Her employer lived in Westport, a town that Mary had never visited, and a little conversation arose from her questions about it. She did not say much—she spoke3 very diffidently, in fact; the consciousness that she was being paid to talk and be entertaining weighted her tongue. She was relieved when, shortly after they started, Mrs. Kincaid imitated her son's example, who lay back in his corner with his face hidden behind The Lancet.
They travelled second class, and it was not till a stoppage occurred at some junction5 that their privacy was invaded. Then a large woman, oppressed by packages and baskets, entered; and, as the new-comer belonged to the category of persons who regard a railway journey as a heaven-sent opportunity to eat an extra meal, her feats6 with sandwiches had a fascination7 that rivalled the interest of the landscape.
Of course, three hours later, when the train reached Westport, Mary felt elated. Of course she gazed eagerly from the platform over the prospect8. It was new and pleasant and refreshing9. There was a little winding10 road with white palings, and a cottage with a red roof. A bell tolled11 softly across the meadows, and somebody standing12 near her said he supposed "that was for five o'clock service." To have exchanged the jostle of London for a place where people had time to remember service on a week-day, to be able to catch the chirp13 of the birds between the roll of the wheels, was immediately exhilarating. Then, too, as they drove to the house she scented14 in the air the freshness of tar4 that bespoke15 proximity16 to the sea. Her bosom17 lifted. "The blessed peace of it all!" she thought; "how happy I ought to be!"
But she was not happy. That first evening there came to her the soreness and sickness of recollection. She was left alone with Mrs. Kincaid, and in the twilight18 they sat in the pretty little parlour, chatting fitfully. How different was this arrival from those that she was used to! No unpacking19 of photographs; no landlady20 to chatter21 of the doings of last week's company; no stroll after tea with Tony just to see where the theatre was. How funny! She said "how funny!" but presently she meant "how painful!" And then it came upon her as a shock that the old life was going on still without her. Photographs were still being unpacked22 and set forth23 on mantelpieces; landladies24 still waxed garrulous25 of last week's business; Tony was still strolling about the towns on Sunday evenings, as he had done when she was with him. And he was going to be Miss Westland's husband, while she was here! How hideous26, how frightful27 and unreal, it seemed!
She got up, and went over to the flower-stand in the window.
"Are you tired, Miss Brettan? Perhaps you would like to go to your room early to-night?"
"No," she said, "thank you; I'm afraid I feel a trifle strange as yet, that's all."
At the opposite corner was a hoarding28, and a comic-opera poster shone among the local shopkeepers' advertisements. The sudden sight of theatrical29 printing was like a welcome to her; she stood looking at it, thrilling at it, with the past alive and warm again in her heart.
"You'll soon feel at home," Mrs. Kincaid said after a pause; "I'm sure I can understand your finding it rather uncomfortable at first."
"Oh, not uncomfortable," Mary explained quickly; "it is queer a little, just that! I mean, I don't know what I ought to do, and I'm afraid of seeming inattentive. What is a companion's work, Mrs. Kincaid?"
"Well, I've never had one," the old lady said with a laugh. "I think you and I will get on best, do you know, if we forget you've come as companion—if you talk when you like, and keep quiet when you like. You see, it is literally30 a companion I want, not somebody to ring the bell for me, and order the dinner, and make herself useful. This isn't a big house, and I'm not a fashionable person; I want a woman who'll keep me from moping, and be nice."
Her answer expressed her requirements, and Mary found little expected of her in return for the salary; so little that she wondered sometimes if she earned it, small as it was. Excepting that she was continually conscious that she must never be out of temper, and was frequently obliged to read aloud when she would rather have sat in reverie, she was practically her own mistress. Even, as the days went by she found herself giving utterance31 to a thought as it came to her, without pausing to conjecture32 its reception; speaking with the spontaneity which, with the paid companion, is the last thing to be acquired.
Few pleasures are shorter-lived than the one of being restored to enough to eat; and in a week her sense of novelty had almost worn away. They walked together; sometimes to the sea, but more often in the town, for the approach to the sea tired Mrs. Kincaid. Westport was not a popular watering-place; and in the summer Mary discovered that the population of fifty thousand was not very greatly increased. From Laburnum Lodge33 it took nearly twenty minutes to reach the shore, and a hill had to be climbed. At the top of the incline the better-class houses came to an end; and after some scattered34 cottages, an expanse of ragged35 grass, with a bench or two, sloped to the beach. Despite its bareness, Mary thought the spot delightful36; its quietude appealed to her. She often wished that she could go there by herself.
Of the doctor they saw but little. Now and again he came round for an hour or so, and at first she absented herself on these occasions. But Mrs. Kincaid commented on her retirement37 and said it was unnecessary; and thenceforward she remained.
She did not chance to be out alone until she had been here nearly three months; and when Mrs. Kincaid inquired one afternoon if she would mind choosing a novel at the circulating library for her she went forth gladly. A desire to see The Era and ascertain38 Carew's whereabouts, had grown too strong to be subdued39.
She crossed the interlying churchyard, and made her way along the High Street impatiently; and, reaching the railway bookstall, bought a copy of the current issue. It was with difficulty she restrained herself from opening it on the platform, but she waited until she had turned down the little lane at the station's side, and reached the gate where the coal-trucks came to an end and a patch of green began. She doubted whether the company would be touring so long, but the paper would tell her something of his doings anyhow. She ran her eye eagerly down the titles headed "On the Road." No, The Foibles evidently was not out now. Had the tour broken up for good, she wondered, or was there merely a vacation? She could quickly learn by Tony's professional card. How well she knew the sheet! The sheet! she knew the column, its very number in the column—knew it followed "Farrell" and came before "de Vigne." She even recalled the week when he had abandoned the cheaper advertisements in alphabetical40 order; he had been cast for a part in a production. She remembered she had said,
"Now you're going to create," and, laughing, he had answered, "Oh, I must have half a crown's worth 'to create'!" He had been lying on the sofa—how it all came back to her! What was he doing now? She found the place in an instant:
"MR. SEATON CAREW,
RESTING,
Assumes direction of Miss Olive Westland's Tour, Aug. 4th.
See 'Companies' page."
They were married! She could not doubt it. "Oh," she muttered, "how he has walked over me, that man! For the sake of two or three thousand pounds, just for the sake of her money!" She sought weakly for the company advertisement referred to, but the paragraphs swam together, and it was several minutes before she could find it. Yes, here it was: "The Foibles of Fashion and Répertoire, opening August 4th." Camille, eh? She laughed bitterly. He was going to play Armand; he had always wanted to play Armand; now he could do it! "Under the direction of Mr. Seaton Carew. Artists respectfully informed the company is complete. All communications to be addressed: Mr. Seaton, Carew, Bath Hotel, Bournemouth." Oh, my God!
To think that while she had been starving in that attic41 he had proceeded with his courtship, to reflect that in one of those terrible hours that she had passed through he must have been dressing42 himself for his wedding, wrung43 her heart. And now, while she stood here, he was calling the other woman "Olive," and kissing her. She gripped the bar with both hands, her breast heaved tumultuously; it seemed to her that her punishment was more than she had power to bear. Wasn't his sin worse than her own? she questioned; yet what price would he ever be called upon to pay for it? At most, perhaps, occasional discontent! Nobody would-blame him a bit; his offence was condoned44 already by a decent woman's hand. In the wife's eyes she, Mary, was of course an adventuress who had turned his weakness to account until the heroine appeared on the scene to reclaim45 him. How easy it was to be the heroine when one had a few thousand pounds to offer for a wedding-ring!
She let the paper lie where it had fallen, and went to the library. In leaving it she met Kincaid on his way to the Lodge. He was rather glad of the meeting, the man to whom women had been only patients; he had felt once or twice of late that it was agreeable to talk to Miss Brettan.
"Hallo," he said, in that voice of his that had so few inflexions; "what have you been doing? Going home?"
"I've been to get a book for Mrs. Kincaid," she answered. "She was hoping you'd come round to-day."
"I meant to come yesterday. Well, how are you getting on? Still satisfied with Westport? Not beginning to tire of it yet?"
"I like it very much," she said, "naturally. It's a great change from my life three months ago; I shouldn't be very grateful if I weren't satisfied."
"That's all right. Your coming was a good thing; my mother was saying the other evening it was a slice of luck."
"Oh, I'm so glad! I have wanted to know whether I—did!"
"You 'do' uncommonly46; I haven't seen her so content for a long while. You don't look very bright; d'ye feel well?"
"It's the heat," she said; "yes, I'm quite well, thank you; I have a headache this afternoon, that's all."
She was wondering if her path and Carew's would ever cross again. How horrible if chance brought him to the theatre here and she came face to face with him in the High Street!
"Hasn't my mother been out to-day herself? She ought to make the most of the fine weather."
"I left her in the garden; I think she likes that better than taking walks."
And it might happen so easily! she reflected. Why not that company, among the many companies that came to Westport? She'd be frightened to leave the house.
"I suppose when you first heard there was a garden you expected to see apple-trees and strawberry-beds, didn't you?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's not a bad little garden. We had tea in it last night."
She might be walking with Mrs. Kincaid, and Tony and his wife would come suddenly round a corner. And "Miss Westland" would look contemptuous, and Tony would start, and—and if she turned white, she'd loathe47 herself!
"Did you? You must enliven the old lady? a good deal if she goes in for that sort of thing!"
"Oh, it was stuffy48 indoors, and we thought that tea outside would be nicer. I daresay I'm better than no one; it must have been rather dull for her alone."
"Is that the most you find to say of yourself—'better than no one'?"
"Well, I haven't high spirits; some women are always laughing. We sit and read, or do needlework; or she talks about you, and——"
"And you're bored? That's a mother's privilege, you know, to bore everybody about her son; you mustn't be hard on her."
"I am interested; I think it's always interesting to hear of a man's work in a profession. And, then, Medicine was my father's."
"Were you the only child?"
"Yes. I wasn't much of a child, though! My mother died when I was very young, and I was taught a lot through that. The practice wasn't very good—very remunerative49, that's to say—and if a girl's father isn't well off she becomes a woman early. If I had had a brother now——"
"If you had had a brother—what?"
"I was thinking it might have vmade a difference. Nothing particular. I don't suppose he'd have been of any monetary50 assistance; there wouldn't have been anything to give him a start with. But I should have liked a brother—one older than I am."
"You'd have made the right kind of man of him, I believe."
"I was thinking of what he'd have made of me. A brother must be such a help; a boy gets experience, and a girl has only instinct."
"It's a pretty good thing to go on with."
"It needs education, doctor, surely?"
"It needs educating by a mother. Half the women who have children are no more fit to be mothers than——And one comes across old maids with just the qualities! Fine material allowed to waste!"
The entrance to a cottage that they were passing stood open, and she could see into the parlour. There were teacups on the table, and a mug of wild flowers. On a garden-gate a child in a pink pinafore was slowly swinging. The brilliance51 of the day had subsided52, and the town lay soft and yellow in the restfulness of sunset. A certain liquidity53 was assumed by the rugged54 street in the haze55 that hung over it; a touch of transparence gilded56 its flights of steps, the tiles of the house-tops, and the homely57 faces of the fisher-folk where they loitered before their doors. There a girl sat netting among the hollyhocks, withholding58 confession59 from the youth who lounged beside her, yet lifting at times to him a smile that had not been wakened by the net. The melody of the hour intensified60 the discord61 in the woman's soul.
"Don't you think——" said Kincaid.
He turned to her, strolling with his hands behind him. He talked to her, and she answered him, until they reached the house.
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1
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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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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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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5
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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6
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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9
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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11
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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13
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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14
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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15
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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16
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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17
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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18
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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19
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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20
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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21
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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22
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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23
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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24
landladies
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| n.女房东，女店主，女地主( landlady的名词复数 ) | |
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25
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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26
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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27
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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28
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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29
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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30
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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31
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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32
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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33
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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34
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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35
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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36
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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38
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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39
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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40
alphabetical
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| adj.字母（表）的，依字母顺序的 | |
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41
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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42
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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43
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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44
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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46
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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47
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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48
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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49
remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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50
monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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51
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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52
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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53
liquidity
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| n.流动性，偿债能力，流动资产 | |
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54
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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55
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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56
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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57
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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58
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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59
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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60
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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