On the night when Matthew Peel-Swynnerton spoke1 to Mrs. Scales, Matthew was not the only person in the Pension Frensham who failed to sleep. When the old portress came downstairs from her errand, she observed that her mistress was leaving the mahogany retreat.
"She is sleeping tranquilly2, the poor one!" said the portress, discharging her commission, which had been to learn the latest news of the mistress's indisposed dog, Fossette. In saying this her ancient, vibrant3 voice was rich with sympathy for the suffering animal. And she smiled. She was rather like a figure out of an almshouse, with her pink, apparently4 brittle5 skin, her tight black dress, and frilled white cap. She stooped habitually6, and always walked quickly, with her head a few inches in advance of her feet. Her grey hair was scanty7. She was old; nobody perhaps knew exactly how old. Sophia had taken her with the Pension, over a quarter of a century before, because she was old and could not easily have found another place. Although the clientele was almost exclusively English, she spoke only French, explaining herself to Britons by means of benevolent8 smiles.
"I think I shall go to bed, Jacqueline," said the mistress, in reply.
A strange reply, thought Jacqueline. The unalterable custom of Jacqueline was to retire at midnight and to rise at five-thirty. Her mistress also usually retired9 about midnight, and during the final hour mistress and portress saw a good deal of each other. And considering that Jacqueline had just been sent up into the mistress's own bedroom to glance at Fossette, and that the bulletin was satisfactory, and that madame and Jacqueline had several customary daily matters to discuss, it seemed odd that madame should thus be going instantly to bed. However, Jacqueline said nothing but:
"Very well, madame. And the number 32?"
"Arrange yourself as you can," said the mistress, curtly10.
"It is well, madame. Good evening, madame, and a good night."
Jacqueline, alone in the hall, re-entered her box and set upon one of those endless, mysterious tasks which occupied her when she was not rushing to and fro or whistling up the tubes.
Sophia, scarcely troubling even to glance into Fossette's round basket, undressed, put out the light, and got into bed. She felt extremely and inexplicably11 gloomy. She did not wish to reflect; she strongly wished not to reflect; but her mind insisted on reflection--a monotonous12, futile13, and distressing14 reflection. Povey! Povey! Could this be Constance's Povey, the unique Samuel Povey? That is to say, not he, but his son, Constance's son. Had Constance a grown-up son? Constance must be over fifty now, perhaps a grandmother! Had she really married Samuel Povey? Possibly she was dead. Certainly her mother must be dead, and Aunt Harriet and Mr. Critchlow. If alive, her mother must be at least eighty years of age.
The cumulative15 effect of merely remaining inactive when one ought to be active, was terrible. Undoubtedly17 she should have communicated with her family. It was silly not to have done so. After all, even if she had, as a child, stolen a trifle of money from her wealthy aunt, what would that have mattered? She had been proud. She was criminally proud. That was her vice18. She admitted it frankly19. But she could not alter her pride. Everybody had some weak spot. Her reputation for sagacity, for commonsense20, was, she knew, enormous; she always felt, when people were talking to her, that they regarded her as a very unusually wise woman. And yet she had been guilty of the capital folly21 of cutting herself off from her family. She was ageing, and she was alone in the world. She was enriching herself; she had the most perfectly22 managed and the most respectable Pension in the world (she sincerely believed), and she was alone in the world. Acquaintances she had--French people who never offered nor accepted hospitality other than tea or wine, and one or two members of the English commercial colony-- but her one friend was Fossette, aged23 three years! She was the most solitary24 person on earth. She had heard no word of Gerald, no word of anybody. Nobody whatever could truly be interested in her fate. This was what she had achieved after a quarter of a century of ceaseless labour and anxiety, during which she had not once been away from the Rue25 Lord Byron for more than thirty hours at a stretch. It was appalling26--the passage of years; and the passage of years would grow more appalling. Ten years hence, where would she be? She pictured herself dying. Horrible!
Of course there was nothing to prevent her from going back to Bursley and repairing the grand error of her girlhood. No, nothing except the fact that her whole soul recoiled27 from the mere16 idea of any such enterprise! She was a fixture28 in the Rue Lord Byron. She was a part of the street. She knew all that happened or could happen there. She was attached to it by the heavy chains of habit. In the chill way of long use she loved it. There! The incandescent29 gas-burner of the street-lamp outside had been turned down, as it was turned down every night! If it is possible to love such a phenomenon, she loved that phenomenon. That phenomenon was a portion of her life, dear to her.
An agreeable young man, that Peel-Swynnerton! Then evidently, since her days in Bursley, the Peels and the Swynnertons, partners in business, must have intermarried, or there must have been some affair of a will. Did he suspect who she was? He had had a very self-conscious, guilty look. No! He could not have suspected who she was. The idea was ridiculous. Probably he did not even know that her name was Scales. And even if he knew her name, he had probably never heard of Gerald Scales, or the story of her flight. Why, he could not have been born until after she had left Bursley! Besides, the Peels were always quite aloof30 from the ordinary social life of the town. No! He could not have suspected her identity. It was infantile to conceive such a thing.
And yet, she inconsequently proceeded in the tangle31 of her afflicted32 mind, supposing he had suspected it! Supposing by some queer chance, he had heard her forgotten story, and casually33 put two and two together! Supposing even that he were merely to mention in the Five Towns that the Pension Frensham was kept by a Mrs. Scales. 'Scales? Scales?' people might repeat. 'Now, what does that remind me of?' And the ball might roll and roll till Constance or somebody picked it up! And then ...
Moreover--a detail of which she had at first unaccountably failed to mark the significance--this Peel-Swynnerton was a friend of the Mr. Povey as to whom he had inquired. In that case it could not be the same Povey. Impossible that the Peels should be on terms of friendship with Samuel Povey or his connections! But supposing after all they were! Supposing something utterly34 unanticipated and revolutionary had happened in the Five Towns!
She was disturbed. She was insecure. She foresaw inquiries35 being made concerning her. She foresaw an immense family fuss, endless tomfoolery, the upsetting of her existence, the destruction of her calm. And she sank away from that prospect36. She could not face it. She did not want to face it. "No," she cried passionately37 in her soul, "I've lived alone, and I'll stay as I am. I can't change at my time of life." And her attitude towards a possible invasion of her solitude38 became one of resentment39. "I won't have it! I won't have it! I will be left alone. Constance! What can Constance be to me, or I to her, now?" The vision of any change in her existence was in the highest degree painful to her. And not only painful! It frightened her. It made her shrink. But she could not dismiss it. ... She could not argue herself out of it. The apparition40 of Matthew Peel-Swynnerton had somehow altered the very stuff of her fibres.
And surging on the outskirts41 of the central storm of her brain were ten thousand apprehensions42 about the management of the Pension. All was black, hopeless. The Pension might have been the most complete business failure that gross carelessness and incapacity had ever provoked. Was it not the fact that she had to supervise everything herself, that she could depend on no one? Were she to be absent even for a single day the entire structure would inevitably43 fall. Instead of working less she worked harder. And who could guarantee that her investments were safe?
When dawn announced itself, slowly discovering each object in the chamber44, she was ill. Fever seemed to rage in her head. And in and round her mouth she had strange sensations. Fossette stirred in the basket near the large desk on which multifarious files and papers were ranged with minute particularity.
"Fossette!" she tried to call out; but no sound issued from her lips. She could not move her tongue. She tried to protrude45 it, and could not. For hours she had been conscious of a headache. Her heart sank. She was sick with fear. Her memory flashed to her father and his seizure46. She was his daughter! Paralysis47! "Ca serait le comble!" she thought in French, horrified48. Her fear became abject49! "Can I move at all?" she thought, and madly jerked her head. Yes, she could move her head slightly on the pillow, and she could stretch her right arm, both arms. Absurd cowardice50! Of course it was not a seizure! She reassured51 herself. Still, she could not put her tongue out. Suddenly she began to hiccough, and she had no control over the hiccough. She put her hand to the bell, whose ringing would summon the man who slept in a pantry off the hall, and suddenly the hiccough ceased. Her hand dropped. She was better. Besides, what use in ringing for a man if she could not speak to him through the door? She must wait for Jacqueline. At six o'clock every morning, summer and winter, Jacqueline entered her mistress's bedroom to release the dog for a moment's airing under her own supervision52. The clock on the mantelpiece showed five minutes past three. She had three hours to wait. Fossette pattered across the room, and sprang on to the bed and nestled down. Sophia ignored her, but Fossette, being herself unwell and torpid53, did not seem to care.
Jacqueline was late. In the quarter of an hour between six o'clock and a quarter past, Sophia suffered the supreme54 pangs55 of despair and verged56 upon insanity57. It appeared to her that her cranium would blow off under pressure from within. Then the door opened silently, a few inches. Usually Jacqueline came into the room, but sometimes she stood behind the door and called in her soft, trembling voice, "Fossette! Fossette!" And on this morning she did not come into the room. The dog did not immediately respond. Sophia was in an agony. She marshalled all her volition58, all her self-control and strength, to shout:
"Jacqueline!"
It came out of her, a horribly difficult and misshapen birth, but it came. She was exhausted59.
"Yes, madame." Jacqueline entered.
As soon as she had a glimpse of Sophia she threw up her hands. Sophia stared at her, wordless.
"I will fetch the doctor--myself," whispered Jacqueline, and fled.
"Jacqueline!" The woman stopped. Then Sophia determined60 to force herself to make a speech, and she braced61 her muscles to an unprecedented62 effort. "Say not a word to the others." She could not bear that the whole household should know of her illness. Jacqueline nodded and vanished, the dog following. Jacqueline understood. She lived in the place with her mistress as with a fellow-conspirator.
Sophia began to feel better. She could get into a sitting posture63, though the movement made her dizzy. By working to the foot of the bed she could see herself in the glass of the wardrobe. And she saw that the lower part of her face was twisted out of shape.
The doctor, who knew her, and who earned a lot of money in her house, told her frankly what had happened. Paralysie glosso-labio- laryngee was the phrase he used. She understood. A very slight attack; due to overwork and worry. He ordered absolute rest and quiet.
"Impossible!" she said, genuinely convinced that she alone was indispensable.
"Repose64 the most absolute!" he repeated.
She marvelled65 that a few words with a man who chanced to be named Peel-Swynnerton could have resulted in such a disaster, and drew a curious satisfaction from this fearful proof that she was so highly-strung. But even then she did not realize how profoundly she had been disturbed.
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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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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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cumulative
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| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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commonsense
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| adj.有常识的；明白事理的；注重实际的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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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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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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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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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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35
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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38
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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41
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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42
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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44
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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45
protrude
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| v.使突出，伸出，突出 | |
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46
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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47
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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48
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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49
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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50
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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51
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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52
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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54
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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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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56
verged
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| 接近，逼近（verge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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61
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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