Christmas caused a break in these social activities. Lydia took her off to Brighton, where, meeting various acquaintances of her chaperone and making others of her own, she motored and danced and danced and motored, and in the pursuit of these delights discovered, with a fearful joy, that she could hold her own in the immemorial conflict of sex. Sydney Rooke, having driven down for the day, occasionally flashed through the hotel, the eternal smile of youth on his dark, lined face and his gestures unceasingly polite. As he passed, the heavens opened and rained champagne12 and boxes of chocolate and hot-house fruits and flowers and embroidered13 handbags, and once, a Pekinese dog for Lydia. Once again, an automobile14 seemed about to fall, but at Lydia’s protests it melted in the ether.
“A dog and a rose and a glass of wine,” said she, “are a woman’s due for amusing a man. But a motor-car is profiteering. Besides, it’s bound to drive you somewhere in the end—either to the flat of shame or the country house of married respectability: it only depends on who is at the wheel.”
“I see,” said Olivia. But she didn’t. Sydney Rooke was a mystery; and Lydia’s attitude towards him was more than her inexperience could understand.
Still, there she was in the pleasant galley15 and she did not question what she was doing in it. In a dim way she regarded it as the inevitable16 rescue vessel17 after universal shipwreck18. Her eyes were blinded by its glitter and her ears deafened19 by its music to the welter of the unsalved world.
Just before New Year she received a letter from Bobby Quinton. It began: “Dearest of Ladies.” Never before having been thus apostrophized, she thought it peculiarly graceful20 and original. The writing was refined and exquisitely21 clear. To his dearest of ladies the young man bewailed her absence; life was dreary22 without her friendship and encouragement; all this Christmastide he was the loneliest thing on earth; he suggested that there was no one to love him—no mother or sisters to whom he could apply for comfort; this terrible night life to which he, poor demobilized soldier of fortune, was condemned23 in order to earn his bread, weighed upon his spirits and affected24 his health; he envied his dearest of ladies’ sojourn25 by the invigorating sea; he longed for the taste of it; but such health-restoring rapture26 he gave her, in the most delicate way, to understand, was for fairy princesses and not for the impecunious27 demobbed; he counted the days till her return and prayed her to bring back a whiff of ozone28 on her garments to revive the ever faithful one who had the temerity29 to try to teach her to dance.
A most piteous epistle. Bobby Quinton, by his ingratiating ways and his deference30 and his wit, had effaced31 her original conception of the type of young men who danced at night clubs for their living. She liked him. He seemed so young and she, through her long companionship with sorrow, so old in comparison; he seemed so foolish and impossible, and she so wise; to her, remembering the helpless dependence32 of her father and brothers, he seemed (motherless and sisterless as he was) lost in a hostile world. Besides, he was not a nameless adventurer. His father (long since deceased) had been a Colonial Governor. He had been to one of the great public schools. In short, he had the birth and breeding of a gentleman. She slipped on a dressing-gown and went with the letter to Lydia, full of maternal33 purpose.
It was nine o’clock in the morning. Their rooms had a communicating door. She found Lydia daintily attired34 in boudoir cap and dressing-jacket, having breakfast in bed.
“The poor boy’s dying for a breath of sea air. It would do him an enormous amount of good. Do you think we—of course, it really would be me—but it would be better if it appeared to be a joint35 affair—do you think we could, without offending him, ask him to come down here for a couple of days as our guest?”
Lydia, who had read the letter with a smile round her lips, replied drily:
“As far as Bobby is concerned—I really think we could.”
“And as far as we are concerned,” flashed Olivia, “why should the silly fact of being a woman prevent us from helping36 a lame37 dog over a stile?”
“A he-dog,” said Lydia.
“Do as you like, dear. I don’t mind. You’re out for experience, not I. I’d only have you remark that our he-dog friend Bobby is sitting up and begging for the invitation——”
“Not a bit,” smiled Lydia. “I face facts, as you’ll have to do, if you want to find comfort in this matter-of-fact world. Have your Bobby down by all means. Only keep your eye on him.”
“He’s not my Bobby,” said Olivia indignantly.
“Our Bobby, then,” said Lydia, with good-natured indulgence.
So Olivia, with the little palpitation of the heart attendant on consciousness of adventurous41 and (in Medlow eyes, preposterous) well-doing, wrote to Bobby Quinton a letter whose gracious delicacy42 would not have wounded the susceptibilities of a needy43 Hidalgo or an impoverished44 Highland45 chieftain, and received in reply a telegram of eager acceptance.
Bobby appeared immaculately vestured, his heart overflowing46 with gratitude47 at the amazing sweetness of his two dear ladies. Never had man been blessed with such fairy godmothers. By the fresh frankness of his appreciation48 of their hospitality he disarmed49 criticism. A younger son hanging on to the court of Louis XIII never received purses of gold from his lady love with less embarrassed grace. He devoted50 himself to their service. He had the art of tactful effacement51, and of appearance at the exact moment of welcome. He enlivened their meals with chatter52 and a boyish brightness that passed for wit.
To Olivia, the dearest of his dear ladies, he confided53 the pathetic history of his life. A sunny, sheltered corner of the Pier54, both sitting side by side well wrapped in furs, conduced to intimacy55. How a young man in such a precarious56 financial position could afford to wear a fur-lined coat with a new astrachan collar it did not strike Olivia to enquire57. That he, like herself, was warm on that sun-filled morning, with the sea dancing and sparkling away beyond them, and human types around them exuding58 the prosperity of peace, seemed sufficient for the comfortable hour. He spoke59 of his early years of ease, of his modest patrimony60 coming to an end soon after the war broke out; of his commission in a yeomanry regiment61; of his heart-break as the months went on and the chance of the regiment being sent to the front grew less and less; of his exchange into a regiment of the line; of the rotten heart that gave out after a month in France; of his grief at being invalided62 out of the army and his struggles and anxieties when he returned to civil life, branded as physically63 unfit. He had tried the stage, musical comedy, male youth in the manless chorus being eagerly welcomed; then, after a little training, he found he had the dancer’s gift. “So one thing led to another,” said he, “and that’s my history.”
“But surely,” said Olivia, “all this dancing and these late hours must be very bad for your heart.”
He smiled sadly. “What does it matter? I’m no use to anybody, and nobody cares whether I’m dead or alive.”
Olivia protested warmly. “The world is crying out for young men of three-and-twenty. You could be useful in a million ways.”
“Not a crock like me.”
“You could go into an office.”
“Yes. In at one door and out of another. Hopeless.”
He drew from a slim gold case a Turkish cigarette—Olivia, minutely hospitable64, had put a box of a hundred in his room—and tapped it thoughtfully.
“After all, which is better—to carry on with life like a worm—which anyhow perisheth, as the Bible tells us—or to go out like a butterfly, with a bit of a swagger?”
“But you mustn’t talk of going out,” cried Olivia. “It’s indecent.”
Bobby lighted his cigarette. “Who would care?”
“I, for one,” she replied.
Her health and sanity65 revolted against morbid66 ideas. He stretched out his hand, and, with the tips of his fingers, touched her coat, and he bent67 his dark brown eyes upon her.
“Would you really?” he murmured.
“I would care for the life of any young man. After a million killed it’s precious—and every decent girl would care the same as I.”
“You’re wonderful!” he remarked.
“I’m common sense incarnate,” said Olivia.
“You are. You’re right. You’re right a thousand times,” he replied. “I’ll always remember what you have said to me this morning.”
At his surrender she disarmed. A corpulent, opulent couple passed them by, the lady wearing a cheap feathered hat and a rope of pearls outside a Kolinsky coat, the gentleman displaying on an ungloved right hand, which maintained in his mouth a gigantic cigar, an enormous ruby69 set in a garden border of diamonds.
“At any rate,” said Bobby, “I’m not as some other men are.”
So they laughed and discussed the profiteers and walked back to the hotel for lunch with the sharpened appetites of twenty.
When Bobby Quinton left them, Olivia reproached herself for lack of sympathy. The boy had done his best. A rotten, and crocky heart, who was she to despise? But for circumstance he might have done heroic things. Perhaps in his defiance70 of physical disability he was doing a heroic thing even now. Still. . . . To Lydia, in an ironically teasing mood, she declared:
“When I do fall in love, it’s not going to be with any one like Bobby Quinton. I want a man—there would be a devil of a row, of course, if he tried—but one capable of beating me.”
“Bobby would do that, right enough, if you gave him the chance,” said Lydia.
Olivia reflected for a while. “Why have you got your knife into him like that?” she asked abruptly71.
“I haven’t, my dear child. If I had, do you think I would have allowed him to come down? I live and let live. By letting live, I live very comfortably and manage, with moderate means, to have a very good time.”
Olivia, already dressed for dinner, looked down on the easy, creamy, handsome, kimono-clad woman, curled up like a vast Angora cat on the hotel bedroom sofa, and once more was dimly conscious of a doubt whether the galley of Lydia Dawlish was the one for her mother’s daughter to row in.
Still, vogue72 la galère. When she returned to London there was little else to do. Eating and dancing filled many of her days and nights. She tried to recapture the pleasure of books which had been all her recreation for years; but, although her life was not a continuous whirl of engagements—for it requires a greater vogue as a pretty and unattached young woman than Olivia possessed73 to be booked for fourteen meals and seven evenings every week of the year—she found little time for solitary74 intelligent occupation. If she was at a loose end, Lydia’s hat shop provided an agreeable pastime. Or, as a thousand little odds75 and ends of dress demanded attention, there was always a sensuous76 hour or two to be spent at Pacotille’s and Luquin’s or Deville’s. Tea companions seldom failed. When she had no evening engagements she was glad to get to bed, soon after the dinner in the downstairs restaurant, and to sleep the sleep of untroubled youth. And all the time the spell of London still held her captive. To walk the crowded streets, to join the feminine crush before the plate-glass windows of great shops, to watch the strange birds in the ornamental77 water in St. James’s Park, to wander about the Abbey and the Temple Gardens, to enter on the moment’s impulse a Bond Street picture gallery or a cinema—all was a matter of young joy and thrill. She even spent a reckless and rapturous afternoon at Madame Tussaud’s. Sometimes Janet Philimore accompanied her on these excursions round the monuments of London. Janet, who had mild antiquarian tastes and a proletarian knowledge of London traffic, took her by tubes and buses to the old City churches and the Tower, and exhibited to her wondering gaze the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange and Guildhall up the narrow street. For sentimental78 interest, there was always Bobby Quinton, who continued to maintain himself under her maternal eye. And so the new life went on.
It was one night in April, while she was standing79 under the porch of a theatre, Mouregard, her escort, having gone in search of his dinner-and-theatre brougham—for those were days when taxis were scarce and drivers haughty—that she found herself addressed by a long-nosed, one-armed man, who raised his hat.
For a second or two she could not place him. Then she laughed.
“Why—Major Olifant!” She shook hands. “What are you doing here? I thought you were buried among your fossils. Do tell me—how are the hot-water pipes? And how is the parrot? Myra has no faith in your bachelor housekeeping and is sure you’ve eaten him out of desperation.”
“Miss Gale—can I introduce Mr. Alexis Triona.”
Triona bowed, stood uncovered while he took the hand which Olivia held out.
“He is privileged beyond the common run of mortals,” said Triona.
“That’s very pretty,” laughed Olivia, with a swift, enveloping83 glance at the slight, inconspicuous youth who had done such wonderful things. “I’ve not thought of myself as a landlady before. I hope I don’t look like one.”
Visions of myriad84 Bloomsbury lodging-houses at whose doors he had knocked after he had left the tiny room in Cherbury Mews, and of the strange middle-aged85 women of faded gentility whom he had interviewed within those doors, rose before Triona’s eyes, and he laughed too. For under the strong electric light of the portico86, unkind to most of the other waiting women, showing up lines and hollows and artificialities of complexion87, she looked as fresh and young as a child on a May morning. The open theatre wrap revealed her slender girlish figure, sketchily88 clad in a flame-coloured garment; and, with the light in her eyes and her little dark head proudly poised89, she stood before the man’s fancy as the flame of youth.
She turned to Olifant.
“Are you in town?”
“For a few days. Getting rid of cobwebs.”
“I’d lend you quite a nice broom, if you could find time to come and see me. Besides, I do want to hear about my beloved Polly.”
“I shall be delighted,” said Olifant.
They arranged that he should come to tea at the flat the following day.
“And if so famous a person as Mr. Triona would honour me, too?”
“Dare I?” he asked.
“It’s on the fifth floor, but there’s a lift.”
She saw Mauregard hurrying up. With a “Four-thirty, then,” and a smile of adieu, she turned and joined Mauregard.
“Shall we go on to Percy’s?” asked the young Frenchman, standing at the door of the brougham.
Olivia conceived a sudden distaste for Percy’s.
“Not unless you particularly want to.”
“I? Good Lord!” said he.
“Why do you ever go, if it bores you like that?” she asked as the brougham started Victoria-wards.
“Ce que femme veut, Mauregard le veut.”
“I suppose that is why you’ve never made love to me.”
“How?” he asked, surprised out of his perfect English idiom.
“I’ve wanted you not to make love to me, and you haven’t.”
“But how could I make love to you, when I have been persecuting90 you with the confessions91 of my unhappy love affairs?”
“One can always find a means,” said Olivia. “That’s why I like you. You are such a good friend.”
“I hope so,” said he. Then, after a short silence: “Let me be frank. What is going on at the back of your clever English mind is perfectly92 accurate. I am tempted93 to make love to you every time I see you. What man, with a man’s blood in his veins94, wouldn’t be tempted, no matter how much he loved another woman? But I say to myself: ‘Lucien, you are French to the marrow95 of your bones. It is the nature of that marrow not to offend a beautiful woman by not making love to her. But, on the other hand, the Lady Olivia whose finger-tips I am unworthy to kiss’—he touched them with his lips, however, in the most charming manner—‘is English to the marrow of her bones, and it is the nature of that marrow to be offended if a man makes obviously idle love to her.’ So, not wishing to lose my Lady Olivia, whose friendship and sympathy I value so highly, I accept with a grateful heart a position which would be incomprehensible to the vast majority of my fellow-countrymen.”
“I’m so glad we’ve had this out,” said Olivia after a pause. “I’ve been a bit worried. A girl on her own has got to take care of herself, you know. And you’ve been so beautifully kind to me——”
Olivia went to bed contented97 with this frank explanation. Men had already made love to her in a manner which had ruffled98 her serene99 consciousness, and she found it, not like Lydia Dawlish, a cynical game of wit, but a disagreeable business, to parry their advances. Bobby Quinton, of course, she could put into a corner like a naughty child, whenever he became foolish. But Mauregard, consistently respectful and entertaining, had been rather a puzzle. Now that way was clear.
For a while she did not associate her meeting Blaise Olifant with her distaste for the night club. In the flush of her new existence she had almost forgotten him. There had been no reason to correspond. His rent was paid through the Trivett and Gale office. His foraminiferous pursuits did not appeal to a girl’s imagination. Now and then she gave a passing thought to what was happening in her old home, and vaguely100 remembered that the romantically named traveller was there as a guest. But that was all. Now, the presence of Olifant had suddenly recalled the little scene in her mother’s room, when she had suddenly decided101 to let him have the house; he had brought with him a breath of that room; a swift memory of the delicate water-colours and the books by the bedside, the Pensées de Pascal and The Imitation of Christ. . . . Besides, she had felt a curious attraction towards the companion, the boy with the foreign manner and the glistening102 eyes and the suffering-stricken face. Both men, as she conceived them, belonged to the higher intellectual type that had their being remote from the inanities103 of dissipation. So, impelled104 by a muddled105 set of motives106, she suddenly found herself abhorring107 Percy’s. She read herself into a state of chastened self-approbation, and then to sleep, with Rupert Brooke’s poems.
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1
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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strew
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| vt.撒；使散落；撒在…上，散布于 | |
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convened
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| 召开( convene的过去式 )； 召集； （为正式会议而）聚集； 集合 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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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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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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ozone
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| n.臭氧，新鲜空气 | |
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temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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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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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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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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45
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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47
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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49
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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50
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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51
effacement
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| n.抹消，抹杀 | |
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52
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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53
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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54
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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55
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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58
exuding
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的现在分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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60
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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sketchily
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| adv.写生风格地，大略地 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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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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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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103
inanities
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| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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106
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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107
abhorring
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| v.憎恶( abhor的现在分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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