge of hardness that he had never before noticed in her frank fresh voice: "After all, I wonder if she wouldn't be happier with her husband."

He burst into a laugh. "Sancta simplicitas!" he exclaimed; and as she turned a puzzled frown on him he added: "I don't think I ever heard you say a cruel thing before."

"Cruel?"

"Well--watching the contortions of the damned is supposed to be a favourite sport of the angels; but I believe even they don't think people happier in hell."

"It's a pity she ever married abroad then," said May, in the placid tone with which her mother met Mr. Welland's vagaries; and Archer felt himself gently relegated to the category of unreasonable husbands.

They drove down Bellevue Avenue and turned in between the chamfered wooden gate-posts surmounted by cast-iron lamps which marked the approach to the Welland villa. Lights were already shining through its windows, and Archer, as the carriage stopped, caught a glimpse of his father-in-law, exactly as he had pictured him, pacing the drawing-room, watch in hand and wearing the pained expression that he had long since found to be much more efficacious than anger.

The young man, as he followed his wife into the hall, was conscious of a curious reversal of mood. There was something about the luxury of the Welland house and the density of the Welland atmosphere, so charged with minute observances and exactions, that always stole into his system like a narcotic. The heavy carpets, the watchful servants, the perpetually reminding tick of disciplined clocks, the perpetually renewed stack of cards and invitations on the hall table, the whole chain of tyrannical trifles binding one hour to the next, and each member of the household to all the others, made any less systematised and affluent existence seem unreal and precarious. But now it was the Welland house, and the life he was expected to lead in it, that had become unreal and irrelevant, and the brief scene on the shore, when he had stood irresolute, halfway down the bank, was as close to him as the blood in his veins.

All night he lay awake in the big chintz bedroom at May's side, watching the moonlight slant along the carpet, and thinking of Ellen Olenska driving home across the gleaming beaches behind Beaufort's trotters.

一小片葱绿的草坪平缓地延伸到波光潋滟的大海边。

鲜红的天竺葵和锦紫苏镶在草坪的边缘，漆成巧克力色的铸铁花瓶间隔地摆在通向大海的婉蜒小路上，整齐的砾石路上空是一个个牵牛花与盾叶大竺葵绕成的花环。

在悬崖边到方形木屋中途（木屋也被漆成巧克力色，游廊的锡顶是黄棕色相间的条纹，相当于凉棚），背靠灌木丛安置了两个很大的箭靶，草坪的另一端，面对箭靶搭了个真帐篷，四周是长凳和庭院坐椅。一群身着夏装的女士和穿灰色长礼服、戴高礼帽的绅士或站在草坪上，或坐在长凳上；不时有一位穿浆棉布衣服的窈窕淑女执弓走出帐篷，朝其中的一个箭靶射出一箭，看客们则中断交谈，观看结果如何。

纽兰•阿切尔站在木屋的游廊上，好奇地俯视这一场面。在漆得锃亮的台阶两侧，一边一个硕大的蓝瓷花盆，摆放在鲜黄的瓷座上。每个花盆里都种满带穗的绿色植物。游廊底下是宽宽的一排蓝绣球花，边缘处是密密麻麻的红色天竺葵。在他身后，透过那些起居室的双扇落地玻璃门上随风摇曳的花边门帘，可以窥见玻璃般平滑的木纹地板。地板上像岛屿般分布着上光印花棉布蒲团和矮脚扶手椅，铺着天鹅绒的桌面上摆满了盛在银器里的甜点。

纽波特射箭俱乐部总是把8月份的赛会安排在博福特家。迄今为止，除了槌球，还没有哪项运动可与之抗衡的射箭运动，正由于人们对网球的喜爱而逐渐被淘汰。但网球运动仍被认为粗俗不雅，不适于社交场合。作为展示漂亮衣服和优雅姿态的机会，射箭仍固守着它的阵地。

阿切尔好奇地俯视着这熟悉的景观。令他惊异的是，当他对生活的反应发生如此彻底的改变之后，生活竟然还在沿着老路延续。是纽波特使他第一次清醒地意识到这种变化的程度。去年冬天，他和梅在纽约那所带弓形窗和庞贝式门厅的黄绿色新房里安顿下来后，就如释重负地重新过起了事务所的常规生活。日常活动的恢复像链环般把他与过去的自我联系起来。随后还发生了一连串令人兴奋的快事：首先是为梅的马车选了一匹引人注目的灰色骏马（马车是韦兰家送给他们的），其次是搬进永久的住处；另外，他还不顾家人的怀疑与不满，按自己梦寐以求的方式孜孜不倦地用黑色压纹纸、东湖书橱、“纯正”扶手椅和桌子布置了他的新图书室。在“世纪”，他又见到了温塞特，在“纽约人”，找到了跟他同类的时髦青年；他将一部分时间献身于法律，一部分用于外出吃饭或在家招待客人，偶尔还抽个晚上去听歌剧或看戏。他的生活看来依然相当实际，当然也相当本分。

然而纽波特意味着摆脱了一切责任而完全进入了度假气氛。阿切尔曾劝说梅去缅因海岸一个遥远的小岛上度夏天（那去处恰如其分地叫做荒山），有几个大胆的波士顿人和费城人曾经在那儿的“土著”村里野营，报道了那里迷人的风光与深水密林间类似捕兽人的野生生活方式。

然而韦兰一家一贯是去纽波特过夏天，他们在峭壁上拥有自己的一个小方屋。他们的女婿提不出任何正当理由说明他和梅为什么不与他们同往。正像韦兰太太相当尖刻地提醒的，对梅来说，如果条件不允许她穿，那么就犯不着在巴黎疲劳不堪地试穿那些夏装。像这一类的论点，阿切尔目前还没有办法反驳。

梅自己也不明白阿切尔为什么对这么合情合理、这么愉快的消夏方式表现出令人费解的勉强。她提醒说，当他过单身生活时一直是很喜欢纽波特的。既然这是不争的事实，阿切尔只得声称，这次他一定会比以往更喜欢那儿，因为是他们两人一起去。然而，当他站在博福特家的游廊上，注视着外面草坪上兴高采烈的人群时，不禁心头一颤，蓦然醒悟：他根本不会喜欢这儿了。

这不是梅的错，可怜的爱人。如果说他们在旅行中时而有些小小的不合拍，那么，他们回到梅熟悉的环境后也就恢复了和谐。他早就预见到梅不会令他失望，他确实没有看错。他结了婚（就像大多数年轻人那样），是因为正当他过早地厌弃了一系列毫无目标的感情冒险之时，遇到了一位十分迷人的姑娘。她代表着和睦、稳定、友谊以及对不可推卸的责任的坚定信念。

他不能说自己的选择是个失误，因为梅满足了他期待的一切。毫无疑问，能成为纽约一位最美丽、最受欢迎的年轻妻子的丈夫，是令人高兴的；更何况她还是一位性情最甜蜜又最通情达理的妻子。阿切尔对这些优点决非无动于衷。至于结婚前夕降临的那阵短暂的疯狂，他已能克制自己，认定是业已摒弃的最后一次试验。在他头脑清醒的时候，想起他还会梦想娶奥兰斯卡伯爵夫人，真感到不可思议。她仅仅作为那一串幽灵中最悲哀、最鲜活的一个留在他的记忆里。

然而经过这一番排解与清除，他的心却成了个空荡荡的回音室。他想，博福特家草坪上兴奋、忙碌的人们仿佛一群在墓地里嬉戏的孩子那样令他震惊，其原因就在于此。

他听到身旁窸窸窣窣的裙裾声，曼森侯爵夫人从起居室的落地窗口飘然而至。跟往常一样，她打扮得格外花哨，俗不可耐。头上戴着一顶意大利麦梗草帽，上面缠着一圈圈褪色的网纱，雕花象牙伞柄撑着的黑丝绒小阳伞，在比它还大的帽沿上方滑稽地晃来晃去。

“亲爱的纽兰，我还不知道你和梅已经来了！你自己是昨天才到的，是吧？啊，工作——工作——职责……我明白。我知道，很多做丈夫的除了周末都不可能来这儿陪妻子，”她把脑袋一歪，眯起眼睛，无精打采地望着他说。“可婚姻是一种长期的牺牲，就像过去我常对埃伦讲的——”