“Like it?”
Tommy groaned8. “Clementina, darling, tell me, in Heaven’s name, what you’re playing at, or I’ll go raving9 mad.”
“I told you that one of these days I was going to become a lady. The day has come. Don’t I look like a lady?”
“That’s the devil of it,” he laughed. “You look like an archduchess.”
They picked up Etta and met Quixtus at the Carlton where they lunched in the middle of the great gay room. The young people’s curious awe10 of the transmogrified Clementina soon melted away. The big, warm-hearted Clementina they loved was unchanged; but to her was added a laughter-evoking, brilliant, joyous11 personage whose existence they had never suspected. Quixtus went home stimulated12 and uplifted. He had never enjoyed two hours so much in his life.
And that was the beginning of the glory of Clementina Wing.
Day by day the glory deepened. The pyrotechnic—a flash, a bedazzlement and then darkness—was not in Clementina’s nature. She had deliberately13 immolated14 the ph?nix of dusky plumage and from its ashes had arisen this second and radiant ph?nix incarnation. She suffered, as she confessed to herself, infernally; for a new fire-born ph?nix must have its skin peculiarly tender; but she grinned and bore it for the greater glory—well, not of Clementina alone—but of God and her sex and the happiness of those she loved and the things that stood for the right.
She was fighting the interloping woman with her own weapons. She, Clementina, the despised and rejected of men, was pitting her sex’s fascinations18 against the professional seductress. She had won the first pitched battle. She had swept the enemy from the field. Sheer fierceness of love, almost animal, for the child, sheer pity flaming white for the man grown dear to her, sheer sex, sheer womanhood—these were the forces at work. It would have been easy to denounce the woman to Quixtus. But that might have thrown him back into darkness. Easy, too, to have held her knowledge as a threat over the woman’s head and bade her begone. But where had been the triumph? Where the glory? Whereas to scorn the use of her knowledge and conquer otherwise, therein lay matter for thrilling exultation20. It was an achievement worth the struggle.
And the glory of the riot through her veins21 of the tumultuous Thing she had kept strangled to torpor22 within her! The Thing that had been stirred by the springtide in a girl’s heart, that had leapt at the parrot tulips in the early May, that had almost escaped from grip on the moonlit night at Vienne, that had remained awake and struggling ever since—the glory to let it go free and carry her whithersoever it would! Art—to the devil with it! What was Art in comparison with this new-found glory?
It made her ten years younger. It took years from the man for whose fascination17 she brought it into play. Hers was a double conquest, the rout23 of the woman, the capture of the man. Daily she battled. Sheila, the lovers, a new portrait of him which she suddenly conceived the splendid notion of painting, all were pretexts24 for keeping the unconscious man within the sphere of her influence. Any impression that the other had made on his heart or his mind should be deleted, and her impression stamped there in its place, so that when he met the other out of her presence, as meet her he undoubtedly25 must, he would wear it as a talisman26 against her arts and blandishments. Twice also during the dying days of the season, late that year, she went out into the great world and gave her adversary27 battle in the open.
It was between these two engagements that she had a talk with Huckaby.
Huckaby, doing his best to act loyally towards both parties, led a precarious28 moral existence. The sight of Clementina queening it in dazzling raiment about Quixtus’s house and the despairing confidences of Lena Fontaine had enabled him to form a fairly accurate judgment29 of the state of affairs. His heart began to bleed for Lena Fontaine. She would come to his lodgings30 and claim sympathy. To not a soul in the world but him could she talk freely. She was desperate. That abominable31 woman insulted her, trampled32 on her, poisoned Quixtus’s mind against her. He had changed suddenly, seemed to avoid her, and, when he found himself in her company, he was just polite and courteous33 in his gentle way, and smilingly eluded34 her. The Dinard intimacy35, on which she had reckoned, had faded into the land of dreams. He was being dragged off before her eyes to some fool place up the river to be watched and guarded like a lunatic. What was she to do? Ruin would soon be staring her in the face. She had thought of upbraiding36 him for neglect, of reproaching him for having played fast and loose with her affections, of putting him through the ordeal37 of an emotional scene. Of that, however, she was afraid; it might scare him away for good and all. She wept, an unhappy and ill-treated woman, and Huckaby supplied sympathy and handkerchiefs and a mirror so that she could repair the ravages38 of tears.
One day Huckaby and Clementina met in the hall of the Russell Square house.
“Well,” she said. “Have you seen Mrs. Fontaine lately?”
He admitted that he had.
“Taking it rather badly, I suppose,” she remarked with a reversion to her grim manner.
“You seem to concern yourself very deeply about the lady.”
Huckaby glanced at her for a moment hesitatingly; then shrugged42 his shoulders. Clementina was a woman to whom straight dealing43 counted for righteousness. He gave her his secret.
“I’ve grown to care for her—to care for her very much. I know I’m a fool, but I can’t help it.”
“Do you know anything of the lady’s private affairs—financial, I mean—how much she has honestly of her own?”
“Four hundred pounds a year.”
“And you?”
“When I take up the appointment of the Anthropological44 Society I shall have five hundred.”
“Nine hundred pounds. Have you any idea of the minimum rate per annum at which she would accept salvation?”
“No,” said Huckaby in a dazed way.
“Well, work it out,” said Clementina. “Good-bye.”
Her second sortie into the great world was on the occasion of a garden-party at the Quinns. Lady Quinn had asked her verbally at Quixtus’s dinner and had sent her a formal card. Knowing that Quixtus was going and more than suspecting that the enemy would be there too, she had kept her own invitation a secret. Welcomed, flattered, surrounded by the gay crowd in the large, pleasant Hampstead garden, it was some time before she saw Mrs. Fontaine. At last she caught sight of her sitting with Quixtus, at the end of the garden, half screened by a tree-trunk from the mass of guests. As soon as Clementina could work her way through, she advanced quickly and smiling towards them. Quixtus sprang to his feet and seemed to take a deep breath as a man does when he flings bedroom windows wide open on his first morning in mountain air.
“Clementina! I hadn’t the dimmest notion that you were coming! How delightful45!” He surveyed her for a moment as she stood before him; parasol on shoulder. Clementina with a parasol! “Pray forgive my impertinence,” said he, “but you’re wearing the most beautiful dress I ever saw.”
It was hand-painted muslin—a fabulous46 thing. She laughed, turned to Lena Fontaine, demure in a simple fawn47 costume.
“He’s improving. Have you ever known him to compliment a woman on her dress before?”
“Many times,” said Mrs. Fontaine, mendaciously48.
“It must be your excellent training,” said Clementina. She turned to Quixtus. “I’ve seen Huckaby this morning, and everything’s quite arranged for the transportation of your necessary books and specimens49 down to Moleham. He’ll do it beautifully even though it takes a pantechnicon van, and you won’t be worried about it at all. He’s a splendid fellow.”
“Dr. Quixtus tells me he is quite an old friend of yours, Mrs. Fontaine,” said Clementina. “What a pity you can’t be persuaded to come down to Moleham.”
“Are you going to have a chaperon to your rather mixed house-party?”
“I should if you would honour me by coming; my dear Mrs. Fontaine—a dowager dragon of propriety52. But an Admiral of the British navy is quite safeguard enough for me.”
The hostess, coming through the edge of the crowd, carried off Quixtus. The two women were left alone. Lena Fontaine turned suddenly, white-lipped, shaking with anger.
“I’ve had enough of it. I’m not going to stand it. I’m not going to be persecuted53 like this any longer.”
“What will you do?”
“Come, come,” said Clementina. “Let us have a straight talk like sensible women, and put the pussy-cat aside, if we can. Sit down. Do. There’s only one point of dissension between us. You know very well what it is—there’s no use fencing. Give it up. Give up all idea of it and I’ll let you alone. Give it all up. You can see for yourself that I won’t let you do it.”
“I know it is,” said Clementina coolly. “I’m an outrageous woman. Been so all my life. To do an outrageous thing is only part of the day’s work. So I just say outrageously58; give it up.”
Lena Fontaine fluttered a glance at the strong face and caught the magnetism59 of the black glittering eyes, and remained silent. She knew that she was no match for this vital creature. She was confronting overwhelming odds60. The rough fishfag of Paris who could walk straight into the mould of a great lady and carry everything contemptuously before her suddenly impressed her with a paralysing sense of something uncanny, relentless61, irresistible62. She was less a woman than an implacable force. For the first time in her life of Hagardom, Lena Fontaine felt beaten. The nun’s face grew drawn63 and haggard. Fright replaced the allurement64 of her eyes. She said nothing, but twisted one gloved hand nervously65 in the other. She was at the mercy of the victor. There was silence for some moments. Then Clementina’s heart smote66 her. All this elaborate wheel to break a butterfly—a very naughty, sordid67, frayed68 and empty little butterfly—but still a butterfly!
“My dear,” she said, at last very gently. “I know how hard life is on a lone16 and defenceless woman. I know you have many reasons to hate me for preventing you from making that life softer and sweeter. But perhaps, one of these days, you mayn’t hate me so much. I’m every infernal thing you like to call me, and when I’m interfered69 with I’m a devil. But at heart I’m a woman and a good sort. I won’t outrage56 you by saying such an idiot thing as ‘Let us be friends,’ when you’ve every rational desire to murder me; but I ask you to remember—and I’ve suffered enough not to be a silly fool going round saying serious things I don’t mean—I ask you to remember that if ever you want a woman to turn to, you can count on me. I’m a good bit older than you,” she added generously, “I’m thirty-six.”
“Oh, God!” cried the other, bursting into tears, “I’m thirty-seven.”
“Impossible,” said Clementina, in genuine amazement70. “You look nothing like it.” She rose and touched the weeping woman’s shoulder. “Anyhow,” she said, “I’ve a certain amount of female horse-sense that might come in useful if you want it.”
Whereupon Clementina made her way straight through the throng71 to her hostess, and after a swift farewell left the garden-party.
The enemy was finally routed; the confession72 of age, a confession of defeat. The victory had been achieved much more easily than she had anticipated. When she went home she looked with a queer smile into one of the hanging wardrobes with which she had been obliged to furnish her bedroom so as to accommodate the prodigious74 quantity of new dresses. Why all the lavish75 expenditure76, the feverish77 preparation, the many hours wasted at great dressmakers, modistes, and other vendors78 of frippery—why the hairdressers, the face specialists—why the exquisite4 torture of tight lacing—why the responsibility of valuable jewels, her mother’s, up till then safely stored at the bank—why the renting of the caravanserai at Moleham—why the revolution of her habits, her modes of expression, her very life—why, in short, such fantastic means to gain so simple an end? Was it worth it? Clementina slammed the wardrobe door and glanced at herself in the long mirror that was exposed. She saw a happy woman, and she laughed. It was worth it. She had gained infinitely79 more than a victory over a poor sister of no account. Sheila came running into the room.
“Oh, what a beautiful auntie!”
She caught the child to her and hugged her close.
The legal formalities with regard to Will Hammersley’s affairs were eventually concluded; but in spite of all inquiries80 the identity of Sheila’s mother remained a curious mystery. No record of Hammersley’s marriage could be found, either at Somerset House or at Shanghai. No reference to his wife appeared in the papers he had left behind him. At last, a day or two before her departure for Moleham, Clementina made a discovery.
A trunk of Hammersley’s merely containing suits of clothes and other wearing apparel had remained undisposed of, and Clementina was going through them with the object of packing them off to some charitable association, when from the folds of a jacket there dropped a bundle of letters tied round with a bit of tape. She glanced idly at the outer sheet. The handwriting was a woman’s. The few words that met her eyes showed that they were love-letters. Clementina sat on an empty packing case—all Hammersley’s personal belongings81 had been dumped in her box-room—and balanced the bundle in her hand. They were sacred things belonging to the hearts of the dead. Ought she to read them? Yet she became conscious of a feminine intuition that they might hold a secret that would bring comfort to the living. So she undid82 the tape and spread out the old crumpled83 pages, and as she read, a tragedy, a romance as old as the world was revealed to her. The letters dated from seven years back. They were from one, Nora Duglade, a woman wretchedly married, breaking her heart for Will Hammersley. Clementina read on. Suddenly she gave a sharp cry of astonishment84 and leaped to her feat73. There was a reference to Angela Quixtus, who was in her confidence. Clementina rapidly scanned page after page and found more and more of Angela. The writer; like most women, could not bear to destroy the beloved letters; she dared not keep them at home; Angela had lent her a drawer in her bureau. . . .
Clementina telephoned to Quixtus to come immediately on urgent business. In twenty minutes he arrived, somewhat scared. Was anything wrong with Sheila?
“I’ve found out who her mother was,” said Clementina.
“Who was she?” he asked quickly.
She bade him sit down. They were in the drawing room.
“Some one called Nora Duglade. . . . I don’t remember her.”
Quixtus passed his hand over his forehead as he threw back his thoughts.
“Mrs. Duglade . . .” he said in bewilderment, “Mrs. Duglade . . .”
“A friend of Angela’s,” said Clementina.
“Yes. A school friend. They saw very little of each other. I met her only once or twice. I had no notion Hammersley knew her. . . . Her husband was a brute85, I remember—used to beat her. . . . I think I heard she had left him——”
“For Will Hammersley.”
“Read these few pages,” said Clementina and she left the room very quietly.
About ten minutes afterwards she came in again. He sprang up from his chair and grasped both her hands. His eyes were wet and his lips worked tremulously.
“I found a letter from Hammersley in Angela’s drawer—it had got stuck at the back. . . . It was for the other woman, my dear——” his voice quavered into the treble. “It was for the other woman.”
She led him to the stiff sofa and sat beside him and held his hand. And she had the joy of seeing a black cloud melt away from a man’s soul.
From that hour when he had revealed to her the things deep and sacred, dark and despairing of his heart, and had gone forth87 from her sympathy aglow88 with a new-found faith in humanity, the bond between them was strengthened a thousandfold. Quixtus found that he could obtain not only swift response to his thoughts from a keen intelligence, but wide, undreamed of understanding of all those subtle workings of the spirit, regrets, hopes, judgments89, prejudices, shrinkings, wonderings, impulses, which are too elusive90 to be thoughts, too vague to be emotions. And yet, she herself was never subtle. She was direct and uncompromising. As a shivering man enters a cosy91 room and warms himself before a blazing fire, so did he unquestioningly warm his heart in Clementina’s personality. And as the shivering man knows, without speculating, that the fire is intense and strong, so did he know that Clementina was intense and strong.
All through the idyll of the remaining summer; he felt this more and more. She stood for something that he had missed in life, something that Angela, pale, passionless, negative reflection of himself, had never given him. She stood for richness, bigness, meaning. A simple man, not given to introspection or analysis of motive92, new sensations, new realisations came to him as they come to a child and caused development. And among other impressions that deepened on his mind—and his was the mind of a scholar and dreamer, sweet and clean—was that of Clementina (now appearing to the world as God Almighty93 intended her to appear) as a physically94 fine and splendid creature.
And, during all the summer idyll in the Manor95 House at Moleham-on-Thames, Clementina, in her uncompromising way, maintained the new ph?nix’s plumage preened96 and shiny. The old habit of clawing at her hair while she was painting she circumvented97 by tying her head in an Angelica Kauffmann handkerchief. Tommy made her a present of one, in cardinal98 red, in which she flamed gipsy-like about the studio. Involuntarily, inevitably99, the manner of all the men in her house-party, Quixtus, Huckaby, Admiral Concannon, Poynter (who spent a week-end), Tommy and Tommy’s cronies who came and went as they pleased, was tinged100 with a deference101 and a homage102 which made life a thing of meaning and delight.
Sometimes a little scene like this would take place;
To Clementina painting hard in the morning, enter the housekeeper103.
“Please, ma’am, we’ll soon be out of wine.”
She would frown at the canvas. “Well, what of it?”
“The gentlemen, ma’am.”
“Oh, let them drink ginger-beer.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
Then with a laugh she would fling down her brushes, and go and attend to her cellar. To make the men in her house comfortable, the commonplace care of a hostess, gave her unimagined pleasure. Etta and her young friends could look after themselves, being females and therefore resourceful. But the men were helpless children, even the Admiral; sometimes, she thought—especially the Admiral. Their nourishment104 became a matter of peculiar15 solicitude105. She invented wants for them which she forthwith supplied. Sometimes she summoned Tommy to consultation106. But when he gravely prescribed a large bath powder-puff for his uncle she upbraided107 him for making a jest of solemn things and dismissed him from her counsels. Her painting suffered from these inroads on her time and thoughts; but Clementina cared not. The happiness of the trustful men around her was of more consequence than the successful application of paint to canvas. Sometimes, sitting at the head of her table she would feel herself a mother to them all, and her lips would twist themselves into a new smile.
Her happiest hours were those which she spent alone with Sheila and Quixtus. Since the cloud had been lifted from his soul he loved the child with a new tenderness, thus inarticulately expressing his gratitude108 to God for having put it into his heart to love her while the cloud hung heavy. And Clementina knew this, and invested his relations with the child in a curious sanctity. She loved to share with him the child’s affection in actual physical presence. The late afternoon was Sheila’s hour. Clementina would sit with them beneath the great cedar109 tree on the lawn and listen to the stories he had learned to pour into Sheila’s insatiable ears. They were mostly odds and ends of folk-lore. But now and then she suspected heterogeneous110 strains; and one day she called out;
“Are you inventing all that, Ephraim?”
He confessed with the air of a detected schoolboy.
“To hear you playing the deuce with folk-lore which you regard as a strict and sacred science amazes me. From you it sounds almost immoral111.”
Quixtus fingered the soft curls. “What,” said he, “is all the science in the world compared with this little head?”
Quixtus nodded and dreamed over the curls.
“But what happened to the princess and the Ju-Ju man?” demanded Sheila, and Quixtus had to pursue his immoral course.
August melted into September, and September drew to its close. Admiral Concannon and Etta and all the boys and girls, save Tommy, had gone, and Huckaby was busy with the repacking of books and specimens. The weather had broken. The trees dripped with rain and the leaves began to fall. Mists rose from the meadows by the river and a blue haze113, sweet and sad, enveloped114 the low-lying hills. In the garden the sunflowers, a week before so glorious, hung their heads with a dying grace. The birds, even the thrushes, were mute. The hour under the cedar tree had become the hour of deepening twilight115 by the fireside. The idyll was over. London called. . . .
They had been sitting before the drawing-room fire for a long time without speaking. Sheila, with a toy shop and an army of dolls for customers, played on the floor between them, absorbed in her game. No one of the three noticed that darkness had crept into the room, for the fire leaped and flamed, throwing on them fierce lights and shadows.
“The day after to-morrow,” said Clementina, breaking the silence, and looking intently at the blaze.
“Yes,” said Quixtus. “The day after to-morrow.”
“I think you’ll find I’ve made all arrangements for Sheila, Atkins understands.” Atkins was the nurse. “I’ve seen about the nursery fender which I had overlooked. . . . You mustn’t let Atkins bully116 you, or she’ll get out of hand. . . . How these three months have flown!”
“If you didn’t insist,” said Quixtus, “I wouldn’t take her from you. But you’ll miss her terribly.”
“So will you when my turn comes again,” replied Clementina gruffly. “What’s the good of talking rubbish?”
There was another silence. He glanced at her, and a sudden flame from the fire lit up her face and he saw that her brows were bent117 and her mouth set grimly tight and that something glistened118 for a second on each cheek and then fell quickly. And each time he glanced at her he saw the same glistening119 drop fall.
“Uncle Ephim,” said Sheila coming and insinuating120 herself between his legs, “Mrs. Brown wants to buy some matches and I haven’t got any.”
He gave her his silver match-box and Sheila went away happy to her game.
“My dear,” said he, at last.
“Yes?” said Clementina.
“Why shouldn’t we have her always with us?”
“You mean——?” said Clementina, after a pause, and still looking into the fire.
“Even with her, I can’t face that great lonely house. I can’t face my empty, lonely existence. My dear,” said he, bending forward in his chair; “it has come to this—that I can’t think a thought or feel an emotion without you becoming inextricably interwoven with it. You have grown into the texture122 of my life. I know I may be impertinent and presumptuous123 in putting such a proposal before you——”
“You haven’t put one yet,” said Clementina.
“It is that you would do me the honour of marrying me,” replied Quixtus.
Again there was silence. For the first time in her life she was afraid to speak, lest she should betray the commotion124 in her being. She loved him. She did not hide the fact from herself. It was not the mad, gorgeous passion of romance; she knew it for something deeper, stronger, based on essentials. He lay deeply rooted in her heart, half child for her mothering, all man for her loving. When had she begun to care for him? She scarcely knew. Perhaps at Marseilles, when he had returned to her for companionship and they had walked out arm in arm. She knew that he spoke125 truly of his need of her. But the words that mattered, the foolish little words; he had not uttered.
“Do you care for me enough to marry me?” she asked, at last.
He glanced at Sheila weighing out matches in her toy scales. It is difficult to carry on a love-scene with conviction in the presence of a third party, even of that of a beloved child of five.
“Very, very, deeply,” he said in a low voice.
The dressing-bell rang and Clementina rose. “Put up your shop, darling. It’s time to go to bed.” Then she crossed to Quixtus’s chair and stood behind him and laid one arm on his shoulder. He kissed her hand.
“Well?” said he, looking up.
“I’ll tell you presently,” she said, and in withdrawing her hand, she lightly brushed his cheek.
Quixtus dressed quickly and came down early to the drawing-room, and soon Clementina appeared. She was wearing a red dress which she had bought during her wholesale126 purchasing of raiment, but had never yet worn, thinking it too flaring127, and she had a red dahlia in her hair. Quixtus took both her hands and raised them to his shoulders, and she stood away from him at the distance of her bare; shapely arms, and she smiled into his eyes.
“Your answer?” said he.
“Tell me,” she said. “What do you really want me for?”
“For yourself,” he cried, and he caught her in his arms with swift passion and kissed her.
“If you hadn’t said that,” she remarked a few moments afterwards, “I don’t know what my answer would have been. At any rate,” she added, touching128 her hair with uplifted hands, “it would not have been quite so spontaneous.”
He leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece and a great light came into his pale blue eyes as he looked at her.
“Do you think, my dear,” said he, “that I’m such a dry stick of a man as not to want you for your great self—your great, splendid, and wonderful self? I want you with everything in me.”
She turned half aside and said gently;
“That’s all a woman wants, Ephraim.”
“What?”
“To be wanted,” said Clementina.
It was not till the next day that she told Tommy the great news. She took him for a walk and broke it to him bluntly. But he was prepared for it. Etta had foreseen and had prophesied129 to his sceptical ears. He murmured well-bred congratulations.
“But your painting,” said he, after a while.
“It can go hang,” said Clementina. She laughed at his look of horror. “Art for the polygamous man and the celibate130 woman. A man can throw his soul into his pictures and also attend to his wife and family. That’s out of a woman’s power. She must choose between her art on the one side, and husband and children on the other—I’m telling you this, mon petit, for your education. I’ve chosen husband and children as any woman with blood in her veins would choose. It’s the women without blood that choose art—don’t make any mistake about it. Now and then one of ’em chooses the other—and, as she doesn’t get any children and doesn’t know what the deuce to do with a husband, falls back on her art again and gives the poor devil soup with camel-hair brushes floating about it and a painting-rag for a napkin, and then there are ructions, and she goes among her weary pals131 and says that their sex is misunderstood and down-trodden, and they must clamour for their rights. Bosh!”
“But you’re a born painter, Clementina. A great painter. It means such a tremendous sacrifice.”
“You young men of the present day make me tired!” she exclaimed. “You all seem to think that larks133 ought to fall ready roasted into your mouth. There’s not a blessed thing in this world worth having without sacrifice. The big people, the people that have the big things in life are those that have paid or are prepared to pay the big price for them.”
“I don’t see why you should round on me like that,” said Tommy. “After all, a little while ago I made no bones about sacrificing the loaves and fishes for the sake of my art—I don’t want to brag—but fiat134 justitia at any rate.”
“I know what you did,” said Clementina, mollified, “and if you hadn’t done it, I shouldn’t be talking like this to you. And you’re a painter and my very dear Tommy, and you can understand—Of course, I’ll go on painting—I’ve got it in my blood. I could no more do without a paint brush handy than a tooth brush. But it’s going to be secondary. I’ll be the gifted amateur. Clementina Wing, painter of portraits to the nobility, gentry135, mayoralty, and pork-butchery of Great Britain and Ireland is dead. You can paraphrase136 the epitaph. ‘Here lies Clementina Wing, the married woman.’ And, Tommy, my dear,” she added in a softer voice, “You can add to it; ‘Sic itur ad astra.’?”
“I do hope you’ll be jolly happy,” said Tommy.
On their way back it happened that the postman met them with the household budget. She took the letters into the hall and sorted them. Tommy went off with his precious epistle from Etta. Huckaby appeared in quest of his chief’s correspondence, and, seeing her alone, congratulated her on her approaching marriage. She thanked him and held out a letter addressed to him from Dinard.
“I’ve been dealing in quotations137 lately,” she said. “And I find I’ve got one for you. ‘Go thou and do likewise.’?”
Huckaby sighed and laughed.
“One of these days, perhaps,” said he.
So the idyll that seemed to be coming to an end had only just begun. They returned to London, and while Clementina (in whose charge Sheila now remained) painted frenziedly to finish the work she had in hand, Quixtus, with her help, reorganised the great gaunt house in Russell Square. The worm-eaten scarecrow of a billiard table was removed from the billiard-room built by Quixtus’s father over the garden at the back of the house, and the room, spacious138 and top-lighted, was converted into a studio for the bride to be. Tommy, enthusiastically iconoclast139, being given authority, under Clementina’s directions, to refurnish, condemned140 rep curtains, mahogany mid-Victorian furniture—a dining-room sideboard disfigured by carvings141 of plethoric142 fruit had sent shivers down his back since infancy—Turkey carpets and all the gloom of a bygone age, and converted the grim abode143 into a bower144 of delight.
And towards the end of October the oddly mated pair were married, and Clementina went to her husband’s home and the patter of the feet of the beloved child of their adoption145 was heard about the house and great joy fell upon them.
One day, in the early spring, Quixtus burst into the studio, a letter in hand. The greatest of all honours that the civilised world has to give to the scholar had fallen on him—honorary membership of the Institut de France. She must know of it at once.
She was sitting before the easel, a bit of charcoal146 in hand, absorbed in her drawing. What he saw on the drawing-paper put, for the moment, the Institute of France out of his mind. Two arms came from the vague, headless trunk of a draped woman; one arm clasped Sheila, a living portrait, and the other something all chubby147, kissable curves, such as Murillo has rendered immortal148. As soon as she was aware of his presence she tore the sheet from the board, and looked at him somewhat defiantly149. He went up and put his arm round her, deeply moved.
“My dear,” said he, “I saw. You’re the only woman in the world that could have done it. Let me look. I can share it with you, dear.”
She yielded. His delicate perception of the innermost sweetnesses of life was infinitely dear to her. She set the drawing upright on the ledge19. He drew a chair close to her and sat down, and he forgot the crowning glory of his intellectual life.
“It’s not bad of Sheila, is it?” she said.
“And the other?”
She kissed him. “The very image. It’s bound to be.”
Presently she laughed and said:
“I’ve been thinking of the good St. Paul lately. He has a lot to say about glory. Do you remember? About the glory of celestial150 bodies and bodies terrestrial. ‘There is one glory of the sun and another glory of the moon and another glory of the stars.’ But there is one glory which that eminent151 bachelor never dreamed of.”
“And what is that, my dear?” asked Quixtus.
“The glory of being a woman,” said Clementina.
THE END
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1
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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4
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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6
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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9
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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10
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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13
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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14
immolated
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| v.宰杀…作祭品( immolate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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17
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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18
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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19
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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21
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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22
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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23
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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25
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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27
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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28
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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29
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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30
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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31
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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32
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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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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35
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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37
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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38
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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39
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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40
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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41
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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42
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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44
anthropological
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| adj.人类学的 | |
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45
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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46
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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47
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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48
mendaciously
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49
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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50
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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51
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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52
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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53
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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54
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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56
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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57
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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58
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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59
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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60
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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61
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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62
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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63
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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64
allurement
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| n.诱惑物 | |
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65
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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66
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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67
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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68
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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70
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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71
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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72
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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73
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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74
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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75
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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76
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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77
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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78
vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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79
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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80
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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81
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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82
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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83
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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84
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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85
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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86
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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87
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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88
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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90
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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91
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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92
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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93
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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96
preened
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
circumvented
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| v.设法克服或避免（某事物），回避( circumvent的过去式和过去分词 )；绕过，绕行，绕道旅行 | |
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98
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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99
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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100
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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102
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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103
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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104
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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105
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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106
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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107
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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109
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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110
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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111
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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112
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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113
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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114
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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116
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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117
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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118
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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120
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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121
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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122
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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123
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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124
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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125
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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126
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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127
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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129
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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131
pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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132
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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133
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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134
fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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135
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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136
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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137
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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138
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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139
iconoclast
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| n.反对崇拜偶像者 | |
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140
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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141
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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142
plethoric
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| adj.过多的，多血症的 | |
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143
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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144
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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145
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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146
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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148
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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149
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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150
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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