A large fire roared in the fireplace; the room seemed strangely altered since that day when Henry had read his novel and thought of his forests. In what lay the alteration3? The old green carpet was still there; in front of the fireplace was a deep red Turkey rug—but it was not the rug that changed the room. The deep glass-fronted book-cases were still there, with the chilly4 and stately classics inside them; on the round table there were two novels with gaudy5 red and blue covers. One novel was entitled “The Lovely Mrs. Tempest”, the other “The Mystery of Dovecote Mill”—but it was not the novels that changed the room. The portraits of deceased Trenchards, weighted with heavy gold, still hung upon the walls; there was also, near the fireplace, a gay water-colour of some place on the Riviera, with a bright parasol in the foreground and the bluest of all blue seas in the background—but it was not the water-colour that changed the room.
No, the change lay here—the Mirror was gone.
After Henry had broken it, there was much discussion as to whether it should be mended. Of course it would be mended—but when?—Well, soon. Meanwhile it had better be out of the way somewhere ... it had remained out of the way. Until it should be restored, Sir George Trenchard, K.C.B., 1834-1896, a stout6 gentleman with side whiskers, hung in its place.
Meanwhile it would never be restored. People would forget it; people wanted to forget it ... the Mirror’s day was over.
It was, of course, impossible for Sir George Trenchard to reflect the room in his countenance7 or in his splendid suit of clothes, and the result of this was that the old room that had gathered itself so comfortably, with its faded and mossy green, into the shining embrace of the Mirror, had now nowhere for its repose8; it seemed now an ordinary room, and the spots of colour—the Turkey rug, the novels, the water-colour, broke up the walls and the carpet, flung light here and light there, shattered that earlier composed remoteness, proclaimed the room a comfortable place that had lost its tradition.
The Room was broken up—the Mirror was in the cellar.
Henry came in. He had had permission to abandon—for one night—his labours at Cambridge to assist in the celebration of his grandfather’s birthday, the last, perhaps, that there would be, because the old man now was very broken and ill. He had never recovered from the blow of Katherine’s desertion.
The first thing that Henry had done on his arrival in London had been to pay a visit to Mrs. Philip Mark. Katherine and Philip lived in a little flat in Knightsbridge—Park Place—and a delightful9 little flat it was. This was not the first visit that Henry had paid there; George Trenchard, Millie, Aunt Betty had also been there—there had been several merry tea-parties.
The marriage had been a great success; the only thing that marred10 it for Katherine was her division from her mother. Mrs. Trenchard was relentless11. She would not see Katherine, she would not read her letters, she would not allow her name to be mentioned in her presence. Secretly, one by one, the others had crept off to the Knightsbridge flat.... They gave no sign of their desertion. Did she know? She also gave no sign.
But Katherine would not abandon hope. The time must come when her mother needed her. She did not ask questions of the others, but she saw her mother lonely, aged12, miserable13; she saw this from no conceit14 of herself, but simply because she knew that she had, for so many years, been the centre of her mother’s life. Her heart ached; she lay awake, crying, at night, and Philip would strive to console her but could not. Nevertheless, through all her tears, she did not regret what she had done. She would do it again did the problem again arise. Philip was a new man, strong, happy, reliant, wise ... she had laid the ghosts for him. He was hers, as though he had been her child.
Henry, upon this afternoon, was clearly under the influence of great excitement. He entered the drawing-room as though he were eager to deliver important news, and then, seeing that no one was there, he uttered a little exclamation15 and flung himself into a chair. Anyone might see that a few weeks of Cambridge life had worked a very happy change in Henry; much of his crudity16 was gone. One need not now be afraid of what he would do next, and because he was himself aware of this development much of his awkwardness had left him.
His clothes were neat; his hair was brushed. He might still yield at any moment to his old impetuosities, his despairs and his unjustified triumphs, but there would now be some further purpose beyond them; he would know now that there were more important things in life than his moods.
He looked at the place where the Mirror had been and blushed; then he frowned. Yes, he had lost his temper badly that day, but Philip had had such an abominable17 way of showing him how young he was, how little of life he knew. All the same, Philip wasn’t a bad sort,—and he did love Katie—‘like anything!’
Henry himself thrilled with the consciousness of the things that he intended to do in life. He had attended a debate at the Cambridge union, and himself, driven by what desperate impulse he did not know, had spoken a few words. From that moment he had realised what life held in store for him. He had discovered other eager spirits; they met at night and drank cocoa together. They intended nothing less than the redemption of the world; their Utopian City shone upon no distant hill. They called themselves the Crusaders, and some time before the end of the term the first number of a periodical written by them was to startle the world. Henry was the Editor. His first Editorial was entitled: “Freedom: What it is”.
And only a year ago he had sat in this very room reading that novel and wondering whether life would ever open before him. It had opened—it was opening before them all. He did not know that it had been opening thus for many thousands of years. He knew nothing of the past; he knew nothing of the future; but he saw his City rising, so pure and of marvellous promise, before his eyes....
As he looked back over the past year and surveyed the family, it was to him as though an earthquake had blown them all sky-high. A year ago they had been united, as though no power could ever divide them. Well, the division had come. There was now not one member of the family who had not his, or her, secret ambitions and desires. Aunt Aggie18 intended to live in a little flat by herself. She found “the younger ones impossible.” George Trenchard bought land at Garth. Mrs. Trenchard intended to pull down some of the Garth house and build a new wing.
She was immersed all day in plans and maps and figures; even her father-in-law’s illness had not interfered19 with her determination.
Millie had made friends with a number of independent London ladies, who thought Women’s Suffrage20 far beyond either cleanliness or Godliness. She talked to Henry about her companions, who hoped for a new City in no very distant future, very much as Henry’s friends at Cambridge did. Only, the two Cities were very different. Even Katherine and Philip were concerned in some Society for teaching poor women how to manage their children, and Philip was also interested in a new Art, in which young painters produced medical charts showing the internal arrangements of the stomach, and called them “Spring on the Heath” or “Rome—Midday.”
And through all the middle-class families in England these things were occurring. “Something is coming....” “Something is coming....” “Look out....” “Look out....”
This was in 1903. Henry, Millie, Katherine had still eleven years to wait for their revolution, but in at least one corner of happy England the work of preparation had been begun.
The door opened, and Henry’s reveries were interrupted by the entrance of Millie. He started, and then jumped up on seeing her; for a moment, under the power of his thoughts, he had forgotten his news; now he stammered21 with the importance of it.
“Millie!” he cried.
“Hullo, Henry,” she said, smiling. “We expected you hours ago.”
He dropped his voice. “I’ve been round to see Katie. Look here, Millie, it’s most important. She’s coming here to see Mother.”
Millie glanced behind. They carried on then the rest of their conversation in whispers.
“To see Mother?”
“Yes. She can’t bear waiting any longer. She felt that she must be here on Grandfather’s birthday.”
“But—but—”
“Yes, I know. But she thinks that if she sees Mother alone and she can show her that nothing’s changed—”
“But everything’s changed. She doesn’t know how different Mother is.”
“No, but she thinks if they both see one another—at any rate she’s going to try.”
“Now?”
“Yes. In a few minutes. I’ll go up and just tell Mother that there’s a caller in the drawing-room. Then leave them alone together—”
Millie sighed. “It would be too lovely for anything if it really happened. But it won’t—it can’t. Mother’s extraordinary. I don’t believe she ever loved Katie at all, at least only as an idea. She’ll never forgive her—never—and she’ll always hate Philip.”
“How’s Grandfather?”
“Very bad. He says he will come down to-night, although it’ll probably kill him. However, now they’ve arranged that his presents shall be in the little drawing-room upstairs. Then he won’t have so far to go. He’s awfully22 bad, really, and he’s as hard about Katie as Mother is. He won’t have her name mentioned. It’s simply, I believe, that it’s terrible to him to think that she could love Philip better than him!”
“And how’s everyone else?”
“Oh, well, it’s all right, I suppose. But it isn’t very nice. I’m going off to live with Miss Emberley as soon as they’ll let me. Aunt Aggie’s been awful. And then one day she went suddenly to see Katie, and Mother found out somehow. Mother never said anything, but Aunt Aggie’s going to take a flat by herself somewhere. And since that she’s been nicer than I’ve ever known her. Quite soft and good-tempered.”
“Does Mother know that we all go to see Katie?”
“Sometimes I think she does—sometimes that she doesn’t. She never says a word. She seems to think of nothing but improving the place now. She must be very lonely, but she doesn’t show anyone anything. All the same it’s impossible without Katie—I—”
At that moment the bell of the hall-door rang. They stood silently there listening.
For a moment they stared at one another, like conspirators23 caught in the act of their conspiracy24. The colour flooded their cheeks; their hearts beat furiously. Here and now was Drama.
They heard Rocket’s footstep, the opening door, Katherine’s voice. They fled from the room before they could be seen.
Katherine, when she stood alone in the room in whose life and intimacy25 she had shared for so many years, stared about her as though she had been a stranger. There was a change; in the first place there was now her own room, made for her and for Philip, that absorbed her mind; in comparison with it this room, that had always appeared to her comfortable, consoling, protective, was now old-fashioned and a little shabby. There were too many things scattered26 about, old things, neither beautiful nor useful. Then the place itself did not seem to care for her as it had once done. She was a visitor now, and the house knew it. Their mutual27 intimacy had ceased.
But she could not waste many thoughts upon the room. This approaching interview with her mother seemed to her the supreme28 moment of her life. There had been other supreme moments during the past year, and she did not realise that she was now better able to deal with them than she had once been. Nevertheless her mother must forgive her. She would not leave the house until she had been forgiven. She was hopeful. The success of her marriage had given her much self-confidence. The way that the family had, one after another, come to see her (yes, even Aunt Aggie) had immensely reassured29 her. Her mother was proud; she needed that submission30 should be made to her.
Katherine was here to make it. Her heart beat thickly with love and the anticipated reconciliation31.
She went, as she had done so many, many times, to the Mirror over the fireplace to tidy herself. Why! the Mirror was not there! Of course not—that was why the room seemed so changed. She looked around her, smiled a little. A fine girl, anyone seeing her there would have thought her. Marriage had given her an assurance, a self-reliance. She had shrunk back before because she had been afraid of what life would be. Now, when it seemed to her that she had penetrated32 into the very darkest fastnesses of its secrets, when she felt that nothing in the future could surprise her ever again, she shrank back no longer.
Her clothes were better than in the old days, but even now they did not fit her very perfectly33. She was still, in her heart, exactly the same rather grave, rather slow, very loving Katherine. She would be stout in later years; there were already little dimples in her cheeks. Her eyes were soft and mild, as they had ever been.
The door opened, and Mrs. Trenchard entered.
She had expected some caller, and she came forward a few steps with the smile of the hostess upon her lips. Then she saw her daughter, and stopped.
Katherine had risen, and stood facing her mother. With a swift consternation34, as though someone had shouted some terrifying news into her ear, she realised that her mother was a stranger to her. She had imagined many, many times what this interview would be. She had often considered the things that she would say and the very words in which she would arrange her sentences. But always in her thoughts she had had a certain picture of her mother before her. She had seen an old woman, old as she had been on that night when she had slept in Katherine’s arms, old as she had been at that moment when Katherine had first told her of her engagement to Philip. And now she thought this old woman would face her, maintaining her pride but nevertheless ready, after the separation of these weeks, to break down before the vision of Katherine’s own submission.
Katherine had always thought: “Dear Mother. We must have one another. She’ll feel that now. She’ll see that I’m exactly the same....”
How different from her dreams was this figure. Her mother seemed to-day younger than Katherine had ever known her. She stood there, tall, stern, straight, the solidity of her body impenetrable, inaccessible35 to all tenderness, scornful of all embraces. She was young, yes, and stronger.
At the first sight of Katherine she had moved back as though she would leave the room. Then she stayed by the door. She was perfectly composed.
“Why have you come?” she said.
At the cold indifference36 of that voice Katherine felt a little pulse of anger beat, far away, in the very heart of her tenderness.
She moved forward with a little gesture.
“Mother, I had to come. It’s Grandfather’s birthday. I couldn’t believe that after all these weeks you wouldn’t be willing to see me.”
She stopped. Her mother said nothing.
Katherine came nearer. “I’m sorry—terribly sorry—if I did what hurt you. I felt at the time that it was the only thing to do. Phil was so miserable, and I know that it was all for my sake. It wasn’t fair to let him go on like that when I could prevent it. You didn’t understand him. He didn’t understand you. But never, for a single instant, did my love for you change. It never has. It never will. Mother dear, you believe that—you must believe that.”
Did Mrs. Trenchard have then for a moment a vision of the things that she might still do with life? With her eyes, during these weeks, she had seen not Katherine but her own determination to vindicate37 her stability, the stability of all her standards, against every attack. They said that the world was changing. She at least could show them that she would not change. Even though, in her own house, that revolution had occurred about which she had been warned, she would show them that she remained, through it all, stable, unconquered.
Katherine had gone over to the enemy. Well, she would fasten her life to some other anchor then. It should be as though Katherine and Katherine’s love had never existed. There was offered her now her last chance. One word and she would be part of the new world. One word....
She may for an instant have had her vision. The moment passed. She saw only her own determined38 invincibility39.
“You had your choice, Katherine,” she said. “You made it. You broke your word to us. You left us without justification40. You have killed your Grandfather. You have shown that our love and care for you during all these years has gone for nothing at all.”
Katherine flushed. “I have not shown that—I....” She looked as though she would cry. Her lips trembled. She struggled to compose her voice—then at last went on firmly:
“Mother—perhaps I was wrong. I didn’t know what I did. It wasn’t for myself—it was for Philip. It isn’t true that I didn’t think of you all. Mother, let me see Grandfather—only for a moment. He will forgive me. I know—I know.”
“He has forbidden us to mention your name to him.”
“But if he sees me—”
“He is resolved never to see you again.”
“But what did I do? If I speak to him, if I kiss him—I must go to him. It’s his birthday. I’ve got a present—”
“He is too ill to see you.” This perhaps had moved her, because she went on swiftly: “Katherine, what is the use of this? It hurts both of us. It can do no good. You acted as you thought right. It seemed to show me that you had no care for me after all these years. It shook all my confidence. That can never be between us again, and I could not, I think, in any way follow your new life. I could never forget, and you have now friends and interests that must exclude me. If we meet what can we have now in common? If I had loved you less, perhaps it would be possible, but as it is—no.”
Katherine had dried her tears.
They looked at one another. Katherine bowed her head. She had still to bite her lips that she might not cry, but she looked very proud.
“Perhaps,” she said, very softly, “that one day you will want—you will feel—At least I shall not change. I will come whenever you want me. I will always care the same. One day I will come back, Mother dear.”
Her mother said only:
“It is better that we should not meet.”
Katherine walked to the door. As she passed her mother she looked at her. Her eyes made one last prayer—then they were veiled.
She left the house.
A quarter of an hour later Henry came into the room, and found his Mother seated at her desk, plans and papers in front of her. He could hear her saying to herself:
“Fifteen—by fourteen.... The rockery there—Five steps, then the door.... Fifteen pounds four shillings and sixpence....”
Katherine was not there. He knew that she had been rejected. His mother showed no signs of discomposure. Their interview must have been very short.
He went to the window and stood there, looking out. In a moment Rocket would come and draw the blinds. Rundle Square swam in the last golden light.
Tiny flakes41 of colour spun42 across the pale blue that was almost white. They seemed to whirl before Henry’s eyes.
He was sorry, terribly sorry, that Katherine had failed, but he was filled to-day with a triumphant43 sense of the glory and promise of life. He had been liberated44, and Katherine had been liberated. Freedom, with its assurances for all the world, flamed across the darkening skies. Life seemed endless: its beckoning45 drama called to him. The anticipation46 of the glory of life caught him by the throat so that he could scarcely breathe....
At that moment in the upstairs room old Mr. Trenchard, suddenly struggling for breath, tried to call out, failed, fell back, on to his pillow, dead.
THE END
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收听单词发音
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1
blurs
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| n.模糊( blur的名词复数 )；模糊之物；（移动的）模糊形状；模糊的记忆v.（使）变模糊( blur的第三人称单数 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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2
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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3
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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4
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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5
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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7
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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8
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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9
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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10
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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11
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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12
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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14
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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15
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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16
crudity
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| n.粗糙，生硬；adj.粗略的 | |
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17
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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18
aggie
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| n.农校，农科大学生 | |
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19
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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20
suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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21
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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23
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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24
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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25
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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26
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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27
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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28
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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29
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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30
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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31
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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32
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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33
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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34
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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35
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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36
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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37
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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38
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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39
invincibility
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| n.无敌，绝对不败 | |
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40
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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41
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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42
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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43
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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44
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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45
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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46
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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