THE PICNIC
Meanwhile the picnic remained, for others besides Maradick, an interpretation1. Lady Gale2 sat on the evening of the following day watching the sun sink behind the silver birch. She had dressed for dinner earlier than usual, and now it was a quarter to eight and she was still alone in the gradually darkening room.
Mrs. Lester came in. She was dressed in pale blue, and she moved with that sure confidence that a woman always has when she knows that she is dressed with perfect correctness.
“My dear,” she said, bending down and kissing Lady Gale, “I’m perfectly3 lovely to-night, and it isn’t the least use telling me that it’s only vanity, because I know perfectly well I’m the real right thing, as Henry James would say if he saw me.”
“I can’t see, dear,” said Lady Gale, “but from the glimpse I’ve got I like the dress.”
“Oh, it’s perfection! The only thing is that it seems such a waste down here! There’s no one who cares in the least whether you’re a fright or no.”
“There’s at any rate, Fred,” said Lady Gale.
“Oh, Fred!” said Mrs. Lester scornfully. “He would never see if you stuck it right under his nose. He can dress his people in his novels, but he never has the remotest notion what his wife’s got on.”
“He knows more than you think,” said Lady Gale.
“Oh, I know Fred pretty well; besides,” Mrs. Lester added, smiling a little, “he doesn’t deserve to have anything done for him just now. He’s been very cross and nasty these few days.”
She was sitting on a stool at Lady Gale’s feet with her hands clasped round her knees, her head was flung back and her eyes shining; she looked rather like a cross, peevish4 child who had been refused something that it wanted.
Lady Gale sighed for a moment and looked out into the twilight5; in the dark blue of the sky two stars sparkled. “Take care of it, dear,” she said.
“Of what?” said Mrs. Lester, looking up.
“Love, when you’ve got it.” Lady Gale put her hand out and touched Mrs. Lester’s arm. “You know perfectly well that you’ve got Fred’s. Don’t play with it.”
“Fred cares about his books,” Mrs. Lester said slowly. “I don’t think that he cares the very least about me.”
“Oh, you know that’s untrue. You’re cross just now and so is he, and both of you imagine things. But down in your hearts you are absolutely sure of it.”
“I’m afraid that I may be tiresome,” said Lady Gale gently, “but, my dear, I’ve lived such a long time and I know that it’s sufficiently8 rare to get the right man. You’ve got him, and you’re so certain that he’s right that you think that you can play with it, and it’s dangerous.”
“I’m not a bit certain,” said Mrs. Lester.
“Oh, you are, of course you are. You know that Fred’s devoted9 to you and you’re devoted to Fred. Only it’s rather dull that everything should go along so soberly and steadily11, and you think that you’ll have some fun by quarrelling and worrying him. You’re piqued12 sometimes because you don’t think that he pays you enough attention and you imagine that other men will pay you more, and he is very patient.”
“Oh, you don’t know how annoying he can be sometimes,” said Mrs. Lester, shaking her head. “When he shuts himself up in his stupid books and isn’t aware that I’m there at all.”
“Of course I know,” said Lady Gale. “All men are annoying and so are all women. Anyone that we’ve got to live with is bound to be; that’s the whole point of rubbing along. Marriage seems stupid enough and dull enough and annoying enough, but as a matter of fact it would be ever so much worse if the man wasn’t there at all; yes, however wrong the man may be. We’ve got to learn to stick it; whether the it is a pimple13 on one’s nose or a husband.”
“Oh, it’s so easy to talk.” Mrs. Lester shook her shoulders impatiently. “One has theories and it’s very nice to spread them out, but in practice it’s quite different. Fred’s been perfectly beastly these last few days.”
“Well,” said Lady Gale, “don’t run a risk of losing him. I mean that quite seriously. One thinks that one’s got a man so safely that one can play any game one likes, and then suddenly the man’s gone; and then, my dear, you’re sorry.”
“You’re dreadfully serious to-night. I wanted to be amused, and instead of that you speak as if I were on the verge14 of something dreadful. I’m not a bit. It’s only Fred that’s cross.”
“Of course I don’t think you’re on the verge of anything dreadful.” Lady Gale bent15 down and kissed her. “It’s only that Treliss is a funny place. It has its effect—well, it’s rather hard to say—but on our nerves, I suppose. We are all of us excited and would do things, perhaps, here that we shouldn’t dream of doing anywhere else. Things look differently here.” She paused a moment, then she added, “It’s all rather worrying.”
“Dear, I’m a pig,” said Mrs. Lester, leaning over and kissing her. “Don’t bother about me and my little things. But why are you worrying? Is it Tony?”
“Well, I suppose it is,” said Lady Gale slowly; “it’s quite silly of me, but we’re all of us rather moving in the dark. Nobody knows what anyone else is doing. And then there’s Alice.”
“What exactly has she got to do with it?” asked Mrs. Lester.
“My dear, she has everything.” Lady Gale sighed. You must have heard when you were in town that she was, more or less, ‘allotted’ to Tony. Of course it hadn’t actually come to any exact words, but it was very generally understood. I myself hadn’t any doubt about the matter. They were to come down here to fix it all up. As a matter of fact, coming down here has undone16 the whole thing.”
“Yes, of course I’d heard something,” said Mrs. Lester. “As a matter of fact I had been wondering rather. Of course I could see that it wasn’t, so to speak, coming off.”
“No. Something’s happened to Tony since he came down, and to Alice too, for that matter. But at first I didn’t worry; in fact, quite between ourselves, I was rather glad. In town they were neither of them very keen about it; it was considered a suitable thing and they were going to fall in with it, and they were quite nice enough, both of them, to have carried it on all right afterwards. But that wasn’t the kind of marriage that I wanted for Tony. He’s too splendid a fellow to be lost and submerged in that kind of thing; it’s too ordinary, too drab. And so, when he came down here, I saw at once that something had happened, and I was glad.”
“I understand,” said Mrs. Lester, her eyes shining.
“But I asked him nothing. That has always been our plan, that he shall tell me if he wants to, but otherwise I leave it alone. And it has worked splendidly. He has always told me. But this time it is rather different. As soon as he told me anything I should have to act. If he told me who the girl was I should have to see her, and then you see, I must tell my husband. As soon as I know about it I become the family, and I hate the family.”
Mrs. Lester could feel Lady Gale’s hand quiver on her arm. “Oh, my dear, you don’t know what it has always been. Before Tony came life was a lie, a lie from the very beginning. I was forced to eat, to sleep, to marry, to bear children, as the family required. Everything was to be done with one eye on the world and another on propriety17. I was hot, impetuous in those days, now I am getting old and calm enough, God knows; I have learnt my lesson, but oh! it took some learning. Rupert was like the rest; I soon saw that there was no outlet18 there. But then Tony came, and there was something to live for. I swore that he should live his life as he was meant to live it, no square pegs19 in round holes for him, and so I have watched and waited and hoped. And now, at last, romance has come to him. I don’t know who she is; but you’ve seen, we’ve all seen, the change in him, and he shall seize it and hold it with both hands, only, you see, I must not know. As soon as I know, the thing becomes official, and then there’s trouble. Besides, I trust him. I know that he won’t do anything rotten because he’s Tony. I was just a little bit afraid that he might do something foolish, but I’ve put Mr. Maradick there as guard, and the thing’s safe.”
“Mr. Maradick?” asked Mrs. Lester.
“Yes. Tony’s devoted to him, and he has just that stolid20 matter-of-fact mind that will prevent the boy from doing anything foolish. Besides, I like him. He’s not nearly so stupid as he seems.”
“I don’t think he seems at all stupid,” said Mrs. Lester, “I think he’s delightful21. But tell me, if they were neither of them very keen and the thing’s off, why are you worried? Surely it is the very best thing that could possibly happen.”
“Ah! that was before they came down.” Lady Gale shook her head. “Something’s happened to Alice. Since she’s been down here she’s fallen in love with Tony. Yes, wildly. I had been a little afraid of it last week, and then last night she came to me and spoke22 incoherently about going away and hating Treliss and all sorts of things jumbled23 up together and then, of course, I saw at once. It is really very strange in a girl like Alice. I used to think that I never knew anyone more self-contained and sensible, but now I’m afraid that she’s in for a bad time.”
“If one only knew,” said Mrs. Lester, “what exactly it is that Tony is doing; we’re all in the dark. Of course, Mr. Maradick could tell us.” She paused for a moment, and then she said suddenly: “Have you thought at all of the effect it may be having on Mr. Maradick? All this business.”
“Being with Tony, you mean?” said Lady Gale.
“Yes, the whole affair. He’s middle-aged24 and solid, of course, but he seems to me to have—how can one put it?—well, considerable inclinations25 to be young again. You know one can’t be with Tony without being influenced, and he is influenced, I think.”
Lady Gale put her hand on the other’s sleeve. “Millie,” she said very earnestly, “look here. Leave him alone. I mean that seriously, dear. He’s not a man to be played with, and it isn’t really worth the candle. You love Fred and Fred loves you; just stick to that and don’t worry about anything else.”
Mrs. Lester laughed. “How perfectly absurd! As if I cared for Mr. Maradick in that kind of way! Why, I’ve only known him a few days, and, anyway, it’s ridiculous!”
“I don’t know,” said Lady Gale, “this place seems to have been playing tricks with all of us. I’m almost afraid of it; I wish we were going away.”
They said no more then, but the conversation had given Lady Gale something more to think about.
Rupert, his father and Alice came in together. It was half-past eight and quite time to go down. Sir Richard was, as usual, impatient of all delay, and so they went down without waiting for Tony and Mr. Lester. The room was not very full when they came in; most people had dined, but the Maradicks were there at their usual table by the window. The two little girls were sitting straight in their chairs with their eyes fixed26 on their plates.
Mrs. Lester thought that Alice Du Cane27 looked very calm and self-possessed28, and wondered whether Lady Gale hadn’t made a mistake. However, Tony would come in soon and then she would see.
“You can imagine what it’s like at home,” she said as she settled herself in her chair and looked round the room. “Thick, please” (this to the waiter). “Fred never knows when a meal ought to begin, never. He must always finish a page or a sentence or something, and the rest of the world goes hang. Alice, my dear” (she smiled at her across the table), “never marry an author.”
Her blue dress was quite as beautiful as she thought it was, and it suited her extraordinarily29 well. Mrs. Lester’s dresses always seemed perfectly natural and indeed inevitable30, as though there could never, by any possible chance, have been anything at that particular moment that would have suited her better. She did not spend very much money on dress and often made the same thing do for a great many different occasions, but she was one of the best-dressed women in London.
Little Mr. Bannister, the landlord, rolled round the room and spoke to his guests. This was a function that he performed quite beautifully, with an air and a grace that was masterly in its combination of landlord and host.
He flattered Sir Richard, listened to complaints, speculated about the weather, and passed on.
“Oh, dear! it’s so hot!” said Lady Gale, “let’s hurry through and get outside. I shall stifle31 in here.”
But Sir Richard was horrified32 at the idea of hurrying through. When your meals are the principal events of the day you don’t intend to hurry through them for anybody.
Then Tony came in. He stopped for a moment at the Maradicks’ table and said something to Maradick. As he came towards his people everyone noticed his expression. He always looked as though he found life a good thing, but to-night he seemed to be alive with happiness. They had seen Tony pleased before, but never anything like this.
“You look as if you’d found something,” said Rupert.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Tony. “No soup, thanks, much too hot for soup. What, father? Yes, I know, but I hurried like anything, only a stud burst and then I couldn’t find a sock, and then—Oh! yes, by the way, Fred says he’s awfully33 sorry, but he’ll be down in a minute. He never noticed how late it was.”
“He never does,” said Mrs. Lester, moving impatiently.
“You can forgive a man anything if he writes ‘To Paradise,’” said Tony. “Hullo, Alice, where on earth have you been all day? I looked for you this morning and you simply weren’t to be found; skulking34 in your tent, I suppose. But why women should always miss the best part of the day by sticking in their rooms till lunch——”
“I overslept,” she said, laughing. “It was after the picnic and the thunder and everything.” She smiled across the table quite composedly at him, and Mrs. Lester wondered at her self-possession. She had watched her face when he came in, and she knew now beyond all possible doubt.
“Poor thing,” she said to herself, “she is in for a bad time!”
The Maradicks had left the room, the Gales35 were almost alone; the silver moon played with the branches of the birch trees, the lights from the room flung pools and rivers of gold across the paths, the flowers slept. Sir Richard finished his “poire Melba” and grunted36.
“Let’s have our coffee outside,” said Lady Gale. Outside in the old spot by the wall Tony found Maradick.
“I say,” he whispered, “is it safe, do you suppose, to be so happy?”
“Take it while you can,” said Maradick. “But it won’t be all plain sailing, you mustn’t expect that. And look here, Tony, things are going on very fast. I am in a way responsible. I want to know exactly what you intend to do.”
“To do?” said Tony.
“Yes. I want it put down practically in so many words. I’m here to look after you. Lady Gale trusts me and is watching me. I must know!”
“Why! I’m going to marry her of course. You dear old thing, what on earth do you suppose? Of course I don’t exactly know that she cares—in that sort of way, I mean. She didn’t say anything in the garden this afternoon, in so many words. But I think that I understood, though of course a fellow may be wrong; but anyhow, if she doesn’t care now she will in a very little time. But I say, I haven’t told you the best of it all. I believe old Morelli’s awfully keen about it. Anyhow, to-day when we were talking to Miss Minns he spoke to me and said that he was awfully glad that I came, that it was so good for Janet having a young friend, and that he hoped that I would come and see her as often as I could. And then he actually said that I might take her out one afternoon for a row, that she would like it and it would be good for her.”
“I don’t understand him,” said Maradick, shaking his head. “I don’t know what he wants.”
“Oh, it’s obvious enough,” said Tony, “he thinks that it will be a good match. And I think he wants to get rid of her.”
“I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that,” said Maradick; “I wish I did. But to come back to the main question, what do you mean to do?”
“Well,” said Tony, feeling in his pocket, “look here, I’ve written a letter. I didn’t see why one should waste time. I’ll read it to you.” He stepped out of the shadow into the light from one of the windows and read it:—
Dear Miss Morelli,
Your father suggested this afternoon that you might come for a row one day. There’s no time like the present, so could you possibly come to-morrow afternoon (Thursday)? I should suggest rather late, say four, because it’s so frightfully hot earlier. I’ll bring tea. If Miss Minns and your father cared to come too it would be awfully jolly.
Yours sincerely
Anthony Gale.
PS.—Will you be on the beach by Morna Pool about four?
“There,” he said as he put it back, “I think that will do. Of course they won’t come. It would be perfectly dreadful if they did. But they won’t. I could see that in his face.”
“Well, and then?”
“Oh, then! Well, I suppose, one day or other, I shall ask her.”
“And after that?”
“Oh, then I shall ask Morelli.”
“And if he says no.”
“But he won’t.”
“I don’t know. I should think it more than likely. You won’t be able to say that your parents have consented.”
“No. I shouldn’t think he’d mind about that.”
“Well, it’s his only daughter.” Maradick laid his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Look here, Tony, we’ve got to go straight. Let’s look at the thing fair and square. If your people and her people consented there’d be no question about it. But they won’t. Your people never will and Morelli’s not likely to. Then you must either give the whole thing up or do it secretly. I say, give it up.”
“Give it up?” said Tony.
“Yes, there’ll be lots of trouble otherwise. Go away, leave for somewhere or other to-morrow. You can think of plenty of explanations. I believe it’s this place as much as anything else that’s responsible for the whole business. Once you’re clear of this you’ll see the whole thing quite plainly and thank God for your escape. But if, after knowing a girl a week, you marry her in defiance38 of everyone wiser and better than yourself, you’ll rue6 the day, and be tied to some one for life, some one of whom you really know nothing.”
“Poor old Maradick!” Tony laughed. “You’ve got to talk like that, I know; it’s your duty so to do. But I never knew anyone say it so reluctantly; you’re really as keen about it as I am, and you’d be most frightfully sick if I went off to-morrow. Besides, it’s simply not to be thought of. I’d much rather marry her and find it was a ghastly mistake than go through life feeling that I’d missed something, missed the best thing there was to have. It’s missing things, not doing them wrong, that matters in life.”
“Then you’ll go on anyhow?” said Maradick.
“Anyhow,” said Tony, “I’m of age. I’ve got means of my own, and if she loves me then nothing shall stop me. If necessary, we’ll elope.”
“Dear me,” said Maradick, shaking his head, “I really oughtn’t to be in it at all. I told you so from the beginning. But as you’ll go on whether I’m there or no, I suppose I must stay.”
The night had influenced Mrs. Lester. She sat under the birches in the shadow with her blue dress like a cloud about her. She felt very romantic. The light in Tony’s eyes at dinner had been very beautiful. Oh, dear! How lovely it would be to get some of that romance back again! During most of the year she was an exceedingly sane39 and level-headed person. The Lesters were spoken of in London as an ideal couple, as fond of each other as ever, but with none of that silly sentiment. And so for the larger part of the year it was; and then there came suddenly a moment when she hated the jog-trot monotony of it all, when she would give anything to regain40 that fire, that excitement, that fine beating of the heart. To do her justice, she didn’t in the least mind about the man, indeed she would have greatly preferred that it should have been her husband; she was much more in love with Romance, Sentiment, Passion, fine abstract things with big capital letters, than any one person; only, whilst the mood was upon her, she must discover somebody. It was no use being romantic to the wind or the stars or the trees.
It really amounted to playing a game, and if Fred would consent to play it with her it would be the greatest fun; but then he wouldn’t. He had the greatest horror of emotional scenes, and was always sternly practical with advice about hot-water bottles and not sitting in a draught41. He did not, she told herself a hundred times a day, understand her moods in the least. He had never let her help him the least little bit in his work, he shut her out; she tossed her head at the stars, gathered her blue dress about her, and went up to bed.
The bedroom seemed enormous, and the shaded electric light left caverns42 and spaces of darkness; the enormous bed in the middle of the room seemed without end or boundary. She heard her husband in the dressing-room, and she sat down in front of her glass with a sigh.
“You can go, Ferris,” she said to her maid, “I’ll manage for myself to-night.”
She began to brush her hair; she was angry with the things in the room, everything was so civilised and respectable. The silver on the dressing-table, a blue pincushion, the looking-glass; the blue dress, hanging over the back of a chair, seemed in its reflexion to trail endlessly along the floor. She brushed her hair furiously; it was very beautiful hair, and she wondered whether Fred had ever noticed how beautiful it was. Oh, yes! he’d noticed it in the early days; she remembered how he had stroked it and what nice things he had said. Ah! those early days had been worth having! How exciting they had been! Her heart beat now at the remembrance of them.
She heard the door of the dressing-room close, and Fred came in. He yawned; she glanced up. He was a little shrimp43 of a man certainly, but he looked rather nice in his blue pyjamas44. He was brown, and his grey eyes were very attractive. Although she did not know it, she loved every inch of him from the top of his head to the sole of his foot, but, just now, she wanted something that he had decided45, long ago, was bad for her. He had made what he would have called a complete study of her nervous system, treating her psychology46 as he would have treated the heroine of one of his own novels. He was quite used to her fits of sentiment and he knew that if he indulged her in the least the complaint was aggravated47 and she was, at once, highly strung and aggressively emotional. His own love for her was so profound and deep that this “billing and cooing” seemed a very unimportant and trivial affair, and he always put it down with a firm hand. They mustn’t be children any longer; they’d got past that kind of thing. There were scenes, of course, but it only lasted for a very short time, and then she was quite all right again. He never imagined her flinging herself into anyone else because he would not give her what she wanted. He was too sure of her affection for him.
He had noticed that these attacks of “nerves,” as he called them, were apt to come at Treliss, and he had therefore rather avoided the place, but he found that it did, in some curious way, affect him also, and especially his work. The chapters that he wrote at Treliss had a rich, decorated colour that he could not capture in any other part of the world. Perhaps it was the medieval “feeling” of the place, the gold and brown of the roofs and rocks, the purple and blue of the sea and sky; but it went, as he knew, deeper than that. That spirit that influenced and disturbed his wife influenced also his work.
They had been quarrelling for two days, and he saw with relief her smile as he came into the room. Their quarrels disturbed his work.
“Come here, Fred. Don’t yawn; it’s rude. I’ve forgiven you, although you have been perfectly hateful these last few days. I think it’s ripping of me to have anything to do with you. But, as a matter of fact, you’re not a bad old thing and you look rather sweet in blue pyjamas.”
She laid her hand on his arm for a moment and then took his hand. He looked at her rather apprehensively48; it might mean simply that it was the end of the quarrel, but it might mean that she had one of her moods again.
“I say, old girl,” he said, smiling down at her, “I’m most awfully sleepy. I don’t know what there is about this place, but I simply can’t keep awake. It’s partly the weather, I suppose. But anyhow, if you don’t awfully mind I think I’ll go off to sleep. I’m jolly glad you aren’t angry any more. I know I was rather silly, but the book’s a bit of a bother just now. . . .”
He yawned again.
“No, you shan’t go to bed just yet, you sleepy old thing. I really don’t feel as though I’d seen anything of you at all this week. And I want to hear all about everything, all about the book. You haven’t told me a thing.”
He moved his hand. “I say, my dear, you’ll be getting the most frightful37 cold sitting in a draught like that. You’d much better come to bed and we’ll talk to-morrow.”
But she smiled at him. “No, Fred, I’m going to talk to you. I’m going to give you a sermon. You haven’t been a bit nice to me all this time here. I know I’ve been horrid49, but then that’s woman’s privilege; and you know a woman’s only horrid because she wants a man to be nice, and I wanted you to be nice. This summer weather and everything makes it seem like those first days, the honeymoon50 at that sweet little place in Switzerland, you remember. That night . . .” She sighed and pressed his hand.
He patted her hand. “Yes, dear, of course I remember. Do you suppose I shall ever forget it? We’ll go out to-morrow somewhere and have an afternoon together alone. Without these people hanging round. I ought to get the chapter finished to-morrow morning.”
He moved back from the chair.
“What chapter, dear?” She leaned back over the chair, looking up in his face. “You know, I wish you’d let me share your work a little. I don’t know how many years we haven’t been married now, and you’ve always kept me outside it. A wife ought to know about it. Just at first you did tell me things a little and I was so frightfully interested. And I’m sure I could help you, dear. There are things a woman knows.”
He smiled at the thought of the way that she would help him. He would never be able to show her the necessity of doing it all alone, both for him and for her. That part of his life he must keep to himself. He remembered that he had thought before their marriage that she would be able to help. She had seemed so ready to sympathise and understand. But he had speedily discovered the hopelessness of it. Not only was she of no assistance, but she even hindered him.
She took the feeble, the bad parts of the book and praised; she handled his beautiful delicacy51, the so admirably balanced sentences, the little perfect expressions that had flown to him from some rich Paradise where they had waited during an eternity52 of years for some one to use them—she had taken these rare treasures of his and trampled53 on them, flung them to the winds, demanded their rejection54.
She had never for a moment seen his work at all; the things that she had seen had not been there, the things that she had not seen were the only jewels that he possessed. The discovery had not pained him; he had not loved her for that, the grasping and sharing of his writing, but for the other things that were there for him, just as charmingly as before. But he could not bear to have his work touched by the fingers of those who did not understand. When people came and asked him about it and praised it just because it was the thing to do, he felt as though some one had flung some curtain aside and exposed his body, naked, to a grinning world.
And it was this, in a lesser55 degree, that she did. She was only asking, like the rest, because it was the thing to do, because she would be able to say to the world that she helped him; she did not care for the thing, its beauty and solemnity and grace, she did not even see that it was beautiful, solemn, or graceful56.
“Never mind my work, dear,” he said. “One wants to fling it off when one’s out of it. You don’t want to know about the book. Why, I don’t believe you’ve ever read ‘To Paradise’ right through; now, have you?”
“Why, of course, I loved it, although there were, as a matter of fact, things that I could have told you about women. Your heroine, for instance——”
He interrupted hurriedly. “Well, dear, let’s go to bed now. We’ll talk to-morrow about anything you like.” He moved across the room.
She looked angrily into the glass. She could feel that little choke in her throat and her eyes were burning. She tapped the table impatiently.
“I think it’s a little hard,” she said, “that one’s husband should behave as if one were a complete stranger, or, worse still, an ordinary acquaintance. You might perhaps take more interest in a stranger. I don’t think I want very much, a little sympathy and some sign of affection.”
He was sitting on the bed. “That’s all right, dear, only you must admit that you’re a little hard to understand. Here during the last two days you’ve been as cross as it’s possible for anyone to be about nothing at all, and then suddenly you want one to slobber. You go up and down so fast that it’s simply impossible for an ordinary mortal to follow you.”
“Isn’t that charming?” she said, looking at the blue pincushion, “such a delightful way to speak to one’s wife.” Then suddenly she crossed over to him. “No, dear. I didn’t mean that really, it was silly of me. Only I do need a little sympathy sometimes. Little things, you know, matter to us women; we remember and notice.”
“That’s all right.” He put his arm round her neck and kissed her, then he jumped into bed. “We’ll talk to-morrow.” He nestled into the clothes with a little sigh of satisfaction; in a moment he was snoring.
She sat on the bed and stared in front of her. Her hair was down and she looked very young. Most of the room was in shadow, but her dressing-table glittered under the electric light; the silver things sparkled like jewels, the gleam fell on the blue dress and travelled past it to the wall.
She swung her feet angrily. How dare he go to sleep all in a moment in that ridiculous manner? His kiss had seemed a step towards sentiment, and now, in a moment, he was snoring. Oh! that showed how much he cared! Why had she ever married him?
At the thought of the splendid times that she might have been having with some one else, with some splendid strong man who could take her in his arms until she could scarcely breathe, some one who would understand her when she wanted to talk and not go fast off to sleep, some one, well, like Mr. Maradick, for instance, her eyes glittered.
She looked at the room, moved across the floor and switched off the lights. She crept into bed, moving as far away from her husband as possible. He didn’t care—nobody cared—she belonged to nobody in the world. She began to sob10, and then she thought, of the picnic; well, he had cared and understood. He would not have gone to sleep . . . soon she was dreaming.
And the other person upon whom the weather had had some effect was Mrs. Maradick. It could not be said that weather, as a rule, affected57 her at all, and perhaps even now things might be put down to the picnic; but the fact remains58 that for the first time in her selfish little life she was unhappy. She had been wounded in her most sensitive spot, her vanity. It did not need any very acute intelligence to see that she was not popular with the people in the hotel. The picnic had shown it to her quite conclusively59, and she had returned in a furious passion. They had been quite nice to her, of course, but it did not need a very subtle woman to discover their real feelings. Fifteen years of Epsom’s admiration60 had ill-prepared her for a harsh and unsympathetic world, and she had never felt so lonely in her life before. She hated Lady Gale and Mrs. Lester bitterly from the bottom of her heart, but she would have given a very great deal, all her Epsom worshippers and more, for some genuine advance on their part.
She was waiting now in her room for her husband to come in. She was sitting up in bed looking very diminutive61 indeed, with her little sharp nose and her bright shining eyes piercing the shadows; she had turned out the lights, except the one by the bed. She did not know in the least what she was going to say to him, but she was angry and sore and lonely; she was savage62 with the world in general and with James in particular. She bit her lips and waited. He came in softly, as though he expected to find her asleep, and then when he saw her light he started. His bed was by the window and he moved towards it. Then he stopped and saw her sitting up in bed.
“Emmy! You still awake!”
He looked enormous in his pyjamas; he could see his muscles move beneath the jacket.
“Yes,” she said, “I want to talk to you.”
“Oh! must we? Now?” he said. “It seems very late.”
“It’s the only opportunity that one gets nowadays,” she said, her eyes flaring63, “you are so much engaged.” It made her furious to see him looking so clean and comfortably sleepy.
“Engaged?” he said.
“Oh! we needn’t go into that,” she answered. “One doesn’t really expect to see anything of one’s husband in these modern times, it isn’t the thing!”
He didn’t remind her that during the last fifteen years she hadn’t cared very much whether he were lonely or not. He looked at her gravely.
“Don’t let’s start that all over again now,” he said. “I would have spent the whole time with you if you hadn’t so obviously shown me that you didn’t want me. You can hardly have forgotten already what you said the other day.”
“Do you think that’s quite true?” she said, looking up at him; she was gripping the bedclothes in her hands. “Don’t you think that it’s a little bit because there’s some one else who did, or rather does, want you?”
“What do you mean?” he said, coming towards her bed. She was suddenly frightened. This was the man whom she had seen for the first time on that first evening at dinner, some one she had never known before.
“I mean what I say,” she answered. “How long do you suppose that I intend to stand this sort of thing? You leave me deliberately64 alone; I don’t know what you do with your days, or your evenings, neither does anyone else. I’m not going to be made a laughing-stock of in the hotel; all those beastly women . . .” She could scarcely speak for rage.
“There is nothing to talk about,” he answered sternly. “It’s only your own imagination. At any rate, we are not going to have a scene now, nor ever again, as far as that goes. I’m sick of them.”
“Well,” she answered furiously, “if you think I’m going to sit there and let myself be made a fool of and say nothing you’re mightily65 mistaken; I’ve had enough of it.”
“And so have I,” he answered quietly. “If you’re tired of this place we’ll go away somewhere else, wherever you please; perhaps it would be a good thing. This place seems to have upset you altogether. Perhaps after all it would be the best thing. It would cut all the knots and end all these worries.”
But she laughed scornfully. “Oh! no, thank you. I like the place well enough. Only you must be a little more careful. And if you think——”
But he cut her short. “I don’t think anything about it,” he said. “I’m tired of talking. This place has made a difference, it’s true. It’s shown me some of the things that I’ve missed all these years; I’ve been going along like a cow . . . and now for the future it’s going to be different.”
But at the word he suddenly bent down and held her by the shoulders. His face was white; he was shaking with anger. He was so strong that she felt as though he was going to crush her into nothing.
“Look here,” he whispered, “leave that alone. I won’t have it, do you hear? I won’t have it. You’ve been riding me too long, you and your nasty dirty little thoughts; now I’m going to have my own way. You’ve had yours long enough; leave me alone. Don’t drive me too far. . . .”
He let her drop back on the pillows. She lay there without a word. He stole across the room on his naked feet and switched out the lights. She heard him climb into bed.
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1
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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pimple
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| n.丘疹，面泡，青春豆 | |
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14
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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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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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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22
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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jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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35
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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37
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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40
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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41
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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42
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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43
shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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44
pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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45
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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46
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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47
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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48
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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49
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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50
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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51
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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52
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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53
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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55
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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56
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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58
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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62
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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63
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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65
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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66
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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