Her sleep was drawn1 out, she instantly recognised lateness in the way her eyes opened to Mrs. Wix, erect2, completely dressed, more dressed than ever, and gazing at her from the centre of the room. The next thing she was sitting straight up, wide awake with the fear of the hours of "abroad" that she might have lost. Mrs. Wix looked as if the day had already made itself felt, and the process of catching3 up with it began for Maisie in hearing her distinctly say: "My poor dear, he has come!"
"Sir Claude?" Maisie, clearing the little bed-rug with the width of her spring, felt the polished floor under her bare feet.
"He crossed in the night; he got in early." Mrs. Wix's head jerked stiffly backward. "He's there."
"And you've seen him?"
"No. He's there—he's there," Mrs. Wix repeated. Her voice came out with a queer extinction4 that was not a voluntary drop, and she trembled so that it added to their common emotion. Visibly pale, they gazed at each other.
"Isn't it too beautiful?" Maisie panted back at her; a challenge with an answer to which, however, she was not ready at once. The term Maisie had used was a flash of diplomacy—to prevent at any rate Mrs. Wix's using another. To that degree it was successful; there was only an appeal, strange and mute, in the white old face, which produced the effect of a want of decision greater than could by any stretch of optimism have been associated with her attitude toward what had happened. For Maisie herself indeed what had happened was oddly, as she could feel, less of a simple rapture5 than any arrival or return of the same supreme6 friend had ever been before. What had become overnight, what had become while she slept, of the comfortable faculty7 of gladness? She tried to wake it up a little wider by talking, by rejoicing, by plunging8 into water and into clothes, and she made out that it was ten o'clock, but also that Mrs. Wix had not yet breakfasted. The day before, at nine, they had had together a café complet in their sitting-room9. Mrs. Wix on her side had evidently also a refuge to seek. She sought it in checking the precipitation of some of her pupil's present steps, in recalling to her with an approach to sternness that of such preliminaries those embodied10 in a thorough use of soap should be the most thorough, and in throwing even a certain reprobation11 on the idea of hurrying into clothes for the sake of a mere12 stepfather. She took her in hand with a silent insistence13; she reduced the process to sequences more definite than any it had known since the days of Moddle. Whatever it might be that had now, with a difference, begun to belong to Sir Claude's presence was still after all compatible, for our young lady, with the instinct of dressing14 to see him with almost untidy haste. Mrs. Wix meanwhile luckily was not wholly directed to repression15. "He's there—he's there!" she had said over several times. It was her answer to every invitation to mention how long she had been up and her motive16 for respecting so rigidly17 the slumber18 of her companion. It formed for some minutes her only account of the whereabouts of the others and her reason for not having yet seen them, as well as of the possibility of their presently being found in the salon19.
"He's there—he's there!" she declared once more as she made, on the child, with an almost invidious tug20, a strained undergarment "meet."
"Do you mean he's in the salon?" Maisie asked again.
"Do you mean in her own room?" Maisie continued.
She waited an instant. "God knows!"
Maisie wondered a little why, or how, God should know; this, however, delayed but an instant her bringing out: "Well, won't she go back?"
"Go back? Never!"
"She'll stay all the same?"
"All the more."
"Then won't Sir Claude go?" Maisie asked.
"Go back—if she doesn't?" Mrs. Wix appeared to give this question the benefit of a minute's thought. "Why should he have come—only to go back?"
Maisie produced an ingenious solution. "To make her go. To take her."
Mrs. Wix met it without a concession23. "If he can make her go so easily, why should he have let her come?"
Maisie considered. "Oh just to see me. She has a right."
"Yes—she has a right."
"She's my mother!" Maisie tentatively tittered.
"Yes—she's your mother."
"Besides," Maisie went on, "he didn't let her come. He doesn't like her coming, and if he doesn't like it—"
Mrs. Wix took her up. "He must lump it—that's what he must do! Your mother was right about him—I mean your real one. He has no strength. No—none at all." She seemed more profoundly to muse24. "He might have had some even with her—I mean with her ladyship. He's just a poor sunk slave," she asserted with sudden energy.
Maisie wondered again. "A slave?"
"To his passions."
She continued to wonder and even to be impressed; after which she went on: "But how do you know he'll stay?"
"Because he likes us!"—and Mrs. Wix, with her emphasis of the word, whirled her charge round again to deal with posterior hooks. She had positively25 never shaken her so.
It was as if she quite shook something out of her. "But how will that help him if we—in spite of his liking26!—don't stay?"
"Do you mean if we go off and leave him with her?—" Mrs. Wix put the question to the back of her pupil's head. "It won't help him. It will be his ruin. He'll have got nothing. He'll have lost everything. It will be his utter destruction, for he's certain after a while to loathe27 her."
"Then when he loathes28 her"—it was astonishing how she caught the idea—"he'll just come right after us!" Maisie announced.
"Never."
"Never?"
"She'll keep him. She'll hold him for ever."
Maisie doubted. "When he 'loathes' her?"
"That won't matter. She won't loathe him. People don't!" Mrs. Wix brought up.
"Some do. Mamma does," Maisie contended.
"Mamma does not!" It was startling—her friend contradicted her flat. "She loves him—she adores him. A woman knows." Mrs. Wix spoke29 not only as if Maisie were not a woman, but as if she would never be one. "I know!" she cried.
"Then why on earth has she left him?"
Mrs. Wix hesitated. "He hates her. Don't stoop so—lift up your hair. You know how I'm affected30 toward him," she added with dignity; "but you must also know that I see clear."
Maisie all this time was trying hard to do likewise. "Then if she has left him for that why shouldn't Mrs. Beale leave him?"
"Because she's not such a fool!"
"Not such a fool as mamma?"
"Precisely—if you will have it. Does it look like her leaving him?" Mrs. Wix enquired31. She brooded again; then she went on with more intensity32: "Do you want to know really and truly why? So that she may be his wretchedness and his punishment."
"His punishment?"—this was more than as yet Maisie could quite accept. "For what?"
"For everything. That's what will happen: he'll be tied to her for ever. She won't mind in the least his hating her, and she won't hate him back. She'll only hate us."
"Us?" the child faintly echoed.
"She'll hate you."
"Me? Why, I brought them together!" Maisie resentfully cried.
"You brought them together." There was a completeness in Mrs. Wix's assent33. "Yes; it was a pretty job. Sit down." She began to brush her pupil's hair and, as she took up the mass of it with some force of hand, went on with a sharp recall: "Your mother adored him at first—it might have lasted. But he began too soon with Mrs. Beale. As you say," she pursued with a brisk application of the brush, "you brought them together."
"I brought them together"—Maisie was ready to reaffirm it. She felt none the less for a moment at the bottom of a hole; then she seemed to see a way out. "But I didn't bring mamma together—" She just faltered34.
"With all those gentlemen?"—Mrs. Wix pulled her up. "No; it isn't quite so bad as that."
"I only said to the Captain"—Maisie had the quick memory of it—"that I hoped he at least (he was awfully35 nice!) would love her and keep her."
"And even that wasn't much harm," threw in Mrs. Wix.
"It wasn't much good," Maisie was obliged to recognise. "She can't bear him—not even a mite36. She told me at Folkestone."
Mrs. Wix suppressed a gasp37; then after a bridling38 instant during which she might have appeared to deflect39 with difficulty from her odd consideration of Ida's wrongs: "He was a nice sort of person for her to talk to you about!"
"Oh I like him!" Maisie promptly40 rejoined; and at this, with an inarticulate sound and an inconsequence still more marked, her companion bent41 over and dealt her on the cheek a rapid peck which had the apparent intention of a kiss.
"Well, if her ladyship doesn't agree with you, what does it only prove?" Mrs. Wix demanded in conclusion. "It proves that she's fond of Sir Claude!"
Maisie, in the light of some of the evidence, reflected on that till her hair was finished, but when she at last started up she gave a sign of no very close embrace of it. She grasped at this moment Mrs. Wix's arm. "He must have got his divorce!"
"Since day before yesterday? Don't talk trash."
This was spoken with an impatience42 which left the child nothing to reply; whereupon she sought her defence in a completely different relation to the fact. "Well, I knew he would come!"
Maisie, whom she had now released, looked at her with interest. "How many did she give him?"
Mrs. Wix faced her a moment; then as if with a bewildered sniff44: "You had better ask her!" But she had no sooner uttered the words than she caught herself up. "Lord o' mercy, how we talk!"
Maisie felt that however they talked she must see him, but she said nothing more for a time, a time during which she conscientiously45 finished dressing and Mrs. Wix also kept silence. It was as if they each had almost too much to think of, and even as if the child had the sense that her friend was watching her and seeing if she herself were watched. At last Mrs. Wix turned to the window and stood—sightlessly, as Maisie could guess—looking away. Then our young lady, before the glass, gave the supreme shake. "Well, I'm ready. And now to see him!"
Mrs. Wix turned round, but as if without having heard her. "It's tremendously grave." There were slow still tears behind the straighteners.
"It is—it is." Maisie spoke as if she were now dressed quite up to the occasion; as if indeed with the last touch she had put on the judgement-cap. "I must see him immediately."
"How can you see him if he doesn't send for you?"
"Why can't I go and find him?"
"Because you don't know where he is."
"Can't I just look in the salon?" That still seemed simple to Maisie.
Mrs. Wix, however, instantly cut it off. "I wouldn't have you look in the salon for all the world!" Then she explained a little: "The salon isn't ours now."
"Ours?"
"Yours and mine. It's theirs."
"Theirs?" Maisie, with her stare, continued to echo. "You mean they want to keep us out?"
Mrs. Wix faltered; she sank into a chair and, as Maisie had often enough seen her do before, covered her face with her hands. "They ought to, at least. The situation's too monstrous46!"
Maisie stood there a moment—she looked about the room. "I'll go to him—I'll find him."
"I won't! I won't go near them!" cried Mrs. Wix.
"Then I'll see him alone." The child spied what she had been looking for—she possessed47 herself of her hat. "Perhaps I'll take him out!" And with decision she quitted the room.
When she entered the salon it was empty, but at the sound of the opened door some one stirred on the balcony, and Sir Claude, stepping straight in, stood before her. He was in light fresh clothes and wore a straw hat with a bright ribbon; these things, besides striking her in themselves as the very promise of the grandest of grand tours, gave him a certain radiance and, as it were, a tropical ease; but such an effect only marked rather more his having stopped short and, for a longer minute than had ever at such a juncture48 elapsed, not opened his arms to her. His pause made her pause and enabled her to reflect that he must have been up some time, for there were no traces of breakfast; and that though it was so late he had rather markedly not caused her to be called to him. Had Mrs. Wix been right about their forfeiture49 of the salon? Was it all his now, all his and Mrs. Beale's? Such an idea, at the rate her small thoughts throbbed50, could only remind her of the way in which what had been hers hitherto was what was exactly most Mrs. Beale's and his. It was strange to be standing51 there and greeting him across a gulf52, for he had by this time spoken, smiled and said: "My dear child, my dear child!" but without coming any nearer. In a flash she saw he was different—more so than he knew or designed. The next minute indeed it was as if he caught an impression from her face: this made him hold out his hand. Then they met, he kissed her, he laughed, she thought he even blushed: something of his affection rang out as usual. "Here I am, you see, again—as I promised you."
It was not as he had promised them—he had not promised them Mrs. Beale; but Maisie said nothing about that. What she said was simply: "I knew you had come. Mrs. Wix told me."
"Oh yes. And where is she?"
"In her room. She got me up—she dressed me."
Sir Claude looked at her up and down; a sweetness of mockery that she particularly loved came out in his face whenever he did that, and it was not wanting now. He raised his eyebrows53 and his arms to play at admiration54; he was evidently after all disposed to be gay. "Got you up?—I should think so! She has dressed you most beautifully. Isn't she coming?"
Maisie wondered if she had better tell. "She said not."
"Doesn't she want to see a poor devil?"
She looked about under the vibration55 of the way he described himself, and her eyes rested on the door of the room he had previously56 occupied. "Is Mrs. Beale in there?"
Sir Claude looked blankly at the same object. "I haven't the least idea!"
"You haven't seen her?"
"Not the tip of her nose."
Maisie thought: there settled on her, in the light of his beautiful smiling eyes, the faintest purest coldest conviction that he wasn't telling the truth. "She hasn't welcomed you?"
"Not by a single sign."
"Then where is she?"
Sir Claude laughed; he seemed both amused and surprised at the point she made of it. "I give it up!"
"Doesn't she know you've come?"
He laughed again. "Perhaps she doesn't care!"
He met her eyes and then she could see that his own were really much graver than his manner. "Gone?" She had flown to the door, but before she could raise her hand to knock he was beside her and had caught it. "Let her be. I don't care about her. I want to see you."
"Then she hasn't gone?"
Maisie fell back with him. He still looked as if it were a joke, but the more she saw of him the more she could make out that he was troubled. "It wouldn't be like her!"
She stood wondering at him. "Did you want her to come?"
"Do you mean you've quarrelled?"
Sir Claude was at a loss. "What has she told you?"
"That I'm hers as much as yours. That she represents papa."
His gaze struck away through the open window and up to the sky; she could hear him rattle59 in his trousers-pockets his money or his keys. "Yes—that's what she keeps saying." It gave him for a moment an air that was almost helpless.
"You say you don't care about her," Maisie went on. "Do you mean you've quarrelled?"
"We do nothing in life but quarrel."
He rose before her, as he said this, so soft and fair, so rich, in spite of what might worry him, in restored familiarities, that it gave a bright blur60 to the meaning—to what would otherwise perhaps have been the palpable promise—of the words.
"Oh your quarrels!" she exclaimed with discouragement.
"I assure you hers are quite fearful!"
"I don't speak of hers. I speak of yours."
"Ah don't do it till I've had my coffee! You're growing up clever," he added. Then he said: "I suppose you've breakfasted?"
"Oh no—I've had nothing."
"Nothing in your room?"—he was all compunction. "My dear old man!—we'll breakfast then together." He had one of his happy thoughts. "I say—we'll go out."
"That was just what I hoped. I've brought my hat."
"You are clever! We'll go to a café." Maisie was already at the door; he glanced round the room. "A moment—my stick." But there appeared to be no stick. "No matter; I left it—oh!" He remembered with an odd drop and came out.
"You left it in London?" she asked as they went downstairs.
"Yes—in London: fancy!"
"You were in such a hurry to come," Maisie explained.
He had his arm round her. "That must have been the reason."
Maisie's face just showed a shadow. "Do you want her to come?"
"Dear no—I want to see you alone."
"That's the way I want to see you!" she replied. "Like before."
"No, nothing."
"Then I'll send it up to her. Madame!" He had already, at the foot of the stair, called out to the stout63 patronne, a lady who turned to him from the bustling64, breezy hall a countenance65 covered with fresh matutinal powder and a bosom66 as capacious as the velvet67 shelf of a chimneypiece, over which her round white face, framed in its golden frizzle, might have figured as a showy clock. He ordered, with particular recommendations, Mrs. Wix's repast, and it was a charm to hear his easy brilliant French: even his companion's ignorance could measure the perfection of it. The patronne, rubbing her hands and breaking in with high swift notes as into a florid duet, went with him to the street, and while they talked a moment longer Maisie remembered what Mrs. Wix had said about every one's liking him. It came out enough through the morning powder, it came out enough in the heaving bosom, how the landlady68 liked him. He had evidently ordered something lovely for Mrs. Wix. "Et bien soigné, n'est-ce-pas?"
"Soyez tranquille"—the patronne beamed upon him. "Et pour Madame?"
"Madame?" he echoed—it just pulled him up a little.
"Rien encore?"
"Rien encore. Come, Maisie." She hurried along with him, but on the way to the café he said nothing.
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收听单词发音
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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8
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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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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10
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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14
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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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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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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24
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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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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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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loathes
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的第三人称单数 )；极不喜欢 | |
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29
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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30
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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31
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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34
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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35
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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39
deflect
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| v.(使)偏斜，(使)偏离，(使)转向 | |
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40
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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41
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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42
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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43
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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45
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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46
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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47
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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48
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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49
forfeiture
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| n.（名誉等）丧失 | |
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50
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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51
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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52
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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53
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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54
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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55
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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56
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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59
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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60
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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61
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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65
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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66
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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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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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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