The post arrived; there was a letter for her in the Major’s large sprawling5 handwriting, and she opened it. But it scarcely a letter: a blister6 of expletives covered the smoking pages ... and the Evans’—two of them—had arrived.
Mrs. Ames’ little toadlike face seldom expressed much more than a ladylike composure, but had Harry been watching his mother he might have thought that a shade of amusement hovered8 there.
“A letter from your father,” she said. “Rather a worried letter. The cure is lowering, I believe, and makes you feel out of sorts.{198}”
Harry was looking rather yellow and dishevelled. He had sat up very late the night before, and the chase for rhymes had been peculiarly fatiguing9 and ineffectual.
“I don’t feel at all well, either,” he said. “And I don’t think Cousin Millie is well.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Ames composedly.
“I went to see her yesterday and she didn’t attend. She seemed frightfully surprised to hear that father had gone to Harrogate.”
“I suppose Dr. Evans had not told her,” remarked Mrs. Ames. “Please telephone to her after breakfast, Harry, and ask her to dine with us this evening.”
“Yes. How curious women are! One day they seem so glad to see you, another you are no more to them than foam10 on a broken wave.”
This was one of the fragments of last night.
“On a broken what?” asked Mrs. Ames. The rustling11 of the turning leaf of the Morning Post had caused her not to hear. There was no sarcastic12 intention in her inquiry13.
“It does not matter,” said Harry.
His mother looked up at him.
“I should take a little dose, dear,” she said, “if you feel like that. The heat upsets us all at times. Will you please telephone now, Harry? Then I shall know what to order for dinner.”
Mrs. Ames’ nature was undeniably a simple one; she had no misty14 profundities15 or curious dim-lit clefts16 on the round, smooth surface of her life, but on occasion simple natures are capable of curious complexities17 of feeling, the more elusive18 because they themselves are unable to register exactly what they do feel. Certainly she saw a connection between{199} the non-arrival of dear Millie at Harrogate and the inflamed19 letter from her husband. She had suspected also a connection between dear Millie’s decision to spend August at Riseborough and her belief that Major Ames was going to do so too. But the completeness of the fiasco sucked the sting out of the resentment20 she might otherwise have felt: it was impossible to be angry with such sorry conspirators21. At the same time, with regard to her husband, she felt the liveliest internal satisfaction at his blistering22 communication, and read it through again. The thought of her own slighted or rather unperceived rejuvenescence added point to this; she felt that he had been “served out.” Not for a moment did she suspect him of anything but the most innocent of flirtations, and she was disposed to credit dear Millie with having provoked such flirtation24 as there was. By this time also it must have been quite clear to both the thwarted25 parties that she was in full cognizance of their futile26 designs; clearly, therefore, her own beau r?le was to appear utterly27 unconscious of it all, and, unconsciously, to administer nasty little jabs to each of them with a smiling face. “They have been making sillies of themselves,” expressed her indulgent verdict on the whole affair. Then in some strange feminine way she felt a sort of secret pride in her husband for having had the manhood to flirt23, however mildly, with somebody else’s wife; but immediately there followed the resentment that he had not shown any tendency to flirt with his own, when she had encouraged him. But, anyhow, he had chosen the prettiest woman in Riseborough, and he was the handsomest man.
But her mood changed; the thought at any rate{200} of administering some nasty little jabs presented itself in a growingly attractive light. The two sillies had been wanting to dance to their own tune28; they should dance to hers instead, and by way of striking up her own tune at once she wrote as follows, to her husband.
“My Dearest Lyndhurst,
“I can’t tell you how glad I was to get your two letters, and to know how much good Harrogate is doing you. What an excellent thing that you went to Dr. Evans (please remember me to him), and that he insisted so strongly on your taking yourself thoroughly29 in hand.”
She paused a moment, wondering exactly how strong this insistence30 had been. It was possible that it was not very strong. So much the more reason for letting the sentence stand. She now underlined the words “so strongly.”
“Of course the waters are disgusting to take, and I declare I can almost smell them when I read your vivid description, but, as you said in your first letter, what is a bad taste in the mouth when you know it is doing you good? And your second letter convinces me how right you were to go, and when things like gout begin to come out, it naturally makes you feel a little low and worried. I want you to stop there the whole of August, and get thoroughly rid of it.
“Here we are getting along very happily, and I am so glad I did not go to the sea. Millie is here, as you will know, and we see a great deal of her. She is constantly dropping in, en fille, I suppose you would call it, and is in excellent spirits and looks so pretty.{201} But I am not quite at ease about Harry (this is private). He is very much attracted by her, and she seems to me not very wise in the way she deals with him, for she seems to be encouraging him in his silliness. Perhaps I will speak to her about it, and yet I hardly like to.”
Again Mrs. Ames paused: she had no idea she had such a brilliant touch in the administration of these jabs. What she said might not be strictly31 accurate, but it was full of point.
“I remember, too, what you said, that it was so good for a boy to be taken up with a thoroughly nice woman, and that it prevented his getting into mischief32. I am sure Harry is writing all sorts of poems to her, because he sighs a great deal, and has a most inky forefinger33, for which I give him pumice-stone. But if she were not so nice a woman, and so far from anything like flirtatiousness, I should feel myself obliged to speak to Harry and warn him. She seems very happy and cheerful. I daresay she feels like me, and is rejoiced to think that Harrogate is doing her husband good.
“Write to me soon again, my dear, and give me another excellent account of yourself. Was it not queer that you settled to go to Harrogate just when Millie settled not to? If you were not such good friends, one would think you wanted to avoid each other! Well, I must stop. Millie is dining with us, and I must order dinner.”
She read through what she had written with considerable content. “That will be nastier than the Harrogate waters,” she thought to herself, “and{202} quite as good for him.” And then, with a certain largeness which lurked34 behind all her littlenesses, she practically dismissed the whole silly business from her mind. But she continued the use of the purely35 natural means for restoring the colour of the hair, and tapped and dabbed36 the corners of her eyes with the miraculous37 skin-food. That was a prophylactic38 measure; she did not want to appear “a fright” when Lyndhurst came back from Harrogate.
Mrs. Ames was well aware that the famous fancy dress ball had caused her a certain loss of prestige in her capacity of queen of society in Riseborough. It had followed close on the heels of her innovation of asking husbands and wives separately to dinner, and had somewhat taken the shine out of her achievement, and indeed this latter had not been as epoch-making as she had expected. For the last week or two she had felt that something new was required of her, but as is often the case, she found that the recognition of such a truth does not necessarily lead to the discovery of the novelty. Perhaps the paltriness39 of Lyndhurst’s conduct, leading to reflections on her own superior wisdom, put her on the path, for about this time she began to take a renewed interest in the Suffragette movement which, from what she saw in the papers, was productive of such adventurous40 alarums in London. For herself, she was essentially41 law-abiding by nature, and though, in opposition42 to Lyndhurst, sympathetically inclined to women who wanted the vote, she had once said that to throw stones at Prime Ministers was unladylike in itself, and only drew on the perpetrators the attention of the police to themselves, rather than the attention of the public to the problem. But a recrudescence of similar acts during{203} the last summer had caused her to wonder whether she had said quite the last word on the subject, or thought the last thought. Certainly the sensational43 interest in such violent acts had led her to marvel44 at the strength of feeling that prompted them. Ladies, apparently45, whose breeding—always a word of potency46 with Mrs. Ames—she could not question, were behaving like hooligans. The matter interested her in itself apart from its possible value as a novelty for the autumn. Also an election was probably to take place in November. Hitherto that section of Riseborough in which she lived had not suffered its tranquillity47 to be interrupted by political excitements, but like a man in his sleep, drowsily49 approved a Conservative member. But what if she took the lead in some political agitation50, and what if she introduced a Suffragette element into the election? That was a solider affair than that a quantity of Cleopatras should skip about in a back garden.
She had always felt a certain interest in the movement, but it was the desire to make a novelty for the autumn, peppered, so to speak, by an impatience51 at the futile treachery of her husband’s Harrogate plans, and an ambition to take a line of her own in opposition to him, presented their crusade in a serious light to her. The militant52 crusaders she had hitherto regarded as affected53 by a strange lunacy, and her husband’s masculine comment, “They ought to be well smacked54, by Jove!” had the ring of common-sense, especially since he added, for the benefit of such crusaders as were of higher social rank, “They’re probably mad, poor things.”
But during this tranquil48 month of August her more serious interest was aroused, and she bought, though{204} furtively55, such literature in the form of little tracts56 and addresses as was accessible on the subject. And slowly, though still the desire for an autumn novelty that would eclipse the memory of the congregations of Cleopatras was a moving force in her mind, something of the real ferment57 began to be yeasty within her, and she learned by private inquiry what the Suffragette colours were. Naturally the introduction of an abstract idea into her mind was a laborious58 process, since her life had for years consisted of an endless chain of small concrete events, and had been lived among people who had never seen an abstract idea wild, any more than they had seen an elephant in a real jungle. It was always tamed and eating buns, as in the Zoo, just as other ideas reached them peptonized by the columns of daily papers. But a wild thing lurked behind the obedient trunk; a wild thing lurked behind the reports of ludicrous performances in the Palace Yard at Westminster.
August was still sultry, and Major Ames was still at Harrogate, when one evening she and Harry dined with Millie. Since nothing of any description happened in Riseborough during this deserted59 month, the introductory discussion of what events had occurred since they last met in the High Street that morning was not possible of great expansion. None of them had seen the aeroplane which was believed to have passed over the town in the afternoon, and nobody had heard from Mrs. Altham. Then Mrs. Ames fired the shot which was destined60 to involve Riseborough in smoke and brimstone.
“Lyndhurst and I,” she said, “have never agreed about the Suffragettes, and now that I know something about them, I disagree more than ever.{205}”
Millie looked slightly shocked: she thought of Suffragettes as she thought of the persons who figure in police news. Indeed, they often did. She knew they wanted to vote about something, but that was practically all she knew except that they expressed their desire to vote by hitting people.
“I know nothing about them,” she said. “But are they not very unladylike?”
“They are a disgrace to their sex,” said Harry. “We soon made them get out of Cambridge! They tried to hold a meeting in the backs, but I and a few others went down there, and—well, there wasn’t much more heard of them. I don’t call them women at all. I call them females.”
Mrs. Ames had excellent reasons for suspecting romance in her son’s account of his exploits.
“Tell me exactly what happened in the backs at Cambridge, Harry,” she said.
“There is nothing much to tell,” he said. “Our club felt bound to make a protest, and we went down there, as I said. It seemed to cow them a bit!”
“And then did the proctors come and cow you?” asked his inexorable mother.
“I believe a proctor did come; I did not wait for that. They made a perfect fiasco, anyhow. They told me it was all a dead failure, and we heard no more about it.”
“So that was all?” said Mrs. Ames.
“And quite enough. I agree with father. They disgrace their sex!”
“My dear, you know as little about it as your father,” she said.{206}
“Dear Millie, a man’s judgment is not of any value, if he does not know anything about what he is judging. We have all read accounts in the papers, and heard that they are very violent and chain themselves up to inconvenient63 places like railings, and are taken away by policemen. Sometimes they slap the policemen, but surely there must be something behind that makes them like that. I am finding out what it is. It is all most interesting. They say that they have to pay their rates and taxes, but get no privileges. If a man pays rates and taxes he gets a vote, and why shouldn’t a woman? It is all very well expressed. They seem to me to reason just as well as a man. I mean to find out much more about it all. Personally I don’t pay rates and taxes, because that is Lyndhurst’s affair, but if we had arranged differently and I paid for the house and the rates and taxes, why shouldn’t I have a vote instead of him? And from what I can learn the gardener has a vote, just the same as Lyndhurst, although Lyndhurst does all the garden-rolling, and won’t let Parkins touch the flowers.”
Mrs. Evans sighed.
“It all seems very confused and upside down,” she said. “Do smoke, Harry, if you feel inclined. Will you have a cigarette, Cousin Amy? I am afraid I have none. I never smoke.”
“I never knew mother smoked,” he said. “Do you smoke, mother? How delightful65! How Eastern! I never knew you were Eastern. I always thought you said it was not wicked for women to{207} smoke, but only horrid66. Do be horrid. I am sure Suffragettes smoke.”
Mrs. Ames turned a swift appealing eye on Millie, entreating67 confidence. Then she lied.
“Dear Millie, what are you thinking of?” she said. “Of course I never smoke, Harry.”
But the appeal of the eyes had not taken effect.
“But on the night of my little dance, Cousin Amy,” she said, “surely you had a cigarette. It made you cough, and you said how nice it was!”
Mrs. Ames wished she had not been so ruthless about the Suffragettes at Cambridge.
“There is a great difference between doing a thing once,” she said, “and making a habit of it. I think I did want to see what it was like, but I never said it was nice, and as for its being Eastern, I am sure I am glad to belong to the West. I always thought it unfeminine, and then I knew it. I did not feel myself again till I had brushed my teeth and rinsed68 my mouth. Now, dear Millie, I am really interested in the Suffragettes. Their demands are reasonable, and if we are unreasonable69 about granting them, they must be unreasonable too. For years they have been reasonable and nobody has paid any attention to them. What are they to do but be violent, and call attention to themselves? It is all so well expressed; you cannot fail to be interested.”
“Wilfred would never let me hit a policeman,” said Milly. “And I don’t think I could do it, even if he wanted me to.”
“But it is not the aim of the movement to hit policemen,” said Mrs. Ames. “They are very sorry to have to——”
“They are sorrier afterwards,” said Harry.{208}
“If you had waited to hear what they had to say instead of running away before the proctor came,” she said, “you might have learnt a little about them, dear. They are not at all sorry afterwards; they go to prison quite cheerfully, in the second division, too, which is terribly uncomfortable. And many of them have been brought up as luxuriously71 as any of us.”
“I could not go to prison,” said Mrs. Evans faintly, but firmly. “And even if I could, it would be very wrong of me, for I am sure it would injure Wilfred’s practice. People would not like to go to a doctor whose wife had been in prison. She might have caught something. And Elsie would be so ashamed of me.”
Mrs. Ames gave the suppressed kind of sigh which was habitual72 with her when Lyndhurst complained that the water for his bath was not hot, although aware that the kitchen boiler73 was being cleaned.
“But you need not go to prison in order to be a Suffragette, dear Millie,” she said. “Prison life is not one of the objects of the movement.”
Mrs. Evans looked timidly apologetic.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “It is so interesting to be told. I thought all the brave sort went to prison, and had breakfast together when they were let out. I am sure I have read about their having breakfast together.”
A faint smile quivered on her mouth. She was aware that Cousin Amy thought her very stupid, and there was a delicate pleasure in appearing quite idiotic74 like this. It made Cousin Amy dance with{209} irritation75 in her inside, and explain more carefully yet.
“Yes, dear Millie,” she said, “but their having breakfast together has not much to do with their objects——”
“I don’t know about that,” said Harry; “there is a club at Cambridge to which I belong, whose object is to dine together.”
“Then it is very greedy of you, dear,” said Mrs. Ames, “and the Suffragettes are not like that. They go to prison and do all sorts of unladylike things for the sake of their convictions. They want to be treated justly. For years they have asked for justice, and nobody has paid the least attention to them; now they are making people attend. I assure you that until I began reading about them, I had very little sympathy with them. But now I feel that all women ought to know about them. Certainly what I have read has opened my eyes very much, and there are a quantity of women of very good family indeed who belong to them.”
Harry pulled his handkerchief out of the sleeve of his dress-coat; he habitually76 kept it there. Just now the Omar Khayyam Club was rather great on class distinctions.
“I do not see what that matters,” he said. “Because a man’s great-grandmother was created a duchess for being a king’s mistress——”
Mrs. Evans and Mrs. Ames got up simultaneously77; if anything Mrs. Ames got up a shade first.
“I do not think we need go into that, Harry,” said Mrs. Ames.
Millie tempered the wind.
“Will you join us soon, Harry?” she said. “If{210} you are too long I shall come and fetch you. We have been political to-night! Will it be too cold for you in the garden, Cousin Amy?”
Left to himself, Harry devoted78 several minutes’ pitiful reflection to his mother’s state of mind. In spite of her awakened79 interest in the Suffragette movement, she seemed to him deplorably old-fashioned. But with his second glass of port his thoughts assumed a rosier81 tone, and he determined82 to wait till Cousin Millie came to fetch him. Surely she meant him to do that: no doubt she wanted to have just one private word with him. She had often caught his eye during dinner, with a deprecating look, as if to say this tiresome83 rigmarole about Suffragettes was not her fault. He felt they understood each other....
There was a large Chippendale looking-glass above the sideboard, and he got up from the table and observed the upper part of his person which was reflected in it. A wisp of hair fell over his forehead; it might more rightly be called a plume84. He appeared to himself to have a most interesting face, uncommon85, arresting. He was interestingly and characteristically dressed, too, with a collar Byronically low, a soft frilled shirt, and in place of a waistcoat a black cummerbund. Then hastily he mounted on a chair in order to see the whole of his lean figure that seemed so slender. It was annoying that at this moment of critical appreciation86 a parlour-maid should look in to see if she could clear away....
There is nothing that so confirms individualism in any character as periods of comparative solitude87. In men such confirmation88 is liable to be checked by the boredom89 to which their sex is subject, but women,{211} less frequently the prey90 of this paralysing emotion, when the demands made upon them by household duties and domestic companionship are removed, enter very swiftly into the kingdoms of themselves. This process was very strongly at work just now with Millie Evans; superficially, her composure and meaningless smoothness were unaltered, so that Mrs. Ames, at any rate, almost wondered whether she had been right in crediting her with any hand in the Harrogate plans, so unruffled was her insipid91 and deferential92 cordiality, but down below she was exploring herself and discovering a capacity for feeling that astonished her by its intensity93. All her life she had been content to arouse emotion without sharing it, liking94 to see men attentive95 to her, liking to see them attracted by her and disposed towards tenderness. They were more interesting like that, and she gently basked96 in the warmth of their glow, like a lizard97 on the wall. She had not wanted more than that; she was lizard, not vampire98, and to sun herself on the wall, and then glide99 gently into a crevice100 again, seemed quite sufficient exercise for her emotions. Luckily or unluckily (those who hold that calm and complete respectability is the aim of existence would prefer the former adverb, those who think that development of individuality is worth the risk of a little scorching101, the latter) she had married a man who required little or nothing more than she was disposed to give. He had not expected unquiet rapture102, but a comfortable home with a “little woman” always there, good-tempered, as Millie was, and cheerful and pliable103 as, with a dozen exceptions when the calm precision came into play, she had always been. Temperamentally, he was nearly as{212} undeveloped as she, and the marriage had been what is called a very sensible one. But such sensible marriages ignore the fact that human beings, like the shores of the bay of Naples, are periodically volcanic104, and the settlers there assume that their little property, because no sulphurous signs have appeared on the surface, is essentially quiescent105, neglecting the fact that at one time or another emotional disturbances106 are to be expected. But because many quiet years have passed undisturbed, they get to believe that the human and natural fires have ceased to smoulder, and are no longer alive down below the roots of their pleasant vines and olive trees. All her life up till now, Millie Evans had been like one of these quiescent estates; now, when middle-age was upon her, she began to feel the stir of vital forces. The surface of her life was still undisturbed, she went about the diminished business of the household with her usual care, and in the weeks of this solitary108 August knitted a couple of ties for her husband, and read a couple of novels from the circulating library, with an interest not more markedly tepid109 than usual. But subterranean110 stir was going on, though no fire-breathing clefts appeared on the surface. Subconsciously111 she wove images and dreams, scarcely yet knowing that it is out of such dreams that the events and deeds of life inevitably112 spring. She had scarcely admitted even to herself that her projects for August had gone crookedly113: the conviction that Lyndhurst Ames had found himself gouty and in need of Harrogate punctually at the date when he knew that she might be expected there, sufficiently114 straightened them. The intention more than compensated115 the miscarriage116 of events.{213}
To-night, when her two guests had gone, the inevitable117 step happened: her unchecked impulses grew stronger and more definite, and out of the misty subconsciousness118 of her mind the disturbance107 flared119 upwards120 into the light of her everyday consciousness. With genuine flame it mounted; it was no solitary imagining of her own that had kindled121 it; he, she knew, was a conscious partner, and she had as sign the memory that he had kissed her. Somehow, deep in her awakening122 heart, that meant something stupendous to her. It had been unrealized at the time, but it had been like the touch of some corrosive123, sweet and acid, burrowing124 down, eating her and yet feeding her. Up till now, it seemed to have signified little, now it invested itself with a tremendous significance. Probably to him it meant little; men did such things easily, but it was that which had burrowed125 within her, making so insignificant126 an entry, but penetrating127 so far. It was not a proof that he loved her, but it had become a token that she loved him. Otherwise, it could not have happened. There was something final in the beginning of it all. Then he had kissed her a second time on the night of the fancy dress ball. He had called that a cousinly kiss, and she smiled at the thought of that, for it showed that it required to be accounted for, excused. She felt a sort of tenderness for that fluttering, broken-winged subterfuge128, so transparent129, so undeceptive. If cousins kissed, they did not recollect130 their relationship afterwards, especially if there was no relationship. He had not kissed her because she was some sort of cousin to his wife.
Yet it hardly stating the case correctly to say that he had kissed her. Doubtless, on that first{214} occasion below the mulberry-tree it was his head that had bent131 down to hers, while she but remained passive, waiting. But it was she who had made him do it, and she gloried in the soft compulsion she had put on him. Even as she thought of it this evening, her eye sparkled. “He could not help it,” she said to herself. “He could not help it.”
Out of the sequestered132 cloistral133 twilight134 of her soul there had stepped something that had slumbered135 there all her life, something pagan, something incapable136 of scruples137 or regrets, as void of morals as a nymph or Bacchanal on a Greek frieze138. It did not trouble, so it seemed, to challenge or defy the traditions and principles in which she had lived all these years; it appeared to be ignorant of their existence, or, at the most, they were but shadows that lay in unsubstantial bars across a sunlit pavement. At present, it stood there trembling and quiescent, like a moth7 lately broken out from its sheathed139 chrysalis, but momently, now that it had come forth140, it would grow stronger, and its crumpled141 wings expand into pinions142 feathered with silver and gold.
But she made no plans, she scarcely even turned her eyes towards the future, for the future would surely be as inevitable as the past had been. One by one the hot August days dropped off like the petals143 of peach blossom, which must fall before the fruit begins to swell144. She neither wanted to delay or hurry their withering. There were but few days left, few petals left to fall, for within a week, so her husband had written, he would be back, vastly better for his cure, and Major Ames was coming with him. “I shall be so glad to see my little woman again,” he had said. “Elsie and I have missed her.{215}”
Occasionally she tried to think about her husband, but she could not concentrate her mind on him. She was too much accustomed to him to be able to fix her thoughts on him emotionally. She was equally well accustomed to Elsie, or rather equally well accustomed to her complete ignorance about Elsie. She could no more have drawn145 a chart of the girl’s mind than she could have drawn a picture of the branches of the mulberry-tree under which she so often sat, beholding146 the interlacement of its boughs147 but never really seeing them. Never had she known the psychical148 bond of motherhood; even the physical had meant little to her. She was Elsie’s mother by accident, so to speak; and she was but as a tree from which a gardener has made a cutting, planting it near, so that sapling and parent stem grow up in sight of each other, but quite independently, without sense of their original unity149. Even when her baby had lain at her breast, helpless, and still deriving150 all from her, the sweet intimate mystery of the life that was common to them both had been but a whispered riddle151 to her; and that was long ago, its memory had become a faded photograph that might really have represented not herself and her baby, but any mother and child. It was very possible that before long Elsie would be transplanted by marriage, and she herself would have to learn a little more about chess in order to play with her husband in the evening.
Such, hitherto, had been her emotional life: this summary of it and its meagre total is all that can justly be put to credit. She liked her husband, she knew he was kind to her, and so, in its inanimate manner, was the food which she ate kind to her, in that it nourished and supported her. But her{216} gratitude152 to it was untinged with emotion; she was not sentimental153 over her breakfast, for it was the mission of food to give support, and the mission of her husband had not been to her much more than that. Neither wifehood nor motherhood had awakened her womanhood. Yet, in that she was a woman, she was that most dangerous of all created or manufactured things, an unexploded shell, liable to blow to bits both itself and any who handled her. The shell was alive still, its case uncorroded, and its contents still potentially violent. That violence at present lay dark and quiet within it; its sheath was smooth and faintly bright. It seemed but a play-thing, a parlour-ornament; it could stand on any table in any drawing-room. But the heart of it had never been penetrated154 by the love that could transform its violence into strength: now its cap was screwed and its fuse fixed155. Until the damp and decay of age robbed it of its power, it would always be liable to wreck156 itself and its surroundings.
These same days that for her were kindling157 dangerous stuff, passed for Mrs. Ames in a crescendo158 of awakening interest. All her life she had been wrapped round like the kernel159 of a nut, in the hard, dry husk of conventionalities, her life had been encased in a succession of minute happenings, and, literally160 speaking, she had never breathed the outer air of ideas. As has been noticed, she gave regular patronage161 to St. Barnabas’ Church, and spent a solid hour or two every week in decorating it with the produce of her husband’s garden, from earliest spring, when the faint, shy snowdrops were available, to late autumn, when October and November frosts{217} finally blackened the salvias and chrysanthemums162. But all that had been of the nature of routine: a certain admiration163 for the vicar, a passionless appreciation of his nobly ascetic164 life, his strong, lean face, and the fire of his utterances165 had made her attendance regular, and her contributions to his charities quite creditably profuse166 in proportion to her not very ample means. But she had never denied herself anything in order to increase them, while the time she spent over the flowers was amply compensated for when she saw the eclipse they made of Mrs. Brooks’ embroideries167, or when the lilies dropped their orange-staining pollen168 on to the altar-cloth. Stranger, perhaps, from the emotional point of view, had been her recently attempted rejuvenescence, but even that had been a calculated and materialistic169 effort. It had not been a manifestation170 of her love for her husband, or of a desire to awaken80 his love for her. It was merely a decorative172 effort to attract his attention, and prevent it wandering elsewhere.
But now, with her kindled sympathy for the Suffragette movement, there was springing up in her the consciousness of a kinship with her sex whom, hitherto, she had regarded as a set of people to whom, in the matter of dinner-giving and entirely173 correct social behaviour, she must be an example and a law, while even her hospitalities had not been dictated174 by the spirit of hospitality but rather by a sort of pompous175 and genteel competition. Now she was beginning to see that behind the mere171 events of life, if they were to be worth anything, must lie an idea, and here behind this woman’s crusade, with all its hooliganism, its hysteria, its apish fanaticism176, lay an idea of justice and sisterhood. They seemed simple words, and she{218} would have said off-hand that she knew what they meant. But, as she began faintly to understand them, she knew that she had been as ignorant of them as of what Australia really was. To her, as it was a geographical177 expression only, so justice was an abstract expression. But the meaning of justice was known to those who gave up the comforts and amenities178 of life for its sake, and for its sake cheerfully suffered ridicule179 and prison life and misunderstanding. And the fumes180 of an idea, to one who had practically never tasted one, intoxicated181 her as new wine mounts to the head of a teetotaler.
Ideas are dangerous things, and should be kept behind a fireguard, for fear that the children, of whom this world largely consists, should burn their fingers, thinking that these bright, sparkling toys are to be played with. Mrs. Ames, in spite of her unfamiliarity182 with them, did not fall into this error. She realized that if she was to warm herself, to get the glow of the fire in her cramped183 and frozen limbs, she must treat it with respect, and learn to handle it. That, at any rate, was her intention, and she had a certain capacity for thoroughness.
It was in the last week of August that Major Ames was expected back, after three weeks of treatment. At first, as reflected in his letters, his experiences had been horrifying184; the waters nauseated185 him, and the irritating miscarriage of the plan which was the real reason for his going to Harrogate, caused him fits of feeble rage which were the more maddening because they had to be borne secretly and silently. Also the lodgings186 he had procured187 seemed to him needlessly expensive, and all this efflux of bullion188 was being{219} poured out on treatment which Dr. Evans had told him was really quite unnecessary. Regular and sparkling letters from his wife, in praise of August spent at Riseborough, continued to arrive and filled him with impotent envy. He, too, might be spending August at Riseborough if he had not been quite so precipitate189. As it was, his mornings were spent in absorbing horrible draughts190 and gently stewing191 in the fetid waters of the Starbeck spring: his meals were plain to the point of grotesqueness192, his evenings were spent in playing inane193 games of patience, while Elsie and the doctor pored silently over their chessboard, saying “Check” to each other at intervals194. But through the days and their tedious uniformity there ran a certain unquietness and desire. It was clear that Millie, no less than he, had planned that they should be together in August, but his desire did not absorb him, rather it made him restless and anxious about the future. He did not even know if he was in love with her; he did not even know if he wanted to be. The thought of her kindled his imagination, and he could picture himself in love with her: at the same time he was not certain whether, if the last two months could be lived over again, he would let himself drift into the position where he now found himself. There was neither ardour nor anything imperative195 in his heart; something, it is true, was heated, but it only smouldered and smoked. It was of the nature of such fire as bursts out in haystacks: it was born of stuffiness196 and packed confinement197, and was as different as two things of the same nature can be, from the swift lambency and laudable flame of sun-kindled and breeze-fed flame. It disquieted198 and upset him; he could not soberly believe in the pictures{220} his imagination drew of his being irresistibly199 in love with her: their colour quickly faded, their outlines were wavering and uncertain. And the background was even more difficult to fill in ... how was the composition to be arranged? Where would Amy stand? What aspect would Riseborough wear? And then, after a long silence, Elsie said “Check.”
Major Ames was due to arrive at Riseborough soon after four in the afternoon, and Mrs. Ames was at pains to be at home by that hour to welcome him and give him tea, and had persuaded Harry to go up to the station to meet him. She had gathered a charming decoration of flowers to make the room bright, and had put a couple more vases of them in his dressing-room. Before long a cab arrived from the station bearing his luggage, but neither he nor Harry occupied it. So it was natural to conclude that they were walking down, and she made tea, since they would not be many minutes behind the leisurely200 four-wheeler. She wanted very particularly to give him an auspicious201 and comfortable return: he must not think that, because this Suffragette movement occupied her thoughts so much, she was going to become remiss202 in care for him. But still the minutes went on, and she took a cup of tea herself, and found it already growing astringent203. What could have detained him she could not guess, but certainly he should have another brew204 of tea made for him, for he hated what in moments of irritation he called tincture of tannin. Five o’clock struck, and the two quarters that duly followed it. Before that a conjecture3 had formed itself in her mind.
Then came the rattle205 of his deposited hat and stick in the hall, and the rattle of the door-handle for his entry.{221}
“Well, Amy,” he said, “and here’s your returned prodigal206. Train late as usual, and I walked down. How are you?”
She got up and kissed him.
“Very well indeed, Lyndhurst,” she said; “and there is no need to ask you how you are.”
She paused a moment.
“Your luggage arrived nearly an hour ago,” she said.
He had forgotten that detail.
“An hour ago? Surely not,” he said.
She gave him one more pause in which he could say more, but nothing came.
“You have had tea, I suppose,” she said.
“Yes; Evans insisted on my dropping in to his house, and taking a cup there. That rogue207 Harry has stopped on. Well, well: we were all young once! You remember the old story I told you about the Colonel’s wife when I was a lad.”
She remembered it perfectly208. She felt sure also that he had not meant to tell her where he had been since his arrival at the station.
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1
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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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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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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profundities
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| n.深奥，深刻，深厚( profundity的名词复数 )；堂奥 | |
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clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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34
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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dabbed
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| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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prophylactic
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| adj.预防疾病的；n.预防疾病 | |
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paltriness
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| n.不足取，无价值 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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43
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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44
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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45
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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46
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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47
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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48
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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49
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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50
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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51
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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52
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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53
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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54
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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56
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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57
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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58
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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59
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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61
retracted
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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62
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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64
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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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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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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68
rinsed
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| v.漂洗( rinse的过去式和过去分词 )；冲洗；用清水漂洗掉（肥皂泡等）；（用清水）冲掉 | |
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69
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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71
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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72
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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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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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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80
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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81
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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82
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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83
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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84
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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85
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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88
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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vampire
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| n.吸血鬼 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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103
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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104
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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105
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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106
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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107
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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108
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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109
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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110
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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111
subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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112
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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113
crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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114
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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115
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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116
miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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117
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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118
subconsciousness
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| 潜意识；下意识 | |
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119
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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120
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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121
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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122
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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123
corrosive
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| adj.腐蚀性的；有害的；恶毒的 | |
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124
burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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125
burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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126
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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127
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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128
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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129
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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130
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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131
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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132
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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133
cloistral
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| adj.修道院的，隐居的，孤独的 | |
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134
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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135
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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136
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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137
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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138
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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139
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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140
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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141
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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142
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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143
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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144
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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145
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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146
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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147
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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148
psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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149
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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150
deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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151
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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152
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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153
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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154
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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155
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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156
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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157
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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158
crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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159
kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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160
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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161
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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162
chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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163
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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164
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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165
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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166
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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167
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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168
pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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169
materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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170
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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171
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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172
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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173
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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174
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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175
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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176
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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177
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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178
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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179
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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180
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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181
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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182
unfamiliarity
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183
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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184
horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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185
nauseated
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| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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187
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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188
bullion
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| n.金条，银条 | |
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189
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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190
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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191
stewing
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| 炖 | |
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192
grotesqueness
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193
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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194
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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195
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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196
stuffiness
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| n.不通风，闷热；不通气 | |
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197
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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198
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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200
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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201
auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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202
remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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203
astringent
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| adj.止血的，收缩的，涩的；n.收缩剂，止血剂 | |
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204
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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205
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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206
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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207
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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208
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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