She went up to the empty drawing-room, with the soft illumination of many lights, which was habitual8 there, which lay all decorated and bright, sweet with spring flowers, full of pictures and ornaments9, like a deserted10 palace, and she felt the silence and beauty of it to be dreary11 and terrible. It was like a desert to her, or rather like a prison, in which she must stay and wait and listen, and, whatever might come, do nothing to hinder it. What could she do? A girl could not go out into those haunts, where Claude Ramsay, though he was so delicate, could go; she could not put herself forward, and warn a man, who would think he knew much better than she could do. She sat down and tried to read, and then got up, and glided12 about from one table to another, from one picture to another, looking vaguely13 at a score of things without seeing them. Then she stole within the shadow of the curtain, and looked out at the carriages which went and came, now and then drawing up at adjacent doors. It made her heart beat to see them approaching, to think that perhaps they were coming here—her mother perhaps; perhaps Sir{v3-151} Thomas; perhaps Markham. Was it possible that this night, of all others—this night, when her heart seemed to appeal to earth and heaven for some one to help her—nobody would come? It was Frances’ first experience of these vigils, which to some women fill up so much of life. There had never been any anxiety at Bordighera, any disturbing influence. She had always known where to find her father, who could solve every problem and chase away every difficulty. Would he, she wondered, be able to do so now? Would he, if he were here, go out for her, and find George Gaunt, and deliver him from his pursuers? But Frances could not say to herself that he would have done so. He was not fond of disturbing himself. He would have said, “It is not my business;” he would have refused to interfere14, as Claude did. And what could she do, a girl, by herself? Lady Markham had been very anxious to keep him out of harm’s way; but she had said plainly that she would not forsake15 her own son in order to save the son of another woman. Frances was wandering painfully through labyrinths16 of such thoughts, racking her brain with vain{v3-152} questions as to what it was possible to do, when Markham’s hansom, stopping with a sudden clang at the door, drove her thoughts away, or at least made a break in them, and replaced, by a nervous tremor17 of excitement and alarm, the pangs18 of anxious expectation and suspense19. She would rather not have seen Markham at that moment. She was fond of her brother. It grieved her to hear even Lady Markham speak of him in questionable20 terms: all the natural prejudices of affectionate youth were enlisted21 on his side; but, for the first time, she felt that she had no confidence in Markham, and wished that it had been any one but he.
He came in with a light overcoat over his evening clothes,—he had been dining out; but he did not meet Frances with the unembarrassed countenance22 which she had thought would have made it so difficult to speak to him about what she had heard. He came in hurriedly, looking round the drawing-room with a rapid investigating glance before he took any notice of her. “Where is the mother?” he asked, hurriedly.{v3-153}
“She has not come back,” said Frances, divining from his look that it was unnecessary to say more.
Markham sat down abruptly23 on a sofa near. He did not make any reply to her, but put up the handle of his cane24 to his mouth with a curious mixture of the comic and the tragic25, which struck her in spite of herself. He did not require to put any question; he knew very well where his mother was, and all that was happening. The sense of the great crisis which had arrived took from him all power of speech, paralysing him with mingled26 awe27 and dismay. But yet the odd little figure on the sofa sucking his cane, his hat in his other hand, his features all fallen into bewilderment and helplessness, was absurd. Out of the depths of Frances’ trouble came a hysterical28 titter against her will. This roused him also. He looked at her with a faint evanescent smile.
“Laughing at me, Fan? Well, I don’t wonder. I am a nice fellow to have to do with a tragedy. Screaming farce29 is more like my style.”
“I did not laugh, Markham; I have not any heart for laughing,” she said.{v3-154}
“Oh, didn’t you? But it sounded like it. Fan, tell me, has the mother been long away, and did any one see that unfortunate girl when she was here?”
“No, Markham—unless it were Mr Ramsay; he saw her drive away with mamma.”
“The worst of old gossips,” he said, desperately30 sucking his cane, with a gloomy brow. “I don’t know an old woman so bad. No quarter there—that is the word. Fan, the mother is a trump31. Nothing is so bad when she is mixed up in it. Was Nelly much cut up, or was she in one of her wild fits? Poor girl! You must not think badly of Nelly. She has had hard lines. She never had a chance: an old brute32, used up, that no woman could take to. But she has done her duty by him, Fan.”
“She does not think so, Markham.”
“Oh, by Jove, she was giving you that, was she? Fan, I sometimes think poor Nelly’s off her head a little. Poor Nelly, poor girl! I don’t want to set her up for an example; but she has done her duty by him. Remember this, whatever you may hear. I—am rather a good one to know.{v3-155}”
He gave a curious little chuckle33 as he said this—a sort of strangled laugh, of which he was ashamed, and stifled34 it in its birth.
“Markham, I want to speak to you—about something very serious.”
He gave a keen look at her sideways from the corner of one eye. Then he said, in a sort of whisper to himself, “Preaching;” but added in his own voice, “Fire away, Fan,” with a look of resignation.
“Markham—it is about Captain Gaunt.”
“Oh!” he cried. He gave a little laugh. “You frightened me, my dear. I thought at this time of the day you were going to give me a sermon from the depths of your moral experience, Fan. So long as it isn’t about poor Nelly, say what you please about Gaunt. What about Gaunt?”
“Oh, Markham, Mr Ramsay told me—and mamma has been frightened ever since he came. What have you done with him, Markham? Don’t you remember the old General at Bordighera—and his mother? And he had just come from India, for his holiday, after years and years. And they are poor—that is to say, they{v3-156} are well enough off for them; but they are not like mamma and you. They have not got horses and carriages; they don’t live—as you do.”
“As I do! I am the poorest little beggar living, and that is the truth, Fan.”
“The poorest! Markham, you may think you can laugh at me. I am not clever; I am quite ignorant—that I know. But how can you say you are poor? You don’t know what it is to be poor. When they go away in the summer, they choose little quiet places; they spare everything they can. That is one thing I know better than you do. To say you are poor!”
He rose up and came towards her, and taking her hands in his, gave them a squeeze which was painful, though he was unconscious of it. “Fan,” he said, “all that is very pretty, and true for you; but if I hadn’t been poor, do you think all this would have happened as it has done? Do you think I’d have stood by and let Nelly marry that fellow? Do you think——? Hush35! there’s the mother, with news; no doubt she’s got news. Fan, what d’ye think it’ll be?{v3-157}”
He held her hands tight, and pressed them till she had almost cried out, looking in her face with a sort of nervous smile which twitched36 at the corners of his mouth, looking in her eyes as if into a mirror where he could see the reflection of something, and so be spared the pain of looking directly at it. She saw that the subject which was of so much interest to her had passed clean out of his head. His own affairs were uppermost in Markham’s mind, as is generally the case whenever a man can be supposed to have any affairs at all of his own.
And Frances, kept in this position, as a sort of mirror in which he could see the reflection of his mother’s face, saw Lady Markham come in, looking very pale and fatigued38, with that air of having worn her outdoor dress for hours which gives a sort of haggard aspect to weariness. She gave a glance round, evidently without perceiving very clearly who was there, then sank wearily upon the sofa, loosening her cloak. “It is all over,” she said in a low tone, as if speaking to herself—“it is all over. Of course I could not come away before——”
Markham let go Frances’ hands without a{v3-158} word. He walked away to the further window, and drew the curtain aside and looked out. Why, he could not have told, nor with what purpose—with a vague intention of making sure that the hansom which stood there so constantly was at the door.
“What is Markham doing?” said his mother, in a faint querulous tone. “Tell him not to fidget with these curtains. It worries me. I am tired, and my nerves are all wrong. Yes, you can take my cloak, Frances. Don’t call anybody. No one will come here to-night. Markham, did you hear what I said? It is all over. I waited till——”
He came towards her from the end of the room with a sort of smile upon his grey sandy-coloured face, his mouth and eyebrows39 twitching40, his eyes screwed up so that nothing but two keen little glimmers41 of reflection were visible. “You are not the sort,” he said, with a little tremor in his voice, “to forsake a man when he is down.” He had his hands in his pockets, his shoulders pushed up; nowhere could there have been seen a less tragic figure. Yet every line of his odd face was touched and moving with{v3-159} feeling, totally beyond any power of expression in words.
“It was not a happy scene,” she said. “He sent for her at the last. Sarah Winterbourn was there at the bedside. She was fond of him, I believe. A woman cannot help being fond of her brother, however little he may deserve it. Nelly——”
Here Markham broke in with a sound that was like, yet not like, his usual laugh. “How’s Nelly?” he said abruptly, without sequence or reason. Lady Markham paused to look at him, and then went on—
“Nelly trembled so, I could scarcely keep her up. She wanted not to go; she said, What was the good? But I got her persuaded at last. A man dying like that is a—is a—— It is not a pleasant sight. He signed to her to go and kiss him.” Lady Markham shuddered42 slightly. “He was past speaking—I mean, he was past understanding—— I—I wish I had not seen it. One can’t get such a scene out of one’s mind.”
She put up her hand and pressed her fingers upon her eyes, as if the picture was there, and she was trying to get rid of it. Markham had{v3-160} turned away again, and was examining, or seeming to examine, the flowers in a jardinière. Now and then he made a movement, as if he would have stopped the narrative43. Frances, trembling and crying with natural horror and distress44, had loosened her mother’s cloak and taken off her bonnet45 while she went on speaking. Lady Markham’s hair, though always covered with a cap, was as brown and smooth as her daughter’s. Frances put her hand upon it timidly, and smoothed the satin braid. It was all she could do to show the emotion, the sympathy in her heart; and she was as much startled in mind as physically46, when Lady Markham suddenly threw one arm round her and rested her head upon her shoulder. “Thank God,” the mother cried, “that here is one, whatever may happen, that will never, never——! Frances, my love, don’t mind what I say. I am worn out, and good for nothing. Go and get me a little wine, for I have no strength left in me.”
Markham turned to her with his chuckle more marked than ever, as Frances left the room. “I am glad to see that you have strength to remember what you’re about, mammy, in spite of{v3-161} that little break-down. It wouldn’t do, would it?—to let Frances believe that a match like Winterbourn was a thing she would never—never——! though it wasn’t amiss for poor Nelly, in her day.”
“Markham, you are very hard upon me. The child did not understand either one thing or the other. And I was not to blame about Nelly; you cannot say I was to blame. If I had been, I think to-night might make up: that ghastly face, and Nelly’s close to it, with her eyes staring in horror, the poor little mouth——”
Markham’s exclamation47 was short and sharp like a pistol-shot. It was a monosyllable, but not one to be put into print. “Stop that!” he said. “It can do no good going over it. Who’s with her now?”
“I could not stay, Markham; besides, it would have been out of place. She has her maid, who is very kind to her; and I made them give her a sleeping-draught—to make her forget her trouble. Sarah Winterbourn laughed out when I asked for it. The doctor was shocked. It was so natural that poor little Nelly, who never saw anything so ghastly, never{v3-162} was in the house with death; never saw, much less touched——”
“I can understand Sarah,” he said, with a grim smile.
Frances came back with the wine, and her mother paused to kiss her as she took it from her hand. “I am sure you have had a wearing, miserable48 evening. You look quite pale, my dear. I ought not to speak of such horrid49 things before you at your age. But you see, Markham, she saw Nelly, and heard her wild talk. It was all excitement and misery50 and overstrain; for in reality she had nothing to reproach herself with—nothing, Frances. He proved that by sending for her, as I tell you. He knew, and everybody knows, that poor Nelly had done her duty by him.”
Frances paid little attention to this strange defence. She was, as her mother knew, yet could scarcely believe, totally incapable51 of comprehending the grounds on which Nelly was so strongly asserted to have done her duty, or of understanding that not to have wronged her husband in one unpardonable way, gave her a claim upon the applause of{v3-163} her fellows. Fortunately, indeed, Frances was defended against all questions on this subject by the possession of that unsuspected trouble of her own, of which she felt that for the night at least it was futile52 to say anything. Nelly was the only subject upon which her mother could speak, or for which Markham had any ears. They did not say anything, either after Frances left them or in her presence, of the future, of which, no doubt, their minds were full—of which Nelly’s mind had been so full when she burst into Lady Markham’s room in her finery, on that very day; of what was to happen after, what “the widow”—that name against which she so rebelled, but which was already fixed53 upon her in all the clubs and drawing-rooms—was to do? that was a question which was not openly put to each other by the two persons chiefly concerned.
When Markham appeared in his usual haunts that night, he was aware of being regarded with many significant looks; but these he was of course prepared for, and met with a countenance in which it would have puzzled the wisest to find any special expression.{v3-164}
Lady Markham went to bed as soon as her son left her. She had said she could receive no one, being much fatigued. “My lady have been with Mrs Winterbourn,” was the answer made to Sir Thomas when he came to the door late, after a tedious debate in the House of Commons. Sir Thomas, like everybody, was full of speculations54 on this point, though he regarded it from a point of view different from the popular one. The world was occupied with the question whether Nelly would marry Markham, now that she was rich and free. But what occupied Sir Thomas, who had no doubt on this subject, was the—afterwards? What would Lady Markham do? Was it not now at last the moment for Waring to come home?
In Lady Markham’s mind, some similar thoughts were afloat. She had said that she was fatigued; but fatigue37 does not mean sleep, at least not at Lady Markham’s age. It means retirement55, silence, and leisure for the far more fatiguing56 exertion57 of thought. When her maid had been dismissed, and the faint night-lamp was all that was left in her{v3-165} curtained, cushioned, luxurious58 room, the questions that arose in her mind were manifold. Markham’s marriage would make a wonderful difference in his mother’s life. Her house in Eaton Square she would no doubt retain; but the lovely little house in the Isle59 of Wight, which had been always hers—and the solemn establishment in the country, would be hers no more. These two things of themselves would make a great difference. But what was of still more consequence was, that Markham himself would be hers no more. He would belong to his wife. It was impossible to believe of him that he could ever be otherwise than affectionate and kind; but what a difference when Markham was no longer one of the household! And then the husband, so long cut off, so far separated, much by distance, more by the severance60 of all the habits and mutual61 claims which bind62 people together—with him what would follow? What would be the effect of the change? Questions like these, diversified63 by perpetual efforts of imagination to bring before her again the tragical64 scene of which she had been a witness,—the dying man, with his hoarse65 attempts{v3-166} to be intelligible66; the young, haggard, horrified67 countenance of Nelly, compelled to approach the awful figure, for which she had a child’s dread,—kept her awake long into the night. It is seldom that a woman of her age sees herself on the eve of such changes without any will of hers. It seemed to have overwhelmed her in a moment, although, indeed, she had foreseen the catastrophe68. What would Nelly do? was the question all the world was asking. But Lady Markham had another which occupied her as much on her own side. Waring, what would he do?
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1
agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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2
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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3
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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4
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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9
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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10
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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11
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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labyrinths
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| 迷宫( labyrinth的名词复数 )； （文字，建筑）错综复杂的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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34
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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35
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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36
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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40
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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41
glimmers
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| n.微光，闪光( glimmer的名词复数 )v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
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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43
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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44
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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45
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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46
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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47
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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48
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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49
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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50
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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51
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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52
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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53
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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54
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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