Mrs Attenborough’s face was of the perfect oval and slightly flat type that wears best. There is no flesh to sag7. Her nose rode serenely8, in its finely-bridged curve. Only the big grey eyes were a tiny bit prominent, on the surface of her face, and they gave her away most. The bluish lids were heavy, as if they ached sometimes with the strain of keeping the eyes beneath them arch and bright; and at the corners of the eyes were fine little wrinkles which would slacken into haggardness, then be pulled up tense again to that bright, gay look like a Leonardo woman who really could laugh outright10.
Her niece Cecilia was perhaps the only person in the world who was aware of the invisible little wire which connected Pauline’s eye-wrinkles with Pauline’s willpower. Only Cecilia consciously watched the eyes go haggard and old and tired, and remain so, for hours; until Robert came home. Then ping! — the mysterious little wire that worked between Pauline’s will and her face went taut11, the weary, haggard, prominent eyes suddenly began to gleam, the eyelids12 arched, the queer, curved eyebrows13 which floated in such frail14 arches on Pauline’s forehead began to gather a mocking significance, and you had the REAL lovely lady, in all her charm.
She really had the secret of everlasting15 youth; that is to say, she could don her youth again like an eagle. But she was sparing of it. She was wise enough not to try being young for too many people. Her son Robert, in the evenings, and Sir Wilfrid Knipe sometimes in the afternoon to tea; then occasional visitors on Sunday, when Robert was home — for these she was her lovely and changeless self, that age could not wither16, nor custom stale; so bright and kindly17 and yet subtly mocking, like Mona Lisa, who knew a thing or two. But Pauline knew more, so she needn’t be smug at all. She could laugh that lovely, mocking Bacchante laugh of hers, which was at the same time never malicious18, always good-naturedly tolerant, both of virtues19 and vices20 — the former, of course, taking much more tolerating. So she suggested, roguishly.
Only with her niece Cecilia she did not trouble to keep up the glamour21. Ciss was not very observant, anyhow; and, more than that, she was plain; more still, she was in love with Robert; and most of all, she was thirty, and dependent on her aunt Pauline. Oh, Cecilia — why make music for her?
Cecilia, called by her aunt and by her cousin Robert just Ciss, like a cat spitting, was a big, dark-complexioned, pug-faced young woman who very rarely spoke22, and when she did couldn’t get it out. She was the daughter of a poor Congregational clergyman who had been, while he lived, brother to Ronald, Aunt Pauline’s husband. Ronald and the Congregational minister were both well dead, and Aunt Pauline had had charge of Ciss for the last five years.
They lived all together in a quite exquisite though rather small Queen Anne house some twenty-five miles out of town, secluded23 in a little dale, and surrounded by small but very quaint24 and pleasant grounds. It was an ideal place and an ideal life for Aunt Pauline, at the age of seventy-two. When the kingfishers flashed up the little stream in her garden, going under the alders25, something still flashed in her heart. She was that kind of woman.
Robert, who was two years older than Ciss, went every day to town, to his chambers26 in one of the Inns. He was a barrister, and, to his secret but very deep mortification27, he earned about a hundred pounds a year. He simply COULDN’T get above that figure, though it was rather easy to get below it. Of course, it didn’t matter. Pauline had money. But then, what was Pauline’s was Pauline’s, and though she could give almost lavishly28, still, one was always aware of having a LOVELY and UNDESERVED present made to one. Presents are so much nicer when they’re undeserved, Aunt Pauline would say.
Robert, too, was plain, and almost speechless. He was medium sized, rather broad and stout29, though not fat. Only his creamy, clean-shaven face was rather fat, and sometimes suggestive of an Italian priest, in its silence and its secrecy30. But he had grey eyes like his mother, but very shy and uneasy, not bold like hers. Perhaps Ciss was the only person who fathomed31 his awful shyness and malaise, his habitual32 feeling that he was in the wrong place: almost like a soul that has got into a wrong body. But he never did anything about it. He went up to Chambers, and read law. It was, however, all the weird33 old processes that interested him. He had, unknown to everybody but his mother, a quite extraordinary collection of old Mexican legal documents — reports of processes and trials, pleas, accusations35: the weird and awful mixture of ecclesiastical law and common law in seventeenth-century Mexico. He had started a study in this direction through coming across the report of a trial of two English sailors, for murder, in Mexico, in 1620, and he had gone on, when the next document was an accusation34 against a Don Miguel Estrada for seducing36 one of the nuns37 of the Sacred Heart Convent in Oaxaca in 1680.
Pauline and her son Robert had wonderful evenings with these old papers. The lovely lady knew a little Spanish. She even looked a trifle Spanish herself, with a high comb and a marvellous dark-brown shawl embroidered38 in thick silvery silk embroidery39. So she would sit at the perfect old table, soft as velvet40 in its deep brown surface, a high comb in her hair, ear-rings with dropping pendants in her ears, her arms bare and still beautiful, a few strings41 of pearls round her throat, a puce velvet dress on and this or another beautiful shawl, and by candlelight she looked, yes, a Spanish high-bred beauty of thirty-two or three. She set the candles to give her face just the chiaroscuro42 she knew suited her; her high chair that rose behind her face was done in old green brocade, against which her face emerged like a Christmas rose.
They were always three at table, and they always drank a bottle of champagne43: Pauline two glasses, Ciss two glasses, Robert the rest. The lovely lady sparkled and was radiant. Ciss, her black hair bobbed, her broad shoulders in a very nice and becoming dress that Aunt Pauline had helped her to make, stared from her aunt to her cousin and back again, with rather confused, mute hazel eyes, and played the part of an audience suitably impressed. She WAS impressed, somewhere, all the time. And even rendered speechless by Pauline’s brilliancy, even after five years. But at the bottom of her consciousness was the data of as weird a document as Robert ever studied: all the things she knew about her aunt and her cousin.
Robert was always a gentleman, with an old-fashioned, punctilious44 courtesy that covered his shyness quite completely. He was, and Ciss knew it, more confused than shy. He was worse than she was. Cecilia’s own confusion dated from only five years back. Robert’s must have started before he was born. In the lovely lady’s womb he must have felt VERY confused.
He paid all his attention to his mother, drawn45 to her as a humble46 flower to the sun. And yet, priest-like, he was all the time aware, with the tail of his consciousness, that Ciss was there, and that she was a bit shut out of it, and that something wasn’t right. He was aware of the third consciousness in the room. Whereas to Pauline, her niece Cecilia was an appropriate part of her own setting, rather than a distinct consciousness.
Robert took coffee with his mother and Ciss in the warm drawing-room, where all the furniture was so lovely, all collectors’ pieces — Mrs Attenborough had made her own money, dealing47 privately48 in pictures and furniture and rare things from barbaric countries — and the three talked desultorily49 till about eight or half-past. It was very pleasant, very cosy50, very homely51 even; Pauline made a real home cosiness52 out of so much elegant material. The chat was simple, and nearly always bright. Pauline was her REAL self, emanating53 a friendly mockery and an odd, ironic54 gaiety — till there came a little pause.
At which Ciss always rose and said good-night, and carried out the coffee-tray, to prevent Burnett from intruding55 any more.
And then! ah, then, the lovely, glowing intimacy56 of the evening, between mother and son, when they deciphered manuscripts and discussed points, Pauline with that eagerness of a girl for which she was famous. And it was quite genuine. In some mysterious way she had SAVED UP her power for being thrilled, in connection with a man. Robert, solid, rather quiet and subdued57, seemed like the elder of the two — almost like a priest with a young girl pupil. And that was rather how he felt.
Ciss had a flat for herself just across the courtyard, over the old coach-house and stables. There were no horses. Robert kept his car in the coach-house. Ciss had three very nice rooms up there, stretching along in a row one after the other, and she had got used to the ticking of the stable clock.
But sometimes she did not go to her rooms. In the summer she would sit on the lawn, and from the open window of the drawing-room upstairs she would hear Pauline’s wonderful, heart-searching laugh. And in winter the young woman would put on a thick coat and walk slowly to the little balustraded bridge over the stream, and then look back at the three lighted windows of that drawing-room where mother and son were so happy together.
Ciss loved Robert, and she believed that Pauline intended the two of them to marry — when she was dead. But poor Robert, he was so convulsed with shyness already, with man or woman. What would he be when his mother was dead? — in a dozen more years. He would be just a shell, the shell of a man who had never lived.
The strange, unspoken sympathy of the young with one another, when they are overshadowed by the old, was one of the bonds between Robert and Ciss. But another bond, which Ciss did not know how to draw tight, was the bond of passion. Poor Robert was by nature a passionate59 man. His silence and his agonised, though hidden, shyness were both the result of a secret physical passionateness60. And how Pauline could play on this! Ah, Ciss was not blind to the eyes which he fixed61 on his mother — eyes fascinated yet humiliated62, full of shame. He was ashamed that he was not a man. And he did not love his mother. He was fascinated by her. Completely fascinated. And for the rest, paralysed in a life-long confusion.
Ciss stayed in the garden till the lights leapt up in Pauline’s bedroom — about ten o’clock. The lovely lady had retired63. Robert would now stay another hour or so, alone. Then he, too, would retire. Ciss, in the dark outside, sometimes wished she could creep up to him and say: “Oh, Robert! It’s all wrong!” But Aunt Pauline would hear. And, anyhow, Ciss couldn’t do it. She went off to her own rooms, once more, once more, and so for ever.
In the morning coffee was brought up on a tray to each of the rooms of the three relatives. Ciss had to be at Sir Wilfrid Knipe’s at nine o’clock, to give two hours’ lessons to his little grand-daughter. It was her sole serious occupation, except that she played the piano for the love of it. Robert set off to town about nine. And as a rule, Aunt Pauline appeared to lunch, though sometimes not till tea-time. When she appeared, she looked fresh and young. But she was inclined to fade rather rapidly, like a flower without water, in the daytime. Her hour was the candle hour.
So she always rested in the afternoon. When the sun shone, if possible she took a sun-bath. This was one of her secrets. Her lunch was very light; she could take her sun-and-air-bath before noon or after, as it pleased her. Often it was in the afternoon, when the sun shone very warmly into a queer little yew64-walled square just behind the stables. Here Ciss stretched out the lying-chair and rugs, and put the light parasol handy in the silent little enclosure of thick dark yew-hedges beyond the old red walls of the unused stables. And hither came the lovely lady with her book. Ciss then had to be on guard in one of her own rooms, should her aunt, who was very keen-eared, hear a footstep.
One afternoon it occurred to Cecilia that she herself might while away this rather long afternoon hour by taking a sun-bath. She was growing restive65. The thought of the flat roof of the stable buildings, to which she could climb from a loft66 at the end, started her on a new adventure. She often went on to the roof; she had to, to wind up the stable clock, which was a job she had assumed to herself. Now she took a rug, climbed out under the heavens, looked at the sky and the great elm-tops, looked at the sun, then took off her things and lay down perfectly67 securely, in a corner of the roof under the parapet, full in the sun.
It was rather lovely, to bask68 all one’s length like this in warm sun and air. Yes, it was very lovely! It even seemed to melt some of the hard bitterness of her heart, some of that core of unspoken resentment69 which never dissolved. Luxuriously70, she spread herself, so that the sun should touch her limbs fully2, fully. If she had no other lover, she should have the sun! She rolled over voluptuously71.
And suddenly her heart stood still in her body, and her hair almost rose on end as a voice said very softly, musingly72, in her ear:
“No, Henry dear! It was not my fault you died instead of marrying that Claudia. No, darling. I was quite, quite willing for you to marry her, unsuitable though she was.”
Cecilia sank down on her rug, powerless and perspiring74 with dread75. That awful voice, so soft, so musing73, yet so unnatural76. Not a human voice at all. Yet there must, there MUST be someone on the roof! Oh, how unspeakably awful!
She lifted her weak head and peeped across the sloping leads. Nobody! The chimneys were too narrow to shelter anybody. There was nobody on the roof. Then it must be someone in the trees, in the elms. Either that, or — terror unspeakable — a bodiless voice! She reared her head a little higher.
And as she did so, came the voice again:
“No, darling! I told you you would tire of her in six months. And you see it was true, dear. It was true, true, true! I wanted to spare you that. So it wasn’t I who made you feel weak and disabled, wanting that very silly Claudia — poor thing, she looked so woebegone afterwards! — wanting her and not wanting her. You got yourself into that perplexity, my dear. I only warned you. What else could I do? And you lost your spirit and died without ever knowing me again. It was bitter, bitter —”
The voice faded away. Cecilia subsided77 weakly on to her rug, after the anguished78 tension of listening. Oh, it was awful. The sun shone, the sky was blue, all seemed so lovely and afternoony and summery. And yet, oh, horror! — she was going to be forced to believe in the supernatural! And she loathed79 the supernatural, ghosts and voices and rappings and all the rest.
But that awful, creepy, bodiless voice, with its rusty81 sort of whispers of an overtone! It had something so fearfully familiar in it, too! And yet was so utterly82 uncanny. Poor Cecilia could only lie there unclothed, and so all the more agonisingly helpless, inert83, collapsed84 in sheer dread.
And then she heard the thing sigh! — a deep sigh that seemed weirdly85 familiar, yet was not human. “Ah well, ah well! the heart must bleed. Better it should bleed than break. It is grief, grief! But it wasn’t my fault, dear. And Robert could marry our poor, dull Ciss tomorrow, if he wanted her. But he doesn’t care about it, so why force him into anything?” The sounds were very uneven86, sometimes only a husky sort of whisper. Listen! Listen!
Cecilia was about to give vent1 to loud and piercing screams of hysteria, when the last two sentences arrested her. All her caution and her cunning sprang alert. It was Aunt Pauline! It MUST be Aunt Pauline, practising ventriloquism, or something like that. What a devil she was!
Where was she? She must be lying down there, right below where Cecilia herself was lying. And it was either some fiend’s trick of ventriloquism, or else thought-transference. The sounds were very uneven; sometimes quite inaudible, sometimes only a brushing sort of noise. Ciss listened intently. No, it could not be ventriloquism. It was worse: some form of thought-transference that conveyed itself like sound. Some horror of that sort! Cecilia still lay weak and inert, too terrified to move; but she was growing calmer with suspicion. It was some diabolic trick of that unnatural woman.
But WHAT a devil of a woman! She even knew that she, Cecilia, had mentally accused her of killing87 her son Henry. Poor Henry was Robert’s elder brother, twelve years older than Robert. He had died suddenly when he was twenty-two, after an awful struggle with himself, because he was passionately88 in love with a young and very good-looking actress, and his mother had humorously despised him for the attachment89. So he had caught some sudden ordinary disease, but the poison had gone to his brain and killed him before he ever regained90 consciousness. Ciss knew the few facts from her own father. And lately she had been thinking that Pauline was going to kill Robert as she had killed Henry. It was clear murder: a mother murdering her sensitive sons, who were fascinated by her: the Circe!
“I suppose I may as well get up,” murmured the dim, unbreathing voice. “Too much sun is as bad as too little. Enough sun, enough love-thrill, enough proper food, and not too much of any of them, and a woman might live for ever. I verily believe, for ever. If she absorbs as much vitality92 as she expends93. Or perhaps a trifle more!”
It was certainly Aunt Pauline! How — how terrible! She, Ciss, was hearing Aunt Pauline’s thoughts. Oh, how ghastly! Aunt Pauline was sending out her thoughts in a sort of radio, and she, Ciss, had to HEAR what her aunt was thinking. How ghastly! How insufferable! One of them would surely have to die.
She twisted and lay inert and crumpled94, staring vacantly in front of her. Vacantly! Vacantly! And her eyes were staring almost into a hole. She was staring in it unseeing, a hole going down in the corner, from the lead gutter95. It meant nothing to her. Only it frightened her a little more.
When suddenly, out of the hole came a sigh and a last whisper: “Ah well! Pauline! Get up, it’s enough for today.” Good God! Out of the hole of the rain-pipe! The rain-pipe was acting96 as a speaking-tube! Impossible! No, quite possible. She had read of it even in some book. And Aunt Pauline, like the old and guilty woman she was talked aloud to herself. That was it!
A sullen97 exultance sprang in Ciss’s breast. THAT was why she would never have anybody, not even Robert, in her bedroom. That was why she never dozed98 in a chair, never sat absent-minded anywhere, but went to her room, and kept to her room, except when she roused herself to be alert. When she slackened off she talked to herself! She talked in a soft little crazy voice to herself. But she was not crazy. It was only her thoughts murmuring themselves aloud.
So she had qualms99 about poor Henry! Well she might have! Ciss believed that Aunt Pauline had loved her big, handsome, brilliant first-born much more than she loved Robert, and that his death had been a terrible blow and a chagrin100 to her. Poor Robert had been only ten years old when Henry died. Since then he had been the substitute.
Ah, how awful!
But Aunt Pauline was a strange woman. She had left her husband when Henry was a small child, some years even before Robert was born. There was no quarrel. Sometimes she saw her husband again, quite amiably101, but a little mockingly. And she even gave him money.
For Pauline earned all her own. Her father had been a Consul102 in the East and in Naples, and a devoted103 collector of beautiful exotic things. When he died, soon after his grandson Henry was born, he left his collection of treasures to his daughter. And Pauline, who had really a passion and a genius for loveliness, whether in texture104 or form or colour, had laid the basis of her fortune on her father’s collection. She had gone on collecting, buying where she could, and selling to collectors or to museums. She was one of the first to sell old, weird African figures to the museums, and ivory carvings105 from New Guinea. She bought Renoir as soon as she saw his pictures. But not Rousseau. And all by herself she made a fortune.
After her husband died she had not married again. She was not even KNOWN to have had lovers. If she did have lovers, it was not among the men who admired her most and paid her devout106 and open attendance. To these she was a “friend”.
Cecilia slipped on her clothes and caught up her rug, hastening carefully down the ladder to the loft. As she descended107 she heard the ringing, musical call: “All right, Ciss”— which meant that the lovely lady was finished, and returning to the house. Even her voice was wonderfully young and sonorous108, beautifully balanced and self-possessed. So different from the little voice in which she talked to herself. THAT was much more the voice of an old woman.
Ciss hastened round to the yew enclosure, where lay the comfortable chaise longue with the various delicate rugs. Everything Pauline had was choice, to the fine straw mat on the floor. The great yew walls were beginning to cast long shadows. Only in the corner where the rugs tumbled their delicate colours was there hot, still sunshine.
The rugs folded up, the chair lifted away, Cecilia stooped to look at the mouth of the rain-pipe. There it was, in the corner, under a little hood109 of masonry110 and just projecting from the thick leaves of the creeper on the wall. If Pauline, lying there, turned her face towards the wall, she would speak into the very mouth of the tube. Cecilia was reassured111. She had heard her aunt’s thoughts indeed, but by no uncanny agency.
That evening, as if aware of something, Pauline was a little quieter than usual, though she looked her own serene9, rather mysterious self. And after coffee she said to Robert and Ciss:
“I’m so sleepy. The sun has made me so sleepy. I feel full of sunshine like a bee. I shall go to bed, if you don’t mind. You two sit and have a talk.”
Cecilia looked quickly at her cousin.
“Perhaps you’d rather be alone?” she said to him.
“No — no,” he replied. “Do keep me company for a while, if it doesn’t bore you.”
The windows were open, the scent112 of honeysuckle wafted113 in, with the sound of an owl58. Robert smoked in silence. There was a sort of despair in his motionless, rather squat114 body. He looked like a caryatid bearing a weight.
“Do you remember Cousin Henry?” Cecilia asked him suddenly.
He looked up in surprise.
“Yes. Very well,” he said.
“What did he look like?” she said, glancing into her cousin’s big, secret-troubled eyes, in which there was so much frustration115.
“Oh, he was handsome: tall, and fresh-coloured, with mother’s soft brown hair.” As a matter of fact, Pauline’s hair was grey. “The ladies admired him very much; and he was at all the dances.”
“And what kind of character had he?”
“Oh, very good-natured and jolly. He liked to be amused. He was rather quick and clever, like mother, and very good company.”
“And did he love your mother?”
“Very much. She loved him too — better than she does me, as a matter of fact. He was so much more nearly her idea of a man.”
“Why was he more her idea of a man?”
“Tall — handsome — attractive, and very good company — and would, I believe, have been very successful at law. I’m afraid I am merely negative in all those respects.”
Ciss looked at him attentively117, with her slow-thinking hazel eyes. Under his impassive mask she knew he suffered.
“Do you think you are so much more negative than he?” she said.
He did not lift his face. But after a few moments he replied:
“My life, certainly, is a negative affair.”
She hesitated before she dared ask him:
“And do you mind?”
He did not answer her at all. Her heart sank.
“You see, I’m afraid my life is as negative as yours is,” she said. “And I’m beginning to mind bitterly. I’m thirty.”
She saw his creamy, well-bred hand tremble.
“I suppose,” he said, without looking at her, “one will rebel when it is too late.”
That was queer, from him.
“Robert!” she said. “Do you like me at all?”
She saw his dusky-creamy face, so changeless in its folds, go pale.
“I am very fond of you,” he murmured.
“Won’t you kiss me? Nobody ever kisses me,” she said pathetically.
He looked at her, his eyes strange with fear and a certain haughtiness118. Then he rose, and came softly over to her, and kissed her gently on the cheek.
“It’s an awful shame, Ciss!” he said softly.
She caught his hand and pressed it to her breast.
“And sit with me sometimes in the garden,” she said, murmuring with difficulty. “Won’t you?”
He looked at her anxiously and searchingly.
“What about mother?”
Ciss smiled a funny little smile, and looked into his eyes. He suddenly flushed crimson119, turning aside his face. It was a painful sight.
“I know,” he said. “I am no lover of women.”
He spoke with sarcastic120 stoicism, against himself, but even she did not know the shame it was to him.
“You never try to be,” she said.
Again his eyes changed uncannily.
“Does one have to try?” he said.
“Why, yes. One never does anything if one doesn’t try.”
He went pale again.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said.
In a few minutes she left him, and went to her rooms. At least she had tried to take off the everlasting lid from things.
The weather continued sunny, Pauline continued her sun-baths, and Ciss lay on the roof eavesdropping121, in the literal sense of the word. But Pauline was not to be heard. No sound came up the pipe. She must be lying with her face away into the open. Ciss listened with all her might. She could just detect the faintest, faintest murmur91 away below, but no audible syllable122.
And at night, under the stars, Cecilia sat and waited in silence, on the seat which kept in view the drawing-room windows and the side door into the garden. She saw the light go up in her aunt’s room. She saw the lights at last go out in the drawing-room. And she waited. But he did not come. She stayed on in the darkness half the night, while the owl hooted123. But she stayed alone.
Two days she heard nothing; her aunt’s thoughts were not revealed; and at evening nothing happened. Then, the second night, as she sat with heavy, helpless persistence124 in the garden, suddenly she started. He had come out. She rose and went softly over the grass to him.
“Don’t speak!” he murmured.
And in silence, in the dark, they walked down the garden and over the little bridge to the paddock, where the hay, cut very late, was in cock. There they stood disconsolate125 under the stars.
“You see,” he said, “how can I ask for love, if I don’t feel any love in myself? You know I have a real regard for you —”
“How CAN you feel any love, when you never feel anything?” she said.
“That is true,” he replied.
And she waited for what next.
“And how can I marry?” he said. “I am a failure even at making money. I can’t ask my mother for money.”
She sighed deeply.
“Then don’t bother yet about marrying,” she said. “Only love me a little. Won’t you?”
He gave a short laugh.
“It sounds so atrocious, to say it is hard to begin,” he said.
She sighed again. He was so stiff to move.
“Shall we sit down a minute?” she said. And then, as they sat on the hay, she added: “May I touch you? Do you mind?”
“Yes, I mind. But do as you wish,” he replied, with that mixture of shyness and queer candour which made him a little ridiculous, as he knew quite well. But in his heart there was almost murder.
She touched his black, always tidy, hair, with her fingers.
“I suppose I shall rebel one day,” he said again suddenly.
They sat some time, till it grew chilly126. And he held her hand fast, but he never put his arms round her. At last she rose, and went indoors, saying good-night.
The next day, as Cecilia lay stunned127 and angry on the roof, taking her sun-bath, and becoming hot and fierce with sunshine, suddenly she started. A terror seized her in spite of herself. It was the voice.
“Caro, caro, tu non l’hai visto!” it was murmuring away, in a language Cecilia did not understand. She lay and writhed128 her limbs in the sun, listening intently to words she could not follow. Softly, whisperingly, with infinite caressiveness and yet with that subtle, insidious129 arrogance130 under its velvet, came the voice, murmuring in Italian: “Bravo, si, molto bravo, poverino, ma uomo come te non sarà mai, mai, mai!” Oh, especially in Italian Cecilia heard the poisonous charm of the voice, so caressive, so soft and flexible, yet so utterly egoistic. She hated it with intensity131 as it sighed and whispered out of nowhere. Why, why should it be so delicate, so subtle and flexible and beautifully controlled, when she herself was so clumsy? Oh, poor Cecilia, she writhed in the afternoon sun, knowing her own clownish clumsiness and lack of suavity132, in comparison.
“No, Robert dear, you will never be the man your father was, though you have some of his looks. He was a marvellous lover, soft as a flower yet piercing as a humming-bird. Cara, cara mia bellissima, ti ho aspettato come l’agonissante aspetta la morte, morte deliziosa, quasi quasi troppo deliziosa per una mera anima humana. He gave himself to a woman as he gave himself to God. Mauro! Mauro! How you loved me! How you loved me!”
The voice ceased in reverie, and Cecilia knew what she had guessed before — that Robert was not the son of her Uncle Ronald, but of some Italian.
“I am disappointed in you, Robert. There is no poignancy133 in you. Your father was a Jesuit, but he was the most perfect and poignant134 lover in the world. You are a Jesuit like a fish in a tank. And that Ciss of yours is the cat fishing for you. It is less edifying135 even than poor Henry.”
Cecilia suddenly bent136 her mouth down to the tube, and said in a deep voice:
“Leave Robert alone! Don’t kill him as well.”
There was dead silence in the hot July afternoon that was lowering for thunder. Cecilia lay prostrate137, her heart beating in great thumps138. She was listening as if her whole soul were an ear. At last she caught the whisper:
“Did someone speak?”
She leaned again to the mouth of the tube:
“Don’t kill Robert as you killed me,” she said, with slow enunciation139, and a deep but small voice.
“Ah!” came the sharp little cry. “Who is that speaking?”
“Henry,” said the deep voice.
There was dead silence. Poor Cecilia lay with all the use gone out of her. And there was dead silence. Till at last came the whisper:
“I didn’t kill Henry. No, no! No, no! Henry, surely you can’t blame me! I loved you, dearest; I only wanted to help you.”
“You killed me!” came the deep, artificial, accusing voice. “Now let Robert live. Let him go! Let him marry!”
There was a pause.
“How very, very awful!” mused116 the whispering voice. “Is it possible, Henry, you are a spirit, and you condemn140 me?”
“Yes, I condemn you!”
Cecilia felt all the pent-up rage going down that rain-pipe. At the same time, she almost laughed. It was awful.
She lay and listened and listened. No sound! As if time had ceased, she lay inert in the weakening sun, till she heard a far-off rumble141 of thunder. She sat up. The sky was yellowing. Quickly she dressed herself, went down, and out to the corner of the stables.
“Aunt Pauline!” she called discreetly142. “Did you hear thunder?”
“Yes. I am going in. Don’t wait,” came a feeble voice.
Cecilia retired, and from the loft watched, spying, as the figure of the lovely lady, wrapped in a lovely wrap of old blue silk, went rather totteringly to the house.
The sky gradually darkened. Cecilia hastened in with the rugs. Then the storm broke. Aunt Pauline did not appear to tea. She found the thunder trying. Robert also did not arrive till after tea, in the pouring rain. Cecilia went down the covered passage to her own house, and dressed carefully for dinner, putting some white columbines at her breast.
The drawing-room was lit with a softly-shaded lamp. Robert, dressed, was waiting, listening to the rain. He too seemed strangely crackling and on edge. Cecilia came in, with the white flowers nodding at her dusky breast. Robert was watching her curiously144, a new look on his face. Cecilia went to the bookshelves near the door, and was peering for something, listening acutely. She heard a rustle145, then the door softly opening. And as it opened, Ciss suddenly switched on the strong electric light by the door.
Her aunt, in a dress of black lace over ivory colour, stood in the doorway146. Her face was made up, but haggard with a look of unspeakable irritability147, as if years of suppressed exasperation148 and dislike of her fellow-men had suddenly crumpled her into an old witch.
“Oh, aunt!” cried Cecilia.
“Why, mother, you’re a little old lady!” came the astounded149 voice of Robert — like an astonished boy, as if it were a joke.
“Have you only just found it out?” snapped the old woman venomously.
“Yes! Why, I thought —” his voice tailed out in misgiving150.
The haggard, old Pauline, in a frenzy151 of exasperation, said:
“Aren’t we going down?”
She had not even noticed the excess of light, a thing she shunned152. And she went downstairs almost tottering143.
At table she sat with her face like a crumpled mask of unspeakable irritability. She looked old, very old, and like a witch. Robert and Cecilia fetched furtive153 glances at her. And Ciss, watching Robert, saw that he was so astonished and repelled154 by his mother’s looks that he was another man.
“What kind of a drive home did you have?” snapped Pauline, with an almost gibbering irritability.
“It rained, of course,” he said.
“How clever of you to have found that out!” said his mother, with the grisly grin of malice155 that had succeeded her arch smile.
“I don’t understand,” he said, with quiet suavity.
“It’s apparent,” said his mother, rapidly and sloppily156 eating her food.
She rushed through the meal like a crazy dog, to the utter consternation157 of the servant. And the moment it was over she darted158 in a queer, crab-like way upstairs. Robert and Cecilia followed her, thunderstruck, like two conspirators159.
“You pour the coffee. I loathe80 it! I’m going. Good-night!” said the old woman, in a succession of sharp shots. And she scrambled160 out of the room.
There was a dead silence. At last he said:
“I’m afraid mother isn’t well. I must persuade her to see a doctor.”
“Yes,” said Cecilia.
The evening passed in silence. Robert and Ciss stayed on in the drawing-room, having lit a fire. Outside was cold rain. Each pretended to read. They did not want to separate. The evening passed with ominous161 mysteriousness, yet quickly.
At about ten o’clock the door suddenly opened, and Pauline appeared, in a blue wrap. She shut the door behind her, and came to the fire. Then she looked at the two young people in hate, real hate.
“You two had better get married quickly,” she said, in an ugly voice. “It would look more decent; such a passionate pair of lovers!”
Robert looked up at her quietly.
“I thought you believed that cousins should not marry, mother,” he said.
“I do. But you’re not cousins. Your father was an Italian priest.” Pauline held her daintily-slippered foot to the fire, in an old coquettish gesture. Her body tried to repeat all the old graceful162 gestures. But the nerve had snapped, so it was a rather dreadful caricature.
“Is that really true, mother?” he asked.
“True! What do you think? He was a distinguished163 man, or he wouldn’t have been my lover. He was far too distinguished a man to have had you for a son. But that joy fell to me.”
“How unfortunate all round,” he said slowly.
“Unfortunate for you? YOU were lucky. It was MY misfortune,” she said acidly to him.
She was really a dreadful sight, like a piece of lovely Venetian glass that has been dropped and gathered up again in horrible, sharp-edged fragments.
Suddenly she left the room again.
For a week it went on. She did not recover. It was as if every nerve in her body had suddenly started screaming in an insanity164 of discordance165. The doctor came, and gave her sedatives166, for she never slept. Without drugs she never slept at all, only paced back and forth167 in her room, looking hideous168 and evil, reeking169 with malevolence170. She could not bear to see either her son or her niece. Only when either of them came she asked, in pure malice:
“Well! When’s the wedding? Have you celebrated171 the nuptials172 yet?”
At first Cecilia was stunned by what she had done. She realised vaguely173 that her aunt, once a definite thrust of condemnation174 had penetrated175 her beautiful armour176, had just collapsed, squirming, inside her shell. It was too terrible. Ciss was almost terrified into repentance177. Then she thought: “This is what she always was. Now let her live the rest of her days in her true colours.”
But Pauline would not live long. She was literally178 shrivelling away. She kept her room, and saw no one. She had her mirrors taken away.
Robert and Cecilia sat a good deal together. The jeering179 of the mad Pauline had not driven them apart, as she had hoped. But Cecilia dared not confess to him what she had done.
“Do you think your mother ever loved anybody?” Ciss asked him tentatively, rather wistfully, one evening.
He looked at her fixedly180.
“Herself!” he said at last.
“She didn’t even LOVE herself,” said Ciss. “It was something else. What was it?” She lifted a troubled, utterly puzzled face to him.
“Power,” he said curtly181.
“But what power?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Power to feed on other lives,” he said bitterly. “She was beautiful, and she fed on life. She has fed on me as she fed on Henry. She put a sucker into one’s soul, and sucked up one’s essential life.”
“And don’t you forgive her?”
“No.”
“Poor Aunt Pauline!”
But even Ciss did not mean it. She was only aghast.
“I KNOW I’ve got a heart,” he said, passionately striking his breast. “But it’s almost sucked dry. I KNOW I’ve got a soul, somewhere. But it’s gnawed182 bare. I HATE people who want power over others.”
Ciss was silent. What was there to say?
And two days later Pauline was found dead in her bed, having taken too much veronal, for her heart was weakened.
From the grave even she hit back at her son and her niece. She left Robert the noble sum of one thousand pounds, and Ciss one hundred. All the rest, with the nucleus183 of her valuable antiques, went to form the “Pauline Attenborough Museum”.
The End
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1
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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3
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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sag
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| v.下垂，下跌，消沉；n.下垂，下跌，凹陷，[航海]随风漂流 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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10
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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12
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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16
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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17
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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19
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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21
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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22
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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23
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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24
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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27
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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31
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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32
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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34
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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36
seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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38
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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39
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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40
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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41
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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42
chiaroscuro
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| n.明暗对照法 | |
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43
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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44
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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45
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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46
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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47
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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48
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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49
desultorily
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| adv. 杂乱无章地, 散漫地 | |
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50
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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51
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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52
cosiness
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| n.舒适，安逸 | |
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53
emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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54
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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55
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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56
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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57
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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59
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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60
passionateness
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61
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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62
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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63
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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64
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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65
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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66
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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67
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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68
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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69
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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70
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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71
voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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72
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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73
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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74
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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75
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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76
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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77
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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78
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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79
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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80
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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81
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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82
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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83
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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84
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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85
weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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87
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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88
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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89
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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90
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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91
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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92
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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93
expends
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| v.花费( expend的第三人称单数 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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94
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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95
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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96
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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97
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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98
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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101
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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102
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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103
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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104
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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105
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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106
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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107
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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108
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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109
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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110
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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111
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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112
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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113
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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115
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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116
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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117
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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118
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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119
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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120
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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121
eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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122
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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123
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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125
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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126
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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127
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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128
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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130
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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131
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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132
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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133
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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134
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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135
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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136
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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137
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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138
thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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140
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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141
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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142
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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143
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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144
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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145
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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146
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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147
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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148
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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149
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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150
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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151
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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152
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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154
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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155
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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156
sloppily
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| adv.马虎地，草率地 | |
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157
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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158
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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159
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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160
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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161
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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162
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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163
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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164
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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165
discordance
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| n.不调和，不和，不一致性；不整合；假整合 | |
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166
sedatives
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| n.镇静药，镇静剂( sedative的名词复数 ) | |
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167
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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168
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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169
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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170
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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171
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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172
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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173
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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174
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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175
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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176
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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177
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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178
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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179
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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180
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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181
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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182
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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183
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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