The next morning, after a night which she could not have described, Constance found herself lying flat in bed, with all her limbs stretched out straight. She was conscious that her face was covered with perspiration1. The bell-rope hung within a foot of her head, but she had decided2 that, rather than move in order to pull it, she would prefer to wait for assistance until Mary came of her own accord. Her experiences of the night had given her a dread3 of the slightest movement; anything was better than movement. She felt vaguely4 ill, with a kind of subdued5 pain, and she was very thirsty and somewhat cold. She knew that her left arm and leg were extraordinarily6 tender to the touch. When Mary at length entered, clean and fresh and pale in all her mildness, she found the mistress the colour of a duck's egg, with puffed7 features, and a strangely anxious expression.
"Mary," said Constance, "I feel so queer. Perhaps you'd better run up and tell Miss Holl, and ask her to telephone for Dr. Stirling."
This was the beginning of Constance's last illness. Mary most impressively informed Miss Holl that her mistress had been out on the previous afternoon in spite of her sciatica, and Lily telephoned the fact to the Doctor. Lily then came down to take charge of Constance. But she dared not upbraid8 the invalid9.
"Is the result out?" Constance murmured.
"Oh yes," said Lily, lightly. "There's a majority of over twelve hundred against Federation10. Great excitement last night! I told you yesterday morning that Federation was bound to be beaten."
Lily spoke11 as though the result throughout had been a certainty; her tone to Constance indicated: "Surely you don't imagine that I should have told you untruths yesterday morning merely to cheer you up!" The truth was, however, that towards the end of the day nearly every one had believed Federation to be carried. The result had caused great surprise. Only the profoundest philosophers had not been surprised to see that the mere12 blind, deaf, inert13 forces of reaction, with faulty organization, and quite deprived of the aid of logic14, had proved far stronger than all the alert enthusiasm arrayed against them. It was a notable lesson to reformers.
"Oh!" murmured Constance, startled. She was relieved; but she would have liked the majority to be smaller. Moreover, her interest in the question had lessened16. It was her limbs that pre- occupied her now.
"You look tired," she said feebly to Lily.
"Do I?" said Lily, shortly, hiding the fact that she had spent half the night in tending Dick Povey, who, in a sensational17 descent near Macclesfield, had been dragged through the tops of a row of elm trees to the detriment18 of an elbow-joint; the professional aeronaut had broken a leg.
Then Dr. Stirling came.
"I'm afraid my sciatica's worse, Doctor," said Constance, apologetically.
"Did you expect it to be better?" said he, gazing at her sternly. She knew then that some one had saved her the trouble of confessing her escapade.
However, her sciatica was not worse. Her sciatica had not behaved basely. What she was suffering from was the preliminary advances of an attack of acute rheumatism19. She had indeed selected the right month and weather for her escapade! Fatigued20 by pain, by nervous agitation21, and by the immense moral and physical effort needed to carry her to the Town Hall and back, she had caught a chill, and had got her feet damp. In such a subject as herself it was enough. The doctor used only the phrase 'acute rheumatism.' Constance did not know that acute rheumatism was precisely22 the same thing as that dread disease, rheumatic fever, and she was not informed. She did not surmise23 for a considerable period that her case was desperately24 serious. The doctor explained the summoning of two nurses, and the frequency of his own visits, by saying that his chief anxiety was to minimise the fearful pain as much as possible, and that this end could only be secured by incessant25 watchfulness26. The pain was certainly formidable. But then Constance was well habituated to formidable pain. Sciatica, at its most active, cannot be surpassed even by rheumatic fever. Constance had been in nearly continuous pain for years. Her friends, however sympathetic, could not appreciate the intensity27 of her torture. They were just as used to it as she was. And the monotony and particularity of her complaints (slight though the complaints were in comparison with their cause) necessarily blunted the edge of compassion28. "Mrs. Povey and her sciatica again! Poor thing, she really is a little tedious!" They were apt not to realise that sciatica is even more tedious than complaints about sciatica.
She asked one day that Dick should come to see her. He came with his arm in a sling29, and told her charily30 that he had hurt his elbow through dropping his stick and slipping downstairs.
"Lily never told me," said Constance, suspiciously.
"Oh, it's simply nothing!" said Dick. Not even the sick room could chasten him of his joy in the magnificent balloon adventure.
"I do hope you won't go running any risks!" said Constance.
"Never you fear!" said he. "I shall die in my bed."
And he was absolutely convinced that he would, and not as the result of any accident, either! The nurse would not allow him to remain in the room.
Lily suggested that Constance might like her to write to Cyril. It was only in order to make sure of Cyril's correct address. He had gone on a tour through Italy with some friends of whom Constance knew nothing. The address appeared to be very uncertain; there were several addresses, poste restante in various towns. Cyril had sent postcards to his mother. Dick and Lily went to the post- office and telegraphed to foreign parts. Though Constance was too ill to know how ill she was, though she had no conception of the domestic confusion caused by her illness, her brain was often remarkably31 clear, and she could reflect in long, sane32 meditations33 above the uneasy sea of her pain. In the earlier hours of the night, after the nurses had been changed, and Mary had gone to bed exhausted34 with stair-climbing, and Lily Holl was recounting the day to Dick up at the grocer's, and the day-nurse was already asleep, and the night-nurse had arranged the night, then, in the faintly-lit silence of the chamber35, Constance would argue with herself for an hour at a time. She frequently thought of Sophia. In spite of the fact that Sophia was dead she still pitied Sophia as a woman whose life had been wasted. This idea of Sophia's wasted and sterile36 life, and of the far-reaching importance of adhering to principles, recurred37 to her again and again. "Why did she run away with him? If only she had not run away!" she would repeat. And yet there had been something so fine about Sophia! Which made Sophia's case all the more pitiable! Constance never pitied herself. She did not consider that Fate had treated her very badly. She was not very discontented with herself. The invincible38 commonsense39 of a sound nature prevented her, in her best moments, from feebly dissolving in self-pity. She had lived in honesty and kindliness40 for a fair number of years, and she had tasted triumphant41 hours. She was justly respected, she had a position, she had dignity, she was well-off. She possessed42, after all, a certain amount of quiet self-conceit. There existed nobody to whom she would 'knuckle43 down,' or could be asked to 'knuckle down.' True, she was old! So were thousands of other people in Bursley. She was in pain. So there were thousands of other people. With whom would she be willing to exchange lots? She had many dissatisfactions. But she rose superior to them. When she surveyed her life, and life in general, she would think, with a sort of tart15 but not sour cheerfulness: "Well, that is what life is!" Despite her habit of complaining about domestic trifles, she was, in the essence of her character, 'a great body for making the best of things.' Thus she did not unduly44 bewail her excursion to the Town Hall to vote, which the sequel had proved to be ludicrously supererogatory. "How was I to know?" she said.
The one matter in which she had gravely to reproach herself was her indulgent spoiling of Cyril after the death of Samuel Povey. But the end of her reproaches always was: "I expect I should do the same again! And probably it wouldn't have made any difference if I hadn't spoiled him!" And she had paid tenfold for the weakness. She loved Cyril, but she had no illusions about him; she saw both sides of him. She remembered all the sadness and all the humiliations which he had caused her. Still, her affection was unimpaired. A son might be worse than Cyril was; he had admirable qualities. She did not resent his being away from England while she lay ill. "If it was serious," she said, "he would not lose a moment." And Lily and Dick were a treasure to her. In those two she really had been lucky. She took great pleasure in contemplating45 the splendour of the gift with which she would mark her appreciation46 of them at their approaching wedding. The secret attitude of both of them towards her was one of good-natured condescension47, expressed in the tone in which they would say to each other, 'the old lady.' Perhaps they would have been startled to know that Constance lovingly looked down on both of them. She had unbounded admiration48 for their hearts; but she thought that Dick was a little too brusque, a little too clownish, to be quite a gentleman. And though Lily was perfectly49 ladylike, in Constance's opinion she lacked backbone50, or grit51, or independence of spirit. Further, Constance considered that the disparity of age between them was excessive. It is to be doubted whether, when all was said, Constance had such a very great deal to learn from the self-confident wisdom of these young things.
After a period of self-communion, she would sometimes fall into a shallow delirium52. In all her delirium she was invariably wandering to and fro, lost, in the long underground passage leading from the scullery past the coal-cellar and the cinder-cellar to the backyard. And she was afraid of the vast-obscure of those regions, as she had been in her infancy53.
It was not acute rheumatism, but a supervening pericarditis that in a few days killed her. She died in the night, alone with the night-nurse. By a curious chance the Wesleyan minister, hearing that she was seriously ill, had called on the previous day. She had not asked for him; and this pastoral visit, from a man who had always said that the heavy duties of the circuit rendered pastoral visits almost impossible, made her think. In the evening she had requested that Fossette should be brought upstairs.
Thus she was turned out of her house, but not by the Midland Clothiers Company. Old people said to one another: "Have you heard that Mrs. Povey is dead? Eh, dear me! There'll be no one left soon." These old people were bad prophets. Her friends genuinely regretted her, and forgot the tediousness of her sciatica. They tried, in their sympathetic grief, to picture to themselves all that she had been through in her life. Possibly they imagined that they succeeded in this imaginative attempt. But they did not succeed. No one but Constance could realize all that Constance had been through, and all that life had meant to her.
Cyril was not at the funeral. He arrived three days later. (As he had no interest in the love affairs of Dick and Lily, the couple were robbed of their wedding-present. The will, fifteen years old, was in Cyril's favour.) But the immortal54 Charles Critchlow came to the funeral, full of calm, sardonic55 glee, and without being asked. Though fabulously56 senile, he had preserved and even improved his faculty57 for enjoying a catastrophe58. He now went to funerals with gusto, contentedly59 absorbed in the task of burying his friends one by one. It was he who said, in his high, trembling, rasping, deliberate voice: "It's a pity her didn't live long enough to hear as Federation is going on after all! That would ha' worritted her." (For the unscrupulous advocates of Federation had discovered a method of setting at naught60 the decisive result of the referendum, and that day's Signal was fuller than ever of Federation.)
When the short funeral procession started, Mary and the infirm Fossette (sole relic61 of the connection between the Baines family and Paris) were left alone in the house. The tearful servant prepared the dog's dinner and laid it before her in the customary soup-plate in the customary corner. Fossette sniffed62 at it, and then walked away and lay down with a dog's sigh in front of the kitchen fire. She had been deranged63 in her habits that day; she was conscious of neglect, due to events which passed her comprehension. And she did not like it. She was hurt, and her appetite was hurt. However, after a few minutes, she began to reconsider the matter. She glanced at the soup-plate, and, on the chance that it might after all contain something worth inspection64, she awkwardly balanced herself on her old legs and went to it again.
The End
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1
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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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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federation
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| n.同盟，联邦，联合，联盟，联合会 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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charily
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| 小心谨慎地，节俭地，俭省地 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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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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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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commonsense
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| adj.有常识的；明白事理的；注重实际的 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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41
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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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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46
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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47
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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48
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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49
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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51
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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52
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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53
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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54
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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56
fabulously
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| 难以置信地，惊人地 | |
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57
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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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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62
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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63
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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