The sun of that same day going down, dusk was saluted1 as usualat the hotel by an instantaneous sparkle of electric lights.
The hours between dinner and bedtime were always difficult enoughto kill, and the night after the dance they were further tarnishedby the peevishness2 of dissipation. Certainly, in the opinionof Hirst and Hewet, who lay back in long arm-chairs in the middleof the hall, with their coffee-cups beside them, and their cigarettesin their hands, the evening was unusually dull, the women unusuallybadly dressed, the men unusually fatuous3. Moreover, when the mailhad been distributed half an hour ago there were no letters foreither of the two young men. As every other person, practically,had received two or three plump letters from England, which theywere now engaged in reading, this seemed hard, and promptedHirst to make the caustic5 remark that the animals had been fed.
Their silence, he said, reminded him of the silence in the lion-housewhen each beast holds a lump of raw meat in its paws. He went on,stimulated by this comparison, to liken some to hippopotamuses,some to canary birds, some to swine, some to parrots, and some toloathsome reptiles6 curled round the half-decayed bodies of sheep.
The intermittent7 sounds--now a cough, now a horrible wheezingor throat-clearing, now a little patter of conversation--were just,he declared, what you hear if you stand in the lion-house when thebones are being mauled. But these comparisons did not rouse Hewet,who, after a careless glance round the room, fixed9 his eyes upona thicket10 of native spears which were so ingeniously arrangedas to run their points at you whichever way you approached them.
He was clearly oblivious11 of his surroundings; whereupon Hirst,perceiving that Hewet's mind was a complete blank, fixed hisattention more closely upon his fellow-creatures. He was too farfrom them, however, to hear what they were saying, but it pleased himto construct little theories about them from their gestures and appearance.
Mrs. Thornbury had received a great many letters. She was completelyengrossed in them. When she had finished a page she handed itto her husband, or gave him the sense of what she was reading in aseries of short quotations12 linked together by a sound at the backof her throat. "Evie writes that George has gone to Glasgow.
'He finds Mr. Chadbourne so nice to work with, and we hope to spendChristmas together, but I should not like to move Betty and Alfredany great distance (no, quite right), though it is difficultto imagine cold weather in this heat. . . . Eleanor and Rogerdrove over in the new trap. . . . Eleanor certainly looked morelike herself than I've seen her since the winter. She has put Babyon three bottles now, which I'm sure is wise (I'm sure it is too),and so gets better nights. . . . My hair still falls out. I find iton the pillow! But I am cheered by hearing from Tottie Hall Green.
. . . Muriel is in Torquay enjoying herself greatly at dances.
She _is_ going to show her black put after all.' . . . A linefrom Herbert--so busy, poor fellow! Ah! Margaret says, 'Poor oldMrs. Fairbank died on the eighth, quite suddenly in the conservatory,only a maid in the house, who hadn't the presence of mind to lifther up, which they think might have saved her, but the doctor saysit might have come at any moment, and one can only feel thankfulthat it was in the house and not in the street (I should think so!).
The pigeons have increased terribly, just as the rabbits did fiveyears ago . . .'" While she read her husband kept nodding his headvery slightly, but very steadily13 in sign of approval.
Near by, Miss Allan was reading her letters too. They were notaltogether pleasant, as could be seen from the slight rigiditywhich came over her large fine face as she finished reading themand replaced them neatly14 in their envelopes. The lines of careand responsibility on her face made her resemble an elderly manrather than a woman. The letters brought her news of the failureof last year's fruit crop in New Zealand, which was a serious matter,for Hubert, her only brother, made his living on a fruit farm,and if it failed again, of course, he would throw up his place,come back to England, and what were they to do with him this time?
The journey out here, which meant the loss of a term's work,became an extravagance and not the just and wonderful holiday dueto her after fifteen years of punctual lecturing and correctingessays upon English literature. Emily, her sister, who was ateacher also, wrote: "We ought to be prepared, though I have nodoubt Hubert will be more reasonable this time." And then wenton in her sensible way to say that she was enjoying a very jollytime in the Lakes. "They are looking exceedingly pretty just now.
I have seldom seen the trees so forward at this time of year.
We have taken our lunch out several days. Old Alice is as young as ever,and asks after every one affectionately. The days pass very quickly,and term will soon be here. Political prospects15 _not_ good,I think privately16, but do not like to damp Ellen's enthusiasm.
Lloyd George has taken the Bill up, but so have many before now,and we are where we are; but trust to find myself mistaken.
Anyhow, we have our work cut out for us. . . . Surely Meredithlacks the _human_ note one likes in W. W.?" she concluded, and wenton to discuss some questions of English literature which Miss Allanhad raised in her last letter.
At a little distance from Miss Allan, on a seat shaded and madesemi-private by a thick clump17 of palm trees, Arthur and Susanwere reading each other's letters. The big slashing18 manuscriptsof hockey-playing young women in Wiltshire lay on Arthur's knee,while Susan deciphered tight little legal hands which rarely filledmore than a page, and always conveyed the same impression of jocularand breezy goodwill19.
"I do hope Mr. Hutchinson will like me, Arthur," she said, looking up.
"Who's your loving Flo?" asked Arthur.
"Flo Graves--the girl I told you about, who was engaged to thatdreadful Mr. Vincent," said Susan. "Is Mr. Hutchinson married?"she asked.
Already her mind was busy with benevolent20 plans for her friends,or rather with one magnificent plan--which was simple too--they were all to get married--at once--directly she got back.
Marriage, marriage that was the right thing, the only thing,the solution required by every one she knew, and a great part ofher meditations21 was spent in tracing every instance of discomfort,loneliness, ill-health, unsatisfied ambition, restlessness, eccentricity22,taking things up and dropping them again, public speaking,and philanthropic activity on the part of men and particularlyon the part of women to the fact that they wanted to marry,were trying to marry, and had not succeeded in getting married.
If, as she was bound to own, these symptoms sometimes persistedafter marriage, she could only ascribe them to the unhappy lawof nature which decreed that there was only one Arthur Venning,and only one Susan who could marry him. Her theory, of course,had the merit of being fully23 supported by her own case. She hadbeen vaguely24 uncomfortable at home for two or three years now,and a voyage like this with her selfish old aunt, who paid her farebut treated her as servant and companion in one, was typical of thekind of thing people expected of her. Directly she became engaged,Mrs. Paley behaved with instinctive25 respect, positively26 protestedwhen Susan as usual knelt down to lace her shoes, and appeared reallygrateful for an hour of Susan's company where she had been used toexact two or three as her right. She therefore foresaw a life of fargreater comfort than she had been used to, and the change had alreadyproduced a great increase of warmth in her feelings towards other people.
It was close on twenty years now since Mrs. Paley had been ableto lace her own shoes or even to see them, the disappearance27 ofher feet having coincided more or less accurately28 with the deathof her husband, a man of business, soon after which event Mrs. Paleybegan to grow stout29. She was a selfish, independent old woman,possessed30 of a considerable income, which she spent upon the upkeepof a house that needed seven servants and a charwoman in LancasterGate, and another with a garden and carriage-horses in Surrey.
Susan's engagement relieved her of the one great anxiety of her life--that her son Christopher should "entangle31 himself" with his cousin.
Now that this familiar source of interest was removed, she felta little low and inclined to see more in Susan than she used to.
She had decided32 to give her a very handsome wedding present, a chequefor two hundred, two hundred and fifty, or possibly, conceivably--it depended upon the under-gardener and Huths' bill for doing upthe drawing-room--three hundred pounds sterling33.
She was thinking of this very question, revolving34 the figures,as she sat in her wheeled chair with a table spread with cardsby her side. The Patience had somehow got into a muddle35, and shedid not like to call for Susan to help her, as Susan seemed to bebusy with Arthur.
"She's every right to expect a handsome present from me, of course,"she thought, looking vaguely at the leopard36 on its hind37 legs,"and I've no doubt she does! Money goes a long way with every one.
The young are very selfish. If I were to die, nobody would miss mebut Dakyns, and she'll be consoled by the will! However, I've gotno reason to complain. . . . I can still enjoy myself. I'm nota burden to any-one. . . . I like a great many things a good deal,in spite of my legs."Being slightly depressed38, however, she went on to think of the onlypeople she had known who had not seemed to her at all selfishor fond of money, who had seemed to her somehow rather finer thanthe general run; people she willingly acknowledged, who were finerthan she was. There were only two of them. One was her brother,who had been drowned before her eyes, the other was a girl,her greatest friend, who had died in giving birth to her first child.
These things had happened some fifty years ago.
"They ought not to have died," she thought. "However, they did--and we selfish old creatures go on." The tears came to her eyes;she felt a genuine regret for them, a kind of respect for their youthand beauty, and a kind of shame for herself; but the tears did not fall;and she opened one of those innumerable novels which she usedto pronounce good or bad, or pretty middling, or really wonderful.
"I can't think how people come to imagine such things," she would say,taking off her spectacles and looking up with the old faded eyes,that were becoming ringed with white.
Just behind the stuffed leopard Mr. Elliot was playing chess withMr. Pepper. He was being defeated, naturally, for Mr. Pepper scarcelytook his eyes off the board, and Mr. Elliot kept leaning back in hischair and throwing out remarks to a gentleman who had only arrivedthe night before, a tall handsome man, with a head resembling the headof an intellectual ram41. After a few remarks of a general naturehad passed, they were discovering that they knew some of the same people,as indeed had been obvious from their appearance directly they saw each other.
"Ah yes, old Truefit," said Mr. Elliot. "He has a son at Oxford42.
I've often stayed with them. It's a lovely old Jacobean house.
Some exquisite43 Greuzes--one or two Dutch pictures which the oldboy kept in the cellars. Then there were stacks upon stacksof prints. Oh, the dirt in that house! He was a miser44, you know.
The boy married a daughter of Lord Pinwells. I know them too.
The collecting mania45 tends to run in families. This chap collectsbuckles--men's shoe-buckles they must be, in use between the years1580 and 1660; the dates mayn't be right, but fact's as I say.
Your true collector always has some unaccountable fad40 of that kind.
On other points he's as level-headed as a breeder of shorthorns,which is what he happens to be. Then the Pinwells, as you probably know,have their share of eccentricity too. Lady Maud, for instance--"he was interrupted here by the necessity of considering hismove,--"Lady Maud has a horror of cats and clergymen, and peoplewith big front teeth. I've heard her shout across a table,'Keep your mouth shut, Miss Smith; they're as yellow as carrots!'
across a table, mind you. To me she's always been civility itself.
She dabbles46 in literature, likes to collect a few of us in herdrawing-room, but mention a clergyman, a bishop47 even, nay,the Archbishop himself, and she gobbles like a turkey-cock. I'vebeen told it's a family feud--something to do with an ancestor inthe reign48 of Charles the First. Yes," he continued, suffering checkafter check, "I always like to know something of the grandmothersof our fashionable young men. In my opinion they preserve allthat we admire in the eighteenth century, with the advantage,in the majority of cases, that they are personally clean. Not thatone would insult old Lady Barborough by calling her clean. How oftend'you think, Hilda," he called out to his wife, "her ladyship takesa bath?""I should hardly like to say, Hugh," Mrs. Elliot tittered,"but wearing puce velvet50, as she does even on the hottest August day,it somehow doesn't show.""Pepper, you have me," said Mr. Elliot. "My chess is even worsethan I remembered." He accepted his defeat with great equanimity,because he really wished to talk.
He drew his chair beside Mr. Wilfrid Flushing, the newcomer.
"Are these at all in your line?" he asked, pointing at a case in frontof them, where highly polished crosses, jewels, and bits of embroidery,the work of the natives, were displayed to tempt51 visitors.
"Shams, all of them," said Mr. Flushing briefly52. "This rug,now, isn't at all bad." He stopped and picked up a pieceof the rug at their feet. "Not old, of course, but the designis quite in the right tradition. Alice, lend me your brooch.
See the difference between the old work and the new."A lady, who was reading with great concentration, unfastened her broochand gave it to her husband without looking at him or acknowledgingthe tentative bow which Mr. Elliot was desirous of giving her.
If she had listened, she might have been amused by the reference to oldLady Barborough, her great-aunt, but, oblivious of her surroundings,she went on reading.
The clock, which had been wheezing8 for some minutes like an oldman preparing to cough, now struck nine. The sound slightlydisturbed certain somnolent53 merchants, government officials,and men of independent means who were lying back in their chairs,chatting, smoking, ruminating54 about their affairs, with their eyeshalf shut; they raised their lids for an instant at the sound and thenclosed them again. They had the appearance of crocodiles so fullygorged by their last meal that the future of the world gives themno anxiety whatever. The only disturbance55 in the placid56 brightroom was caused by a large moth49 which shot from light to light,whizzing over elaborate heads of hair, and causing several young womento raise their hands nervously57 and exclaim, "Some one ought to kill it!"Absorbed in their own thoughts, Hewet and Hirst had not spokenfor a long time.
When the clock struck, Hirst said:
"Ah, the creatures begin to stir. . . ." He watched themraise themselves, look about them, and settle down again.
"What I abhor59 most of all," he concluded, "is the female breast.
Imagine being Venning and having to get into bed with Susan!
But the really repulsive60 thing is that they feel nothing at all--about what I do when I have a hot bath. They're gross, they're absurd,they're utterly61 intolerable!"So saying, and drawing no reply from Hewet, he proceeded to thinkabout himself, about science, about Cambridge, about the Bar,about Helen and what she thought of him, until, being very tired,he was nodding off to sleep.
Suddenly Hewet woke him up.
"How d'you know what you feel, Hirst?""Are you in love?" asked Hirst. He put in his eyeglass.
"Don't be a fool," said Hewet.
"Well, I'll sit down and think about it," said Hirst. "One reallyought to. If these people would only think about things,the world would be a far better place for us all to live in.
Are you trying to think?"That was exactly what Hewet had been doing for the last half-hour,but he did not find Hirst sympathetic at the moment.
"I shall go for a walk," he said.
"Remember we weren't in bed last night," said Hirst with a prodigious62 yawn.
Hewet rose and stretched himself.
"I want to go and get a breath of air," he said.
An unusual feeling had been bothering him all the evening and forbiddinghim to settle into any one train of thought. It was precisely63 as if hehad been in the middle of a talk which interested him profoundly whensome one came up and interrupted him. He could not finish the talk,and the longer he sat there the more he wanted to finish it.
As the talk that had been interrupted was a talk with Rachel,he had to ask himself why he felt this, and why he wanted to go ontalking to her. Hirst would merely say that he was in love with her.
But he was not in love with her. Did love begin in that way,with the wish to go on talking? No. It always began in his case withdefinite physical sensations, and these were now absent, he did noteven find her physically64 attractive. There was something, of course,unusual about her--she was young, inexperienced, and inquisitive,they had been more open with each other than was usually possible.
He always found girls interesting to talk to, and surely thesewere good reasons why he should wish to go on talking to her;and last night, what with the crowd and the confusion, he hadonly been able to begin to talk to her. What was she doing now?
Lying on a sofa and looking at the ceiling, perhaps. He couldimagine her doing that, and Helen in an arm-chair, with her handson the arm of it, so--looking ahead of her, with her great big eyes--oh no, they'd be talking, of course, about the dance. But supposeRachel was going away in a day or two, suppose this was the endof her visit, and her father had arrived in one of the steamersanchored in the bay,--it was intolerable to know so little.
Therefore he exclaimed, "How d'you know what you feel, Hirst?" to stophimself from thinking.
But Hirst did not help him, and the other people with their aimlessmovements and their unknown lives were disturbing, so that he longedfor the empty darkness. The first thing he looked for when he steppedout of the hall door was the light of the Ambroses' villa65. When hehad definitely decided that a certain light apart from the othershigher up the hill was their light, he was considerably66 reassured67.
There seemed to be at once a little stability in all this incoherence.
Without any definite plan in his head, he took the turning to the rightand walked through the town and came to the wall by the meetingof the roads, where he stopped. The booming of the sea was audible.
The dark-blue mass of the mountains rose against the paler blueof the sky. There was no moon, but myriads68 of stars, and lightswere anchored up and down in the dark waves of earth all round him.
He had meant to go back, but the single light of the Ambroses'
villa had now become three separate lights, and he was tempted69 to go on.
He might as well make sure that Rachel was still there. Walking fast,he soon stood by the iron gate of their garden, and pushed it open;the outline of the house suddenly appeared sharply before his eyes,and the thin column of the verandah cutting across the palely litgravel of the terrace. He hesitated. At the back of the housesome one was rattling70 cans. He approached the front; the light onthe terrace showed him that the sitting-rooms were on that side.
He stood as near the light as he could by the corner of the house,the leaves of a creeper brushing his face. After a moment he couldhear a voice. The voice went on steadily; it was not talking,but from the continuity of the sound it was a voice reading aloud.
He crept a little closer; he crumpled71 the leaves together so as tostop their rustling72 about his ears. It might be Rachel's voice.
He left the shadow and stepped into the radius73 of the light, and thenheard a sentence spoken quite distinctly.
"And there we lived from the year 1860 to 1895, the happiest yearsof my parents' lives, and there in 1862 my brother Maurice was born,to the delight of his parents, as he was destined74 to be the delightof all who knew him."The voice quickened, and the tone became conclusive75 rising slightlyin pitch, as if these words were at the end of the chapter.
Hewet drew back again into the shadow. There was a long silence.
He could just hear chairs being moved inside. He had almost decidedto go back, when suddenly two figures appeared at the window, not sixfeet from him.
"It was Maurice Fielding, of course, that your mother was engaged to,"said Helen's voice. She spoke58 reflectively, looking out intothe dark garden, and thinking evidently as much of the lookof the night as of what she was saying.
"Mother?" said Rachel. Hewet's heart leapt, and he noticed the fact.
Her voice, though low, was full of surprise.
"You didn't know that?" said Helen.
"I never knew there'd been any one else," said Rachel. She wasclearly surprised, but all they said was said low and inexpressively,because they were speaking out into the cool dark night.
"More people were in love with her than with any one I've ever known,"Helen stated. She had that power--she enjoyed things. She wasn'tbeautiful, but--I was thinking of her last night at the dance.
She got on with every kind of person, and then she made it allso amazingly--funny."It appeared that Helen was going back into the past, choosing herwords deliberately76, comparing Theresa with the people she had knownsince Theresa died.
"I don't know how she did it," she continued, and ceased, and therewas a long pause, in which a little owl39 called first here, then there,as it moved from tree to tree in the garden.
"That's so like Aunt Lucy and Aunt Katie," said Rachel at last.
"They always make out that she was very sad and very good.""Then why, for goodness' sake, did they do nothing but criticize herwhen she was alive?" said Helen. Very gentle their voices sounded,as if they fell through the waves of the sea.
"If I were to die to-morrow . . ." she began.
The broken sentences had an extraordinary beauty and detachmentin Hewet's ears, and a kind of mystery too, as though they werespoken by people in their sleep.
"No, Rachel," Helen's voice continued, "I'm not going to walkin the garden; it's damp--it's sure to be damp; besides, I seeat least a dozen toads77.""Toads? Those are stones, Helen. Come out. It's nicer out.
The flowers smell," Rachel replied.
Hewet drew still farther back. His heart was beating very quickly.
Apparently Rachel tried to pull Helen out on to the terrace,and helen resisted. There was a certain amount of scuffling,entreating, resisting, and laughter from both of them. Then a man'sform appeared. Hewet could not hear what they were all saying.
In a minute they had gone in; he could hear bolts grating then;there was dead silence, and all the lights went out.
He turned away, still crumpling78 and uncrumpling a handful of leaveswhich he had torn from the wall. An exquisite sense of pleasureand relief possessed him; it was all so solid and peaceful afterthe ball at the hotel, whether he was in love with them or not,and he was not in love with them; no, but it was good that theyshould be alive.
After standing79 still for a minute or two he turned and began to walktowards the gate. With the movement of his body, the excitement,the romance and the richness of life crowded into his brain.
He shouted out a line of poetry, but the words escaped him, and hestumbled among lines and fragments of lines which had no meaningat all except for the beauty of the words. He shut the gate,and ran swinging from side to side down the hill, shouting anynonsense that came into his head. "Here am I," he cried rhythmically,as his feet pounded to the left and to the right, "plunging80 along,like an elephant in the jungle, stripping the branches as I go(he snatched at the twigs81 of a bush at the roadside), roaringinnumerable words, lovely words about innumerable things, runningdownhill and talking nonsense aloud to myself about roads and leavesand lights and women coming out into the darkness--about women--about Rachel, about Rachel." He stopped and drew a deep breath.
The night seemed immense and hospitable82, and although so dark thereseemed to be things moving down there in the harbour and movement outat sea. He gazed until the darkness numbed83 him, and then he walkedon quickly, still murmuring to himself. "And I ought to be in bed,snoring and dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. Dreams and realities,dreams and realities, dreams and realities," he repeated all the wayup the avenue, scarcely knowing what he said, until he reachedthe front door. Here he paused for a second, and collected himselfbefore he opened the door.
His eyes were dazed, his hands very cold, and his brain excitedand yet half asleep. Inside the door everything was as he had leftit except that the hall was now empty. There were the chairs turningin towards each other where people had sat talking, and the emptyglasses on little tables, and the newspapers scattered85 on the floor.
As he shut the door he felt as if he were enclosed in a square box,and instantly shrivelled up. It was all very bright and very small.
He stopped for a minute by the long table to find a paper which hehad meant to read, but he was still too much under the influenceof the dark and the fresh air to consider carefully which paper itwas or where he had seen it.
As he fumbled86 vaguely among the papers he saw a figure cross the tailof his eye, coming downstairs. He heard the swishing sound of skirts,and to his great surprise, Evelyn M. came up to him, laid her handon the table as if to prevent him from taking up a paper, and said:
"You're just the person I wanted to talk to." Her voice wasa little unpleasant and metallic87, her eyes were very bright,and she kept them fixed upon him.
"To talk to me?" he repeated. "But I'm half asleep.""But I think you understand better than most people," she answered,and sat down on a little chair placed beside a big leather chairso that Hewet had to sit down beside her.
"Well?" he said. He yawned openly, and lit a cigarette.
He could not believe that this was really happening to him.
"What is it?""Are you really sympathetic, or is it just a pose?" she demanded.
"It's for you to say," he replied. "I'm interested, I think."He still felt numb84 all over and as if she was much too closeto him.
"Any one can be interested!" she cried impatiently. "Your friendMr. Hirst's interested, I daresay. however, I do believe in you.
You look as if you'd got a nice sister, somehow." She paused,picking at some sequins on her knees, and then, as if she had made upher mind, she started off, "Anyhow, I'm going to ask your advice.
D'you ever get into a state where you don't know your own mind?
That's the state I'm in now. You see, last night at the danceRaymond Oliver,--he's the tall dark boy who looks as if he had Indianblood in him, but he says he's not really,--well, we were sittingout together, and he told me all about himself, how unhappy he isat home, and how he hates being out here. They've put him into somebeastly mining business. He says it's beastly--I should like it,I know, but that's neither here nor there. And I felt awfully88 sorryfor him, one couldn't help being sorry for him, and when he asked meto let him kiss me, I did. I don't see any harm in that, do you?
And then this morning he said he'd thought I meant something more,and I wasn't the sort to let any one kiss me. And we talkedand talked. I daresay I was very silly, but one can't help likingpeople when one's sorry for them. I do like him most awfully--"She paused. "So I gave him half a promise, and then, you see,there's Alfred Perrott.""Oh, Perrott," said Hewet.
"We got to know each other on that picnic the other day," she continued.
"He seemed so lonely, especially as Arthur had gone off with Susan,and one couldn't help guessing what was in his mind. So we had quitea long talk when you were looking at the ruins, and he told me allabout his life, and his struggles, and how fearfully hard it had been.
D'you know, he was a boy in a grocer's shop and took parcels topeople's houses in a basket? That interested me awfully, because Ialways say it doesn't matter how you're born if you've got the rightstuff in you. And he told me about his sister who's paralysed,poor girl, and one can see she's a great trial, though he's evidentlyvery devoted90 to her. I must say I do admire people like that!
I don't expect you do because you're so clever. Well, last nightwe sat out in the garden together, and I couldn't help seeingwhat he wanted to say, and comforting him a little, and tellinghim I did care--I really do--only, then, there's Raymond Oliver.
What I want you to tell me is, can one be in love with two peopleat once, or can't one?"She became silent, and sat with her chin on her hands, looking very intent,as if she were facing a real problem which had to be discussed between them.
"I think it depends what sort of person you are," said Hewet.
He looked at her. She was small and pretty, aged4 perhapstwenty-eight or twenty-nine, but though dashing and sharply cut,her features expressed nothing very clearly, except a great dealof spirit and good health.
"Who are you, what are you; you see, I know nothing about you,"he continued.
"Well, I was coming to that," said Evelyn M. She continued torest her chin on her hands and to look intently ahead of her.
"I'm the daughter of a mother and no father, if that interests you,"she said. "It's not a very nice thing to be. It's what often happensin the country. She was a farmer's daughter, and he was rather a swell--the young man up at the great house. He never made things straight--never married her--though he allowed us quite a lot of money.
His people wouldn't let him. Poor father! I can't help liking89 him.
Mother wasn't the sort of woman who could keep him straight, anyhow.
He was killed in the war. I believe his men worshipped him.
They say great big troopers broke down and cried over his bodyon the battlefield. I wish I'd known him. Mother had all thelife crushed out of her. The world--" She clenched91 her fist.
"Oh, people can be horrid92 to a woman like that!" She turnedupon Hewet.
"Well," she said, "d'you want to know any more about me?""But you?" he asked, "Who looked after you?""I've looked after myself mostly," she laughed. "I've hadsplendid friends. I do like people! That's the trouble.
What would you do if you liked two people, both of them tremendously,and you couldn't tell which most?""I should go on liking them--I should wait and see. Why not?""But one has to make up one's mind," said Evelyn. "Or are youone of the people who doesn't believe in marriages and all that?
Look here--this isn't fair, I do all the telling, and you tell nothing.
Perhaps you're the same as your friend"--she looked at him suspiciously;"perhaps you don't like me?""I don't know you," said Hewet.
"I know when I like a person directly I see them! I knew I liked youthe very first night at dinner. Oh dear," she continued impatiently,"what a lot of bother would be saved if only people would say thethings they think straight out! I'm made like that. I can't help it.""But don't you find it leads to difficulties?" Hewet asked.
"That's men's fault," she answered. "They always drag it in-love,I mean.""And so you've gone on having one proposal after another,"said Hewet.
"I don't suppose I've had more proposals than most women,"said Evelyn, but she spoke without conviction.
"Five, six, ten?" Hewet ventured.
Evelyn seemed to intimate that perhaps ten was the right figure,but that it really was not a high one.
"I believe you're thinking me a heartless flirt93," she protested.
"But I don't care if you are. I don't care what any one thinks of me.
Just because one's interested and likes to be friends with men,and talk to them as one talks to women, one's called a flirt.""But Miss Murgatroyd--""I wish you'd call me Evelyn," she interrupted.
"After ten proposals do you honestly think that men are the sameas women?""Honestly, honestly,--how I hate that word! It's always used by prigs,"cried Evelyn. "Honestly I think they ought to be. That's what'sso disappointing. Every time one thinks it's not going to happen,and every time it does.""The pursuit of Friendship," said Hewet. "The title of a comedy.""You're horrid," she cried. "You don't care a bit really.
You might be Mr. Hirst.""Well," said Hewet, "let's consider. Let us consider--" He paused,because for the moment he could not remember what it was that theyhad to consider. He was far more interested in her than in her story,for as she went on speaking his numbness94 had disappeared,and he was conscious of a mixture of liking, pity, and distrust.
"You've promised to marry both Oliver and Perrott?" he concluded.
"Not exactly promised," said Evelyn. "I can't make up my mind which Ireally like best. Oh how I detest95 modern life!" she flung off.
"It must have been so much easier for the Elizabethans! I thoughtthe other day on that mountain how I'd have liked to be one ofthose colonists96, to cut down trees and make laws and all that,instead of fooling about with all these people who think one's justa pretty young lady. Though I'm not. I really might _do_ something."She reflected in silence for a minute. Then she said:
"I'm afraid right down in my heart that Alfred Perrot _won't_ do.
He's not strong, is he?""Perhaps he couldn't cut down a tree," said Hewet. "Have younever cared for anybody?" he asked.
"I've cared for heaps of people, but not to marry them," she said.
"I suppose I'm too fastidious. All my life I've wanted somebody Icould look up to, somebody great and big and splendid. Most men areso small.""What d'you mean by splendid?" Hewet asked. "People are--nothing more."Evelyn was puzzled.
"We don't care for people because of their qualities,"he tried to explain. "It's just them that we care for,"--he struck a match--"just that," he said, pointing to the flames.
"I see what you mean," she said, "but I don't agree. I do know whyI care for people, and I think I'm hardly ever wrong. I see at oncewhat they've got in them. Now I think you must be rather splendid;but not Mr. Hirst."Hewlet shook his head.
"He's not nearly so unselfish, or so sympathetic, or so big,or so understanding," Evelyn continued.
Hewet sat silent, smoking his cigarette.
"I should hate cutting down trees," he remarked.
"I'm not trying to flirt with you, though I suppose you think I am!"Evelyn shot out. "I'd never have come to you if I'd thought you'dmerely think odious97 things of me!" The tears came into her eyes.
"Do you never flirt?" he asked.
"Of course I don't," she protested. "Haven't I told you?
I want friendship; I want to care for some one greater and noblerthan I am, and if they fall in love with me it isn't my fault;I don't want it; I positively hate it."Hewet could see that there was very little use in going on withthe conversation, for it was obvious that Evelyn did not wish to sayanything in particular, but to impress upon him an image of herself,being, for some reason which she would not reveal, unhappy, or insecure.
He was very tired, and a pale waiter kept walking ostentatiouslyinto the middle of the room and looking at them meaningly.
"They want to shut up," he said. "My advice is that you should tellOliver and Perrott to-morrow that you've made up your mind that you don'tmean to marry either of them. I'm certain you don't. If you changeyour mind you can always tell them so. They're both sensible men;they'll understand. And then all this bother will be over."He got up.
But Evelyn did not move. She sat looking up at him with herbright eager eyes, in the depths of which he thought he detectedsome disappointment, or dissatisfaction.
"Good-night," he said.
"There are heaps of things I want to say to you still," she said.
"And I'm going to, some time. I suppose you must go to bed now?""Yes," said Hewet. "I'm half asleep." He left her still sittingby herself in the empty hall.
"Why is it that they _won't_ be honest?" he muttered to himself as hewent upstairs. Why was it that relations between different peoplewere so unsatisfactory, so fragmentary, so hazardous98, and wordsso dangerous that the instinct to sympathise with another human beingwas an instinct to be examined carefully and probably crushed?
What had Evelyn really wished to say to him? What was she feeling leftalone in the empty hall? The mystery of life and the unreality evenof one's own sensations overcame him as he walked down the corridorwhich led to his room. It was dimly lighted, but sufficientlyfor him to see a figure in a bright dressing-gown pass swiftlyin front of him, the figure of a woman crossing from one room to another.
收听单词发音 |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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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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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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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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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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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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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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dabbles
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| v.涉猎( dabble的第三人称单数 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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54
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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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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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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58
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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59
abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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67
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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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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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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70
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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71
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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72
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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85
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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86
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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