He went on mechanically reading down the bulletin, leaving something of himself behind him that did not read on. Then he returned to that remarkable2 item and re-read it, and picked up that lost element of his being again.
He had awaited this event for so long, thought of it so often in such a great variety of relationships, dreamt of it, hoped for it, prayed for it, and tried not to think of it, that now it came to him in reality it seemed to have no substance or significance whatever. He had exhausted4 the fact before it happened. Since first he had thought of it there had passed four long years, and in that time he had seen it from every aspect, exhausted every possibility. It had become a theoretical possibility, the basis of continually less confident, continually more unsubstantial day dreams. Constantly he had tried not to think of it, tried to assure himself of Sir Isaac's invalid5 immortality6. And here it was!
The line above it concerned an overdue7 ship, the line below resumed a speech by Mr. Lloyd George. "He would challenge the honourable8 member to repeat his accusations——"
Mr. Brumley stood quite still before the mauve-coloured print letters for some time, then went slowly across the hall into the breakfast-room, sat down in a chair by the fireplace, and fell into a kind of featureless thinking. Sir Isaac was dead, his wife was free, and the long waiting that had become a habit was at an end.
He had anticipated a wild elation3, and for a while he was only sensible of change, a profound change....
He began to feel glad that he had waited, that she had insisted upon patience, that there had been no disaster, no scandal between them. Now everything was clear for them. He had served his apprenticeship9. They would be able to marry, and have no quarrel with the world.
He sat with his mind forming images of the prospect10 before him, images that were at first feeble and vague, and then, though still in a silly way, more concrete and definite. At first they were quite petty anticipations11, of how he would have to tell people of his approaching marriage, of how he would break it to George Edmund that a new mother impended12. He mused13 for some time upon the details of that. Should he take her down to George Edmund's school, and let the boy fall in love with her—he would certainly fall in love with her—before anything definite was said, or should he first go down alone and break the news? Each method had its own attractive possibilities of drama.
Then Mr. Brumley began to think of the letter he must write Lady Harman—a difficult letter. One does not rejoice at death. Already Mr. Brumley was beginning to feel a generous pity for the man he had done his utmost not to detest14 for so long. Poor Sir Isaac had lived like a blind thing in the sunlight, gathering15 and gathering, when the pride and pleasure of life is to administer and spend.... Mr. Brumley fell wondering just how she could be feeling now about her dead husband. She might be in a phase of quite real sorrow. Probably the last illness had tired and strained her. So that his letter would have to be very fine and tender and soothing16, free from all harshness, free from any gladness—yet it would be hard not to let a little of his vast relief peep out. Always hitherto, except for one or two such passionate17 lapses18 as that which had precipitated19 the situation at Santa Margherita, his epistolary manner had been formal, his matter intellectual and philanthropic, for he had always known that no letter was absolutely safe from Sir Isaac's insatiable research. Should he still be formal, still write to "Dear Lady Harman," or suddenly break into a new warmth? Half an hour later he was sitting in the writing-room with some few flakes20 of torn paper on the carpet between his feet and the partially21 filled wastepaper basket, still meditating22 upon this difficult issue of the address.
The letter he achieved at last began, "My dear Lady," and went on to, "I do not know how to begin this letter—perhaps you will find it almost as difficult to receive...."
In the small hours he woke to one of his habitual23 revulsions. Was that, he asked himself, the sort of letter a lover should write to the beloved on her release, on the sudden long prayed-for opening of a way to her, on the end of her shameful24 servitude and his humiliations? He began to recall the cold and stilted25 sentences of that difficult composition. The gentility of it! All his life he had been a prey26 to gentility, had cast himself free from it, only to relapse again in such fashion as this. Would he never be human and passionate and sincere? Of course he was glad, and she ought to be glad, that Sir Isaac, their enemy and their prison, was dead; it was for them to rejoice together. He turned out of bed at last, when he could lie still under these self-accusations no longer, and wrapped himself in his warm dressing-gown and began to write. He wrote in pencil. His fountain-pen was as usual on his night table, but pencil seemed the better medium, and he wrote a warm and glowing love-letter that was brought to an end at last by an almost passionate fit of sneezing. He could find no envelopes in his bedroom Davenport, and so he left that honest scrawl27 under a paper-weight, and went back to bed greatly comforted. He re-read it in the morning with emotion, and some slight misgivings28 that grew after he had despatched it. He went to lunch at his club contemplating30 a third letter that should be sane31 and fine and sweet, and that should rectify32 the confusing effect of those two previous efforts. He wrote this letter later in the afternoon.
The days seemed very long before the answer to his first letter came to him, and in that interval33 two more—aspects went to her. Her reply was very brief, and written in the large, firm, still girlishly clear hand that distinguished34 her.
"I was so glad of your letter. My life is so strange here, a kind of hushed life. The nights are extraordinarily35 beautiful, the moon very large and the little leaves on the trees still and black. We are coming back to England and the funeral will be from our Putney house."
That was all, but it gave Mr. Brumley an impression of her that was exceedingly vivid and close. He thought of her, shadowy and dusky in the moonlight until his soul swam with love for her; he had to get up and walk about; he whispered her name very softly to himself several times; he groaned36 gently, and at last he went to his little desk and wrote to her his sixth letter—quite a beautiful letter. He told her that he loved her, that he had always loved her since their first moment of meeting, and he tried to express just the wave of tenderness that inundated37 him at the thought of her away there in Italy. Once, he said, he had dreamt that he would be the first to take her to Italy. Perhaps some day they would yet be in Italy together.
2
It was only by insensible degrees that doubt crept into Mr. Brumley's assurances. He did not observe at once that none of the brief letters she wrote him responded to his second, the impassioned outbreak in pencil. And it seemed only in keeping with the modest reserves of womanhood that she should be restrained—she always had been restrained.
She asked him not to see her at once when she returned to England; she wanted, she said, "to see how things are," and that fell in very well with a certain delicacy38 in himself. The unburied body of Sir Isaac—it was now provisionally embalmed—was, through some inexplicable39 subtlety40 in his mind, a far greater barrier than the living man had ever been, and he wanted it out of the way. And everything settled. Then, indeed, they might meet.
Meanwhile he had a curious little private conflict of his own. He was trying not to think, day and night he was trying not to think, that Lady Harman was now a very rich woman. Yet some portions of his brain, and he had never suspected himself of such lawless regions, persisted in the most vulgar and outrageous41 suggestions, suggestions that made his soul blush; schemes, for example, of splendid foreign travel, of hotel staffs bowing, of a yacht in the Mediterranean42, of motor cars, of a palatial43 flat in London, of a box at the opera, of artists patronized, of—most horrible!—a baronetcy.... The more authentic44 parts of Mr. Brumley cowered45 from and sought to escape these squalid dreams of magnificences. It shocked and terrified him to find such things could come out in him. He was like some pest-stricken patient, amazedly contemplating his first symptom. His better part denied, repudiated46. Of course he would never touch, never even propose—or hint.... It was an aspect he had never once contemplated47 before Sir Isaac died. He could on his honour, and after searching his heart, say that. Yet in Pall48 Mall one afternoon, suddenly, he caught himself with a thought in his head so gross, so smug, that he uttered a faint cry and quickened his steps.... Benevolent49 stepfather!
These distresses50 begot51 a hope. Perhaps, after all, probably, there would be some settlement.... She might not be rich, not so very rich.... She might be tied up....
He perceived in that lay his hope of salvation52. Otherwise—oh, pitiful soul!—things were possible in him; he saw only too clearly what dreadful things were possible.
If only she were disinherited, if only he might take her, stripped of all these possessions that even in such glancing anticipations begot——this horrid53 indigestion of the imagination!
There was something dreadful about the way in which these considerations blotted57 out the essential fact of separations abolished, barriers lowered, the way to an honourable love made plain and open....
The day of the funeral came at last, and Mr. Brumley tried not to think of it, paternally58, at Margate. He fled from Sir Isaac's ultimate withdrawal59. Blenker's obituary60 notice in the Old Country Gazette was a masterpiece of tactful eulogy61, ostentatiously loyal, yet extremely not unmindful of the widowed proprietor62, and of all the possible changes of ownership looming63 ahead. Mr. Brumley, reading it in the Londonward train, was greatly reminded of the Hostels. That was a riddle he didn't begin to solve. Of course, it was imperative64 the Hostels should continue—imperative. Now they might run them together, openly, side by side. But then, with such temptations to hitherto inconceivable vulgarities. And again, insidiously65, those visions returned of two figures, manifestly opulent, grouped about a big motor car or standing66 together under a large subservient67 archway....
There was a long letter from her at his flat, a long and amazing letter. It was so folded that his eye first caught the writing on the third page: "never marry again. It is so clear that our work needs all my time and all my means." His eyebrows68 rose, his expression became consternation69; his hands trembled a little as he turned the letter over to read it through. It was a deliberate letter. It began—
"Dear Mr. Brumley, I could never have imagined how much there is to do after we are dead, and before we can be buried."
"Yes," said Mr. Brumley; "but what does this mean?"
"There are so many surprises——"
"It isn't clear."
"In ourselves and the things about us."
"Of course, he would have made some complicated settlement. I might have known."
"It is the strangest thing in the world to be a widow, much stranger than anyone could ever have supposed, to have no one to control one, no one to think of as coming before one, no one to answer to, to be free to plan one's life for oneself——"
"I can't stand this," he said. "I want to know."
He went to his desk and wrote:—
"My Dear, I want you to marry me."
What more was to be said? He hesitated with this brief challenge in his hand, was minded to telegraph it and thought of James's novel, In the Cage. Telegraph operators are only human after all. He determined71 upon a special messenger and rang up his quarter valet—he shared service in his flat—to despatch29 it.
The messenger boy got back from Putney that evening about half-past eight. He brought a reply in pencil.
"My dear Friend," she wrote. "You have been so good to me, so helpful. But I do not think that is possible. Forgive me. I want so badly to think and here I cannot think. I have never been able to think here. I am going down to Black Strand72, and in a day or so I will write and we will talk. Be patient with me."
She signed her name "Ellen"; always before she had been "E.H."
"Yes," cried Mr. Brumley, "but I want to know!"
Something was wrong with the telephone, it buzzed and went faint, and it would seem that at her end she was embarrassed. "I want to come to you now," he said. "Impossible," was the clearest word in her reply. Should he go in a state of virile74 resolution, force her hesitation75 as a man should? She might be involved there with Mrs. Harman, with all sorts of relatives and strange people....
In the end he did not go.
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1
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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impended
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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29
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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30
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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31
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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37
inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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38
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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40
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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42
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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46
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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47
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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48
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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49
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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50
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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51
begot
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 )；产生，引起 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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53
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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54
hostels
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| n.旅舍，招待所( hostel的名词复数 )；青年宿舍 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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56
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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57
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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60
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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61
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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62
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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63
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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64
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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66
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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subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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68
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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69
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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70
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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72
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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73
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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74
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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75
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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