For two or three hours longer the moon poured its light throughthe empty air. Unbroken by clouds it fell straightly, and layalmost like a chill white frost over the sea and the earth.
During these hours the silence was not broken, and the only movementwas caused by the movement of trees and branches which stirred slightly,and then the shadows that lay across the white spaces of the landmoved too. In this profound silence one sound only was audible,the sound of a slight but continuous breathing which never ceased,although it never rose and never fell. It continued after the birdshad begun to flutter from branch to branch, and could be heardbehind the first thin notes of their voices. It continuedall through the hours when the east whitened, and grew red,and a faint blue tinged1 the sky, but when the sun rose it ceased,and gave place to other sounds.
The first sounds that were heard were little inarticulate cries,the cries, it seemed, of children or of the very poor, of people whowere very weak or in pain. But when the sun was above the horizon,the air which had been thin and pale grew every moment richerand warmer, and the sounds of life became bolder and more fullof courage and authority. By degrees the smoke began to ascendin wavering breaths over the houses, and these slowly thickened,until they were as round and straight as columns, and instead ofstriking upon pale white blinds, the sun shone upon dark windows,beyond which there was depth and space.
The sun had been up for many hours, and the great dome2 of air waswarmed through and glittering with thin gold threads of sunlight,before any one moved in the hotel. White and massive it stoodin the early light, half asleep with its blinds down.
At about half-past nine Miss Allan came very slowly into the hall,and walked very slowly to the table where the morning paperswere laid, but she did not put out her hand to take one; she stoodstill, thinking, with her head a little sunk upon her shoulders.
She looked curiously3 old, and from the way in which she stood,a little hunched4 together and very massive, you could see whatshe would be like when she was really old, how she would sitday after day in her chair looking placidly5 in front of her.
Other people began to come into the room, and to pass her, but shedid not speak to any of them or even look at them, and at last,as if it were necessary to do something, she sat down in a chair,and looked quietly and fixedly6 in front of her. She feltvery old this morning, and useless too, as if her life had beena failure, as if it had been hard and laborious7 to no purpose.
She did not want to go on living, and yet she knew that she would.
She was so strong that she would live to be a very old woman.
She would probably live to be eighty, and as she was now fifty,that left thirty years more for her to live. She turned her handsover and over in her lap and looked at them curiously; her old hands,that had done so much work for her. There did not seem to be muchpoint in it all; one went on, of course one went on. . . . Shelooked up to see Mrs. Thornbury standing8 beside her, with lines drawnupon her forehead, and her lips parted as if she were about to aska question.
Miss Allan anticipated her.
"Yes," she said. "She died this morning, very early, about three o'clock."Mrs. Thornbury made a little exclamation9, drew her lips together,and the tears rose in her eyes. Through them she looked atthe hall which was now laid with great breadths of sunlight,and at the careless, casual groups of people who were standingbeside the solid arm-chairs and tables. They looked to her unreal,or as people look who remain unconscious that some great explosionis about to take place beside them. But there was no explosion,and they went on standing by the chairs and the tables. Mrs. Thornburyno longer saw them, but, penetrating10 through them as though theywere without substance, she saw the house, the people in the house,the room, the bed in the room, and the figure of the dead lying stillin the dark beneath the sheets. She could almost see the dead.
She could almost hear the voices of the mourners.
"They expected it?" she asked at length.
Miss Allan could only shake her head.
"I know nothing," she replied, "except what Mrs. Flushing's maidtold me. She died early this morning."The two women looked at each other with a quiet significant gaze,and then, feeling oddly dazed, and seeking she did not knowexactly what, Mrs. Thornbury went slowly upstairs and walkedquietly along the passages, touching11 the wall with her fingersas if to guide herself. Housemaids were passing briskly from roomto room, but Mrs. Thornbury avoided them; she hardly saw them;they seemed to her to be in another world. She did not even lookup directly when Evelyn stopped her. It was evident that Evelynhad been lately in tears, and when she looked at Mrs. Thornbury shebegan to cry again. Together they drew into the hollow of a window,and stood there in silence. Broken words formed themselves at lastamong Evelyn's sobs12. "It was wicked," she sobbed13, "it was cruel--they were so happy."Mrs. Thornbury patted her on the shoulder.
"It seems hard--very hard," she said. She paused and looked outover the slope of the hill at the Ambroses' villa14; the windows wereblazing in the sun, and she thought how the soul of the dead hadpassed from those windows. Something had passed from the world.
It seemed to her strangely empty.
"And yet the older one grows," she continued, her eyes regainingmore than their usual brightness, "the more certain one becomes thatthere is a reason. How could one go on if there were no reason?"she asked.
She asked the question of some one, but she did not ask it of Evelyn.
Evelyn's sobs were becoming quieter. "There must be a reason,"she said. "It can't only be an accident. For it was an accident--it need never have happened."Mrs. Thornbury sighed deeply.
"But we must not let ourselves think of that," she added, "and letus hope that they don't either. Whatever they had done it mighthave been the same. These terrible illnesses--""There's no reason--I don't believe there's any reason at all!"Evelyn broke out, pulling the blind down and letting it fly backwith a little snap.
"Why should these things happen? Why should people suffer?
I honestly believe," she went on, lowering her voice slightly,"that Rachel's in Heaven, but Terence. . . .""What's the good of it all?" she demanded.
Mrs. Thornbury shook her head slightly but made no reply,and pressing Evelyn's hand she went on down the passage.
Impelled by a strong desire to hear something, although she didnot know exactly what there was to hear, she was making her wayto the Flushings' room. As she opened their door she felt thatshe had interrupted some argument between husband and wife.
Mrs. Flushing was sitting with her back to the light, and Mr. Flushingwas standing near her, arguing and trying to persuade her of something.
"Ah, here is Mrs. Thornbury," he began with some relief in his voice.
"You have heard, of course. My wife feels that she was in someway responsible. She urged poor Miss Vinrace to come on the expedition.
I'm sure you will agree with me that it is most unreasonable15 to feel that.
We don't even know--in fact I think it most unlikely--that she caughther illness there. These diseases--Besides, she was set on going.
She would have gone whether you asked her or not, Alice.""Don't, Wilfrid," said Mrs. Flushing, neither moving nor takingher eyes off the spot on the floor upon which they rested.
"What's the use of talking? What's the use--?" She ceased.
"I was coming to ask you," said Mrs. Thornbury, addressing Wilfrid,for it was useless to speak to his wife. "Is there anything youthink that one could do? Has the father arrived? Could one goand see?"The strongest wish in her being at this moment was to be able todo something for the unhappy people--to see them--to assure them--to help them. It was dreadful to be so far away from them.
But Mr. Flushing shook his head; he did not think that now--later perhaps one might be able to help. Here Mrs. Flushing rose stiffly,turned her back to them, and walked to the dressing-room opposite.
As she walked, they could see her breast slowly rise and slowly fall.
But her grief was silent. She shut the door behind her.
When she was alone by herself she clenched16 her fists together, and beganbeating the back of a chair with them. She was like a wounded animal.
She hated death; she was furious, outraged17, indignant with death,as if it were a living creature. She refused to relinquish18 herfriends to death. She would not submit to dark and nothingness.
She began to pace up and down, clenching19 her hands, and makingno attempt to stop the quick tears which raced down her cheeks.
She sat still at last, but she did not submit. She looked stubbornand strong when she had ceased to cry.
In the next room, meanwhile, Wilfrid was talking to Mrs. Thornburywith greater freedom now that his wife was not sitting there.
"That's the worst of these places," he said. "People will behaveas though they were in England, and they're not. I've no doubt myselfthat Miss Vinrace caught the infection up at the villa itself.
She probably ran risks a dozen times a day that might have givenher the illness. It's absurd to say she caught it with us."If he had not been sincerely sorry for them he would have been annoyed.
"Pepper tells me," he continued, "that he left the house becausehe thought them so careless. He says they never washed theirvegetables properly. Poor people! It's a fearful price to pay.
But it's only what I've seen over and over again--people seemto forget that these things happen, and then they do happen,and they're surprised.
Mrs. Thornbury agreed with him that they had been very careless,and that there was no reason whatever to think that she had caughtthe fever on the expedition; and after talking about other thingsfor a short time, she left him and went sadly along the passageto her own room. There must be some reason why such things happen,she thought to herself, as she shut the door. Only at first itwas not easy to understand what it was. It seemed so strange--so unbelievable. Why, only three weeks ago--only a fortnight ago,she had seen Rachel; when she shut her eyes she could almostsee her now, the quiet, shy girl who was going to be married.
She thought of all that she would have missed had she died atRachel's age, the children, the married life, the unimaginabledepths and miracles that seemed to her, as she looked back,to have lain about her, day after day, and year after year.
The stunned20 feeling, which had been making it difficult for herto think, gradually gave way to a feeling of the opposite nature;she thought very quickly and very clearly, and, looking back overall her experiences, tried to fit them into a kind of order.
There was undoubtedly21 much suffering, much struggling, but, on the whole,surely there was a balance of happiness--surely order did prevail.
Nor were the deaths of young people really the saddest things in life--they were saved so much; they kept so much. The dead--she calledto mind those who had died early, accidentally--were beautiful;she often dreamt of the dead. And in time Terence himself wouldcome to feel--She got up and began to wander restlessly aboutthe room.
For an old woman of her age she was very restless, and for one ofher clear, quick mind she was unusually perplexed22. She could notsettle to anything, so that she was relieved when the door opened.
She went up to her husband, took him in her arms, and kissed himwith unusual intensity23, and then as they sat down together she beganto pat him and question him as if he were a baby, an old, tired,querulous baby. She did not tell him about Miss Vinrace's death,for that would only disturb him, and he was put out already.
She tried to discover why he was uneasy. Politics again?
What were those horrid24 people doing? She spent the whole morningin discussing politics with her husband, and by degrees she becamedeeply interested in what they were saying. But every now and thenwhat she was saying seemed to her oddly empty of meaning.
At luncheon25 it was remarked by several people that the visitorsat the hotel were beginning to leave; there were fewer every day.
There were only forty people at luncheon, instead of the sixty thatthere had been. So old Mrs. Paley computed26, gazing about her with herfaded eyes, as she took her seat at her own table in the window.
Her party generally consisted of Mr. Perrott as well as Arthurand Susan, and to-day Evelyn was lunching with them also.
She was unusually subdued27. Having noticed that her eyes were red,and guessing the reason, the others took pains to keep upan elaborate conversation between themselves. She suffered itto go on for a few minutes, leaning both elbows on the table,and leaving her soup untouched, when she exclaimed suddenly,"I don't know how you feel, but I can simply think of nothing else!"The gentlemen murmured sympathetically, and looked grave.
Susan replied, "Yes--isn't it perfectly28 awful? When you thinkwhat a nice girl she was--only just engaged, and this neednever have happened--it seems too tragic29." She looked at Arthuras though he might be able to help her with something more suitable.
"Hard lines," said Arthur briefly30. "But it was a foolish thingto do--to go up that river." He shook his head. "They should haveknown better. You can't expect Englishwomen to stand roughingit as the natives do who've been acclimatised. I'd half a mindto warn them at tea that day when it was being discussed. But it'sno good saying these sort of things--it only puts people's backs up--it never makes any difference."Old Mrs. Paley, hitherto contented31 with her soup, here intimated,by raising one hand to her ear, that she wished to know what wasbeing said.
"You heard, Aunt Emma, that poor Miss Vinrace has died of the fever,"Susan informed her gently. She could not speak of death loudlyor even in her usual voice, so that Mrs. Paley did not catch a word.
Arthur came to the rescue.
"Miss Vinrace is dead," he said very distinctly.
Mrs. Paley merely bent32 a little towards him and asked, "Eh?""Miss Vinrace is dead," he repeated. It was only by stiffening33 allthe muscles round his mouth that he could prevent himself from burstinginto laughter, and forced himself to repeat for the third time,"Miss Vinrace. . . . She's dead."Let alone the difficulty of hearing the exact words, facts thatwere outside her daily experience took some time to reachMrs. Paley's consciousness. A weight seemed to rest uponher brain, impeding34, though not damaging its action. She satvague-eyed for at least a minute before she realised what Arthur meant.
"Dead?" she said vaguely35. "Miss Vinrace dead? Dear me . . . that'svery sad. But I don't at the moment remember which she was.
We seem to have made so many new acquaintances here." She looked atSusan for help. "A tall dark girl, who just missed being handsome,with a high colour?""No," Susan interposed. "She was--" then she gave it up in despair.
There was no use in explaining that Mrs. Paley was thinking ofthe wrong person.
"She ought not to have died," Mrs. Paley continued. "She lookedso strong. But people will drink the water. I can never make out why.
It seems such a simple thing to tell them to put a bottle of Seltzerwater in your bedroom. That's all the precaution I've ever taken,and I've been in every part of the world, I may say--Italy a dozentimes over. . . . But young people always think they know better,and then they pay the penalty. Poor thing--I am very sorry for her."But the difficulty of peering into a dish of potatoes and helpingherself engrossed36 her attention.
Arthur and Susan both secretly hoped that the subject was now disposed of,for there seemed to them something unpleasant in this discussion.
But Evelyn was not ready to let it drop. Why would people nevertalk about the things that mattered?
"I don't believe you care a bit!" she said, turning savagely37 uponMr. Perrott, who had sat all this time in silence.
"I? Oh, yes, I do," he answered awkwardly, but with obvious sincerity38.
Evelyn's questions made him too feel uncomfortable.
"It seems so inexplicable," Evelyn continued. "Death, I mean.
Why should she be dead, and not you or I? It was only a fortnightago that she was here with the rest of us. What d'you believe?"she demanded of mr. Perrott. "D'you believe that things go on,that she's still somewhere--or d'you think it's simply a game--we crumble39 up to nothing when we die? I'm positive Rachel'snot dead."Mr. Perrott would have said almost anything that Evelyn wanted himto say, but to assert that he believed in the immortality40 of the soulwas not in his power. He sat silent, more deeply wrinkled than usual,crumbling his bread.
Lest Evelyn should next ask him what he believed, Arthur, after makinga pause equivalent to a full stop, started a completely different topic.
"Supposing," he said, "a man were to write and tell you that he wantedfive pounds because he had known your grandfather, what would you do?
It was this way. My grandfather--""Invented a stove," said Evelyn. "I know all about that.
We had one in the conservatory41 to keep the plants warm.""Didn't know I was so famous," said Arthur. "Well," he continued,determined at all costs to spin his story out at length, "the old chap,being about the second best inventor of his day, and a capablelawyer too, died, as they always do, without making a will.
Now Fielding, his clerk, with how much justice I don't know,always claimed that he meant to do something for him. The poor old boy'scome down in the world through trying inventions on his own account,lives in Penge over a tobacconist's shop. I've been to see him there.
The question is--must I stump42 up or not? What does the abstractspirit of justice require, Perrott? Remember, I didn't benefitunder my grandfather's will, and I've no way of testing the truthof the story.""I don't know much about the abstract spirit of justice," said Susan,smiling complacently43 at the others, "but I'm certain of one thing--he'll get his five pounds!"As Mr. Perrott proceeded to deliver an opinion, and Evelyn insistedthat he was much too stingy, like all lawyers, thinking of the letterand not of the spirit, while Mrs. Paley required to be kept informedbetween the courses as to what they were all saying, the luncheonpassed with no interval44 of silence, and Arthur congratulated himselfupon the tact45 with which the discussion had been smoothed over.
As they left the room it happened that Mrs. Paley's wheeledchair ran into the Elliots, who were coming through the door,as she was going out. Brought thus to a standstill for a moment,Arthur and Susan congratulated Hughling Elliot upon his convalescence,--he was down, cadaverous enough, for the first time,--and Mr. Perrotttook occasion to say a few words in private to Evelyn.
"Would there be any chance of seeing you this afternoon,about three-thirty say? I shall be in the garden, by the fountain."The block dissolved before Evelyn answered. But as she left themin the hall, she looked at him brightly and said, "Half-past three,did you say? That'll suit me."She ran upstairs with the feeling of spiritual exaltation and quickenedlife which the prospect46 of an emotional scene always aroused in her.
That Mr. Perrott was again about to propose to her, she had no doubt,and she was aware that on this occasion she ought to be preparedwith a definite answer, for she was going away in three days' time.
But she could not bring her mind to bear upon the question. To cometo a decision was very difficult to her, because she had a naturaldislike of anything final and done with; she liked to go on and on--always on and on. She was leaving, and, therefore, she occupiedherself in laying her clothes out side by side upon the bed.
She observed that some were very shabby. She took the photographof her father and mother, and, before she laid it away in her box,she held it for a minute in her hand. Rachel had looked at it.
Suddenly the keen feeling of some one's personality, which things thatthey have owned or handled sometimes preserves, overcame her; she feltRachel in the room with her; it was as if she were on a ship at sea,and the life of the day was as unreal as the land in the distance.
But by degrees the feeling of Rachel's presence passed away,and she could no longer realise her, for she had scarcely known her.
But this momentary47 sensation left her depressed48 and fatigued49.
What had she done with her life? What future was there before her?
What was make-believe, and what was real? Were these proposals andintimacies and adventures real, or was the contentment which she hadseen on the faces of Susan and Rachel more real than anything she hadever felt?
She made herself ready to go downstairs, absentmindedly, but her fingerswere so well trained that they did the work of preparing her almostof their own accord. When she was actually on the way downstairs,the blood began to circle through her body of its own accord too,for her mind felt very dull.
Mr. Perrott was waiting for her. Indeed, he had gone straightinto the garden after luncheon, and had been walking up and downthe path for more than half an hour, in a state of acute suspense50.
"I'm late as usual!" she exclaimed, as she caught sight of him.
"Well, you must forgive me; I had to pack up. . . . My word!
It looks stormy! And that's a new steamer in the bay, isn't it?"She looked at the bay, in which a steamer was just dropping anchor,the smoke still hanging about it, while a swift black shudder51 ranthrough the waves. "One's quite forgotten what rain looks like,"she added.
But Mr. Perrott paid no attention to the steamer or to the weather.
"Miss Murgatroyd," he began with his usual formality, "I asked youto come here from a very selfish motive52, I fear. I do not thinkyou need to be assured once more of my feelings; but, as you areleaving so soon, I felt that I could not let you go without askingyou to tell me--have I any reason to hope that you will ever cometo care for me?"He was very pale, and seemed unable to say any more.
The little gush53 of vitality54 which had come into Evelyn as sheran downstairs had left her, and she felt herself impotent.
There was nothing for her to say; she felt nothing. Now that hewas actually asking her, in his elderly gentle words, to marry him,she felt less for him than she had ever felt before.
"Let's sit down and talk it over," she said rather unsteadily.
Mr. Perrott followed her to a curved green seat under a tree.
They looked at the fountain in front of them, which had long ceasedto play. Evelyn kept looking at the fountain instead of thinkingof what she was saying; the fountain without any water seemed to bethe type of her own being.
"Of course I care for you," she began, rushing her words out ina hurry; "I should be a brute55 if I didn't. I think you're quite oneof the nicest people I've ever known, and one of the finest too.
But I wish . . . I wish you didn't care for me in that way.
Are you sure you do?" For the moment she honestly desired that heshould say no.
"Quite sure," said Mr. Perrott.
"You see, I'm not as simple as most women," Evelyn continued.
"I think I want more. I don't know exactly what I feel."He sat by her, watching her and refraining from speech.
"I sometimes think I haven't got it in me to care very much forone person only. Some one else would make you a better wife.
I can imagine you very happy with some one else.""If you think that there is any chance that you will come to carefor me, I am quite content to wait," said Mr. Perrott.
"Well--there's no hurry, is there?" said Evelyn. "Suppose I thoughtit over and wrote and told you when I get back? I'm going to Moscow;I'll write from Moscow."But Mr. Perrott persisted.
"You cannot give me any kind of idea. I do not ask for a date .
. . that would be most unreasonable." He paused, looking downat the gravel56 path.
As she did not immediately answer, he went on.
"I know very well that I am not--that I have not much to offer youeither in myself or in my circumstances. And I forget; it cannotseem the miracle to you that it does to me. Until I met you Ihad gone on in my own quiet way--we are both very quiet people,my sister and I--quite content with my lot. My friendship with Arthurwas the most important thing in my life. Now that I know you,all that has changed. You seem to put such a spirit into everything.
Life seems to hold so many possibilities that I had never dreamt of.""That's splendid!" Evelyn exclaimed, grasping his hand.
"Now you'll go back and start all kinds of things and make a greatname in the world; and we'll go on being friends, whatever happens. . . we'll be great friends, won't we?""Evelyn!" he moaned suddenly, and took her in his arms, and kissed her.
She did not resent it, although it made little impression on her.
As she sat upright again, she said, "I never see why one shouldn'tgo on being friends--though some people do. And friendships do makea difference, don't they? They are the kind of things that matterin one's life?"He looked at her with a bewildered expression as if he did not reallyunderstand what she was saying. With a considerable effort hecollected himself, stood up, and said, "Now I think I have told youwhat I feel, and I will only add that I can wait as long as ever you wish."Left alone, Evelyn walked up and down the path. What did matter than?
What was the meaning of it all?
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tinged
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dome
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curiously
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hunched
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placidly
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fixedly
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laborious
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standing
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exclamation
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penetrating
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touching
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sobs
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sobbed
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villa
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unreasonable
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clenched
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outraged
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relinquish
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clenching
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stunned
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undoubtedly
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perplexed
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intensity
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horrid
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luncheon
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computed
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subdued
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perfectly
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tragic
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briefly
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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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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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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