Mr. Moze had left Miss Ingate in the study and Audrey had cautiously rejoined her there.
“Another woman in the house!” repeated Miss Ingate, sitting down in happy expectation. “What on earth do you mean? Who on earth do you mean?”
“I mean me.”
“You aren’t a woman, Audrey.”
“I’m just as much of a woman as you are. All father’s behaviour proves it.”
“But your father treats you as a child.”
“No, he doesn’t. He treats me as a woman. If he thought I was a child he wouldn’t have anything to worry about. I’m over nineteen.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Of course I don’t. But I could if I liked. I simply won’t look it because I don’t care to be made ridiculous. I should start to look my age at once if father stopped treating me like a child.”
“But you’ve just said he treats you as a woman!”
“You don’t understand, Winnie,” said the girl sharply. “Unless you’re pretending. Now you’ve never told me anything about yourself, and I’ve always told you lots about myself. You belong to an old-fashioned family. How were you treated when you were my age?”
“In what way?”
“You know what way,” said Audrey, gazing at her.
“Well, my dear. Things seemed to come very naturally, somehow.”
“Were you ever engaged?”
“Me? Oh, no!” answered Miss Ingate with tranquillity1. “I’m vehy interested in them. Oh, vehy! Oh, vehy! And I like talking to them. But anything more than that gets on my nerves. My eldest2 sister was the one. Oh! She was the one. She refused eleven men, and when she was going to be married she made me embroider3 the monograms4 of all of them on the skirt of her wedding-dress. She made me, and I had to do it. I sat up all night the night before the wedding to finish them.”
“And what did the bridegroom say about it?”
“The bridegroom didn’t say anything about it because he didn’t know. Nobody knew except Arabella and me. She just wanted to feel that the monograms were on her dress, that was all.”
“How strange!”
“Yes, it was. But this is a vehy strange part of the world.”
“And what happened afterwards?”
“Bella died when she had her first baby, and the baby died as well. And the father’s dead now, too.”
“She was vehy uncommon6. But I liked her too. I don’t know why, but I did. She could make the best marmalade I ever tasted in my born days.”
“I could make the best marmalade you ever tasted in your born days,” said Audrey, sinking neatly7 to the floor and crossing her legs, “but they won’t let me.”
“Won’t let you! But I thought you did all sorts of things in the house.”
“No, Winnie. I only do one thing. I do as I’m told—and not always even that. Now, if I wanted to make the best marmalade you ever tasted in your born days, first of all there would be a fearful row about the oranges. Secondly8, father would tell mother she must tell me exactly what I was to do. He would also tell cook. Thirdly and lastly, dear friends, he would come into the kitchen himself. It wouldn’t be my marmalade at all. I should only be a marmalade-making machine. They never let me have any responsibility—no, not even when mother’s operation was on—and I’m never officially free. The kitchen-maid has far more responsibility than I have. And she has an evening off and an afternoon off. She can write a letter without everybody asking her who she’s writing to. She’s only seventeen. She has the morning postman for a young man now, and probably one or two others that I don’t know of. And she has money and she buys her own clothes. She’s a very naughty, wicked girl, and I wish I was in her place. She scorns me, naturally. Who wouldn’t?”
Miss Ingate said not a word. She merely sat with her hands in the lap of her spotted9 pale-blue dress, faintly and sadly smiling.
Audrey burst out:
“Miss Ingate, what can I do? I must do something. What can I do?”
Miss Ingate shook her head, and put her lips tightly together, while mechanically smoothing the sides of her grey coat.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It beats me.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I can do!” answered Audrey firmly, wriggling10 somewhat nearer to her along the floor. “And what I shall do.”
“What?”
“Will you promise to keep it a secret?”
Miss Ingate nodded, smiling and showing her teeth. Her broad polished forehead positively11 shone with kindly12 eagerness.
“Will you swear?”
Miss Ingate hesitated, and then nodded again.
“Then put your hand on my head and say, ‘I swear.’”
Miss Ingate obeyed.
“I shall leave this house,” said Audrey in a low voice.
“You won’t, Audrey!”
“I’ll eat my hand off if I’ve not left this house by to-morrow, anyway.”
“To-morrow!” Miss Ingate nearly screamed. “Now, Audrey, do reflect. Think what you are!”
Audrey bounded to her feet.
“That’s what father’s always saying,” she exploded angrily. “He’s always telling me to examine myself. The fact is, I know too much about myself. I know exactly the kind of girl it is who’s going to leave this house. Exactly!”
“Audrey, you frighten me. Where are you going to?”
“London.”
“Oh! That’s all right then. I am relieved. I thought perhaps you waited to come to my house. You won’t get to London, because you haven’t any money.”
“Oh, yes, I have. I’ve got a hundred pounds.”
“Where?”
“Remember, you’ve sworn.... Here!” she cried suddenly, and drawing her hand from behind her back she most sensationally13 displayed a crushed roll of bank-notes.
“And who did you get those from?”
“I didn’t get them from anybody. I got them out of father’s safe. They’re his reserve. He keeps them right at the back of the left-hand drawer, and he’s so sure they’re there that he never looks for them. He thinks he’s a perfect model, but really he’s careless. There’s a duplicate key to the safe, you know, and he leaves it with a lot of other keys loose in his desk. I expect he thought nobody would ever dream of guessing it was a key of the safe. I know he never looked at this roll, because I’ve been opening the safe every day for weeks past, and the roll was always the same. In fact, it was dusty. Then to-day I decided14 to take it, and here you are! He finished himself off yesterday, so far as I’m concerned, with the business about the punt.”
“But do you know you’re a thief, Audrey?” breathed Miss Ingate, extremely embarrassed, and for once somewhat staggered by the vagaries15 of human nature.
“You seem to forget, Miss Ingate,” said Audrey solemnly, “that Cousin Caroline left me a legacy16 of two hundred pounds last year, and that I’ve never seen a penny of it. Father absolutely declined to let me have the tiniest bit of it. Well, I’ve taken half. He can keep the other half for his trouble.”
Miss Ingate’s mouth stood open, and her eyes seemed startled.
“But you can’t go to London alone. You wouldn’t know what to do.”
“Yes, I should. I’ve arranged everything. I shall wear my best clothes. When I arrive at Liverpool Street I shall take a taxi. I’ve got three addresses of boarding-houses out of the Daily Telegraph, and they’re all in Bloomsbury, W.C. I shall have lessons in shorthand and typewriting at Pitman’s School, and then I shall get a situation. My name will be Vavasour.”
“But you’ll be caught.”
“I shan’t. I shall book to Ipswich first and begin again from there. Girls like me aren’t so easy to catch as all that.”
“You’re vehy cunning.”
“I get that from mother. She’s most frightfully cunning with father.”
“Audrey,” said Miss Ingate with a strange grin, “I don’t know how I can sit here and listen to you. You’ll ruin me with your father, because if you go I’m sure I shall never be able to keep from him that I knew all about it.”
“Then you shouldn’t have sworn,” retorted Audrey. “But I’m glad you did swear, because I had to tell somebody, and there was nobody but you.”
Miss Ingate might possibly have contrived17 to employ some of that sagacity in which she took a secret pride upon a very critical and urgent situation, had not Mrs. Moze, with a white handkerchief wrapped round her forehead, at that moment come into the room. Immediately the study was full of neuralgia and eau-de-Cologne.
When Mrs. Moze and Miss Ingate at length recovered from the tenderness of meeting each other after a separation of ten days or more, Audrey had vanished like an illusion. She was not afraid of her mother; and she could trust Miss Ingate, though Miss Ingate and Mrs. Moze were dangerously intimate; but she was too self-conscious to remain in the presence of her fellow-creatures; and in spite of her faith in Miss Ingate she thought of the spinster as of a vase filled now with a fatal liquor which by any accident might spill and spread ruin—so that she could scarcely bear to look upon Miss Ingate.
At the back of the house a young Pomeranian dog, which had recently solaced18 Miss Ingate in the loss of a Pekingese done to death by a spinster’s too-nourishing love, was prancing19 on his four springs round the chained yard-dog, his friend and patron. In a series of marvellous short bounds, he followed Audrey with yapping eagerness down the slope of the garden; and the yard-dog, aware that none but the omnipotent20 deity21, Mr. Moze, sole source of good and evil, had the right to loose him, turned round once and laid himself flat and long on the ground, sighing.
The garden, after developing into an orchard22 and deteriorating23 into a scraggy plantation24, ended in a low wall that was at about the level of the sea-wall and separated from it by a water-course and a strip of very green meadow. Audrey glanced instinctively25 back at the house to see if anybody was watching her.
Flank Hall, which for a hundred years had been called “the new hall,” was a seemly Georgian residence, warm in colour, with some quaint26 woodwork; and like most such buildings in Essex, it made a very happy marriage with the landscape. Its dormers and fine chimneys glowed amid the dark bare trees, and they alone would have captivated a Londoner possessing those precious attributes, fortunately ever spreading among the enlightened middle-classes, a motor-car, a cultured taste in architecture, and a desire to enter the squirearchy. Audrey loathed27 the house. For her it was the last depth of sordidness28 and the commonplace. She could imagine positively nothing less romantic. She thought of the ground floor on chill March mornings with no fires anywhere save a red gleam in the dining-room, and herself wandering about in it idle, at a loss for a diversion, an ambition, an effort, a real task; and she thought of the upper floor, a mainly unoccupied wilderness29 of iron bedsteads and yellow chests of drawers and chipped earthenware30 and islands of carpets, and her mother plaintively31 and weariedly arguing with some servant over a slop-pail in a corner. The images of the interior, indelibly printed in her soul, desolated32 her.
Mozewater she loved, and every souvenir of it was exquisite—red barges33 beating miraculously34 up the shallow puddles35 to Moze Quay36, equinoctial spring-tides when the estuary37 was a tremendous ocean covered with foam38 and the sea-wall felt the light lash39 of spray, thunderstorms in autumn gathering40 over the yellow melancholy41 of deathlike sunsets, wild birds crying across miles of uncovered mud at early morning and duck-hunters crouching42 in punts behind a waving screen of delicate grasses to wing them, and the mysterious shapes of steamers and warships43 in the offing beyond the Sand.... The sail of the receding44 yacht gleamed now against the Sand, and its flashing broke her heart; for it was the flashing of freedom. She thought of the yachtsman; he was very courteous45 and deferential46; a mild creature; he had behaved to her as to a woman.... Oh! To be the petted and capricious wife of such a man, to nod commands, to enslave with a smile, to want a thing and instantly to have it, to be consulted and to decide, to spend with large gestures, to be charitable, to be adored by those whom you had saved from disaster, to increase happiness wherever you went ... and to be free!....
The little dog jumped up at her because he was tired of being ignored, and she caught him and kissed him again and again passionately47, and he wriggled48 with ecstasy49 and licked her ears with all the love in him. And in kissing him she kissed grave and affectionate husbands, she kissed the lovely scenery of the Sound, and she kissed the magnificent ideal of emancipation50. But the dog had soon had enough of her arms; he broke free, sprang, alighted, and rolled over, and arose sniffing51, with earth on his black muzzle52....
He looked up at her inquiringly.... Strange, short-frocked blue figure looking down at him! She had a bulging53 forehead; her brown eyes were tunnelled underneath54 it. But what living eyes, what ardent55 eyes, that blazed up and sank like a fire! What delicate and exact mirrors of the secret traffic between her soul and the soul of the world! She had full cheeks, and a large mouth ripe red, inviting56 and provocative57. In the midst, an absurd small unprominent nose that meant nothing! Her complexion58 was divine, surpassing all similes59. To caress60 that smooth downy cheek (if you looked close you could see the infinitesimal down against the light like an aura on the edge of the silhouette), even to let the gaze dwell on it, what an enchantment61!... She considered herself piquant62 and comely63, and she was not deceived. She had long hands.
The wind from afar on her cheek reminded her poignantly64 that she was a prisoner. She could not go to the clustered village on the left, nor into the saltings on the right, nor even on to the sea-wall where the new rushes and grasses were showing. All the estuary was barred, and the winding65 road that mounted the slope towards Colchester. Her revolt against injustice66 was savage67. Hatred68 of her father surged up in her like glittering lava69. She had long since ceased to try to comprehend him. She despised herself because she was unreasonably70 afraid of him, ridiculously mute before him. She could not understand how anybody could be friendly with him—for was he not notorious? Yet everywhere he was greeted with respect and smiles, and he would chat at length with all manner of people on a note of mild and smooth cordiality. He and Miss Ingate would enjoy together the most enormous talks. She was, however, aware that Miss Ingate’s opinion of him was not very different from her own. Each time she saw her father and Miss Ingate in communion she would say in her heart to Miss Ingate: “You are disloyal to me.” ...
Was it possible that she had confided71 to Miss Ingate her fearful secret? The conversation appeared to her unreal now. She went over her plan. In the afternoon her father was always out, and to-morrow afternoon her mother would be out too. She would have a few things in a light bag that she could carry—her mother’s bag! She would put on her best clothes and a veil from her mother’s wardrobe. She would take the 4.5 p.m. train. The stationmaster would be at his tea then. Only the booking-clerk and the porter would see her, and neither would dare to make an observation. She would ask for a return ticket to Ipswich; that would allay72 suspicion, and at Ipswich she would book again. She had cut out the addresses of the boarding-houses. She would have to buy things in London. She knew of two shops—Harrod’s and Shoolbred’s; she had seen their catalogues. And the very next morning after arrival she would go to Pitman’s School. She would change the first of the £5 notes at the station and ask for plenty of silver. She glanced at the unlimited73 wealth still crushed in her hand, and then she carefully dropped the fortune down the neck of her frock.... Stealing? She repulsed74 the idea with violent disdain75. What she had accomplished76 against her father was not a crime, but a vengeance77.... She would never be found in London. It was impossible. Her plan seemed to her to be perfect in each detail, except one. She was not the right sort of girl to execute it. She was very shy. She suspected that no other girl could really be as shy as she was. She recalled dreadful rare moments with her mother in strange drawing-rooms. Still, she would execute the plan even if she died of fright. A force within her would compel her to execute it. This force did not make for happiness; on the contrary, it uncomfortably scared her; but it was irresistible78.
Something on the brow of the road from Colchester attracted her attention. It was a handcart, pushed by a labourer and by Police Inspector79 Keeble, whom she liked. Following the handcart over the brow came a loose procession of villagers, which included no children, because the children were in school. Except on a Sunday Audrey had never before seen a procession of villagers, and these villagers must have been collected out of the fields, for the procession was going in the direction of, and not away from, the village. The handcart was covered with a tarpaulin80.... She knew what had happened; she knew infallibly. Skirting the boundary of the grounds, she reached the main entrance to Flank Hall thirty seconds before the handcart. The little dog, delighted in a new adventure, yapped ecstatically at her heels, and then bounded onwards to meet the Inspector and the handcart.
“Run and tell yer mother, Miss Moze,” Inspector Keeble called out in a carrying whisper. “There’s been an accident. He ditched the car near Ardleigh cross-roads, trying to avoid some fowls81.”
Audrey glanced an instant with a sick qualm at the outlines of the shape beneath the tarpaulin, and ran.
In the dining-room, over the speck83 of fire, Mrs. Moze and Miss Ingate were locked in a deep intimate gossip.
“Mother!” cried Audrey, and then sank like a sack.
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1
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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embroider
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| v.刺绣于(布)上；给…添枝加叶，润饰 | |
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monograms
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| n.字母组合( monogram的名词复数 ) | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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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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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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sensationally
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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deteriorating
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的现在分词 ) | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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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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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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warships
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| 军舰，战舰( warship的名词复数 )； 舰只 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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45
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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47
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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48
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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49
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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50
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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51
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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52
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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53
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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54
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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55
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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56
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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57
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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58
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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poignantly
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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