Mischance
i
Twelve days later, in the evening, Hilda stood by the bedside of Sarah Gailey in the basement room of No. 59 Preston Street. There was a bright fire in the grate, and in front of the fire a middle-aged1 doctor was cleansing2 the instrument which he had just employed to inject morphia into Sarah’s exhausted3 body. Hilda’s assumption that the ageing woman had telegraphed for her on inadequate4 grounds had proved to be quite wrong.
Upon entering the house on that Thursday night, Hilda, despite the anxious pale face of the new servant who had waited up for her and who entreated5 her to see Sarah Gailey instantly, had gone first to her own room and scrawled6 passionately7 a note to Edwin, which ran: “DEAREST,— This is my address. I love you. Every bit of me is absolutely yours. Write me.—H. L.” She gave the letter to the servant to post at once. And as she gave it she had a vision of it travelling in post office, railway vans, and being sorted, and sealed up in a bag, and recovered from the bag, and scanned by the postman at Bursley, and borne up Trafalgar Road by the postman, and dropped into the letter-box at Edwin’s house, and finally seized by Edwin; and of it pleasing him intensely,—for it was a good letter, and she was proud of it because she knew that it was characteristic.
And then, with her mind freed, she had opened the door of Sarah’s bedroom. Sarah was unquestionably very ill. Sarah had been quite right in telegraphing so peremptorily8 to Hilda; and if she had not so telegraphed she would have been quite wrong. On the previous day she had been sitting on the cold new oilcloth of the topmost stairs, minutely instructing a maid in the craft of polishing banisters. And the next morning an attack of acute sciatica had supervened. For a trifling9 indiscretion Sarah was thus condemned11 to extreme physical torture. Hilda had found her rigid12 on the bed. She suffered the severest pain in the small of the back and all down the left leg. Her left knee was supported on pillows, and the bed-clothes were raised away from it, for it could tolerate no weight whatever. The doctor, who had been and gone, had arranged a system of fomentation and hot-water bottles surpassing anything in even Sarah’s experience. And there Sarah lay, not feverish13 but sweating with agony, terrified to move, terrified to take a deep breath, lest the disturbance14 of the muscles might produce consequences beyond her strength to endure. She was in no danger of death. She could talk. She could eat and drink. Her pulse was scarcely quickened. But she was degraded and humiliated15 by mere16 physical anguish17 to the condition of a brute18. This was her lot in life. All through that first night Hilda stayed with her, trying to pretend that Sarah was a woman, and in the morning she had assumed control of the house.
She had her secret to console her. It remained a secret because there was no one to whom she could relate it. Sarah had no ear for news unconnected with her malady19. And indeed to tell Sarah, as Sarah was, would have been to carry callousness20 to the point of insult. And so Hilda, amid her enormous labours and fatigue21, had lived with her secret, which, from being a perfumed delight, turned in two days to something subtly horrible, to something that by its horror prevented her from writing to Edwin aught but the briefest missives. She had existed from hour to hour, from one minute apprehensively22 to the next, day and night, hardly sleeping, devoured23 inwardly by a fear at once monstrous24 and simple, at once convincing and incredible. As for the letter which mentally she had composed a hundred times to Edwin, and which she owed to him, it had become fantastic and then inconceivable to her.
ii
One of the new servants entered the room and handed a letter to Hilda, and left the room and shut the door. The envelope was addressed “Miss Lessways, 59 Preston Street, Brighton,” in Edwin Clayhanger’s beautiful handwriting. Every evening came thus a letter, which he had posted in Bursley on the previous day. Hilda thought: “Will this contain another reproach at my irregularity? I can’t bear it, if it does.” And she gazed at the handwriting, and in particular at her own name, and her own name seemed to be the name of somebody else, of some strange young woman. She felt dizzy.... The door of Sarah’s wardrobe was ajar, and, in the mirror of it, Hilda could see herself obscurely, a black-robed strange young woman, with untidy hair and white cheeks and huge, dark, staring heavy eyes, with pouches25 beneath them. The image wavered in the mirror. She thought: “Here it is again, this awful feeling! Surely I am not going to faint!” She could hear Sarah’s sighing breath: she could hear the singing of the shaded gas-flame. She turned her gaze away from the mirror, and saw Sarah’s grey head inadvertently nodding, as it always nodded. Then the letter slipped out of her hand. She glanced down at the floor, in pursuit of it: the floor was darkly revolving26. She thought: “Am I really fainting this time? I mustn’t faint. I’ve got to arrange about that bacon to-night and—oh, lots of things! Sarah is not a bit better. And I must sit with her until she gets off to sleep.” Her legs trembled, and she was terrorized by extraordinary novel sensations of insecurity. “Oh!” she murmured weakly.
iii
“You’ve only fainted,” said the doctor in a low voice.
She perceived, little by little, that she was lying flat on the floor at the foot of Sarah’s bed, and that he was kneeling beside her. The bed threw a shadow on them both, but she could see his benevolent27 face, anxious and yet reassuring28, rather clearly.
“What?” she whispered, in feeble despair. She felt that her resistance was definitely broken.
From higher up, at the level of the hidden bed, came the regular plaintive29 respiration30 of Sarah Gailey.
“You must take care of yourself better than this,” said the doctor. “Perhaps this is a day when you ought to be resting.”
She answered, resigned.
“No, it’s not that. I believe I’m going to have a child. You must...” She stopped.
“Oh,” said the doctor, with discretion10. “Is that it?”
Strange, how the direct words would create a new situation! She had not told the doctor that she had been through the ceremony of marriage, and had been victimized. She had told him nothing but the central and final thought in her mind. And lo! the new situation was brought into being, and the doctor was accepting it! He was not emitting astounded31 ‘buts—!’ Her directness had made all possible ‘buts’ seem ridiculous and futile32, and had made the expression of curiosity seem offensive.
She lay on the floor impassive. She was no longer horrified33 by expectancy34.
“Well,” said the doctor, “we must see. I think you can sit up now, can’t you?”
Three-quarters of an hour afterwards, she went into Sarah’s room alone. She was aware of no emotion whatever. She merely desired, as a professional nurse might have desired, to see if Sarah slept. Sarah was not sleeping. She moaned, as she moaned continually when awake. Hilda bent35 over her trembling head whose right side pressed upon the pillow.
“How queer,” thought Hilda, “how awful, that she didn’t even hear what I said to him! It will almost kill her when she does know.”
Sarah’s eyes blinked. Without stirring, without shifting her horizontal, preoccupied36 gaze from the wall, she muttered peevishly37:
“What’s that you were saying about going to have a child?”
Startled, Hilda moved back a little from the bed.
“The doctor says there’s no doubt I am,” Hilda answered coldly.
“How queer!” Sarah said. “I quite thought—but of course a girl like you are couldn’t be sure. I should like another biscuit. But I don’t want the Osbornes—the others.” She resumed her moaning.
iv
On the following Saturday morning—rather more than a fortnight after her engagement to Edwin Clayhanger—Hilda came out of the kitchen of No. 59 Preston Street, and shut the door on a nauseating38, malodorous mess of broken food and greasy39 plates, in the midst of which two servants were noisily gobbling down their late breakfast, and disputing. With a frown of disgust on her face, she looked into Sarah Gailey’s bedroom. Sarah, though vaguely40 better, was still in constant acute pain, and her knee still reposed41 on a pillow, and was protected from the upper bed-clothes, and she still could not move. Hilda put on a smile for Sarah Gailey, who nodded morosely42, and then, extinguishing the smile, as if it had been expensive gas burning to no purpose, she passed into the basement sitting-room43, and slaked44 the fire there. With a gesture of irresolution45, she lifted the lid of the desk in the corner, and gazed first at a little pile of four unopened letters addressed to her in Edwin’s handwriting, and then at a volume of Crashaw, which the enthusiastic Tom Orgreave had sent to her as a reward for her appreciation46 of Crashaw’s poems. She released the lid suddenly, and went upstairs to her bedroom, chatting sugarily for an instant on the way with the second Miss Watchett. In the bedroom, she donned her street things, and then she descended47. She had to go to the Registry Office in North Street about a new cook. She stopped at the front door, and then surprisingly went down once more into the basement sitting-room. Standing48 up at the desk, she wrote this letter: “DARLING JANET,—I am now married to George Cannon49. The marriage is not quite public, but I tell you before anybody, and you might tell Edwin Clayhanger.—Your loving H. L.” Least said soonest mended! And the conciseness50 would discourage questioning. She inserted the letter into an envelope, which she addressed and stamped, and then she fled with it from the house, and in two minutes it was in a letter-box, and she was walking slowly along the King’s Road past the shops.
The letter was the swift and desperate sequel to several days’ absolutely sterile51 reflection. It said enough for the moment. Later, she could explain that her husband had left her. She could not write to Edwin. She could not bring herself to write anything to him. She could not confess, nor beg for forgiveness nor even for sympathetic understanding. She could not admit the uninstructed rashness which had led her to assume positively52, on inadequate grounds, that her union with George Cannon had been fruitless. She must suffer, and he also must suffer. Rather than let him know, in any conceivable manner, that, all unwitting, she was bearing the child of another at the moment of her betrothal53 to himself, she preferred to be regarded as a jilt of the very worst kind. Strange that she should choose the r?le of deceiver instead of the r?le of victim! Strange that she would sooner be hated and scorned than pitied! Strange that she would not even give Edwin the opportunity of treating her as a widow! But so it was! For her, the one possible attitude towards Edwin was the attitude of silence. In the silence of the grave her love for him existed.
As she walked along the chill promenade54 she looked with discreet55 curiosity at every woman she met, to see her condition. This matter, which before she had never thought of, now obsessed56 her; and all women were divided for her into two classes, the expectant and the others. Also her self-consciousness was extreme, more so even than it had been after her mother’s death. She was not frightened—yet. She was assuredly not panic-struck. Rather her mood was grim, harsh, and calmly bitter. She thought: “I suppose George must be informed.” It affected57 her queerly that if she took it into her head she need never go back to Preston Street. She was free. She owed nothing to anybody. And yet she would go back. She would require a home, soon. And she would require a livelihood58, for the shares of the Brighton Hotel Continental59 Limited promised to be sterile and were already unsaleable. But apart from these considerations, she would have gone back for Sarah Gailey—because Sarah Gailey was entirely60 dependent on her. She detested61 Sarah, despite Sarah’s sufferings, and yet by her conscience she was for ever bound to her.
The future loomed62 appalling63. Sarah’s career was finished. She could not be anything but a burden and a torment64; her last years would probably be dreadful, both for herself and for others. The prospects65 of the boarding-house were not radiant. Hilda could direct the enterprise, but not well. She could work, but she had not the art of making others work. Already the place was slightly at sixes and sevens. And she loathed66 it. She loathed the whole business of catering67. Along the entire length of the King’s Road, the smells of basement kitchens ascended68 to the pavement and offended the nose. And Hilda saw all Brighton as a colossal69 and disgusting enlargement of the kitchen at No. 59. She saw the background and the pits of Brighton—that which underlies70 and hides behind, and is not seen. The grandeur71 of the King’s Road was naught72 to her. Her glance pierced it and it faded to a hallucination. Beyond it she envisaged73 the years to come, the messy and endless struggle, the necessary avarice74 and trickeries incidental to it,—and perhaps the ultimate failure. She would never make money—she felt that! She was not born to make money—especially by dodges75 and false politeness, out of idle, empty-noddled boarders. She would lose it and lose it. And she pictured what she would be in ten years: the hard-driven landlady76, up to every subterfuge,—with a child to feed and educate, and perhaps a bedridden, querulous invalid77 to support. And there was no alternative to the tableau78.
She went by the Chichester, which towered with all its stories above her head. Who would take it now? George Cannon would have made it pay. He would have made anything pay. How?... She was definitely cut off from the magnificence of the King’s Road. The side street was her destiny; the side street and shabbiness. And it was all George’s fault—and hers! The poverty, if it came, would be George’s fault alone. For he had squandered79 her money in a speculation80. It astounded her that George, so shrewd and well balanced, should have made an investment so foolish. She did not realize that a passion for a business enterprise, as for a woman, is capable of destroying the balance of any man. And George Cannon had had both passions.
And then she saw Florrie Bagster, on the other side of the street, walking leisurely81 by the sea-wall, alone. If Mr. Boutwood had had a more generous and wild disposition82 he might have allowed Florrie to ruin him in six months of furs and carriages and champagne83. But Mr. Boutwood, though a dog, was a careful dog, especially at those moments when the conventional dog can refuse nothing. Florrie was well and warmly dressed,—no more; and she was on foot. Hilda’s gaze fastened on her, and immediately divined from the cut and fall of the coat that Florrie had something to conceal84 from every one but her Mr. Boutwood. And whereas Florrie trod the pavement with a charming little air that wavered between impudence85 and modesty86, between timid meekness87 and conceit88, Hilda blushed with shame and pity. She on one footpath89 and Florrie on the other!
“Soon,” she thought, “I shall not be able to walk along this road!”
She had sinned. She admitted that she had sinned against some quality in herself. But how innocently and how ignorantly! And what a tremendous punishment for so transient a weakness! And new consequences, still more disastrous90 than any she had foreseen, presented themselves one after another. George had escaped, but a word of open scandal, a single whisper in the ear of the old creature down at Torquay, might actuate machinery91 that would reach out after him and drag him back, and plant him in jail. George, the father of her child, in jail! It was all a matter of chance; sheer chance! She began to perceive what life really was, and the immense importance of hazard therein. Nevertheless, without frailty92, without defection, what could chance have done? She began to perceive that this that she was living through was life. She bit her lips. Grief! Shame! Disillusion93! Hardship! Peril94! Catastrophe95! Exile! Above all, exile! These had to be faced, and they would be faced. She recalled the firiest verse of Crashaw and she set her shoulders back. There was the stuff of a woman in her.... Only a little while, and she had seen before her a beloved boy entranced by her charm. She had now no charm. Where now was the soft virgin96?... And yet, somehow, magically, miraculously97, the soft virgin was still there! And the invincible98 vague hope of youth, and the irrepressible consciousness of power, were almost ready to flame up afresh, contrary to all reason, and irradiate her starless soul.
The End
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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cleansing
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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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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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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brute
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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callousness
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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pouches
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| n.（放在衣袋里或连在腰带上的）小袋( pouch的名词复数 )；（袋鼠等的）育儿袋；邮袋；（某些动物贮存食物的）颊袋 | |
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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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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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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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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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reposed
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morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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slaked
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| v.满足( slake的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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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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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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conciseness
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| n.简洁，简短 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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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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betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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catering
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| n. 给养 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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underlies
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的第三人称单数 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起 | |
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71
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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envisaged
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| 想像，设想( envisage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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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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tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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83
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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