One（1）
One
IOld Lanscombe moved totteringly from room to room, pulling up the blinds. Now and then hepeered with screwed-up rheumy eyes through the windows.
Soon they would be coming back from the funeral. He shuffled along a little faster. There wereso many windows.
Enderby Hall was a vast Victorian house built in the Gothic style. In every room the curtainswere of rich faded brocade or velvet. Some of the walls were still hung with faded silk. In thegreen drawing room, the old butler glanced up at the portrait above the mantelpiece of oldCornelius Abernethie for whom Enderby Hall had been built. Cornelius Abernethie’s brown beardstuck forward aggressively, his hand rested on a terrestrial globe, whether by desire of the sitter, oras a symbolic conceit on the part of the artist, no one could tell.
A very forceful-looking gentleman, so old Lanscombe had always thought, and was glad that hehimself had never known him personally. Mr. Richard had been his gentleman. A good master,Mr. Richard. And taken very sudden, he’d been, though of course the doctor had been attendinghim for some little time. Ah, but the master had never recovered from the shock of young Mr.
Mortimer’s death. The old man shook his head as he hurried through a connecting door into theWhite Boudoir. Terrible, that had been, a real catastrophe. Such a fine upstanding younggentleman, so strong and healthy. You’d never have thought such a thing likely to happen to him.
Pitiful, it had been, quite pitiful. And Mr. Gordon killed in the war. One thing on top of another.
That was the way things went nowadays. Too much for the master, it had been. And yet he’dseemed almost himself a week ago.
The third blind in the White Boudoir refused to go up as it should. It went up a little way andstuck. The springs were weak—that’s what it was—very old, these blinds were, like everythingelse in the house. And you couldn’t get these old things mended nowadays. Too old-fashioned,that’s what they’d say, shaking their heads in that silly superior way—as if the old things weren’t agreat deal better than the new ones! He could tell them that! Gimcrack, half the new stuff was—came to pieces in your hands. The material wasn’t good, or the craftsmanship either. Oh yes, hecould tell them.
Couldn’t do anything about this blind unless he got the steps. He didn’t like climbing up thesteps much, these days, made him come over giddy. Anyway, he’d leave the blind for now. Itdidn’t matter, since the White Boudoir didn’t face the front of the house where it would be seen asthe cars came back from the funeral—and it wasn’t as though the room was ever used nowadays.
It was a lady’s room, this, and there hadn’t been a lady at Enderby for a long time now. A pity Mr.
Mortimer hadn’t married. Always going off to Norway for fishing and to Scotland for shooting andto Switzerland for those winter sports, instead of marrying some nice young lady and settlingdown at home with children running about the house. It was a long time since there had been anychildren in the house.
And Lanscombe’s mind went ranging back to a time that stood out clearly and distinctly—muchmore distinctly than the last twenty years or so, which were all blurred and confused and hecouldn’t really remember who had come and gone or indeed what they looked like. But he couldremember the old days well enough.
More like a father to those young brothers and sisters of his, Mr. Richard had been. Twenty-fourwhen his father had died, and he’d pitched in right away to the business, going off every day aspunctual as clockwork, and keeping the house running and everything as lavish as it could be. Avery happy household with all those young ladies and gentlemen growing up. Fights and quarrelsnow and again, of course, and those governesses had had a bad time of it! Poor-spirited creatures,governesses, Lanscombe had always despised them. Very spirited the young ladies had been. MissGeraldine in particular. Miss Cora, too, although she was so much younger. And now Mr. Leo wasdead, and Miss Laura gone too. And Mr. Timothy such a sad invalid. And Miss Geraldine dyingsomewhere abroad. And Mr. Gordon killed in the war. Although he was the eldest, Mr. Richardhimself turned out the strongest of the lot. Outlived them all, he had—at least not quite becauseMr. Timothy was still alive and little Miss Cora who’d married that unpleasant artist chap.
Twenty-five years since he’d seen her and she’d been a pretty young girl when she went off withthat chap, and now he’d hardly have known her, grown so stout—and so arty-crafty in her dress!
A Frenchman her husband had been, or nearly a Frenchman—and no good ever came of marryingone of them! But Miss Cora had always been a bit—well simple like you’d call it if she’d lived in avillage. Always one of them in a family.
She’d remembered him all right. “Why, it’s Lanscombe!” she’d said and seemed ever so pleasedto see him. Ah, they’d all been fond of him in the old days and when there was a dinner partythey’d crept down to the pantry and he’d given them jelly and Charlotte Russe when it came out ofthe dining room. They’d all known old Lanscombe, and now there was hardly anyone whoremembered. Just the younger lot whom he could never keep clear in his mind and who justthought of him as a butler who’d been there a long time. A lot of strangers, he had thought, whenthey all arrived for the funeral—and a seedy lot of strangers at that!
Not Mrs. Leo—she was different. She and Mr. Leo had come here off and on ever since Mr. Leomarried. She was a nice lady, Mrs. Leo—a real lady. Wore proper clothes and did her hair welland looked what she was. And the master had always been fond of her. A pity that she and Mr.
Leo had never had any children….
Lanscombe roused himself; what was he doing standing here and dreaming about old days withso much to be done? The blinds were all attended to on the ground floor now, and he’d told Janetto go upstairs and do the bedrooms. He and Janet and the cook had gone to the funeral service inthe church but instead of going on to the Crematorium they’d driven back to the house to get theblinds up and the lunch ready. Cold lunch, of course, it had to be. Ham and chicken and tongueand salad. With cold lemon soufflé and apple tart to follow. Hot soup first—and he’d better goalong and see that Marjorie had got it on ready to serve, for they’d be back in a minute or two nowfor certain.
Lanscombe broke into a shuffling trot across the room. His gaze, abstracted and uncurious, justswept up to the picture over this mantelpiece—the companion portrait to the one in the greendrawing room. It was a nice painting of white satin and pearls. The human being round whom theywere draped and clasped was not nearly so impressive. Meek features, a rosebud mouth, hairparted in the middle. A woman both modest and unassuming. The only thing really worthy of noteabout Mrs. Cornelius Abernethie had been her name— Coralie.
For over sixty years after their original appearance, Coral Cornplasters and the allied “Coral”
foot preparations still held their own. Whether there had ever been anything outstanding aboutCoral Cornplasters nobody could say—but they had appealed to the public fancy. On a foundationof Coral Cornplasters there had arisen this neo-Gothic palace, its acres of gardens, and the moneythat had paid out an income to seven sons and daughters and had allowed Richard Abernethie todie three days ago a very rich man.
第一章（1）
第一章
老兰斯柯姆步履蹒跚地从一个房间走到另一个房间，把百叶窗依次拉开。他那双泪汪汪的眼睛周围皱纹满布，不时向窗外张望。
他们应该快从葬礼上回来了。他拖沓的步伐稍稍加快了一些，因为窗子太多了。
恩德比府邸是一幢哥特风格的巨大建筑，建于维多利亚时代。每个房间里都挂着厚重的锦缎或天鹅绒窗帘，已经有点儿退色。有的墙面上仍挂着老旧的丝绸。老管家兰斯柯姆走进以绿色调为主的客厅，看了看壁炉台上挂着的肖像，画中人正是科尼利厄斯•阿伯内西，恩德比府邸就是为他建造的。他棕色的胡须气势汹汹地向前翘着，手扶着一个地球仪，实在无法辨别这种构图究竟是出于他本人的意愿，还是画家使用了某种象征手法。
真是一位强悍的绅士，老兰斯柯姆时常这么想，同时庆幸自己从未和他打过照面。理查德先生是他心中真正的绅士，是一位好主人，医生已经为他治疗了一段时间，主人还是猝然长逝。唉，莫蒂默少爷的去世给他造成了太大的打击，主人一直没能从悲痛中走出来。老人摇摇头，快步走进隔壁的白色卧室。太可怕了，那是一场真正的惨剧。那么年轻有为，那么健康强壮的一位绅士，你绝对想不到那种事会发生在他身上。可怜啊，实在是太可怜了。戈登先生又在战争中丧了命。噩耗接踵而至，现如今的情况就是这样。这一切对于主人来说实在太难以承受了。不过，就在一周前，他看上去还很健康。
白色卧室的第三扇百叶窗怎么也拉不上去，刚拉起来一点儿就卡住了。弹簧快不行了——应该是这里出了问题——这些百叶窗都太过老旧，就像这幢房子里的其他东西一样，而且这年头老物件都没办法修了。“太老了。”他们总这样说，同时鄙夷地摇着头——好像老东西根本没有新东西好！他可以明确地告诉这些人！一半的新东西都是华而不实的廉价货——刚拿到手就完蛋了。材料劣质，手工就更不用说了。是的，没错，他可以明确地告诉他们。
看样子，除了搬个梯子来，真的别无他法了。近些年，他很不喜欢爬梯子，总令他头晕目眩。算了，就让它维持这样吧，应该没什么关系，这间卧室的窗户不在房子正面，人们坐车从葬礼上回来时应该也看不到——而且这卧室似乎从没用过。这是间淑女的闺房，而恩德比已经很久没有出现过淑女了。莫蒂默先生没结婚，真是太可惜了。他老是跑去挪威垂钓，去苏格兰打猎，或是去瑞士溜冰滑雪，却没想着娶一位贤惠温柔的淑女，早日安定下来，在家里看着满屋的孩子嬉闹，尽享天伦之乐。这幢房子里也很久没有出现过小孩的身影了。
兰斯柯姆的脑海里清晰地浮现出过去的一段时光——比过去这二十年的记忆清晰多了，过去二十年的记忆模糊、混杂。人来人往的，他很难记清楚。但那段老时光的记忆却历历在目。
对于他年轻的弟弟妹妹们来说，比起兄长，理查德先生更像是位父亲。二十四岁那年，父亲去世，他立刻接手了父亲的事业，每天准时外出工作，让这个家庭继续享受奢华富足的生活。小姐和少爷互相陪伴、成长，是个非常和睦的家庭。当然，不时也有口角，那几个女家庭教师当时可是吃尽了苦头！都是些懦弱的家伙，兰斯柯姆总是瞧不起那些女家庭教师们。那会儿小姐们精力旺盛极了，尤其是杰拉尔丁小姐。当然，还有科拉小姐，尽管她年纪小很多。现如今，利奥先生去世了；劳拉小姐也是；蒂莫西先生沉浸在悲痛中，已然成了废人；杰拉尔丁小姐死在海外；戈登先生在战争中丧了命；理查德先生虽然是最年长的，到头来却成了兄弟姐妹中最强壮的一个；不过不能算是最长寿的，因为蒂莫西先生还健在；还有科拉小姐，嫁给了一个惹人厌烦的艺术家。兰斯柯姆已经二十五年没见过她了，她和那家伙出走的时候还是个年轻漂亮的姑娘，如今，他几乎快认不出她来了，身材矮胖，穿着做作，佯装出一副艺术家的姿态！她丈夫是法国人，或者有些法国血统——嫁给那种人绝不会有好下场！不过科拉小姐向来有些——幼稚，换句好听点儿的话说，单纯。每个家庭都会出一位这样的人物。
她还记得他。“哟，是兰斯柯姆！”她看见他似乎很高兴。啊，他们几个过去都很喜欢他，每当晚宴时，他们总是偷偷摸摸地跑到餐具室，而他会从餐厅里端出来的餐盘里拿些果冻和奶油布丁分给他们。那时他们都认识老兰斯柯姆，而现如今，没几个人记得他是谁了。年轻的一代，他也区分不出谁是谁，他们只知道他是这家里服侍了很多年的老管家，仅此而已。当他们来参加葬礼时，他自顾自地想着，都是些陌生人——一群惹人厌烦的陌生人！
这当中不包括利奥夫人——她不同。和利奥先生结婚后，夫妻二人不时会前来拜访。
利奥夫人，她可是位淑女——真正的淑女。衣着得体，发型优雅，一举一动都符合自己的身份地位。主人一向很喜欢她。可惜她和利奥先生到现在还没孩子……兰斯柯姆回了回神。还有一大堆事情等着他呢，在这儿傻站着回忆往昔有什么用？楼下的百叶窗都拉开了，他应该让珍妮上楼去把卧室的窗子也打开。他、珍妮和厨娘参加完教堂的葬礼仪式之后就回来了，把百叶窗都打开，准备午餐。当然了，必须得是冷餐。火腿、鸡肉、牛舌和沙拉，甜点是柠檬奶酥和苹果馅饼。先上热汤——他们过不了一两分钟就回来了，他最好去看看玛乔丽都准备好了没有。
兰斯柯姆加快脚步，穿过房间。视线不经意间被壁炉架上的肖像吸引过去——这一幅和客厅里挂的那幅是一对。画中的白绸缎服装和珍珠画得细致极了，而穿戴着这些衣服和珠宝的主人公则被掩盖在当中，夺走了一些光彩。她容貌温婉，玫瑰蓓蕾般的嘴唇，中分的长发，是一位娴静、谦虚的女性。科尼利厄斯•阿伯内西太太，关于她，唯一值得一提的也就是她的名字了——科拉莉。
自从六十多年前发迹以来，科拉家族面粉企业和附属的科拉制鞋公司一直收益不错。
没人知道科拉家族的企业究竟有什么特别之处——但这个家族的事总引得大众遐想不已。
正是因为这个财力雄厚的家族企业，这座新哥特式的宫殿，连同周围数英亩的花园才得以建成。科拉家族还保证七个子女能按时拿到钱，由于这笔定期收入，三天前去世的理查德•阿伯内西非常富有。
One（2）
II
Looking into the kitchen with a word of admonition, Lanscombe was snapped at by Marjorie, thecook. Marjorie was young, only twenty-seven, and was a constant irritation to Lanscombe as beingso far removed from what his conception of a proper cook should be. She had no dignity and noproper appreciation of his, Lanscombe’s, position. She frequently called the house “a proper oldmausoleum” and complained of the immense area of the kitchen, scullery and larder, saying that itwas a “day’s walk to get round them all.” She had been at Enderby two years and only stayedbecause in the first place the money was good, and in the second because Mr. Abernethie hadreally appreciated her cooking. She cooked very well. Janet, who stood by the kitchen table,refreshing herself with a cup of tea, was an elderly housemaid who, although enjoying frequentacid disputes with Lanscombe, was nevertheless usually in alliance with him against the youngergeneration as represented by Marjorie. The fourth person in the kitchen was Mrs. Jacks, who“came in” to lend assistance where it was wanted and who had much enjoyed the funeral.
“Beautiful it was,” she said with a decorous sniff as she replenished her cup. “Nineteen cars andthe church quite full and the Canon read the service beautiful, I thought. A nice fine day for it, too.
Ah, poor dear Mr. Abernethie, there’s not many like him left in the world. Respected by all, hewas.”
There was the note of a horn and the sound of a car coming up the drive, and Mrs. Jacks putdown her cup and exclaimed: “Here they are.”
Marjorie turned up the gas under her large saucepan of creamy chicken soup. The large kitchenrange of the days of Victorian grandeur stood cold and unused, like an altar to the past.
The cars drove up one after the other and the people issuing from them in their black clothesmoved rather uncertainly across the hall and into the big green drawing room. In the big steel gratea fire was burning, tribute to the first chill of the autumn days and calculated to counteract thefurther chill of standing about at a funeral.
Lanscombe entered the room, offering glasses of sherry on a silver tray.
Mr. Entwhistle, senior partner of the old and respected firm of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistleand Bollard, stood with his back to the fireplace warming himself. He accepted a glass of sherry,and surveyed the company with his shrewd lawyer’s gaze. Not all of them were personally knownto him, and he was under the necessity of sorting them out, so to speak. Introductions before thedeparture for the funeral had been hushed and perfunctory.
Appraising old Lanscombe first, Mr. Entwhistle thought to himself, “Getting very shaky, poorold chap — going on for ninety I shouldn’t wonder. Well, he’ll have that nice little annuity.
Nothing for him to worry about. Faithful soul. No such thing as old-fashioned service nowadays.
Household helps and babysitters, God help us all! A sad world. Just as well, perhaps, poor Richarddidn’t last his full time. He hadn’t much to live for.”
To Mr. Entwhistle, who was seventy- two, Richard Abernethie’s death at sixty- eight wasdefinitely that of a man dead before his time. Mr. Entwhistle had retired from active business twoyears ago, but as executor of Richard Abernethie’s will and in respect of one of his oldest clientswho was also a personal friend, he had made the journey to the North.
Reflecting in his own mind on the provisions of the will, he mentally appraised the family.
Mrs. Leo, Helen, he knew well, of course. A very charming woman for whom he had bothliking and respect. His eyes dwelt approvingly on her now as she stood near one of the windows.
Black suited her. She had kept her figure well. He liked the clear cut features, the springing line ofgrey hair back from her temples and the eyes that had once been likened to cornflowers and whichwere still quite vividly blue.
How old was Helen now? About fifty-one or-two, he supposed. Strange that she had nevermarried again after Leo’s death. An attractive woman. Ah, but they had been very devoted, thosetwo.
His eyes went on to Mrs. Timothy. He had never known her very well. Black didn’t suit her—country tweeds were her wear. A big sensible capable-looking woman. She’d always been a gooddevoted wife to Timothy. Looking after his health, fussing over him—fussing over him a bit toomuch, probably. Was there really anything the matter with Timothy? Just a hypochondriac, Mr.
Entwhistle suspected. Richard Abernethie had suspected so, too. “Weak chest, of course, when hewas a boy,” he had said. “But blest if I think there’s much wrong with him now.” Oh well,everybody had to have some hobby. Timothy’s hobby was the all absorbing one of his own health.
Was Mrs. Tim taken in? Probably not—but women never admitted that sort of thing. Timothymust be quite comfortably off. He’d never been a spendthrift. However, the extra would not comeamiss—not in these days of taxation. He’d probably had to retrench his scale of living a good dealsince the war.
Mr. Entwhistle transferred his attention to George Crossfield, Laura’s son. Dubious sort offellow Laura had married. Nobody had ever known much about him. A stockbroker he had calledhimself. Young George was in a solicitor’s office—not a very reputable firm. Good-looking youngfellow—but something a little shifty about him. He couldn’t have too much to live on. Laura hadbeen a complete fool over her investments. She’d left next to nothing when she died five yearsago. A handsome romantic girl she’d been, but no money sense.
Mr. Entwhistle’s eyes went on from George Crossfield. Which of the two girls was which? Ahyes, that was Rosamund, Geraldine’s daughter, looking at the wax flowers on the malachite table.
Pretty girl, beautiful, in fact—rather a silly face. On the stage. Repertory companies or somenonsense like that. Had married an actor, too. Good-looking fellow. “And knows he is,” thoughtMr. Entwhistle, who was prejudiced against the stage as a profession. “Wonder what sort of abackground he has and where he comes from.”
He looked disapprovingly at Michael Shane with his fair hair and his haggard charm.
Now Susan, Gordon’s daughter, would do much better on the stage than Rosamund. Morepersonality. A little too much personality for everyday life, perhaps. She was quite near him andMr. Entwhistle studied her covertly. Dark hair, hazel—almost golden—eyes, a sulky attractivemouth. Beside her was the husband she had just married—a chemist’s assistant, he understood.
Really, a chemist’s assistant! In Mr. Entwhistle’s creed girls did not marry young men who servedbehind a counter. But now of course, they married anybody! The young man, who had a palenondescript face and sandy hair, seemed very ill at ease. Mr. Entwhistle wondered why, butdecided charitably that it was the strain of meeting so many of his wife’s relations.
Last in his survey Mr. Entwhistle came to Cora Lansquenet. There was a certain justice in that,for Cora had decidedly been an afterthought in the family. Richard’s youngest sister, she had beenborn when her mother was just on fifty, and that meek woman had not survived her tenthpregnancy (three children had died in infancy). Poor little Cora! All her life, Cora had been ratheran embarrassment, growing up tall and gawky, and given to blurting out remarks that had alwaysbetter have remained unsaid. All her elder brothers and sisters had been very kind to Cora, atoningfor her deficiencies and covering her social mistakes. It had never really occurred to anyone thatCora would marry. She had not been a very attractive girl, and her rather obvious advances tovisiting young men had usually caused the latter to retreat in some alarm. And then, Mr.
Entwhistle mused, there had come the Lansquenet business—Pierre Lansquenet, half French,whom she had come across in an Art school where she had been having very correct lessons inpainting flowers in watercolours. But somehow she had got into the Life class and there she hadmet Pierre Lansquenet and had come home and announced her intention of marrying him. RichardAbernethie had put his foot down — he hadn’t liked what he saw of Pierre Lansquenet andsuspected that the young man was really in search of a rich wife. But whilst he was making a fewresearches into Lansquenet’s antecedents, Cora had bolted with the fellow and married him out ofhand. They had spent most of their married life in Brittany and Cornwall and other painters’
conventional haunts. Lansquenet had been a very bad painter and not, by all accounts, a very niceman, but Cora had remained devoted to him and had never forgiven her family for their attitude tohim. Richard had generously made his young sister an allowance and on that they had, so Mr.
Entwhistle believed, lived. He doubted if Lansquenet had ever earned any money at all. He musthave been dead now twelve years or more, thought Mr. Entwhistle. And now here was his widow,rather cushion-like in shape and dressed in wispy artistic black with festoons of jet beads, back inthe home of her girlhood, moving about and touching things and exclaiming with pleasure whenshe recalled some childish memory. She made very little pretence of grief at her brother’s death.
But then, Mr. Entwhistle reflected, Cora had never pretended.
Reentering the room Lanscombe murmured in muted tones suitable to the occasion:
“Luncheon is served.”
第一章（2）
2兰斯柯姆把头伸进厨房，催促了两声，结果被玛乔丽教训了几句。厨娘玛乔丽非常年轻，不过二十七岁，她一直是兰斯柯姆的眼中钉，因为她压根儿不符合他心中合格厨师的标准。对于兰斯柯姆的头衔，她也毫不尊重。总说这房子是幢“古旧的阴森陵墓”，还不时抱怨厨房太大，又是洗涤区，又是食物贮藏区，还说什么“从前到后走一遍都得花一整天时间”。她在恩德比已有两年时间了，留下来没有辞职，一是因为丰厚的薪水，二是因为阿伯内西太太非常喜欢她精湛的厨艺。珍妮站在料理台旁边喝茶，她是个年老的女仆，虽然总喜欢和兰斯柯姆斗嘴，但一直和他站在同一战线，对抗以玛乔丽为首的年轻一辈。厨房里的第四个人是到厨房来搭把手的杰克斯夫人，她似乎很喜欢葬礼。
“太美了这实在是，”她倒满一杯茶，优雅地闻了闻，说道，“十九辆车，教堂里的人塞得满满当当。牧师的祷告词美极了，我想。今天可真是个举行葬礼的好日子。啊，可怜的阿伯内西先生，像他这样的人，世上没剩几个了。没有一个人不尊敬他。”
汽车喇叭响了一声，紧接着是汽车驶近的声音。杰克斯太太立刻放下茶杯，高声说：“他们到了。”
玛乔丽把瓦斯炉打开，上面搁着一大锅奶油鸡汤。铸造于维多利亚时期的巨大炉灶冷冰冰地矗立在一旁，像是纪念往日时光的祭坛。
汽车一辆接一辆地停下来，身着黑衣的人们犹犹豫豫地穿过门厅，走进绿色的客厅。
钢制壁炉里的火熊熊燃烧着，驱散着萧瑟秋日的习习凉意，缓和葬礼肃杀的气氛。
兰斯柯姆端着银质托盘走进房间，把雪利酒送给客厅里的人。
恩特威斯尔先生——历史悠久、声誉卓越的博拉尔德-恩特威斯尔公司的资深合伙人——正靠在壁炉旁取暖。他接过一杯雪利酒，用他那律师特有的锐利目光打量着屋子里的人。并非所有人都是他的旧识，所以有必要一一弄清楚。葬礼前的介绍毕竟既仓促又敷衍。
应该先夸老兰斯柯姆两句，恩特威斯尔先生暗暗想着：“这可怜的老家伙，手脚越老越不利索了——就算他活到九十岁我也一点儿都不惊讶。是啊，他有那笔丰厚的养老金，什么都不用操心了。忠诚的人啊，如今这种老式仆人早就绝迹了。现在尽是些帮佣、临时保姆，上帝救救我们吧！多么悲惨的世界。没准儿可怜的理查德早早去世是件好事，这世上真没什么东西值得让他继续活下去了。”
对于今年七十二岁的恩特威斯尔先生来说，理查德•阿伯内西只活到六十八岁，确实是走得太早了。恩特威斯尔先生两年前就退休了，但身为理查德•阿伯内西的遗嘱执行人，出于对这位老主顾和老朋友的尊敬，他还是不辞辛劳赶到了北方。
他一边回想遗嘱中的条款，一边暗自审视着这家人。
利奥夫人——海伦，当然了，他很熟悉。是一位非常迷人的女士，他很喜欢，也很尊敬她，他赞许的目光落在她身上。此刻她正站在窗边，黑色配她再合适不过了。她身材保持得很好。他喜欢她那棱角分明的面孔，从太阳穴向后梳拢的灰色头发，还有那对矢车菊一样的眸子，依旧湛蓝湛蓝的。
海伦今年多大了？大概五十一二岁，他寻思。很奇怪，利奥死后她没有改嫁。一个很有魅力的女人。啊，不过他们夫妇非常恩爱。
他的目光移到蒂莫西夫人身上。他不是很了解她。黑色不适合她——她穿着一件乡村粗花呢外套，看得出非常能干。她一直是蒂莫西先生忠心的好妻子。细心照料他的健康，为他大大小小的事务操心——或许有些操心过头了。蒂莫西真的生病了吗？在恩特威斯尔先生看来，不过是臆想症罢了。理查德•阿伯内西也这么认为。“他小的时候，心肺很虚弱，”他过去曾说，“可我不认为他现在有什么大不了的毛病。”唉，是啊，每个人都有自己的嗜好。蒂莫西的嗜好就是没完没了地为自己的健康担心。蒂莫西夫人是不是被他骗了？
应该不可能——但女人就算知道被骗了也绝不会承认。蒂莫西的日子肯定过得很舒服。在开销方面，他从来都不节省。不过附加税可是逃不了的——在如今这种税制下。估计战后他得精打细算，缩减开销了。
恩特威斯尔先生的注意力转移到劳拉的儿子，乔治•克罗斯菲尔德身上。劳拉的丈夫是个体面的人物，自称是股票经纪人。乔治则在一家律师事务所工作——不是什么有名的事务所。他长得很英俊，不过看起来很有心机。他的日子应该也挺拮据。劳拉在投资方面是个彻头彻尾的傻瓜，五年前去世的时候几乎什么都没留下。她当年可是个既漂亮又浪漫的姑娘，但对理财一窍不通。
恩特威斯尔先生把目光从乔治•克罗斯菲尔德身上移开。那两个女孩是谁？啊，没错，盯着孔雀石桌上的风蜡花的那位，是杰拉尔丁的女儿——罗莎蒙德。漂亮的姑娘，的确美极了——一副无知愚蠢的长相。她从事演艺工作，在一个定期换演剧目的剧团演出，嫁给了一个演员——一个长相很出众的家伙。“而且很清楚自己的优点，”恩特威斯尔先生暗自评价，他很不喜欢这些从事演艺工作的人，“不知道到底是什么背景，从哪儿冒出来的。”
他目光鄙夷地看着迈克尔•沙恩，看着他那飘逸的金发散发出的野性魅力。
另一个女孩是戈登的女儿苏珊，如果她上了舞台，绝对比罗莎蒙德要强。她更有个性，或许在日常生活中，这种个性太突出了一点儿。她站得离他很近，恩特威斯尔先生便暗暗观察起她来。深色头发，浅褐色——近乎金色的眼睛，一张忧郁迷人的嘴。旁边站着她的新婚丈夫——据他所知，是个药剂师助手。说真的，药剂师助手！在恩特威斯尔先生的观念里，女孩绝不应该嫁给一个站在柜台后面为别人服务的人。不过，当然了，如今这个年代，她们可以嫁给任何人！这个年轻人长相毫无特色，脸色很苍白，淡茶色的头发，看上去似乎很不自在。恩特威斯尔还是宽容地把这种表现归咎于他见到妻子的这么多亲戚，过于紧张。
他的最后一个观察对象是科拉•兰斯科内特。把她留到最后倒也公平，科拉是理查德最小的妹妹，可以算是这一家的编外成员——她母亲生她时正好五十岁。那个温柔的女人没能安然渡过这第十次生产——其他三个孩子都早夭了。可怜的小科拉！一生都无比尴尬，长得高大笨拙，还不时脱口说出些不合时宜的话。哥哥姐姐们对她都很好，总是尽量掩盖她的不足，弥补她的过失。谁都没想到科拉竟然会结婚，她向来不是个有魅力的姑娘，却总是明目张胆地主动接近年轻男子，让他们避之唯恐不及。接下来，恩特威斯尔先生笑了笑，接下来就该说说兰斯科内特的事了——皮埃尔•兰斯科内特，有一半法国血统，当时，科拉在一家艺术学校学习水彩花卉画，后来不知为什么，改选了生活指导课程，在那儿遇见了皮埃尔•兰斯科内特，然后回家宣布准备和他结婚。理查德•阿伯内西极力反对——他很不喜欢这位皮埃尔•兰斯科内特，怀疑这个年轻人只是想娶个有钱人做妻子。正当他调查兰斯科内特的背景时，科拉和这家伙私奔了，还结了婚。婚后的大部分时间里，他们都住在布列塔尼和康沃尔，还有一些画家们惯常居住的地方。身为一个画家，兰斯科内特糟糕透顶，作为男人也一样，但科拉对他一心一意，她一直都愿意原谅家人对待自己丈夫的态度。理查德非常慷慨地接济了科拉一些钱，恩特威斯尔相信，多亏了这笔钱，他们才得以维持生活。他甚至怀疑兰斯科内特是否曾经赚过一分钱。他已经死了十二年了，或者更久，恩特威斯尔先生想，现如今，他的遗孀就站在这里，体形鼓得像个靠垫，裹着精致的黑衣，戴着黑玉珠链，回到了自己童年时的家，东摸摸西瞧瞧，回想到童年的事便高兴地叫起来。对于长兄的死，她倒是没费心装出悲痛的模样。不过，恩特威斯尔先生立刻想到，科拉从不伪装自己。
再次进入客厅，兰斯柯姆用得体的低哑声音说：“午餐已经准备好了。”