On a damp afternoon in September of the following year a young man with his face burned to a deep copper glow got off a train at a city in Tennessee. He looked around anxiously, and seemed relieved when he found that there was no one in the station to meet him. He taxied to the best hotel in the city where he registered with some satisfaction as George O'Kelly, Cuzco, Peru.
Up in his room he sat for a few minutes at the window looking down into the familiar street below. Then with his hand trembling faintly he took off the telephone receiver and called a number.
“Is Miss Jonquil in?”
“This is she.”
“Oh—”His voice after overcoming a faint tendency to waver went on with friendly formality.
“This is George O'Kelly. Did you get my letter?”
“Yes. I thought you'd be in to-day.”
Her voice, cool and unmoved, disturbed him, but not as he had expected. This was the voice of a stranger, unexcited, pleasantly glad to see him—that was all. He wanted to put down the telephone and catch his breath.
“I haven't seen you for—a long time.” He succeeded in making this sound offhand. “Over a year.”
He knew how long it had been—to the day.
“It'll be awfully nice to talk to you again.”
“I'll be there in about an hour.”
He hung up. For four long seasons every minute of his leisure had been crowded with anticipation of this hour, and now this hour was here. He had thought of finding her married, engaged, in love—he had not thought she would be unstirred at his return.
There would never again in his life, he felt, be another ten months like these he had just gone through. He had made an admittedly remarkable showing for a young engineer—stumbled into two unusual opportunities, one in Peru, whence he had just returned, and another, consequent upon it, in New York, whither he was bound. In this short time he had risen from poverty into a position of unlimited opportunity.
He looked at himself in the dressing-table mirror. He was almost black with tan, but it was a romantic black, and in the last week, since he had had time to think about it, it had given him considerable pleasure. The hardiness of his frame, too, he appraised with a sort of fascination. He had lost part of an eyebrow somewhere, and he still wore an elastic bandage on his knee, but he was too young not to realize that on the steamer many women had looked at him with unusual tributary interest.
His clothes, of course, were frightful. They had been made for him by a Greek tailor in Lima—in two days. He was young enough, too, to have explained this sartorial deficiency to Jonquil in his otherwise laconic note. The only further detail it contained was a request that he should not be met at the station.
George O'Kelly, of Cuzco, Peru, waited an hour and a half in the hotel, until, to be exact, the sun had reached a midway position in the sky. Then, freshly shaven and talcum-powdered toward a somewhat more Caucasian hue, for vanity at the last minute had overcome romance, he engaged a taxicab and set out for the house he knew so well.
He was breathing hard—he noticed this but he told himself that it was excitement, not emotion. He was here; she was not married—that was enough. He was not even sure what he had to say to her. But this was the moment of his life that he felt he could least easily have dispensed with. There was no triumph, after all, without a girl concerned, and if he did not lay his spoils at her feet he could at least hold them for a passing moment before her eyes.
The house loomed up suddenly beside him, and his first thought was that it had assumed a strange unreality. There was nothing changed—only everything was changed. It was smaller and it seemed shabbier than before—there was no cloud of magic hovering over its roof and issuing from the windows of the upper floor. He rang the door-bell and an unfamiliar colored maid appeared. Miss Jonquil would be down in a moment. He wet his lips nervously and walked into the sitting-room—and the feeling of unreality increased. After all, he saw, this was only a room, and not the enchanted chamber where he had passed those poignant hours. He sat in a chair, amazed to find it a chair, realizing that his imagination had distorted and colored all these simple familiar things.
Then the door opened and Jonquil came into the room—and it was as though everything in it suddenly blurred before his eyes. He had not remembered how beautiful she was, and he felt his face grow pale and his voice diminish to a poor sigh in his throat.
She was dressed in pale green, and a gold ribbon bound back her dark, straight hair like a crown. The familiar velvet eyes caught his as she came through the door, and a spasm of fright went through him at her beauty's power of inflicting pain.
He said“Hello,” and they each took a few steps forward and shook hands. Then they sat in chairs quite far apart and gazed at each other across the room.
“You've come back,” she said, and he answered just as tritely: “I wanted to stop in and see you as I came through.”
He tried to neutralize the tremor in his voice by looking anywhere but at her face. The obligation to speak was on him, but, unless he immediately began to boast, it seemed that there was nothing to say. There had never been anything casual in their previous relations—it didn't seem possible that people in this position would talk about the weather.
“This is ridiculous,” he broke out in sudden embarrassment. “I don't know exactly what to do. Does my being here bother you?”
“No.” The answer was both reticent and impersonally sad. It depressed him.
“Are you engaged?” he demanded.
“No.”
“Are you in love with some one?”
She shook her head.
“Oh.” He leaned back in his chair. Another subject seemed exhausted—the interview was not taking the course he had intended.
“Jonquil,” he began, this time on a softer key, “after all that's happened between us, I wanted to come back and see you. Whatever I do in the future I'll never love another girl as I've loved you.”
This was one of the speeches he had rehearsed. On the steamer it had seemed to have just the right note—a reference to the tenderness he would always feel for her combined with a non-committal attitude toward his present state of mind. Here with the past around him, beside him, growing minute by minute more heavy on the air, it seemed theatrical and stale.
She made no comment, sat without moving, her eyes fixed on him with an expression that might have meant everything or nothing.
“You don't love me any more, do you?” he asked her in a level voice.
“No.”
When Mrs. Cary came in a minute later, and spoke to him about his success—there had been a half-column about him in the local paper—he was a mixture of emotions. He knew now that he still wanted this girl, and he knew that the past sometimes comes back—that was all. For the rest he must be strong and watchful and he would see.
“And now,” Mrs. Cary was saying, “I want you two to go and see the lady who has the chrysanthemums. She particularly told me she wanted to see you because she'd read about you in the paper.”
They went to see the lady with the chrysanthemums. They walked along the street, and he recognized with a sort of excitement just how her shorter footsteps always fell in between his own. The lady turned out to be nice, and the chrysanthemums were enormous and extraordinarily beautiful. The lady's gardens were full of them, white and pink and yellow, so that to be among them was a trip back into the heart of summer. There were two gardens full, and a gate between them; when they strolled toward the second garden the lady went first through the gate.
And then a curious thing happened. George stepped aside to let Jonquil pass, but instead of going through she stood still and stared at him for a minute. It was not so much the look, which was not a smile, as it was the moment of silence. They saw each other's eyes, and both took a short, faintly accelerated breath, and then they went on into the second garden. That was all.
The afternoon waned. They thanked the lady and walked home slowly, thoughtfully, side by side. Through dinner too they were silent. George told Mr. Cary something of what had happened in South America, and managed to let it be known that everything would be plain sailing for him in the future.
Then dinner was over, and he and Jonquil were alone in the room which had seen the beginning of their love affair and the end. It seemed to him long ago and inexpressibly sad. On that sofa he had felt agony and grief such as he would never feel again. He would never be so weak or so tired and miserable and poor. Yet he knew that that boy of fifteen months before had had something, a trust, a warmth that was gone forever. The sensible thing—they had done the sensible thing. He had traded his first youth for strength and carved success out of despair. But with his youth, life had carried away the freshness of his love.
“You won't marry me, will you?” he said quietly.
Jonquil shook her dark head.
“I'm never going to marry,” she answered.
He nodded.
“I'm going on to Washington in the morning,” he said.
“Oh—”
“I have to go. I've got to be in New York by the first, and meanwhile I want to stop off in Washington.”
“Business!”
“No-o,” he said as if reluctantly. “There's some one there I must see who was very kind to me when I was so—down and out.”
This was invented. There was no one in Washington for him to see—but he was watching Jonquil narrowly, and he was sure that she winced a little, that her eyes closed and then opened wide again.
“But before I go I want to tell you the things that happened to me since I saw you, and, as maybe we won't meet again, I wonder if—if just this once you'd sit in my lap like you used to. I wouldn't ask except since there's no one else—yet—perhaps it doesn't matter.”
She nodded, and in a moment was sitting in his lap as she had sat so often in that vanished spring. The feel of her head against his shoulder, of her familiar body, sent a shock of emotion over him. His arms holding her had a tendency to tighten around her, so he leaned back and began to talk thoughtfully into the air.
He told her of a despairing two weeks in New York which had terminated with an attractive if not very profitable job in a construction plant in Jersey City. When the Peru business had first presented itself it had not seemed an extraordinary opportunity. He was to be third assistant engineer on the expedition, but only ten of the American party, including eight rodmen and surveyors, had ever reached Cuzco. Ten days later the chief of the expedition was dead of yellow fever. That had been his chance, a chance for anybody but a fool, a marvellous chance—
“A chance for anybody but a fool?” she interrupted innocently.
“Even for a fool,” he continued. “It was wonderful. Well, I wired New York—”
“And so,” she interrupted again, “they wired that you ought to take a chance?”
“Ought to!” he exclaimed, still leaning back. “That I had to. There was no time to lose—”
“Not a minute?”
“Not a minute.”
“Not even time for—”she paused.
“For what?”
“Look.”
He bent his head forward suddenly, and she drew herself to him in the same moment, her lips half open like a flower.
“Yes,” he whispered into her lips. “There's all the time in the world.…”
All the time in the world—his life and hers. But for an instant as he kissed her he knew that though he search through eternity he could never recapture those lost April hours. He might press her close now till the muscles knotted on his arms—she was something desirable and rare that he had fought for and made his own—but never again an intangible whisper in the dusk, or on the breeze of night.…
Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.
第二年九月的一個(gè)潮濕的下午,一個(gè)臉膛被曬成棕櫚黑的年輕人從田納西的一列火車上走下來。他不安地朝四周張望了一番,當(dāng)他發(fā)覺沒有人來車站接他的時(shí)候,似乎松了一口氣。他打車來到城里最好的一家賓館,滿意地在入住登記簿上寫下:秘魯,庫斯科,喬治·歐凱利。
他走進(jìn)樓上的客房,在窗戶邊坐了一會(huì)兒,看著下面那條熟悉的街道。然后,他用一只微微顫抖的手拿起話筒撥了一個(gè)號(hào)碼。
“瓊奎爾小姐在家嗎?”
“我就是。”
“哦——”他穩(wěn)了穩(wěn)有點(diǎn)顫抖的聲音,才用親近卻拘謹(jǐn)?shù)目跉饫^續(xù)說道:
“我是喬治·歐凱利,收到我的信了嗎?”
“收到了。我以為你今天會(huì)到家里來呢?!?/p>
她的聲音冷靜又淡然,這讓他很不快,而且與他的期望大相徑庭。這個(gè)聲音很陌生,絲毫沒有興奮之情,她說她非常高興和他見面——僅此而已。他想放下話筒透透氣。
“很久——不見了?!彼晒Φ刈屪约赫f得漫不經(jīng)心,“一年多了。”
他清清楚楚地記得那是多久——一天都不會(huì)錯(cuò)。
“再次聽到你的聲音真是太高興了?!?/p>
“我大約一個(gè)小時(shí)后到你那兒。”
他掛斷電話。在四個(gè)漫長(zhǎng)的季節(jié)里,只要一有空,他的腦海里無時(shí)無刻不在期盼這一刻的到來,如今這一刻真的到來了。他曾經(jīng)想過,她是不是已經(jīng)嫁人了,是不是已經(jīng)訂婚了,是不是已經(jīng)愛上別人了——而他唯一沒有想過的是,她會(huì)對(duì)他的歸來無動(dòng)于衷。
他覺得,在他的一生中,他剛剛度過的那漫長(zhǎng)的十個(gè)月再也不會(huì)重來了。作為一名年輕的工程師,他已經(jīng)展露出令人交口稱贊的卓越才華——他接連撞了兩次大運(yùn),一次是在秘魯,另一次是在紐約。他這次從秘魯回來后,很快就要去紐約發(fā)展。在這短短的時(shí)間內(nèi),一貧如洗的他搖身一變,擁有了一個(gè)前途無可限量的職位。
他從梳妝臺(tái)的鏡子里打量著自己。他曬得像炭一樣黑,然而這種黑卻有一種浪漫情調(diào)。上個(gè)禮拜,當(dāng)他有空想到這一點(diǎn)的時(shí)候,心中不由得喜滋滋的。他如癡如醉地欣賞著他那壯碩的身材。他的眉毛脫落了一些,膝蓋上戴著彈力護(hù)膝。不過,他畢竟太年輕,不會(huì)沒注意到汽艇上有許多女人紛紛向他投來熱辣辣的目光。
他穿的衣服當(dāng)然很嚇人,那是利馬的一個(gè)希臘裁縫在兩天內(nèi)為他趕制出來的。他還是太年輕了,在那封簡(jiǎn)短的便箋里,他向瓊奎爾解釋了這身衣服的缺陷。信中還有一個(gè)細(xì)節(jié),他要求她不要到車站來接他。
來自秘魯庫斯科的喬治·歐凱利在賓館等了一個(gè)半小時(shí),確切地說,直等到烈日當(dāng)頭。然后,他刮好臉,撲了些滑石粉使膚色更接近白種人,在最后的那一刻,虛榮心戰(zhàn)勝了浪漫情懷。他叫了輛出租車,朝著那幢他再熟悉不過的房子出發(fā)了。
他感到呼吸困難——他意識(shí)到了這一點(diǎn)。不過,他告訴自己,這是因?yàn)榕d奮,和感情無關(guān)。他回來了;她沒有嫁人——這就夠了。他甚至不知道該對(duì)她說些什么。然而他覺得這一刻是他人生當(dāng)中最不能輕易抹去的一筆。畢竟,如果沒有一個(gè)姑娘來分享,他的勝利就毫無意義,況且就算他不能把戰(zhàn)利品呈到她的腳下,至少也能捧到她的面前,哪怕是稍縱即逝的一瞬間呢。
這幢房子突然出現(xiàn)在他的身旁,他的第一反應(yīng)便是:它似乎有一種奇怪的虛幻感。什么也沒有變——又什么都變了。它似乎比以前小了,破了——往日那一團(tuán)團(tuán)充滿魔力的云彩再也不會(huì)在房頂上盤桓了,再也不會(huì)從樓上那扇窗戶里飄出來了。他按響門鈴,一個(gè)陌生的黑人女仆為他開了門,并告訴他瓊奎爾小姐馬上就下來。他緊張地舔了舔嘴唇,走進(jìn)客廳——虛幻感更強(qiáng)了。他明白,這畢竟只是一個(gè)普通的房間,而不是那個(gè)曾經(jīng)讓他撕心裂肺、備受煎熬的魔法屋。他在一把椅子上坐下來,當(dāng)他發(fā)現(xiàn)自己坐著的竟然是一把椅子時(shí),不由大吃一驚。他方才意識(shí)到,他以前的想象力將這些簡(jiǎn)陋的、司空見慣的東西都理想化了,將它們的形狀和色彩都美化了。
接著,門開了,瓊奎爾走了進(jìn)來——眼前的一切仿佛突然模糊起來。他已記不清她那美麗的容顏了,只覺得自己臉色煞白,他的聲音到了喉嚨里卻變成了一聲微弱的嘆息。
她一身淺綠色裝扮,一條金色發(fā)帶將她那烏黑柔順的秀發(fā)束到后面,看上去簡(jiǎn)直像一頂王冠。她進(jìn)門的一瞬間,她那雙久違的、天鵝絨般的眼睛正好與他的目光相遇,看到她那令人痛不欲生的美,他的全身頓時(shí)襲來一陣恐懼的震顫。
他說了聲“嗨”,兩人便都向前走了幾步,握了握手。然后各自坐到遙遙相隔的椅子上,從房間的兩邊對(duì)視著。
“你回來了。”她說。他回答得毫無新意:“我想順道來看看你?!?/p>
他的目光游移不定,就是不看她的臉,他想以此來穩(wěn)住顫抖的聲音。他有責(zé)任打破僵局,然而,除非他馬上開始自吹自擂,否則似乎實(shí)在無話可說。以他們之前的關(guān)系來看,再也找不到那份讓人倍感溫馨的隨意了——這種情況下,總不見得談?wù)撎鞖獍伞?/p>
“真是可笑,”他突然尷尬地說,“我實(shí)在有點(diǎn)不知所措。我來這里打擾到你了嗎?”
“哪里的話?!边@個(gè)回答既謹(jǐn)慎含蓄,又透著淡淡的憂傷。他感到很沮喪。
“你訂婚了嗎?”他問道。
“沒有?!?/p>
“你有心上人了嗎?”
她搖搖頭。
“哦?!彼苛丝恳巫?。似乎找不到別的話題了——這次會(huì)面完全不在他設(shè)想的軌道上。
“瓊奎爾,”他說,他的聲音更加柔和了,“畢竟,我們之間發(fā)生了不希望發(fā)生的事情,我就是想回來看看你。將來無論如何,我都不會(huì)像愛你一樣去愛別的姑娘了。”
這句話是他事先排練好的。在輪船上時(shí),這么說似乎恰到好處——既傳達(dá)出他素來對(duì)她懷有的柔情,又摻雜著他目前模棱兩可的曖昧態(tài)度??墒乾F(xiàn)在,他被過去重重包圍,氣氛越來越凝重,似乎充滿了戲劇性,讓人覺得陳腐。
她一言不發(fā),靜靜地坐著,兩眼盯著他,臉上的表情似乎已經(jīng)說明了一切,又似乎什么也說明不了。
“你不再愛我了,是嗎?”他平靜地問她。
“是的?!?/p>
過了一會(huì)兒,凱利太太走了進(jìn)來,和他聊起他取得的業(yè)績(jī)——當(dāng)?shù)貓?bào)紙已經(jīng)用了半個(gè)版面報(bào)道過他的事跡——他的心里真是五味雜陳。他知道他現(xiàn)在依然愛著這個(gè)姑娘,他知道過去有時(shí)還會(huì)再回來——這樣就夠了。剩下的事情就是,他一定要堅(jiān)強(qiáng)謹(jǐn)慎,然后拭目以待。
“現(xiàn)在,”凱利太太說,“你們兩個(gè)去看看那位種菊花的太太吧。她特別囑咐我,說想見見你,因?yàn)樗趫?bào)紙上看到你的事了?!?/p>
他們?nèi)タ赐俏痪栈ㄌ?。路上,他發(fā)現(xiàn)她的小碎步總是落在他的腳步之間,這讓他感到很興奮。菊花太太很慈祥,她種的菊花花朵碩大,美麗無比。菊花太太的花園里到處都是菊花,白色的、粉紅色的、黃色的,真是五彩繽紛。置身于菊花園中,簡(jiǎn)直就像是回到了盛夏。菊花太太總共有兩個(gè)花園,中間隔了一道門;他們邁著悠閑的步子去賞第二個(gè)花園的花,菊花太太先行一步出了這道門。
這時(shí),發(fā)生了一件奇怪的事。喬治走到旁邊,讓瓊奎爾先過去,但是她沒有過去,而是靜靜地站在原地看了他一會(huì)兒。她的臉上沒什么表情,也沒有笑意,她只是沉默了片刻。他們四目相對(duì),每個(gè)人的呼吸都急促起來,然后他們便步入第二個(gè)花園。僅此而已。
天色漸晚,他們向菊花太太道了謝,然后就心事重重地、慢吞吞地肩并肩朝家中走去。晚飯的時(shí)候,他們都很沉默。喬治對(duì)凱利先生講了一些他在南美洲的經(jīng)歷,力圖向他們傳達(dá)出自己的未來會(huì)一帆風(fēng)順。
吃過晚飯,他和瓊奎爾單獨(dú)待在房間里,這個(gè)房間見證了他們的愛情自始至終的全部過程。對(duì)他而言,這似乎是一件遙遠(yuǎn)的、無以名狀的傷心事。就在那張沙發(fā)上,他曾經(jīng)感受過一生中最為深切的痛苦和悲傷。今后,他再也不會(huì)那樣懦弱,那樣疲憊,那樣痛苦,那樣可憐了。然而,他知道,十五個(gè)月前的那個(gè)熱血男兒內(nèi)心擁有的可貴品質(zhì),那種信任和熱情,如今都消失殆盡了,再也找不回來了。明智之舉——他們做出了明智之舉。他已經(jīng)用他的第一次青春做賭注,換來了力量,取得了成功,擺脫了絕望。然而,命運(yùn)之手卻剝奪了他那清純的愛情,連同他的青春。
“你不愿意嫁給我了,是嗎?”他低聲問道。
瓊奎爾搖了搖她那一頭烏黑的秀發(fā)。
“我永遠(yuǎn)都不想結(jié)婚了?!彼鸬?。
他點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭。
“明天一早,我就去華盛頓。”他說。
“哦——”
“我得走了,我得先到紐約,順便在華盛頓歇歇腳?!?/p>
“為了生意!”
“不——不,”他仿佛有點(diǎn)勉為其難的樣子,“我必須去那兒看望一個(gè)人,在我——窮困潦倒——的時(shí)候,他對(duì)我恩重如山。”
他在說謊,華盛頓根本沒什么人等著他去看望——然而,他用眼角瞄了瓊奎爾一眼,他敢斷定她輕輕地打了個(gè)寒戰(zhàn),將眼睛閉上,又睜大了。
“不過,既然見到你了,我想在我走之前將我的經(jīng)歷講給你聽聽。也許我們以后不會(huì)再見面了,不知你是否——是否愿意像過去那樣坐到我的懷里來——就這一次,好嗎?要不是你還沒有心上人,否則我是不會(huì)向你提出這種要求的——不過——也許,你不愿意,那也沒關(guān)系?!?/p>
她點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭,旋即坐在了他的腿上,像那個(gè)一去不復(fù)返的春天她常做的那樣。她那靠在他肩膀上的頭以及她那熟悉的身體立刻為他輸入了一股電流,傳遍他的全身。擁抱著她的兩只胳膊想把她抱得再緊些,于是他把身體向后仰,開始心事重重地對(duì)著空氣講起來。
他告訴她,他在紐約度過了兩個(gè)令人絕望的禮拜,結(jié)束了澤西市一家建筑公司的差事,這個(gè)工作雖然不怎么賺錢,卻也很有吸引力。剛開始的時(shí)候,秘魯?shù)氖聵I(yè)也看不出有多好。在這次跨國生意中,他是第三位助理工程師,而美國方面派去庫斯科的只有十個(gè)人,包括八名標(biāo)尺手和測(cè)量員,他們都從未去過庫斯科。十天后,領(lǐng)隊(duì)死于黃熱病,他的機(jī)會(huì)來了。只要不是傻瓜,對(duì)任何人來說,這都是一個(gè)天賜良機(jī)——
“只要不是傻瓜,對(duì)任何人來說,這都是一個(gè)天賜良機(jī)?”她天真地打斷了他的話。
“甚至對(duì)傻瓜也不例外,”他繼續(xù)說,“那就是一個(gè)天賜良機(jī)。然后,我就給紐約發(fā)了電報(bào)——”
“所以,”她又打斷了他的話,“他們就給你回了電報(bào),說你應(yīng)該抓住這個(gè)機(jī)會(huì)啰?”
“什么應(yīng)該呀!”他大聲說。他依舊向后仰著身子?!拔冶仨氉プ∵@個(gè)機(jī)會(huì)。機(jī)不可失,時(shí)不再來——”
“一刻都不能耽擱嗎?”
“一刻都不能?!?/p>
“甚至沒時(shí)間——”她打住話頭不說了。
“沒時(shí)間怎么了?”
“看一眼?!?/p>
他突然俯首向前,同時(shí),她也將身體靠向他,她的嘴唇像花瓣一樣半張著。
“是的,”他悄聲說著,吻上了她的唇,“時(shí)間總是有的……”
時(shí)間總是有的——他的一生,還有她的一生。然而,這一吻讓他徹底明白過來,就算他找到地老天荒,也找不回那些遺失了的四月的時(shí)光了,找不回那時(shí)光里的激情了。此時(shí)此刻,他大可緊緊地?fù)碇?,直到胳膊上的肌肉暴突——她是他渴望的,是他珍惜的,是他拼了命都想要得到的——然而,那些飄散在黃昏中,飄散在和風(fēng)習(xí)習(xí)的夜空里的喁喁細(xì)語再也聽不到了……
好吧,讓它去吧,他想。四月結(jié)束了,結(jié)束了。世上的愛情何止千種萬種,但從來都沒有哪種愛情可以重來。
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