He told her that his heart was broken, that she saw before her a man beaten down. “It is dreadful,” he said. “My mother liked you so much. She is hard to please. I suppose you wouldn’t care to think it over?”
Again she shook her head. A Mr. Bloxam of Exeter! If he only knew, or could be made to know! “No, no,” she said. “I sha’n’t alter. But I hope we are not to be bad friends.”
Mr. Bloxam had bowed, and said, “I should be most happy”—and one sees what he meant. “My mother, you know, won’t like it. Naturally she is partial. She will say that you led me on.”
“Then she will say what is very untrue,” cried Mary, with flashing eyes, “and I hope you will tell her so. It is very hard if I may not have friends without being accused of ridiculous things.”
“If you are likely to include this among them, I must ask you to let me go,” she said with spirit; “but perhaps you would like to give me some tea first.”
Mr. Bloxam, murmuring about the sacred rites7 of hospitality, assured her that he would; and they parted on good terms. He told her that he intended to travel; and indeed he did afterwards go to Weston-super-Mare for a month.
The unfortunate but absurd episode taught her to be circumspect8 with the literary curate. He, however, was of a more cautious temperament9, and went away for his holiday with no more pronounced symptom than a promise to send her picture postcards from the Cathedral cities which he purposed visiting. “You may like to have these afterwards,” he darkly said, and then took himself away on a bicycle.
The year was come to a critical point for her. About this time Halfway10 House would be plodding11 its way to the West, its owner, loose-limbed and leisurely12, smoking on the tilt13. Almost any day now it might pass by Exeter, or through it; almost any day she might come plump upon it—and what was to happen to her then? Could she endure the year’s round, or know him by her Cornish sea, in her white cottage on the cliff, and stay here nursing her wound, feeling the throb14 and the ache? It seemed impossible—and yet women do such things. It was almost the worst of her plight15 that she knew she could do it. It was in her blood to do it. The poor were like that: dumb beasts.
And now the delicacy16 which she had felt at first, and which had kept her away from Land’s End, became a tyrant17, as the temptations grew upon her. It prevented her riding afield by any road leading into Exeter from the East. She had a bicycle; more, she had a certain way of bringing him directly to her side. He had taught her. The patteran. But no! She couldn’t. So she worked on doggedly18, with the fret19 and fever in her bones; and day by day October slipped into November; the days slipped off as the wet leaves fell.
Early in November, on a day of sunny weather, Polly Merritt announced a visitor, who followed her immediately into the room, his straw hat under his left arm, his right hand held out.
“A gentleman to see Miss Middleham, if you please,” says Polly Merritt, and Mary had sprung up, with her hand to her side.
“It’s the tall one, mother, not the windy one,” was explained in the kitchen, but Mrs. Merritt, sniffing20, had declared they were all the same.
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Polly. “But this gentleman talks like asking and having, if you want my opinion.”
The riot in her breast was betrayed by her shining eyes and the quick flood of colour from neck to brows; but he played the man of the world so well that she was able to recover herself.
He made his excuses for breaking in upon her. He had been going through Exeter in any case. It was hardly to be resisted, she would allow. He owned that Horace Wing had given him the clue. “Poor Horace, you hurt him. It took two months’ hard talking in town and at least a month of surmise21 in Scotland before Horace could find strength enough to own up to the fact that he had met you, that you had bowed—and bolted. He mentioned it with tears in his eyes, as an extreme case. He had heard you book to Exeter—second single.” Then he looked at her and smiled. “But why Miss Middleham?”
“Why not?” she echoed him bravely. “I had to be somebody.”
“Weren’t you person enough?”
“Ah, yes, I was too much of a person, I was almost a personage. I was never happy in that disguise. My clothes never fitted me.”
“You should let other people judge of that. If you would like my opinion of your clothes, for instance——”
She shook her head, without speaking. He tried a more direct attack.
“You forgive me for coming?”
She suspected a tenderness. “Oh, it is very kind of you. I don’t have many visitors. I am glad to see you.”
“That’s good. May I see you again, then, while I can?”
She inquired: “Are you likely to be here long?”
A light hand was necessary now. “Oh, dear no—unfortunately. A day or two at the outside; time to buy cartridges22. You remember the Ogmores? I am due at Wraybrook on the seventh. Pheasants. But until then——”
This was the fourth, you see. He would be horribly in the way. “I am occupied a good part of the day,” she told him. “I have pupils.”
He raised his eyebrows23. “Really! Have you—” he flushed, and leaned forward. “Have you renounced24 your——?”
“Not in so many words,” she said. “I have simply dropped it. Nobody knows where I am.”
“You knew that I had formally renounced mine?”
She had not known that. There was an implication in it—which she had run here to avoid; and here it was. “Did you?” she said shortly. “I’m not surprised.”
“Of course not,” he agreed. “You could not expect me to do anything else. And you have done precisely25 the same. That, also, I took leave to expect.” He saw concern gather in her eyes, broke off abruptly26, and plunged27 into gossip. “Does your late world interest you still? Do you want to hear the news? Palmer Lovell’s engagement, for instance? A princess of Italy, I give you my word—a Donna Teresa Scalchi, rather a beauty, and a great shrew. Palmer can bite a bit, too. That will end in tears. And Hertha de Speyne marries abroad. Morosov, an anarchist28 of sort. They can collect plants in Siberia—” he broke off again, remembering that others had collected plants in Siberia. Watching her, he saw that she remembered it, too. “Oh, and old Constantine and I have kissed; we are fast friends. Once more I write speeches, which he mangles29. He’s to be at Wraybrook, waiting for me. He can’t bear me out of his sight—he’s like an elderly wife. Frightful30 nuisance, of course—but I hope you are pleased.”
She looked at him for a moment. “Of course I am pleased. I always wanted you to succeed.”
He rattled31 on. She had never seen him in such good spirits or manners. When he left her after an hour she was quite at her ease. He said that, if he might, he would come in the evening, and take her for a walk. It would do her good; and as for him she might have pity upon a fellow at a loose end, with nothing on earth to do but buy cartridges.
When he had gone she sat still, looking at her hands in her lap. Could she maintain herself for three days? Already she felt the fences closing in—she had felt them, as they moved, though never once had she been able to hold up her hand or say, Stop: that you may not assume. Tristram was master of implication, and her master there. Throughout his airy monologue32 he had taken her for granted—her and her origin, her humility33, her subservience34 to his nod, her false position with Germain, her false position now. Why, his very amiability35, his deference36 to her opinion, his tentative approach—what were these but implications of his passion for her, a passion so strong that it could bend his arrogant37 back, and show a Tristram Duplessis at the feet of a Mary Middleham? She writhed38, she burned to feel these things, and to be powerless against such attack. And he was to come again this evening, and every day for three days he was to come—and no help for her, she must fall without a cry. Yes, without a cry; for she was cut off from her friend, by the very need she had of him. What was she to do? What could she do—but fall?
She struggled. At three o’clock in the afternoon she told Polly Merritt that if the gentleman called again he was to be told that Miss Middleham was not well and had gone to bed. Polly wondered, but obeyed. “Lovers’ tricks!” quoth Mrs. Merritt. “That’ll bring him to the scratch.” It did. He received the news at the door, with an impassive face—all but for his eyes, which, keen and coldly blue, pierced Polly’s sloe-blacks to the brain, and extracted what might be useful to him. “Many thanks, Miss Polly,” he had said presently. “You’re a good friend, I see. Look here, I’ll tell you what to do. I’ll bring some flowers round presently, and you shall put ’em in her room, and say nothing about it. Do you see?” Polly saw.
The next day was a busy one for her, and she saw nothing of Tristram until the evening. Then, to her dismay, she found him waiting for her outside the gates of Rosemount Academy, where her Italian lesson had been given. If she bit her lip, she blushed also; and if he remarked but one of these signals it was not her fault. Cavaliers had attended at those gates before—not for her only, but for her among others. Such a cavalier, however, so evidently of the great world, had never yet been looked upon by the young ladies of Rosemount.
“Oh,” cried Mary, startled, “who told you——?”
“I suppose I must. Probably you frightened her out of her wits.” But he swore that they were very good friends indeed. He thought that Miss Polly liked him, upon his word; and Mary could not deny that. Polly undoubtedly40 did.
His admirable behaviour inspired confidence; inquiries after her health, no reference to ambiguous exotics, no assumptions, no plans for evening walks. He went with her to her door, and left her there with a salute41. But before she could get in, while she stood with her hand on the knocker, as if by an after-thought he came back to her from the gate. Jess had summoned him to Wraybrook, he said. He knew that there was something to tell her. Positively42 he must go the day after to-morrow. Now, was she free to-morrow?
She was; but she hesitated to say so. Well, then, would she give him a great pleasure? Would she come with him to Powderham—explore the park and the shore, have a picnic luncheon43 and all that sort of thing? Would she? As he stood down there below her, with flushed face and smiling, obsequious44 eyes, she thought that she really might trust herself, if not him. Polly, opening the door, was nodded to, and told that she need not wait. Polly needed no telling.
“Come, Mrs. Mary,” he urged her, “what do you say? Will you let me look after you for this once? Will you please to remember that never once since we have known each other—how many years?—have we had a whole day together? Extraordinary fact.”
“It’s quite true,” she reflected, “we never have. Once we very nearly did, though.”
“Twice,” he corrected her; but she could not admit that. Well, which was her instance?
It was long ago, when she had been at Misperton—had been some six months there. One Midsummer Day—surely he remembered! He had promised to take her to Glastonbury; the dog-cart was to meet them at Clewgate station——
“Ah, yes,” he cried—“And I called for you—and you were ready—in a brown holland frock——”
“Had I a brown holland? I remember that I was quite ready. And then a note came down from Mrs. James——”
“Beloved Mrs. James——”
“And you pretended to be angry——”
“Pretended! Oh, my dearest friend—I swore.”
“I know you did. And I——”
“You pretended to cry——”
“Mary,” he said, “why did you cry?”
She recovered herself. “Because I was very young, and very stupid.”
“Now for my instance,” he said. “Not so very long ago, you were to go to Blackheath—by train; and I went to Charing46 Cross station.” But, with a flaming face, and real trouble in her eyes, she stopped him.
“Please, don’t—you hurt me. I think that you forget.”
He begged her pardon so sincerely that she could not refuse the morrow’s appointment.
They met at the station—she in a straw hat and linen47 frock—for the weather was wonderful; he in flannels48. The perils49 of adventure glittered in her eyes; he played the courtier, sure now of his game. She begged for third-class tickets, but he compromised for second—and flagrantly bribed50 the guard to keep the carriage. It was impossible that she should avoid the knowledge that she was practically in possession—impossible that she should not see the approving smiles of the bystanders. “A pretty girl and her sweetheart”; simple comedy, of never-ending charm. Abhorrent51 to the Senhouses of this world, but not to be extirpated52 until Birnam come to Dunsinane.
Softly the knowledge brooded upon her, softly virginal she sat, very much aware. The epicure53 returned to Master Tristram, who by a whisper could have had her, but refrained. He sat by her, but respectfully—he discoursed54 at large. Powderham Castle—he spoke55 of that. It was a pity that the fine place could not be seen; but the Courteneys had let it, and he didn’t know the people. It was full, he happened to have heard. He believed that Bramleigh was staying there. He forgot if she knew Bramleigh; a quaint56 little man. But probably she wouldn’t want to be bothered with a lot of people; so they must be contented2 with the park. Thus Tristram discoursed; and at his discretion57 sat she, saying little, looking at him never, heeding58 every shade of inflection, and every hair’s breadth of movement of his. They reached the station; he helped her to descend59.
All seemed well with Tristram’s wooing. His lady was in a pensive60 mood, softly receptive of his implications. The temptation to paint in bolder masses was not resisted, nor that more subtle form of art—the silent art. Speechless they loitered together; and sometimes their hands touched, and sometimes he hovered61 over her, as if protecting her with wings. Her eyes were veiled; she appeared sleek62 as a dove under his hand. Once he breathed her name—“Mary, oh, Mary—”; but he saw her shiver and stiffen63, and knew that she was still to be won. So be it! But he could not give over the delicious chase. To have her thus wide-eyed, quivering, straining beside him—like a greyhound taut64 at his leash65; he was beside himself with longing66, and like a fool gave way.
“My dearest—” he began, but she checked him with a fierce cry—“No, no!—Not that—” and though he could see nothing but the sharp outline of her cheek and chin he knew that she was watching something. He looked about him vaguely67. What on earth—? The sea—a narrow strip of blue tumbling water, spuming where it touched the yellow sands—the flecked, pale sky—the gorse—larks above it—in a far corner a gipsy’s tent, and a white horse foraging—. What on earth—?
He drew back. She seemed to start forwards as if to escape from him—but then she turned suddenly, and he saw that she was pale, that she trembled, and that there was real trouble in her eyes.
“I am tired,” she said, “very tired. May we go home now?”
“Of course—what a brute68 I am. But I thought that you— Won’t you tell me what has tired you all at once?”
“I don’t know—it came over me—suddenly. But I do want to go home, please—immediately.” Her eyes were full—brimming. He was touched.
“Come then, we’ll go to the station. It’s no great distance. Unless you would rather sit——”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly! No, no, indeed, I must go home. My head aches dreadfully. I think a sunstroke—perhaps. I can hardly stand up——”
He saw that that was true. “Come,” he said, “take my arm. We’ll go at once.”
When they had turned back she seemed to recover. She walked, at any rate, as fast as he did—set the pace. But she would not talk any more. In the train she sat apart, looking out of the window—and after a time he let her alone.
At Exeter when he put her in the fly and would have followed her, she put her hand on his arm. “Please don’t come with me. I shall be myself directly. I beg you not to come. And don’t think me ungrateful—indeed, you have been kindness itself. I’m very much ashamed of myself——”
“I’ll see you to-morrow—to say good-bye. You will let me do that? I must know how you are, you see.”
“Yes—come to-morrow if you will. Good-bye. I am much better. I shall be quite well. But come, of course, if you had rather.”
“Of course I shall come.” He lifted his hat, bowed, and turned away. She watched him walk towards his hotel. Then, with a face of flame, she turned to her own affair.
This was to be her last bid for freedom; her last chance. If she was to be the crying shame of her sex, it must be so. Come what might, she must call for help.
She stayed the fly at the door, paid the man, and watched him turn and go galloping69 down the hill. Then she turned to her affair—across Exeter it took her, to the Honiton road.
She walked the whole way, some two miles out of the city, beyond the suburbs to where the open country began. And here she laid her patteran, with branches of crimson70 maple71, torn from the sunny side of the hedge. At the corners of two by-roads she laid them—one to the South, one to the North. Not satisfied with that, she went North herself to the Cullompton road, and laid two patterans more. Her cheeks burned like fire, and in her heart was a bitter pain; she felt that she had unsexed herself, was bedraggled and bemired. But her need had racked her—you can’t blame the wretch72 writhing73 there if he call upon his God.
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1
languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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mangles
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| n.轧布机，轧板机，碾压机（mangle的复数形式）vt.乱砍（mangle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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subservience
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| n.有利，有益；从属（地位），附属性；屈从，恭顺；媚态 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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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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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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46
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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50
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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51
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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52
extirpated
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| v.消灭，灭绝( extirpate的过去式和过去分词 )；根除 | |
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epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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56
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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58
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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59
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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60
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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61
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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62
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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63
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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65
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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66
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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67
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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68
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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69
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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70
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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71
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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72
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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73
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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