“Just ye get yerself well, ma honey, and then ye’ll see him! He’s sore put out about ye, sure and that he is, and he’s alway axing me how you’s getting on. But ye must just keep yerself quiet!”
Realizing that her only chance of seeing Rivers depended on her recovery, the restless woman put{138} great constraint8 upon herself, and in a couple of days, was well enough to be carried downstairs and laid on a horsehair sofa in the sitting-room9.
Her first day downstairs happened to be a hopelessly wet day, and the artist was perforce kept indoors, and painted all day at her side. He was busy, of course, but with extreme unselfishness he offered to read aloud to her.
“I couldn’t let you,” she said, “but if you would let me talk to you a little, and go on painting—the foreground, or some part that doesn’t matter—?”
He smiled, and turned so as to face her. “Don’t let me get absorbed, then, and stray into the middle distance! I can’t promise anything when I have got a brush in my hand.”
“Tell me all about the other day,” she said. “You saved my life!”
“Which you very foolishly risked to save mine!” She was weak and he unconsciously spoke11 in the aggressively cheerful, indulgent tone one uses to an invalid12. “I was very angry with you indeed for jumping in after me like that. A shout would have done.”
“I did call to you, but I could not make you hear.”
“Your voice must have been drowned by the rushing of the water. I knew that there was something wrong, though. I looked up from my drawing, and saw the water coming, and you a yard from the bank!{139}”
At the sound of the word drawing she gave a little scream—she had quite forgotten it!
“I know—I know—the drawing! What became of the drawing?”
“Well, you know, I had to have my hands free—” he began, almost apologetically.
“Of course! For me! And now I remember seeing you fling it away on to the bank. Was it”—she spoke with bated breath, as one might speak of the fall of empires—“was it quite spoiled?”
“You can’t think how I wish you had not saved me at its expense! Why did you? Why did you?” she asked, with absolute sincerity14.
Rivers seemed to repent15 of his lapse16 into temper, slight as it had been. He said, laughingly, “Well, I must tell you that I thought it over! It was a fearful wrench17, of course, but I decided18 in your favour. Do you blame me?”
She resented his not taking her seriously, and replied, gravely, “Yes, I do. I was not worth the drawing to you, I am sure. You should have considered it first of all. Who was it—was it C?sar—who swam across the Channel with his Commentaries in his mouth?”
“He did—something of the kind—but I never heard that he had a woman to look after as well.”
“And then—you carried me home?” she went on, in a tone of sentimental19 reminiscence.
“Yes,” he replied, briskly. “One couldn’t have{140} got a carriage down there, and I could hardly have packed you into Farmer Ward’s wheelbarrow!”
“Did anyone see you carry me across the fields?”
“Mrs. Popham did,” he said, laughing at the recollection. “She even offered to help me! A woman who could hardly lift a fly!”
“I must have looked awful!” Mrs. Elles pondered; she had often thought it over. “A wet woman is such an abject20 object!... And then you carried me up to bed?”
“Yes. Mrs. Watson was very anxious to get her son, Jock, to do it—but I thought of Jock and how he would have knocked your head against the banisters at every step, so I insisted on doing it myself.”
“And then?”
“And then the doctor came, and saw you, and saw me, and told me it was not much—and then I was easier in my mind.”
“Then you were anxious about me?”
“Very,” he said. “Poor thing, you suffered so; and you were so good about it!”
“Was I? I am glad.”
She then returned to the subject that was distressing21 her. “Are you sure you don’t regret the drawing—are not cross with me about it? Isn’t it in that portfolio22—what remains23 of it? Show it me.”
“Oh, no, no!” he said, shuddering24.
But she had reached out for the portfolio that lay near her hand, and, with the wilfulness25 of illness, insisted on taking out the hopelessly blurred26, grey-{141}streaked sheet of paper stretched on a board. There was a hole in the paper, the size of a shilling, just where the sky-line met the cliff. It was utterly27 ruined, as the merest tyro28 in art must have realised.
“Oh, poor, poor thing! A snag has caught it, too, like my leg,” she moaned.
Rivers dabbled30 furiously away in the glass of water with his fat brush. He was an artist and human.
“I wish you would take it away!” he said, sulkily, without looking at it or her.
“Where to?” asked Mrs. Elles, almost weeping.
“Oh, anywhere—to the devil, if you like.”
She slyly dropped it behind the sofa until she could carry it upstairs, and he did not seem even to notice what she was doing.
. . . . . . . .
The next day was very fine, and the artist had perforce to go out and paint as usual. Mrs. Elles felt unutterably solitary32. She could not walk as far as Brignal, but she could not expect Rivers to stop at home and neglect his picture in order to amuse her. She virtuously33 stayed upstairs on one floor, as she was recommended to do, until evening, but she was too restless to sit or lie still, and wandered about from one room of the old inn to another.
There were three bedrooms on the first story, hers and Rivers’ and one unoccupied room whose floor was on a somewhat higher level than the others, up a tiny{142} flight of stairs. She “changed the air,” as Mrs. Watson put it, by sitting in there some part of the morning, and once an irresistible34 impulse led her into the artist’s room, which was the most ascetic35 and the least comfortable of the three.
She stayed a long while looking out of the window, gazing fondly at the view which must meet his eyes every morning as he lay in his bed. It was very nearly the same as that which met hers, naturally, since the two rooms adjoined.
She noticed a chair, drawn36 between the dressing-table and the window. He sat there, she supposed, sometimes, and looked out. So would she.
But she found herself looking in, not out. Her loving eyes gloated on all the details of his room; the little heap of sketch37 books on the corner of the dressing-table; the martyred pocket-handkerchief, stained all the colours of the rainbow, that he had used to dab29 his drawing with; and the razors, that he kept so sharp, wherewith to scrape down its surface, lying beside those devoted38 to his own use; the three mother o’ pearl studs placed neatly39 on the ledge40 of the looking-glass, beside the heap of pence he had last turned out of his pockets; the fair white china palettes that he made a point of washing out carefully with his own hands, and whereon it was now her adored occupation to “rub” the delicate proportions of each colour required during the day. All this curious intermixture of art materials and objects of personal use, so characteristic of the artist’s room, struck her sense of{143} dramatic incongruity41 and pleased her. Then she leaned out over the sill in a dream of what never could be, and forgot herself. Half an hour elapsed.
A slight rustle42 behind her warned her of the presence of Jane Anne, who, aggressively remarking, “I came to see to the blind,” established herself there with a needle and cotton and drove Mrs. Elles away, although to uninitiated eyes the blind seemed in very good order.
She went into her own room and spent the afternoon there; she fell asleep, or she would have heard voices in the room below—the sitting-room she shared with Rivers.
A little, thin, consumptive-looking woman of fifty, in a homely43 utilitarian44 suit of tweeds which made her look like a schoolgirl, was interviewing Jane Anne on the subject of the harmonium’s programme for next Sunday. She was the Vicar’s wife, and, that subject concluded, the pair had moved across the hall and over the threshold of Rivers’ sitting-room, the door of which stood carelessly open.
“Out?” said Mrs. Popham, with an interrogatory gesture. “Both of them?”
“He’s out,” answered Jane Anne. “She’s upstairs!”
“Now, who and what is she?” asked the other, in the tone of decent curiosity. “I asked your aunt, but she says she knows nothing, and doesn’t care.”
“Aunt’s fulish!”
“I told her she’d care fast enough if her inn were{144} to lose its character, as it’s in a very fine way to do with all this. Mr. Popham and I have been talking about it only to-day. Everybody is talking about it!” Mrs. Popham spoke as if Rokeby were a centre of civilization. “Several people saw Mr. Rivers carrying her back across the fields, the day of her accident, and we all wonder what her relationship to him can be! Frick is a foreign name. Is she a foreigner?”
“Nay, she’s right English!” Jane Anne replied, with conviction, forgetting, in her excitement, to mince45 her words as usual. “And Frick is not her name, neither!”
“How do you know that? Then I am right and my husband is wrong. He is for taking the most charitable view of her, as indeed he does of everyone—but I told him that I was perfectly46 convinced, in my own mind, that the woman is an adventuress of the most disreputable kind! Everything proves it!”
“Can you tell me what is meant precisely47 by an adventuress, Ma’am?” her favourite Sunday-school teacher enquired49, pedantically50.
“People mean by an adventuress,” Mrs. Popham replied, “an unclassed creature, a person with no visible means of subsistence or regular occupation. They go about the country seeing whom they can make fools of. There are plenty of them about, I am told. Russian spies, some of them, who worm themselves into families as governesses, and so on, in{145} order to surprise secrets. What this one can possibly want with Mr. Rivers, I can’t tell, but no good, I am sure!”
“Him to marry her!” said Jane Anne sombrely, as one who had thought out thoroughly51 all the tragic52 issues of the case.
“It is possible,” said Mrs. Popham, “and he is so good, so trusting, that anybody could take him in who set herself to do it, as this creature is probably doing. I can’t tell you how it distresses53 me that such a nice man should be made a prey54 of! It must really be put a stop to, Jane Anne!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” eagerly agreed Jane, forgetting to be dignified55. Whether Mrs. Elles should prove to be a Russian spy or not, the important thing was to separate her from Mr. Rivers. “She isn’t fit for him. I can’t abide56 her myself. I mistrusted her from the very first time I set eyes on her. Nasty painted thing! She’s only got two dresses to her back, and yet she wears rings worth I don’t know how much! Great big stones. She sings foreign songs to him, of an evening, in all sorts of queer languages—on my piano! He niver speaks a word to me now that she’s come! He used to say a kind word now and then. She was out with him in the Park, one night lately, till I don’t know what hour. It’s not decent! I was waiting at my window and I saw through a chink in the trees—I can see all down the Broad Walk, if I have a mind. I waited long enough, and I saw them come back down the walk together,{146} and the moon was shining full on them, and I saw—” She hesitated.
“Was he?—Was she—?” Mrs. Popham asked, with timid, scared eagerness.
“They were walking hand in hand,” said Jane Anne, shyly, “and if that’s not being lovers, I don’t know what is!”
Her face relaxed, and she burst into tears.
“Don’t, Jane Anne, don’t go on like that! Perhaps they are engaged. My husband says so,” said Mrs. Popham, assuming that the staid girl’s tears proceeded from her sense of outraged57 morality. “But still, it is a very odd way to behave. They ought to get married, that’s all I can say!”
“Oh, ma’am, Mr. Rivers and a woman like that, with her painted cheeks and her hair—well, I shouldn’t like to have to swear that it is even her own! She’s not respectable, even if she is engaged to him. I could tell you things—and so could Dorothy, who waits on them!”
“Sh-h!” said the Vicar’s wife. “But we must get her away from him, somehow, Jane Anne.”
“Oh, Ma’am, if we only could! Dear Mr. Rivers! I’d do anything I could. Only, she can’t walk now.”
“If she is what we think her, that sprain of hers may be just a ruse58. It probably is. I can bring myself to believe anything of a woman who masquerades under an assumed name. How do you know, by the way, that it is so?”
Jane Anne went into Rivers’ room with the air of{147} one performing a religious rite48, and fetched an umbrella out of the corner and handed it solemnly to the Vicar’s wife.
“That is hers!” she said.
Mrs. Popham held it up to the light and read—in characters half effaced59 by time, not by prudence—the letters “P. E.” on its battered60, silver handle, and, furthermore, the address, 59 Saville Place, Newcastle.
“E. doesn’t spell Frick!” said the Board School girl, proudly.
“I don’t quite like doing it,” murmured the Vicar’s wife. “But—really—I can’t let this go on! It can do her no harm if she is respectable, and if she isn’t—? One must think of Mr. Rivers! Read out that address again, Jane Anne.”
“Now, put the umbrella back!” that lady added, in rather a shame-faced way, “and leave it all to me. And, Jane Anne, mind you practise up that thing of Arcadelt’s in time for Divine service; you seemed rather weak in it last Sunday, or perhaps you were not attending? I saw her in church. She probably gets Mr. Rivers to take her there to throw a little dust in all our eyes. I notice she never kneels or sings. It is evidently the first time she has ever been regularly to church in her life! ”
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1
sprain
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| n.扭伤,扭筋 | |
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abraded
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| adj.[医]刮擦的v.刮擦( abrade的过去式和过去分词 )；（在精神方面）折磨（人）；消磨（意志、精神等）；使精疲力尽 | |
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3
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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4
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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5
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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condemnatory
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| adj. 非难的，处罚的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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11
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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12
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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13
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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14
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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15
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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16
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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17
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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18
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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24
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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25
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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26
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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tyro
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| n.初学者；生手 | |
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dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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40
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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41
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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42
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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43
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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44
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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45
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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46
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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47
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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48
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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49
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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50
pedantically
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51
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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52
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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53
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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54
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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55
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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56
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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57
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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58
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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59
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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60
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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