Before, and even during the war, Christmas day at Bruton Street used to be rather a function. On that day, Julia, still the feudalist in her domestic policy, was wont1 to rise earlier than usual, to distribute gifts among her servants, to proceed to church, lunch in some state, and during the afternoon receive such of her friends as had not left town.
This Christmas, Brunton's continued obduracy2 made functions impossible. Waking late to the subdued3 glimmer4 of the bed-lamp, to the presence of her maid and the tea-tray, Julia was conscious of depression. Her night had been restless, haunted by the specter of defeat. The "flaunting5 policy" had failed! Depression grew. The idea of distributing presents, of her servants' formal thanks, fretted6 her. Fretted her, too, the thought that this would be the first Nativity on which she had ever missed going to church.
But gradually, as she bathed, as her maid swathed her in a long purple velvet7 tea-gown, Julia's vitality8 began to revive. A little of the Christmas spirit entered into her. She recognized for how much she had to be thankful; for ample means, for well-trained servants, for a well-tended house, for a mind still confident of its powers, for a conscience assured in its right-doing, for a son who adored her and whom she adored, and, lastly but not least, for work still to be accomplished9.
This certainty of work to come, of a creative task dim-visualized as yet, but already quickening in the womb of her mentality10, had been newly-vivid during the restless night; so that she was now assured--with that assurance which only the craftswoman possesses--of another book shortly to be born from her pen. "My last book, perhaps!" she thought; and dreaded11, in anticipation12, the labor13 of that book-bearing.
The distribution of the presents tired her. Depression returned with the physical fatigue14 of being gracious. But, once the little ceremony was over and she sat waiting for Ronnie and Aliette in the square box of a work-room, the old lady grew almost fey with the prescience of coming triumph. She, Julia Cavendish, might die, but even in her dying she would not be defeated. By her own unaided strength, by the very steel of her spirit, she would beat down all obstacles--the labors15 of book-bearing, the obduracy of Aliette's husband, the defections of their friends.
And--in that moment of feyness--Julia knew that the unwritten book, her own death, and her son's future were mysteriously intertwined; that the only sword which could sever16 the Gordian knot of Hector Brunton's obduracy was the sword of the written word. But as yet her knowledge was all nebulous, the merest protoplasm of a plan.
2
Aliette, that Christmas morning, had not even the semblance17 of a plan. Ever since her visit to Hermione she had been growingly aware of strain, of a strange morbidity18. Increasingly she felt resentful of her position. Increasingly she reproached herself for the impasse19 in Ronnie's career.
The lack of a real home affected20 her almost to breaking-point. In her hyper-sensitive mind, Powolney Mansions21 had become symbolical22 of their joint23 lives. They were "boarding-house people"; and even that only under false pretenses24.
So far, she had managed to conceal25 her mental state from Ronnie. Yet she was aware, dimly, of occasional unkindnesses to him, of a tiny retrogression from the standard of happiness which she had laid down for them both. "I'm failing him," she used to think; "I'm failing him--dragging him down."
London in holiday-time accentuated26 this feeling of failure. Caroline Staley had departed to Devonshire for a week; and a slatternly maid brought them their tea, their lukewarm "hot water." Ronnie, kept waiting half an hour for his bath, gashed27 his chin with his razor, and soothed28 the resultant ill-temper with one of the cheap cigarettes to which he had lately taken. Breakfast, in the stuffy29 communal30 dining-room, was as cold as the perfunctory Christmas wishes of their fellow-boarders.
Ponto, developing a cough, had been sent to the vet's. Ronnie, kindling31 his pipe, suggested that they should "look up the hound." Aliette refused and he went off by himself.
"I'm the wrong sort of woman for Ronnie," she said to herself. "I'm not a bit domesticated33." And from that, thought switched automatically to the other side of domesticity. Imagination pictured some old-fashioned Christmas in some old-fashioned country cottage; herself mistress of a real home; Ronnie a father; he and she and "they" church-going along snow-powdered roads; their return to a board loaded with goodies. Almost, in that moment, imagination heard the laughter of unborn children.
But the moment passed, and she knew herself still childless. "Better childless," she thought bitterly; and tried, for a whole wretched hour, to bring order into the chaos34 of their unfriendly room; dusting and redusting the melancholy35 furniture; hanging and rehanging hats and dresses; finally, in sheer desperate need of distraction36, plying37 Caroline Staley's little wire brush on a pair of white suède shoes she found hidden away in a corner of the wardrobe.
There was dust on the shoes; and, here and there under the dust, a speck38 of mud. A wire brush--thought Aliette--could cleanse39 dust and mud from shoes. But no brush could cleanse the mud and the dust from one's mind. Mind--what was mind? Her very soul felt itself besmirched40. A Hermione's curiosity, a Mary O'Riordan's ingratitude41, the snubs of a Lady Siegfried Moss--all these were flecks42, undeserved yet ineradicable, upon the white surface of one's purity.
She finished cleaning the shoes, and put them aside. Yet the symbolism of them remained with her. It seemed a bitter and a cruel thing that she must drag her feet through so much mire43, that the wheels of all the world's traffic must bespatter her because--because she had gone to her mate openly and not in secret.
"Not for our sin," she thought, "the penalty; but for the candor44 of our sinning"; and so fell to resenting the hypocrisy45 of a country which winks46 tolerant eyes at "dancing-partners," "tame cats," "best boys," "fancy-men," and all the ragtag and bobtail of clandestine47 lovers whom England excuses, tolerates, and even finds romantic. "Only for women such as I am," thought Aliette, "for those of us who go openly to our one lover, can England find neither excuse nor toleration."
"Nothing much wrong with the hound," pronounced a returning Ronnie; and then, noticing the unhappiness in his lady's eyes, "Anything the matter, darling?"
"No. Nothing in particular."
Silently Aliette changed her gown, pinned on her hat, and let him help her with her furs. Silently they made their way downstairs. Outside it was foggy. From the hideous48 hall-lamp, still illuminated49, hung a sprig of grimy mistletoe. Aliette looked up at the thing. "I hate Christmas in London," she said.
As they waited for their train in the chill West Kensington station, Ronnie, too, grew unhappy.
"Poor darling! I wish I could afford taxis," he said; and throughout the journey to Bruton Street--thinking of their long-ago taxi-ride from "Queen's"--a depression almost physical constrained50 both to silence.
The arrival at Bruton Street minimized a little of the morning's depression. Julia was in her old form, jovially51 dictatorial52. They had brought presents for her: from Ronnie, a plain gold penholder, such as she always used; from Aliette, a trifle of embroidery53. Her present, newly-written, lay in an envelope on her writing-desk. She gave it to Aliette with the command, "Don't open it till we've had lunch," just as Kate came in to ask if she should bring in the meal.
3
The "lunch," laid--Aliette noticed--for five, consisted of grilled54 soles, turkey with cranberry55 sauce, plum-pudding with cream and brandy, mince-pies, and the whole old-fashioned indigestible paraphernalia56. Holly57 decked the Venetian wall-lights; mistletoe hung from the chandelier. But there were ghosts at the feast. Try as they three might to be cheerful, each felt conscious of awkwardness.
After the servants had left the room, Julia, breaking the rules of her "medicine-man," took a glass of brandy and a cigarette.
"You haven't even looked at my Christmas present," she said to Aliette; and she would have liked to add, if the words had not seemed so ill-omened, "I sha'n't give you one at all next year, if you don't take more interest in it."
Aliette reached for her hand-bag (which she had hung, a habit of hers, on the back of her chair) and took out the envelope Julia had given her before luncheon58. Throughout the meal she had been dreading59 this moment, because, obviously, the envelope contained a check--and she hated the idea of accepting a check from Ronnie's mother. Slitting60 the flap with her fruit-knife, picking out the stamped paper, she saw at a glance that the check was for five hundred pounds. Her heart leaped. Five hundred pounds meant freedom from Powolney Mansions, the possibility of taking some little abode61 where she and Ronnie could be happy. Then reluctance62 overwhelmed her.
"It's too good of you," she protested. "But I can't, really I can't take all this money."
"Rubbish!" snapped Julia in her bruskest manner. "Why shouldn't you take money from me? All my money really belongs to Ronnie. If his father had had any sense he'd have left it to him. Besides, you need it. You can't go on staying at that appalling63 boarding-house for ever."
"But we can't take it! Can we, man?" Aliette's eyes appealed to Ronnie; who said, trying to be gay: "You mustn't rob yourself for us, mater."
"I'm not robbing myself. Sir Peter sold three of the Little Overdine properties a fortnight ago."
"Did he, though? Whom to?"
"Really!"
Ensued an awkward silence, during which Ronnie stared at the check, Julia at her "daughter-in-law," and Aliette at the pair of them.
"You need it more than I do," reiterated65 Julia at last.
"But don't you see," Aliette's voice was very gentle, "It's just because we do need this money that we oughtn't to take it?"
"You're two very stubborn young people," said Julia, half in anger and half good-humoredly. "But as it's Christmas day, and as I'm nearly old enough to be Aliette's grand-mother, you'll have to humor me." She took the check in her own hands, and returned it to Aliette's bag, which she closed with a little snap of decision--at the precise moment when Kate announced "Mr. Paul Flower."
The distinguished66 litterateur entered languidly; extended both flabby hands to his hostess; and allowed himself to be persuaded into drinking a glass of port.
"My dear Paul," remonstrated67 Julia, glad of the interruption, "you were invited for luncheon, and it's now nearly half-past three."
"My dear Julia,"--the new-comer raised his glass to the light, and inspected the ruby68 glow of the wine with some care--"after all these years you ought to know that I never take luncheon."
"Not even on Christmas day?" put in Aliette.
"No, dear lady, not even on Christmas day." Paul began to be epigrammatic; striving to convince them that Christmas was an essentially69 pagan function, and that paganism was the fount of all true art. "More especially of my own art," he went on, pulverizing70 an imaginary object between thumb and forefinger71; and immediately became so Rabelaisian that it needed all Julia's tact72 to prevent him from narrating73 his pet story of the American lady who had visited him in Mount Street, "because Texas, Mr. Flower, has no literature."
"These literary people," thought Aliette, listening to him, "are all peculiar74." Yet undoubtedly75 Paul Flower's harmless egotism had relieved an awkward situation.
It was nearly a quarter past four by the time that the party eventually moved upstairs to the drawing-room; nearly five before Julia Cavendish, whose brain had been singularly active since Paul's arrival, succeeded in leaving him alone with Aliette while she and Ronnie "went off to the library for a little chat."
"Ronnie," she said to him as soon as they were alone, "you won't let her send back that check, will you?"
"Not if you're bent76 on our keeping it. But I say," his eyes were troubled, "are you sure it's the right time to sell out the Rutland farms?"
"I'm positive. And Ronnie," she rose from her desk and laid a hand on his arm, "you'll let me make that allowance eight hundred now, won't you?"
"I'd rather not, somehow."
"Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know. Alie wouldn't like it."
"You needn't tell her."
"We haven't got any secrets from each other."
"H'm." Julia spoke77 slowly. "That may make things rather difficult." She sat down again, and began to fidget with the gold pen he had given her. "Young Wilberforce came to see me yesterday," she said abruptly78.
"Jimmy? What did he have to say?"
"The dickens he has!" Ronnie's brain leaped to the inevitable80 conclusion. "I suppose that's the result of Mollie's arrival in London."
"Probably." The mother eyed her son. "'Cherchez la femme' is not a bad rule when one sits in judgment81 on the Jimmy Wilberforces of this world. However, we can't afford to leave any stone unturned."
"No, I suppose not. Still, I hate people going behind my back. Alie would be furious if she knew."
"Then don't tell her. Not that there's anything to tell. Brunton refused to discuss the matter. But"--again Julia fell to playing with the penholder--"Wilberforce made the suggestion--mind you, it's only a suggestion--that I should try to get into touch with the admiral."
"I don't see how that could do any good." Ronnie's forehead wrinkled with thought. "Besides, Aliette would never consent. She'd think it undignified."
"Need we consult her?" Now Julia trod very gingerly. "Need we tell her anything about it until I've either failed or succeeded?"
Her son rose from his chair, and took two strides up and down the little room. "Aliette wouldn't like it," he repeated stubbornly.
"But it's for her good."
"I don't see that the admiral could do anything."
"He might have some influence with his son."
Ronald sat down again. All the literary Wixton in him urged acceptance of the plan. All the schoolmaster Cavendish urged refusal. "It would be going behind her back," he said at last. "It wouldn't be fair. She ought to be consulted first."
"And suppose she refuses?" A little of the old dominance crept into Julia's voice. "Suppose she refuses? What are we to do then? Ronnie," the tone rose, "don't you see that it's our duty, our absolute duty? I don't want to be unkind, but the social position gets more impossible every day. Unless something is done, and done quickly, it'll take the pair of you all your lives to live down the scandal."
"I know." His blue eyes saddened. "But there are worse things than scandal. There's," he seemed to be searching in his mind for a word, "there's disloyalty."
"Don't be obstinate82." She summoned up all her strength to beat down his opposition83. "Do trust me. Do let me write to the admiral. I used to know him years ago. That might help."
"Yes. But suppose it doesn't! Suppose you fail? Suppose Alie finds out?"
"If I fail, we shall be no worse off than when I started. As for Aliette finding out, you can tell her if you like. Only don't tell her till afterwards."
"You're sure it can't do any harm?"
"Quite sure. You won't tell her?"
"All right, mater. But don't ask me to take the extra allowance."
"Very well. That shall be as you wish."
They came back, a little guilty, to the drawing-room. Aliette was laughing. Hearing her laugh, it seemed to Ronnie as though the tension of the morning had relaxed.
4
But the tension between them did not relax; rather, in those few days which followed Christmas, they came nearer to quarreling than ever before. The paying in of Julia's check raised the money question again. Ronnie wanted Aliette to use it immediately, to buy herself some clothes, to take a holiday. Aliette demurred84.
"We can't stay here forever," she protested, eying the scratched wall-paper of their bedroom.
"I know, darling. But a boarding-house has its advantages. If we were to take a flat, who'd do the housework?"
"Caroline and I could manage that easily between us."
"I'd hate to see you doing housework."
"I might be some use scrubbing floors. I'm none at the moment."
"You are."
"I'm not. I'm only a drag on you."
So the game went on--the fact of their not being legally married and the sense of isolated85 responsibility which each felt for the other's happiness, making mountains out of every molehill.
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1
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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obduracy
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| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
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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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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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morbidity
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| n.病态；不健全；发病；发病率 | |
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impasse
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| n.僵局；死路 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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joint
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pretenses
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conceal
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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domesticated
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chaos
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melancholy
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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besmirched
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| v.弄脏( besmirch的过去式和过去分词 )；玷污；丑化；糟蹋（名誉等） | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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flecks
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| n.斑点，小点( fleck的名词复数 )；癍 | |
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mire
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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illuminated
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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cranberry
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| n.梅果 | |
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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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slitting
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| n.纵裂（缝）v.切开，撕开( slit的现在分词 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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pulverizing
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| v.将…弄碎( pulverize的现在分词 )；将…弄成粉末或尘埃；摧毁；粉碎 | |
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71
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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80
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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