It was not till the end of October that she saw Captain Everard again, and on that occasion — the only one of all the series on which hindrance1 had been so utter — no communication with him proved possible. She had made out even from the cage that it was a charming golden day: a patch of hazy2 autumn sunlight lay across the sanded floor and also, higher up, quickened into brightness a row of ruddy bottled syrups3. Work was slack and the place in general empty; the town, as they said in the cage, had not waked up, and the feeling of the day likened itself to something than in happier conditions she would have thought of romantically as Saint Martin’s summer. The counter-clerk had gone to his dinner; she herself was busy with arrears4 of postal5 jobs, in the midst of which she became aware that Captain Everard had apparently6 been in the shop a minute and that Mr. Buckton had already seized him.
He had as usual half a dozen telegrams; and when he saw that she saw him and their eyes met he gave, on bowing to her, an exaggerated laugh in which she read a new consciousness. It was a confession7 of awkwardness; it seemed to tell her that of course he knew he ought better to have kept his head, ought to have been clever enough to wait, on some pretext8, till he should have found her free. Mr. Buckton was a long time with him, and her attention was soon demanded by other visitors; so that nothing passed between them but the fulness of their silence. The look she took from him was his greeting, and the other one a simple sign of the eyes sent her before going out. The only token they exchanged therefore was his tacit assent9 to her wish that since they couldn’t attempt a certain frankness they should attempt nothing at all. This was her intense preference; she could be as still and cold as any one when that was the sole solution.
Yet more than any contact hitherto achieved these counted instants struck her as marking a step: they were built so — just in the mere10 flash — on the recognition of his now definitely knowing what it was she would do for him. The “anything, anything” she had uttered in the Park went to and fro between them and under the poked-out china that interposed. It had all at last even put on the air of their not needing now clumsily to manoeuvre11 to converse12: their former little postal make-believes, the intense implications of questions and answers and change, had become in the light of the personal fact, of their having had their moment, a possibility comparatively poor. It was as if they had met for all time — it exerted on their being in presence again an influence so prodigious13. When she watched herself, in the memory of that night, walk away from him as if she were making an end, she found something too pitiful in the primness14 of such a gait. Hadn’t she precisely15 established on the part of each a consciousness that could end only with death?
It must be admitted that in spite of this brave margin16 an irritation17, after he had gone, remained with her; a sense that presently became one with a still sharper hatred18 of Mr. Buckton, who, on her friend’s withdrawal19, had retired20 with the telegrams to the sounder and left her the other work. She knew indeed she should have a chance to see them, when she would, on file; and she was divided, as the day went on, between the two impressions of all that was lost and all that was re-asserted. What beset21 her above all, and as she had almost never known it before, was the desire to bound straight out, to overtake the autumn afternoon before it passed away for ever and hurry off to the Park and perhaps be with him there again on a bench. It became for an hour a fantastic vision with her that he might just have gone to sit and wait for her. She could almost hear him, through the tick of the sounder, scatter22 with his stick, in his impatience23, the fallen leaves of October. Why should such a vision seize her at this particular moment with such a shake? There was a time — from four to five — when she could have cried with happiness and rage.
Business quickened, it seemed, toward five, as if the town did wake up; she had therefore more to do, and she went through it with little sharp stampings and jerkings: she made the crisp postal-orders fairly snap while she breathed to herself “It’s the last day — the last day!” The last day of what? She couldn’t have told. All she knew now was that if she were out of the cage she wouldn’t in the least have minded, this time, its not yet being dark. She would have gone straight toward Park Chambers24 and have hung about there till no matter when. She would have waited, stayed, rung, asked, have gone in, sat on the stairs. What the day was the last of was probably, to her strained inner sense, the group of golden ones, of any occasion for seeing the hazy sunshine slant25 at that angle into the smelly shop, of any range of chances for his wishing still to repeat to her the two words she had in the Park scarcely let him bring out. “See here — see here!” — the sound of these two words had been with her perpetually; but it was in her ears to-day without mercy, with a loudness that grew and grew. What was it they then expressed? what was it he had wanted her to see? She seemed, whatever it was, perfectly26 to see it now — to see that if she should just chuck the whole thing, should have a great and beautiful courage, he would somehow make everything up to her. When the clock struck five she was on the very point of saying to Mr. Buckton that she was deadly ill and rapidly getting worse. This announcement was on her lips, and she had quite composed the pale hard face she would offer him: “I can’t stop — I must go home. If I feel better, later on, I’ll come back. I’m very sorry, but I must go.” At that instant Captain Everard once more stood there, producing in her agitated27 spirit, by his real presence, the strangest, quickest revolution. He stopped her off without knowing it, and by the time he had been a minute in the shop she felt herself saved.
That was from the first minute how she thought of it. There were again other persons with whom she was occupied, and again the situation could only be expressed by their silence. It was expressed, of a truth, in a larger phrase than ever yet, for her eyes now spoke28 to him with a kind of supplication29. “Be quiet, be quiet!” they pleaded; and they saw his own reply: “I’ll do whatever you say; I won’t even look at you — see, see!” They kept conveying thus, with the friendliest liberality, that they wouldn’t look, quite positively30 wouldn’t. What she was to see was that he hovered31 at the other end of the counter, Mr. Buckton’s end, and surrendered himself again to that frustration32. It quickly proved so great indeed that what she was to see further was how he turned away before he was attended to, and hung off, waiting, smoking, looking about the shop; how he went over to Mr. Cocker’s own counter and appeared to price things, gave in fact presently two or three orders and put down money, stood there a long time with his back to her, considerately abstaining33 from any glance round to see if she were free. It at last came to pass in this way that he had remained in the shop longer than she had ever yet known to do, and that, nevertheless, when he did turn about she could see him time himself — she was freshly taken up — and cross straight to her postal subordinate, whom some one else had released. He had in his hand all this while neither letters nor telegrams, and now that he was close to her — for she was close to the counter-clerk — it brought her heart into her mouth merely to see him look at her neighbour and open his lips. She was too nervous to bear it. He asked for a Post~Office Guide, and the young man whipped out a new one; whereupon he said he wished not to purchase, but only to consult one a moment; with which, the copy kept on loan being produced, he once more wandered off.
What was he doing to her? What did he want of her? Well, it was just the aggravation34 of his “See here!” She felt at this moment strangely and portentously35 afraid of him — had in her ears the hum of a sense that, should it come to that kind of tension, she must fly on the spot to Chalk Farm. Mixed with her dread36 and with her reflexion was the idea that, if he wanted her so much as he seemed to show, it might be after all simply to do for him the “anything” she had promised, the “everything” she had thought it so fine to bring out to Mr. Mudge. He might want her to help him, might have some particular appeal; though indeed his manner didn’t denote that — denoted on the contrary an embarrassment37, an indecision, something of a desire not so much to be helped as to be treated rather more nicely than she had treated him the other time. Yes, he considered quite probably that he had help rather to offer than to ask for. Still, none the less, when he again saw her free he continued to keep away from her; when he came back with his thumbed Guide it was Mr. Buckton he caught — it was from Mr. Buckton he obtained half-a-crown’s-worth of stamps.
After asking for the stamps he asked, quite as a second thought, for a postal-order for ten shillings. What did he want with so many stamps when he wrote so few letters? How could he enclose a postal-order in a telegram? She expected him, the next thing, to go into the corner and make up one of his telegrams — half a dozen of them — on purpose to prolong his presence. She had so completely stopped looking at him that she could only guess his movements — guess even where his eyes rested. Finally she saw him make a dash that might have been toward the nook where the forms were hung; and at this she suddenly felt that she couldn’t keep it up. The counter-clerk had just taken a telegram from a slavey, and, to give herself something to cover her, she snatched it out of his hand. The gesture was so violent that he gave her in return an odd look, and she also perceived that Mr. Buckton noticed it. The latter personage, with a quick stare at her, appeared for an instant to wonder whether his snatching it in his turn mightn’t be the thing she would least like, and she anticipated this practical criticism by the frankest glare she had ever given him. It sufficed: this time it paralysed him; and she sought with her trophy38 the refuge of the sounder.
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1
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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syrups
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| n.糖浆，糖汁( syrup的名词复数 )；糖浆类药品 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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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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primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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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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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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portentously
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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