Dick Povey kept his word. At a quarter-past five he drew up in front of No. 49, Deansgate, Manchester. "There you are!" he said, not without pride. "Now, we'll come back in about a couple of hours or so, just to take your orders, whatever they are." He was very comforting, with his suggestion that in him Sophia had a sure support in the background.
Without many words Sophia went straight into the shop. It looked like a jeweller's shop, and a shop for bargains generally. Only the conventional sign over a side-entrance showed that at heart it was a pawnbroker's. Mr. Till Boldero did a nice business in the Five Towns, and in other centres near Manchester, by selling silver-ware second-hand1, or nominally2 second hand, to persons who wished to make presents to other persons or to themselves. He would send anything by post on approval. Occasionally he came to the Five Towns, and he had once, several years before, met Constance. They had talked. He was the son of a cousin of the late great and wealthy Boldero, sleeping partner in Birkinshaws, and Gerald's uncle. It was from Constance that he had learnt of Sophia's return to Bursley. Constance had often remarked to Sophia what a superior man Mr. Till Boldero was.
The shop was narrow and lofty. It seemed like a menagerie for trapped silver-ware. In glass cases right up to the dark ceiling silver vessels3 and instruments of all kinds lay confined. The top of the counter was a glass prison containing dozens of gold watches, together with snuff-boxes, enamels4, and other antiquities5. The front of the counter was also glazed6, showing vases and large pieces of porcelain7. A few pictures in heavy gold frames were perched about. There was a case of umbrellas with elaborate handles and rich tassels8. There were a couple of statuettes. The counter, on the customers' side, ended in a glass screen on which were the words 'Private Office.' On the seller's side the prospect9 was closed by a vast safe. A tall young man was fumbling10 in this safe. Two women sat on customers' chairs, leaning against the crystal counter. The young man came towards them from the safe, bearing a tray.
"How much is that goblet11?" asked one of the women, raising her parasol dangerously among such fragility and pointing to one object among many in a case high up from the ground.
"That, madam?"
"Yes."
"Thirty-five pounds."
The young man disposed his tray on the counter. It was packed with more gold watches, adding to the extraordinary glitter and shimmer12 of the shop. He chose a small watch from the regiment13.
"Now, this is something I can recommend," he said. "It's made by Cuthbert Butler of Blackburn. I can guarantee you that for five years." He spoke14 as though he were the accredited15 representative of the Bank of England, with calm and absolute assurance.
The effect upon Sophia was mysteriously soothing16. She felt that she was among honest men. The young man raised his head towards her with a questioning, deferential17 gesture.
"Can I see Mr. Boldero?" she asked. "Mrs. Scales."
The young man's face changed instantly to a sympathetic comprehension.
"Yes, madam. I'll fetch him at once," said he, and he disappeared behind the safe. The two customers discussed the watch. Then the door opened in the glass screen, and a portly, aged19" target="_blank">middle-aged18 man showed himself. He was dressed in blue broad-cloth, with a turned- down collar and a small black tie. His waistcoat displayed a plain but heavy gold watch-chain, and his cuff-links were of plain gold. His eye-glasses were gold-rimmed. He had grey hair, beard and moustache, but on the backs of his hands grew a light brown hair. His appearance was strangely mild, dignified20, and confidence- inspiring. He was, in fact, one of the most respected tradesmen in Manchester.
He peered forward, looking over his eye-glasses, which he then took off, holding them up in the air by their short handle. Sophia had approached him.
"Mrs. Scales?" he said, in a very quiet, very benevolent21 voice. Sophia nodded. "Please come this way." He took her hand, squeezing it commiseratingly, and drew her into the sanctum. "I didn't expect you so soon," he said. "I looked up th' trains, and I didn't see how you could get here before six."
Sophia explained.
He led her further, through the private office, into a sort of parlour, and asked her to sit down. And he too sat down. Sophia waited, as it were, like a suitor.
"I'm afraid I've got bad news for you, Mrs. Scales," he said, still in that mild, benevolent voice.
"He's dead?" Sophia asked.
Mr. Till Boldero nodded. "He's dead. I may as well tell you that he had passed away before I telegraphed. It all happened very, very suddenly." He paused. "Very, very suddenly!"
"Yes," said Sophia, weakly. She was conscious of a profound sadness which was not grief, though it resembled grief. And she had also a feeling that she was responsible to Mr. Till Boldero for anything untoward22 that might have occurred to him by reason of Gerald.
"Yes," said Mr. Till Boldero, deliberately23 and softly. "He came in last night just as we were closing. We had very heavy rain here. I don't know how it was with you. He was wet, in a dreadful state, simply dreadful. Of course, I didn't recognize him. I'd never seen him before, so far as my recollection goes. He asked me if I was the son of Mr. Till Boldero that had this shop in 1866. I said I was. 'Well,' he says, 'you're the only connection I've got. My name's Gerald Scales. My mother was your father's cousin. Can you do anything for me?' he says. I could see he was ill. I had him in here. When I found he couldn't eat nor drink I thought I'd happen better send for th' doctor. The doctor got him to bed. He passed away at one o'clock this afternoon. I was very sorry my wife wasn't here to look after things a bit better. But she's at Southport, not well at all."
"What was it?" Sophia asked briefly24.
Mr. Boldero indicated the enigmatic. "Exhaustion25, I suppose," he replied.
"He's here?" demanded Sophia, lifting her eyes to possible bedrooms.
"Yes," said Mr. Boldero. "I suppose you would wish to see him?"
"Yes," said Sophia.
"You haven't seen him for a long time, your sister told me?" Mr. Boldero murmured, sympathetically.
"Not since 'seventy," said Sophia.
"Eh, dear! Eh, dear!" ejaculated Mr. Boldero. "I fear it's been a sad business for ye, Mrs. Scales. Not since 'seventy!" He sighed. "You must take it as well as you can. I'm not one as talks much, but I sympathize, with you. I do that! I wish my wife had been here to receive you."
Tears came into Sophia's eyes.
"Nay26, nay!" he said. "You must bear up now!"
"It's you that make me cry," said Sophia, gratefully. "You were very good to take him in. It must have been exceedingly trying for you."
"Oh," he protested, "you mustn't talk like that. I couldn't leave a Boldero on the pavement, and an old man at that! . . . Oh, to think that if he'd only managed to please his uncle he might ha' been one of the richest men in Lancashire. But then there'd ha' been no Boldero Institute at Strangeways!" he added.
They both sat silent a moment.
"Will you come now? Or will you wait a bit?" asked Mr. Boldero, gently. "Just as you wish. I'm sorry as my wife's away, that I am!"
"I'll come now," said Sophia, firmly. But she was stricken.
He conducted her up a short, dark flight of stairs, which gave on a passage, and at the end of the passage was a door ajar. He pushed the door open. "I'll leave you for a moment," he said, always in the same very restrained tone. "You'll find me downstairs, there, if you want me." And he moved away with hushed, deliberate tread.
Sophia went into the room, of which the white blind was drawn27. She appreciated Mr. Boldero's consideration in leaving her. She was trembling. But when she saw, in the pale gloom, the face of an aged man peeping out from under a white sheet on a naked mattress28, she started back, trembling no more--rather transfixed into an absolute rigidity29. That was no conventional, expected shock that she had received. It was a genuine unforeseen shock, the most violent that she had ever had. In her mind she had not pictured Gerald as a very old man. She knew that he was old; she had said to herself that he must be very old, well over seventy. But she had not pictured him. This face on the bed was painfully, pitiably old. A withered30 face, with the shiny skin all drawn into wrinkles! The stretched skin under the jaw31 was like the skin of a plucked fowl32. The cheek-bones stood up, and below them were deep hollows, almost like egg-cups. A short, scraggy white beard covered the lower part of the face. The hair was scanty33, irregular, and quite white; a little white hair grew in the ears. The shut mouth obviously hid toothless gums, for the lips were sucked in. The eyelids34 were as if pasted down over the eyes, fitting them like kid. All the skin was extremely pallid35; it seemed brittle36. The body, whose outlines were clear under the sheet, was very small, thin, shrunk, pitiable as the face. And on the face was a general expression of final fatigue37, of tragic38 and acute exhaustion; such as made Sophia pleased that the fatigue and exhaustion had been assuaged39 in rest, while all the time she kept thinking to herself horribly: "Oh! how tired he must have been!"
Sophia then experienced a pure and primitive40 emotion, uncoloured by any moral or religious quality. She was not sorry that Gerald had wasted his life, nor that he was a shame to his years and to her. The manner of his life was of no importance. What affected41 her was that he had once been young, and that he had grown old, and was now dead. That was all. Youth and vigour42 had come to that. Youth and vigour always came to that. Everything came to that. He had ill-treated her; he had abandoned her; he had been a devious43 rascal44; but how trivial were such accusations45 against him! The whole of her huge and bitter grievance46 against him fell to pieces and crumbled47. She saw him young, and proud, and strong, as for instance when he had kissed her lying on the bed in that London hotel--she forgot the name--in 1866; and now he was old, and worn, and horrible, and dead. It was the riddle48 of life that was puzzling and killing49 her. By the corner of her eye, reflected in the mirror of a wardrobe near the bed, she glimpsed a tall, forlorn woman, who had once been young and now was old; who had once exulted50 in abundant strength, and trodden proudly on the neck of circumstance, and now was old. He and she had once loved and burned and quarrelled in the glittering and scornful pride of youth. But time had worn them out. "Yet a little while," she thought, "and I shall be lying on a bed like that! And what shall I have lived for? What is the meaning of it?" The riddle of life itself was killing her, and she seemed to drown in a sea of inexpressible sorrow.
Her memory wandered hopelessly among those past years. She saw Chirac with his wistful smile. She saw him whipped over the roof of the Gare du Nord at the tail of a balloon. She saw old Niepce. She felt his lecherous51 arm round her. She was as old now as Niepce had been then. Could she excite lust52 now? Ah! the irony53 of such a question! To be young and seductive, to be able to kindle54 a man's eye--that seemed to her the sole thing desirable. Once she had been so! ... Niepce must certainly have been dead for years. Niepce, the obstinate55 and hopeful voluptuary, was nothing but a few bones in a coffin56 now!
She was acquainted with affliction in that hour. All that she had previously57 suffered sank into insignificance58 by the side of that suffering.
She turned to the veiled window and idly pulled the blind and looked out. Huge red and yellow cars were swimming in thunder along Deansgate; lorries jolted59 and rattled60; the people of Manchester hurried along the pavements, apparently61 unconscious that all their doings were vain. Yesterday he too had been in Deansgate, hungry for life, hating the idea of death! What a figure he must have made! Her heart dissolved in pity for him. She dropped the blind.
"My life has been too terrible!" she thought. "I wish I was dead. I have been through too much. It is monstrous62, and I cannot stand it. I do not want to die, but I wish I was dead."
There was a discreet63 knock on the door.
"Come in," she said, in a calm, resigned, cheerful voice. The sound had recalled her with the swiftness of a miracle to the unconquerable dignity of human pride.
Mr. Till Boldero entered.
"I should like you to come downstairs and drink a cup of tea," he said. He was a marvel64 of tact65 and good nature. "My wife is unfortunately not here, and the house is rather at sixes and sevens; but I have sent out for some tea."
She followed him downstairs into the parlour. He poured out a cup of tea.
"I was forgetting," she said. "I am forbidden tea. I mustn't drink it."
She looked at the cup, tremendously tempted66. She longed for tea. An occasional transgression67 could not harm her. But no! She would not drink it.
"Then what can I get you?"
"If I could have just milk and water," she said meekly68.
Mr. Boldero emptied the cup into the slop basin, and began to fill it again.
"Did he tell you anything?" she asked, after a considerable silence.
"Nothing," said Mr. Boldero in his low, soothing tones. "Nothing except that he had come from Liverpool. Judging from his shoes I should say he must have walked a good bit of the way."
"At his age!" murmured Sophia, touched.
"Yes," sighed Mr. Boldero. "He must have been in great straits. You know, he could scarcely talk at all. By the way, here are his clothes. I have had them put aside."
Sophia saw a small pile of clothes on a chair. She examined the suit, which was still damp, and its woeful shabbiness pained her. The linen69 collar was nearly black, its stud of bone. As for the boots, she had noticed such boots on the feet of tramps. She wept now. These were the clothes of him who had once been a dandy living at the rate of fifty pounds a week.
"No luggage or anything, of course?" she muttered.
"No," said Mr. Boldero. "In the pockets there was nothing whatever but this."
He went to the mantelpiece and picked up a cheap, cracked letter case, which Sophia opened. In it were a visiting card--'Senorita Clemenzia Borja'--and a bill-head of the Hotel of the Holy Spirit, Concepcion del Uruguay, on the back of which a lot of figures had been scrawled70.
"One would suppose," said Mr. Boldero, "that he had come from South America."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing."
Gerald's soul had not been compelled to abandon much in the haste of its flight.
A servant announced that Mrs. Scales's friends were waiting for her outside in the motor-car. Sophia glanced at Mr. Till Boldero with an exacerbated71 anxiety on her face.
"Surely they don't expect me to go back with them tonight!" she said. "And look at all there is to be done!"
Mr. Till Boldero's kindness was then redoubled. "You can do nothing for HIM now," he said. "Tell me your wishes about the funeral. I will arrange everything. Go back to your sister to- night. She will be nervous about you. And return tomorrow or the day after. ... No! It's no trouble, I assure you!"
She yielded.
Thus towards eight o'clock, when Sophia had eaten a little under Mr. Boldero's superintendence, and the pawnshop was shut up, the motor-car started again for Bursley, Lily Holl being beside her lover and Sophia alone in the body of the car. Sophia had told them nothing of the nature of her mission. She was incapable72 of talking to them. They saw that she was in a condition of serious mental disturbance73. Under cover of the noise of the car, Lily said to Dick that she was sure Mrs. Scales was ill, and Dick, putting his lips together, replied that he meant to be in King Street at nine-thirty at the latest. From time to time Lily surreptitiously glanced at Sophia--a glance of apprehensive74 inspection75, or smiled at her silently; and Sophia vaguely76 responded to the smile.
In half an hour they had escaped from the ring of Manchester and were on the county roads of Cheshire, polished, flat, sinuous77. It was the season of the year when there is no night--only daylight and twilight78; when the last silver of dusk remains79 obstinately80 visible for hours. And in the open country, under the melancholy81 arch of evening, the sadness of the earth seemed to possess Sophia anew. Only then did she realize the intensity82 of the ordeal83 through which she was passing.
To the south of Congleton one of the tyres softened84, immediately after Dick had lighted his lamps. He stopped the car and got down again. They were two miles Astbury, the nearest village. He had just, with the resignation of experience, reached for the tool- bag, when Lily exclaimed: "Is she asleep, or what?" Sophia was not asleep, but she was apparently not conscious.
It was a difficult and a trying situation for two lovers. Their voices changed momentarily to the tone of alarm and consternation85, and then grew firm again. Sophia showed life but not reason. Lily could feel the poor old lady's heart.
"Well, there's nothing for it!" said Dick, briefly, when all their efforts failed to rouse her.
"What--shall you do?"
"Go straight home as quick as I can on three tyres. We must get her over to this side, and you must hold her. Like that we shall keep the weight off the other side."
He pitched back the tool-bag into its box. Lily admired his decision.
It was in this order, no longer under the spell of the changing beauty of nocturnal landscapes, that they finished the journey. Constance had opened the door before the car came to a stop in the gloom of King Street. The young people considered that she bore the shock well, though the carrying into the house of Sophia's inert86, twitching87 body, with its hat forlornly awry88, was a sight to harrow a soul sturdier than Constance.
When that was done, Dick said curtly89: "I'm off. You stay here, of course."
"Where are you going?" asked Lily.
"Doctor!" snapped Dick, hobbling rapidly down the steps.
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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enamels
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| 搪瓷( enamel的名词复数 )； 珐琅； 釉药； 瓷漆 | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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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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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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accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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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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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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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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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lecherous
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| adj.好色的；淫邪的 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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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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transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exacerbated
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| v.使恶化，使加重( exacerbate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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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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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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