cw.imarriedadeadman-第1节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


and　clover。　The　stars　are　warm　and　friendly　here；　not　cold　and　distant；　as　where　I　came　from；　they　seem　to　hang　lower　over　us；　be　closer　to　us。　The　breeze　that　stirs　the　curtains　at　the　open　windows　is　soft　and　gentle　as　a　baby's　kiss。　And　on　it；　if　you　listen；　you　can　hear　the　rustling　sound　of　the　leafy　trees　turning　over　and　going　back　to　sleep　again。　The　lamplight　from　within　the　houses　falls　upon　the　lawns　outside　and　copperplates　them　in　long　swaths。　There's　the　hush；　the　stillness　of　perfect　peace　and　security。　Oh；　yes；　the　summer　nights　are　pleasant　in　Caulfield。
　But　not　for　us。
　The　winter　nights　are　too。　The　nights　of　fall；　the　nights　of　spring。　Not　for　us；　not　for　us。
　The　house　we　live　in　is　so　pleasant　in　Caulfield。　The　blue…green　tint　of　its　lawn；　that　always　seems　so　freshly　watered　no　matter　what　the　time　of　day。　The　sparkling；　aerated　pinwheels　of　the　sprinklers　always　turning；　steadily　turning；　if　you　look　at　them　closely　enough　they　form　rainbows　before　your　eyes。　The　clean；　sharp　curve　of　the　driveway。　The　dazzling　whiteness　of　the　porch…supports　in　the　sun。　Indoors；　the　curving　white　symmetry　of　the　banister；　as　gracious　as　the　dark　and　glossy　stair　it　acpanies　down　from　above。　The　satin　finish　of　the　rich　old　floors；　bearing　a　telltale　scent　of　wax　and　of　lemon…oil　if　you　stop　to　sniff。　The　lushness　of　pile　carpeting。　In　almost　every　room；　some　favorite　chair　waiting　to　greet　you　like　an　old　friend　when　you　e　back　to　spend　a　little　time　with　it。　People　who　e　and　see　it　say；　〃What　more　can　there　be？　This　is　a　home；　as　a　home　should　be。〃　Yes；　the　house　we　live　in　is　so　pleasant　in　Caulfield。
　But　not　for　us。
　Our　little　boy；　our　Hugh；　his　and　mine；　it's　such　a　joy　to　watch　him　growing　up　in　Caulfield。　In　the　house　that　will　some　day　be　his；　in　the　town　that　will　some　day　be　his。　To　watch　him　take　the　first　tottering　steps　that　mean…now　he　can　walk。　To　catch　and　cherish　each　newly　minted　word　that　fumblingly　issues　from　his　lips…that　means；　now　he's　added　another；　now　he　can　talk。
　But　even　that　is　not　for　us；　somehow。　Even　that　seems　thefted；　stolen；　in　some　vague　way　I　cannot　say。　Something　we're　not　entitled　to；　something　that　isn't　rightfully　ours。
　I　love　him　so。　It's　Bill　I　mean　now；　the　man。　And　he　loves　me。　I　know　I　do；　I　know　he　does；　I　cannot　doubt　it。　And　yet　I　know　just　as　surely　that　on　some　day　to　e；　maybe　this　year；　maybe　next；　suddenly　he'll　pack　his　things　and　go　away　and　leave　me。　Though　he　won't　want　to。　Though　he'll　love　me　still；　as　much　as　he　does　on　the　day　that　I　say　this。
　Or　if　he　doesn't；　it　will　be　I　who　will。　I'll　take　up　my　valise　and　walk　out　through　the　door；　never　to　e　back。　Though　I　won't　want　to。　Though　I'll　love　him　still；　as　much　as　I　do　on　the　day　that　I　say　this。　I'll　leave　my　house　behind。　I'll　leave　my　baby　behind；　in　the　house　that　will　some　day　be　his；　and　I'll　leave　my　heart　behind；　with　the　man　it　belongs　to　（How　could　I　take　it　with　me？）；　but　I'll　go　and　I'll　never　e　back。
　We've　fought　this　thing。　How　bitterly　we've　fought　it；　in　every　way　that　we　know　how。　In　every　way　there　is。　We've　driven　it　away；　a　thousand　times　we've　driven　it　away；　and　it　es　back　again　in　a　look；　a　word；　a　thought；　it's　there。
　No　good　for　me　to　say　to　him；　〃You　didn't　do　it。　You've　told　me　so　once。　Once　was　enough。　No　need　to　repeat　it　now　again；　this　late。　I　know　you　didn't。　Oh；　my　darling；　my　Bill；　you　don't　lie。　You　don't　lie；　in　money；　or　in　honor；　or　in　love…〃
　（But　this　isn't　money；　or　honor；　or　love。　This　is　a　thing　apart。　This　is　murder。）
　No　good；　when　I　don't　believe　him。　At　the　moment　that　he　speaks；　I　may。　But　a　moment　later；　or　an　hour；　or　a　day　or　week；　again　I　don't。　No　good；　for　we　don't　live　just　within　a　single　moment；　we　can't　The　other　moments　e；　the　hours；　weeks；　and；　oh　God；　the　years。
　For　each　time；　as　he　speaks；　I　know　it　wasn't　I。　That's　all　I　know。　So　well；　too　well；　I　know。　And　that　leaves　only…
　And　each　time；　as　I　speak；　perhaps　he　knows　that　it　wasn't　he　（but　I　cannot　know　that；　I　cannot；　there　is　no　way　for　him　to　reach　me）。　So　well　he　knows；　so　well。　And　that　leaves　only…
　No　good；　no　good　at　all。
　One　night　six　months　ago　I　dropped　upon　my　knees　before　him；　with　the　boy　there　between　us。　Upon　my　bended　knees。　I　put　my　hand　on　the　little　boy's　head；　and　I　swore　it　to　him　then　and　there。　Speaking　low；　so　the　child　wouldn't　understand。
　〃By　my　child。　Bill；　I　swear　to　you　on　the　head　of　my　child；　that　I　didn't。　Oh　Bill；　I　didn't　do　it…〃
　He　raised　me　up；　and　held　me　in　his　arms；　and　pressed　me　to　him。
　〃I　know　you　didn't。　I　know。　What　more　can　I　say？　In　what　other　way　can　I　tell　you？　Here；　lie　against　my　heart；　Patrice。　Perhaps　that　can　tell　you　better　than　I　　Listen　to　it；　can't　you　tell　that　it　believes　you？〃
　And　for　a　moment　it　does；　that　one　moment　of　our　love。　But　then　the　other　moment　es；　that　one　that　always　es　after。　And　he　has　already　thought；　〃But　I　know　it　wasn't　I。　I　know　so　well　it　wasn't　I。　And　that　leaves　only…〃
　And　even　while　his　arms　go　tighter　than　ever　about　me；　and　his　lips　kiss　the　wetness　from　my　eyes；　he　already　doesn't　again。　He　already　doesn't。
　There's　no　way　out。　We're　caught；　we're　trapped。　The　circle　viciously　pletes　itself　each　time；　and　we're　on　the　inside；　can't　break　through。　For　if　he's　innocent；　then　it　has　to　be　me。　And　if　I　am；　it　has　to　be　he。　But　I　know　I'm　innocent。　（Yet　he　may　know　he　is　too。）　There's　no　way　out。
　Or；　tired　with　trying　to　drive　it　away；　we've　rushed　toward　it　with　desperate　abandon；　tried　to　embrace　it；　to　be　done　with　it　once　and　for　all　in　that　way。
　One　time；　unable　to　endure　its　long…drawn；　unseen；　ghostly　vigil　over　our　shoulders　any　longer　he　suddenly　flung　himself　out　of　the　chair　he'd　been　in；　though　nothing　had　been　said　between　us　for　an　hour　past。　Flung　the　book　he　hadn't　been　reading；　only　pretending　to；　far　from　him　like　a　brickbat。　Flung　himself　up　as　wildly　as　though　he　were　going　to　rush　forward　to　grapple　with　something　he　saw　there　before　him。　And　my　heart　flung　itself　wildly　up　with　him。
　He　surged　to　the　far　end　of　the　room　and　stopped　there…at　bay。　And　made　a　fist；　and　raised　his　arm；　and　swung　it　with　a　thundering　crash　against　the　door；　so　that　only　the　panel's　thickness　kept　it　from　shattering。　Then　turned　in　his　helpless　defiance　and　cried　out：
　〃I　don't　care！　It　doesn't　matter！　Do　you　hear　me？　It　doesn't　matter！　People　have　done　it　before。　Lots　of　times。　And　lived　out　their　happiness　afterward。　Why　shouldn't　we？　He　was　no　good。　It　was　what　he　deserved。　He　wasn't　worth　a　second　thought。　The　whole　world　said　so　then；　and　they'd　still　say　so　now。　He　isn't　worth　a　single　minute　of　this　hell　we've　gone　through…〃
　And　then　he　poured　a　drink　for　each　of　us；　lavish；　reckless；　and　came　back　toward　me　with　them。　And　I；　understanding；　agreeing；　one　with　him；　rose　and　went　to　meet　him　halfway。
　〃Here；　take　this。　Drink　on　it。　Drown　it。　Drown　it　until　it's　gone。　One　of　us　did　do　it。　It　doesn't　matter。　It's　done　with。　Now　let's　get　on　with　living。〃
　And　striking　himself　on　the　chest；　〃All　right；　I　did　it。　There。　I　was　the　one。　Now　it's　settled。　Now　it's　over　at　last…〃
　And　then　suddenly　our　eyes　looked　deep　into　one　another's；　our　glasses　faltered　in　mid…air；　went　down；　and　it　was　back　again。
　〃But　you　don't　believe　that；〃　I　whispered；　dismayed。
　〃And　you　do；〃　he　breathed；　stricken。
　Oh；　it's　everything；　it's　everywhere。
　We've　gone　away；　and　it's　where　we　go。　It's　in　the　blue　depths　of　Lake　Louise；　and　high　up　in　the　fleecy　cloud　formations　above　Biscayne　Bay。　It　rolls　restlessly　in　with　the　surf　at　Santa　Barbara；　and　lurks　amid　the　coral　rocks　of　Bermuda；　a　darker　flower　than　the　rest。
　We've　e　back；　and　it's　where　we've　e　back　to。
　It's　between　the　printed　lines　on　the　pages　of　the　books　we　read。　But　it　peers　forth　dark；　and　they　fade　off　to　illegibility。　〃Is　he　thinking　of　it　now；　as　I　read？　As　I　am？　I　will　not　look　up　at　him；　I　will　keep　my　eyes　to　this；　but…is　he　thinking　of　it　now？〃
　It's　the　hand　that　holds　out　its　coffee…cup　across　the　breakfast　table　in　the　mornings；　to　have　the　urn　tipped　over　it。　Bloody…red　for　a　moment　in　fancy；　then　back　again　to　pale　as　it　should　be。　Or　maybe；　to　the　other；　it's　that　other　hand　opposite　one；　that　does　the　tipping　of　the　urn；　depending　upon　which　side　of　the　table　the　beholder　it　sitting。
　I　saw　his　eyes　rest　on　my　hand　one　day；　and　I　knew　what　he　was　thinking　at　that　instant。　Because　I　had　looked　at　his　hand　much　the　same　way　on　a　previous　day；　and　I　had　been　thinking　then　what　he　was　thinking　now。
　I　saw　him　close　his　eyes　briefly；　to　efface　the　sickly　illusion；　and　I　closed　mine　to　dispel　the　knowledge　of　it　that　his　had　conveyed　to　me。　Then　we　both　opened　them；　and　smiled　at　one　another；　to　tell　one　another　nothing　had　happened　just　then。
　It's　in　the　pictures　that　we　see　on　the　theatre…screen。　〃Let's　get　out　of　here；　I'm…tired　of　it；　aren't　you？〃　（Somebody　is　going　to　kill　somebody；　up　there；　soon；　and　he　knows　it's　ing。）　But　even　though　we　do　get　up　and　leave；　it's　already　too　late；　because　he　knows　why　we're　leaving；　and　I　know　too。　And　even　if　I　didn't　know　until　then；　this…the　very　fact　of　our　leaving…has　told　me。　So　the　precaution　is　wasted　after　all。　It's　back　i