Chapter Ten (第1/2页)
tter s fingers: _y I blink, look giddily about me, as if emerging from a trance. I look at Sue: at t. I look at ts of our table-top, at te. too oo I am still trembling, as if cold. S. Sco t is as if tter rick upon oo: for to me—dreadfully ligs a cc meet her gaze.
Ric, as I do? Ss, as easily as before. Ss akes out my motient dealing-out of solitary games. I stand at tion, see o take a card and place it, turn it, set it upon anothe
kings, pull out t my fad t makes it miain curve of coo full, too plump, too pink.
At last soget if I ell me my future. S, apparently quite irony; ae myself I am drao , and clumsily mix takes t, s. o me: for a moment we bend our wh—
I is set s. I t no in many days—of Sue, breatorially over tones, gauging th . . .
After all, ordinary girls, in an ordinary parlour; aed in my fortune only as s s out of its urning t one fall, and seen it: ted red s my o into t.
S, o smoot; t Patience, as doggedly as before.
I look, again, at er, and are then will resemble my own.
t be doaken by a sense of duties u: a panig se ime—ured. I pass a fretful nigo dress me, I pluck at the sleeve of her gown.
hing you always wear?
S. I take, from my press, a velvet go. Seps out of and turns, in a kind of modesty, aug at ttle t o my box for a brooc brood pin it carefully over .
tand he glass.
Margaret es, and takes her for me.
I o o ticularity of t—not Suky ta a girl ory, es and likings. No once I see o me in fad figure sand, as if for t time, is t Rico do. I place my face against t of my bed and c isfa, turning a little to t, a little to t, brus, settling ably into ty could see me! s be ing for dark t, tless s be, as ss off t keep tle fin-gersmits, taking out some small t of gaudy ing it, over and over, in her hands . . .
Surn it for ever, t k. Nor does Sue suppose t t time ss of all her life.
I t; and I am gripped I take to be pity. It is , and am afraid. Afraid of ure may e. Afraid of t future itself, and of tions might be filled.
S kno. not k
afternoon—es, as o e, in takes my o kiss my knuckles. Miss Lilly/ one of caress. ly; yet carries of urns to Sue, and ssey. tiff-bodiced dress is not made for curtseying in, tumble togeto ses it. But I see, too, t eness of o me. o all, and darker t. akes ends almost to t. ress, Sue.
S too, sir. I take a step. She is a very good girl, I say. A very good girl, indeed.
But ty, imperfect. c be good. No girl could , Miss Lilly, h you for her example.
You are too kind, I say.
leman could but be, I to be kind to. , found sympato pluck me from t of Briar, unscratc be myself, o my uncle, if I could meet t feeling tir of some excitement, dark and a. But I feel it too queasy. I smile; but tretcigilts my o makes tigill, I begin to feel it as an ac my t. I avoid makes ep to and a moment, murmuring at t—s it into
it tsey.
Nourns back, I ot look at o my dressing-room and close ter—a terrible laug courses silently ter—I sill.
dinner, e. i from t is almost translut, t in a ting of butter and sauce. Our food es cold to table in er. In summer it es too warm.
I say, Very—biddable, Mr Rivers.
You t?
I think so, yes.
You o plain, of my reendation?
No.
ell, I am relieved to .
oo muc of tcs this? he says now.
I en.
s against my library door. of her?
So me on Mr Riverss word. o remember me.
My uncle moves ongue. as o Rie, tle raised, as if sensing dark currents. Miss Smith, you say?
Miss Smit steadily, .
t! uredly to . Now, Rivers, .
Sir?
I defy you—positively defy you, sir!—to name me any institution so nurturing of trocious acts of lecholic Church of Rome
look at me again until supper is eique text, t Against the Fryars.
Rid ly still. But tle o t lift keeps tle pearl-s a blade s to a crest, ter apples t grohe Briar orchard.
Rico see t ur me frankly. one e, ask you, o tinue Im returned? I s. I do not ans far enougo let me step about it; nor does furto pass. Instead, nt be modest, nt be , are you?
I shake my head.
Good, t time. You must stle more labour and—o surprise your uncle s of your instru. do you t anot t, three?
Again, I feel to meet it. But t, a sinking, a fluttering—a vague and nameless movement—a sort of panic. s for my reply, and ttering groed so carefully. e ted, already, one dreadful deed, a in train anot must be done no seem
to love o o Sue. s! tate, and release me! But no tate; and am afraid to say o the knife.
Let us say, t.
A look of irritatier disturbs t . Your talent is better t. t, I assure you.
last and bo. And t turn, I knoc tairs—as solicitous for my safety, as any of my uncles gentlemen friends.
ous, soon; but for , to somettern. s, to my rooms, to teaco keep close to me, t is to say; to look and to murmur, o be grave and ostentatiously gallant.
ttern—except t, whey have Sue.
And Sue is not like Agnes. S listen and co see t Mr Rivers does not e too close, or speak too fidentially, to ress; but s urn o urn ; but I see oo, steal gla us from tudy our refles in tcive as a prisoner kno seems filled h shining surfaces, eae an eye of hers.
mi passes bet look at her.
For of course, t serfeit knoisfa in t—in t s—is ao me. S kno urns; s point. S suspect t, in seeming to mock me, Ric after uro e, pero smile, pero grimace, urns to me, and smiles and grimaces in ear.
And uring of Agnes pricked me on to little cruelties of my ooo scious of myself—makes me, nog. I remble. I rayed by t of my o as love.
Ric least, kno for , feel t of ation: feel it gaturn, groo shake his head.
I am afraid, Miss Lilly, you discipline, yet. I t your touc say youve fotten your lessons, in my s absence. After all our labour! tist must alion of is, ation. For t leads to er designs tand? You do uand me?
I anso my side.
Never mind it, miss, sly, if Mr Rivers seems to say your picture. te to the life.
You think so, Sue?
So o s single fleck of darker bro t upon the card.
Its a g, Sue, I say.
Ss aint you learning?
I am, but not quickly enougs, in time, t he park.
e must ure now, he says.
I s, I tell I like to to , I say again.
ructor, insist.
I t er long— seems to me, for seven years!—it lig es gusting about my unskirted ankles as Mr ay tugs open to take. , a dark , and lavender gloves. Mr ay observes t me in a kind of satisfa, a kind of s.
Fancy yourself a lady, do you? o me, to the ice-house. ell, well see.
I o today, c circles my uncles estate, rises and overlooks tables, o to gaze at it, and close, t speak, but as we walk o rises, awkwardly.
ry to pull a me. I say at last: You need not hold me so close.
seem ving.
You grip me so. o already know?
queer, he
says, o let slip to be near you. Anyone queer.
S love me. You o dote.
S a gentleman dote, in time, sed jars s nature for you. No sense of fas least, are better-maailors ernal drab. of course, you his, soon.
I try to imagine myself in a tailors surn and, like Sue. Sc I take to be satisfa, t about tempt to pull from me go? And, care to be smot you take a deligormenting me.
c I may ention ty rapidly, after t.
time s me go, in order to cup a cigarette and lig. I look again at Sue. tronger, and t and hem. Behind her, her cloak billows like a sail.
Is s? asks Ricte.
I turn and look ae all right.
Souter takes my arm again, and laug ans be so spinsteris o you?
Noto me.
udies my profile. t? Everytaken a e cheaply, Maud
I walk on, in silence, aware of , I suppose, ? have you?
No.
You are sure?
Quite sure.
A, you still delay. ? I do not ans. is it?
Nothing has happened, I say.
Nothing?
Not w we planned for.
And you kno be done now?
Of course.
Do it t like a lover. Smile, blush, grow foolish.
Do I not do things?
You do—t you noo my arm, damn you. ill it kill you, to feel my iff at his words. I am sorry, Maud.
Let go of my arm, I say.
e go furt in silence. Sue plods bet of te, tears up a sco las s. , reat for little Co turns up a flint and stumbles. t makes s , to carriages, co drive and carry you about—
I know w I may do.
Do you? truly? s tem of grass to ful. I ? Being alone? Is it t? You need never fear solitude, Maud, while you are rich.
You tude? I say. e are close to t is ? I fear nothing.
s takes up my arm. hen, he says, do you keep us here, in such dreadful suspense?
I do not ansone has ged.
You spoke, a moment ago, of torment. truto torment yourself, by prolonging time.
I s feel careless. My uncle said someto me once, I say. t to me noo . I am used to it.
I am not, o take instru in t, from you or anyone. I too muc, ting. I am cleverer no manipulatis to matc is and me, Maud?
I turn my to uand you, I say tiredly. I all.
I il you hear.
?
o my face. ainted ract. Remember . Remember t I came, not quite as a gentleman, and tle to lose—unlike you, Miss Lilly, ion must t for somet ladies al naturally you kne, when you received me.
one o it, some quality I we is all beo read.
I say carefully, You call me a lady; but I am .
A, I t sider you one. ill o ted?
ed me himself!
to taken over by anot o be the case.
I move aand irely. of engine, for texts.
All t like it, w say and makes her?
No of t my fio my eyes. Doiresome, Ric, how?
home . . .
t seems to stumble, t again t is be quite make out ly, I so you, in a madhouse.
You are no use to me noired of t be kind to you, then.
And is this kindness? I say.
e last, into s is , amused, amazed. anything else?
e stop, close as ss. one again, but e time, o be afraid of him.
urns and calls to Sue. Not far no to me es h her, alone.
to secure her, I say. As you have me.
t , sticks better.—? I suspect suppose e? I so see o find out o me, today or tomorro some way, will you? Be sly.
s ained fio ly Sue es, as at my side. S of till billoo drao toucidy o, I turn away.
m I ake o ligte from; and I stand my dressing-room ed from me, but ract, o say. tte and stands ; the ging red soil from his shoes.
After t, I feel ting pressure of our plot as I t feel training of cets, tropical storms. I ! today I a, puncture today, I him claim me—!
But, I do not. I look at Sue, and t s darkness—a panic, I suppose it, a simple fear—a quaking, a g—a dropping, as into th of madness—
Madness, my mots slo i t makes me more frig. I take, for a day or t c.
You groo my library, to abuse it?
No, Uncle.
? Do you mumble?
No, sir.
s and purses udies me one is strao me.
age are you? ate. . Dont strike coy attitudes age are you? Sixteeeen?—You may sonis. You to the passage of years, because I am a scholar? hmm?
I am seventeen, Uncle.
Seventeen. A troublesome age, if o believe our own books.
Yes, sir.
Yes, Maud. Only remember: your business is not udy. Remember t too great a girl— nor am I too aged a sco iles e and ill wake a wo you. hings? ill you?
Yes, sir, I say.
It seems to me no remember too mucs, are set ac of striking looks and poses. I o longer say ainty it. easing, tening: I c to uand. Perer all. Perorment. It is certainly a torment to me noo sit at a lesson o sit at a diable o read to nig begins to be a torment, too, to pass time ines are spoiled. I am t
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tter s fingers: _y I blink, look giddily about me, as if emerging from a trance. I look at Sue: at t. I look at ts of our table-top, at te. too oo I am still trembling, as if cold. S. Sco t is as if tter rick upon oo: for to me—dreadfully ligs a cc meet her gaze.
Ric, as I do? Ss, as easily as before. Ss akes out my motient dealing-out of solitary games. I stand at tion, see o take a card and place it, turn it, set it upon anothe
kings, pull out t my fad t makes it miain curve of coo full, too plump, too pink.
At last soget if I ell me my future. S, apparently quite irony; ae myself I am drao , and clumsily mix takes t, s. o me: for a moment we bend our wh—
I is set s. I t no in many days—of Sue, breatorially over tones, gauging th . . .
After all, ordinary girls, in an ordinary parlour; aed in my fortune only as s s out of its urning t one fall, and seen it: ted red s my o into t.
S, o smoot; t Patience, as doggedly as before.
I look, again, at er, and are then will resemble my own.
t be doaken by a sense of duties u: a panig se ime—ured. I pass a fretful nigo dress me, I pluck at the sleeve of her gown.
hing you always wear?
S. I take, from my press, a velvet go. Seps out of and turns, in a kind of modesty, aug at ttle t o my box for a brooc brood pin it carefully over .
tand he glass.
Margaret es, and takes her for me.
I o o ticularity of t—not Suky ta a girl ory, es and likings. No once I see o me in fad figure sand, as if for t time, is t Rico do. I place my face against t of my bed and c isfa, turning a little to t, a little to t, brus, settling ably into ty could see me! s be ing for dark t, tless s be, as ss off t keep tle fin-gersmits, taking out some small t of gaudy ing it, over and over, in her hands . . .
Surn it for ever, t k. Nor does Sue suppose t t time ss of all her life.
I t; and I am gripped I take to be pity. It is , and am afraid. Afraid of ure may e. Afraid of t future itself, and of tions might be filled.
S kno. not k
afternoon—es, as o e, in takes my o kiss my knuckles. Miss Lilly/ one of caress. ly; yet carries of urns to Sue, and ssey. tiff-bodiced dress is not made for curtseying in, tumble togeto ses it. But I see, too, t eness of o me. o all, and darker t. akes ends almost to t. ress, Sue.
S too, sir. I take a step. She is a very good girl, I say. A very good girl, indeed.
But ty, imperfect. c be good. No girl could , Miss Lilly, h you for her example.
You are too kind, I say.
leman could but be, I to be kind to. , found sympato pluck me from t of Briar, unscratc be myself, o my uncle, if I could meet t feeling tir of some excitement, dark and a. But I feel it too queasy. I smile; but tretcigilts my o makes tigill, I begin to feel it as an ac my t. I avoid makes ep to and a moment, murmuring at t—s it into
it tsey.
Nourns back, I ot look at o my dressing-room and close ter—a terrible laug courses silently ter—I sill.
dinner, e. i from t is almost translut, t in a ting of butter and sauce. Our food es cold to table in er. In summer it es too warm.
I say, Very—biddable, Mr Rivers.
You t?
I think so, yes.
You o plain, of my reendation?
No.
ell, I am relieved to .
oo muc of tcs this? he says now.
I en.
s against my library door. of her?
So me on Mr Riverss word. o remember me.
My uncle moves ongue. as o Rie, tle raised, as if sensing dark currents. Miss Smith, you say?
Miss Smit steadily, .
t! uredly to . Now, Rivers, .
Sir?
I defy you—positively defy you, sir!—to name me any institution so nurturing of trocious acts of lecholic Church of Rome
look at me again until supper is eique text, t Against the Fryars.
Rid ly still. But tle o t lift keeps tle pearl-s a blade s to a crest, ter apples t grohe Briar orchard.
Rico see t ur me frankly. one e, ask you, o tinue Im returned? I s. I do not ans far enougo let me step about it; nor does furto pass. Instead, nt be modest, nt be , are you?
I shake my head.
Good, t time. You must stle more labour and—o surprise your uncle s of your instru. do you t anot t, three?
Again, I feel to meet it. But t, a sinking, a fluttering—a vague and nameless movement—a sort of panic. s for my reply, and ttering groed so carefully. e ted, already, one dreadful deed, a in train anot must be done no seem
to love o o Sue. s! tate, and release me! But no tate; and am afraid to say o the knife.
Let us say, t.
A look of irritatier disturbs t . Your talent is better t. t, I assure you.
last and bo. And t turn, I knoc tairs—as solicitous for my safety, as any of my uncles gentlemen friends.
ous, soon; but for , to somettern. s, to my rooms, to teaco keep close to me, t is to say; to look and to murmur, o be grave and ostentatiously gallant.
ttern—except t, whey have Sue.
And Sue is not like Agnes. S listen and co see t Mr Rivers does not e too close, or speak too fidentially, to ress; but s urn o urn ; but I see oo, steal gla us from tudy our refles in tcive as a prisoner kno seems filled h shining surfaces, eae an eye of hers.
mi passes bet look at her.
For of course, t serfeit knoisfa in t—in t s—is ao me. S kno urns; s point. S suspect t, in seeming to mock me, Ric after uro e, pero smile, pero grimace, urns to me, and smiles and grimaces in ear.
And uring of Agnes pricked me on to little cruelties of my ooo scious of myself—makes me, nog. I remble. I rayed by t of my o as love.
Ric least, kno for , feel t of ation: feel it gaturn, groo shake his head.
I am afraid, Miss Lilly, you discipline, yet. I t your touc say youve fotten your lessons, in my s absence. After all our labour! tist must alion of is, ation. For t leads to er designs tand? You do uand me?
I anso my side.
Never mind it, miss, sly, if Mr Rivers seems to say your picture. te to the life.
You think so, Sue?
So o s single fleck of darker bro t upon the card.
Its a g, Sue, I say.
Ss aint you learning?
I am, but not quickly enougs, in time, t he park.
e must ure now, he says.
I s, I tell I like to to , I say again.
ructor, insist.
I t er long— seems to me, for seven years!—it lig es gusting about my unskirted ankles as Mr ay tugs open to take. , a dark , and lavender gloves. Mr ay observes t me in a kind of satisfa, a kind of s.
Fancy yourself a lady, do you? o me, to the ice-house. ell, well see.
I o today, c circles my uncles estate, rises and overlooks tables, o to gaze at it, and close, t speak, but as we walk o rises, awkwardly.
ry to pull a me. I say at last: You need not hold me so close.
seem ving.
You grip me so. o already know?
queer, he
says, o let slip to be near you. Anyone queer.
S love me. You o dote.
S a gentleman dote, in time, sed jars s nature for you. No sense of fas least, are better-maailors ernal drab. of course, you his, soon.
I try to imagine myself in a tailors surn and, like Sue. Sc I take to be satisfa, t about tempt to pull from me go? And, care to be smot you take a deligormenting me.
c I may ention ty rapidly, after t.
time s me go, in order to cup a cigarette and lig. I look again at Sue. tronger, and t and hem. Behind her, her cloak billows like a sail.
Is s? asks Ricte.
I turn and look ae all right.
Souter takes my arm again, and laug ans be so spinsteris o you?
Noto me.
udies my profile. t? Everytaken a e cheaply, Maud
I walk on, in silence, aware of , I suppose, ? have you?
No.
You are sure?
Quite sure.
A, you still delay. ? I do not ans. is it?
Nothing has happened, I say.
Nothing?
Not w we planned for.
And you kno be done now?
Of course.
Do it t like a lover. Smile, blush, grow foolish.
Do I not do things?
You do—t you noo my arm, damn you. ill it kill you, to feel my iff at his words. I am sorry, Maud.
Let go of my arm, I say.
e go furt in silence. Sue plods bet of te, tears up a sco las s. , reat for little Co turns up a flint and stumbles. t makes s , to carriages, co drive and carry you about—
I know w I may do.
Do you? truly? s tem of grass to ful. I ? Being alone? Is it t? You need never fear solitude, Maud, while you are rich.
You tude? I say. e are close to t is ? I fear nothing.
s takes up my arm. hen, he says, do you keep us here, in such dreadful suspense?
I do not ansone has ged.
You spoke, a moment ago, of torment. truto torment yourself, by prolonging time.
I s feel careless. My uncle said someto me once, I say. t to me noo . I am used to it.
I am not, o take instru in t, from you or anyone. I too muc, ting. I am cleverer no manipulatis to matc is and me, Maud?
I turn my to uand you, I say tiredly. I all.
I il you hear.
?
o my face. ainted ract. Remember . Remember t I came, not quite as a gentleman, and tle to lose—unlike you, Miss Lilly, ion must t for somet ladies al naturally you kne, when you received me.
one o it, some quality I we is all beo read.
I say carefully, You call me a lady; but I am .
A, I t sider you one. ill o ted?
ed me himself!
to taken over by anot o be the case.
I move aand irely. of engine, for texts.
All t like it, w say and makes her?
No of t my fio my eyes. Doiresome, Ric, how?
home . . .
t seems to stumble, t again t is be quite make out ly, I so you, in a madhouse.
You are no use to me noired of t be kind to you, then.
And is this kindness? I say.
e last, into s is , amused, amazed. anything else?
e stop, close as ss. one again, but e time, o be afraid of him.
urns and calls to Sue. Not far no to me es h her, alone.
to secure her, I say. As you have me.
t , sticks better.—? I suspect suppose e? I so see o find out o me, today or tomorro some way, will you? Be sly.
s ained fio ly Sue es, as at my side. S of till billoo drao toucidy o, I turn away.
m I ake o ligte from; and I stand my dressing-room ed from me, but ract, o say. tte and stands ; the ging red soil from his shoes.
After t, I feel ting pressure of our plot as I t feel training of cets, tropical storms. I ! today I a, puncture today, I him claim me—!
But, I do not. I look at Sue, and t s darkness—a panic, I suppose it, a simple fear—a quaking, a g—a dropping, as into th of madness—
Madness, my mots slo i t makes me more frig. I take, for a day or t c.
You groo my library, to abuse it?
No, Uncle.
? Do you mumble?
No, sir.
s and purses udies me one is strao me.
age are you? ate. . Dont strike coy attitudes age are you? Sixteeeen?—You may sonis. You to the passage of years, because I am a scholar? hmm?
I am seventeen, Uncle.
Seventeen. A troublesome age, if o believe our own books.
Yes, sir.
Yes, Maud. Only remember: your business is not udy. Remember t too great a girl— nor am I too aged a sco iles e and ill wake a wo you. hings? ill you?
Yes, sir, I say.
It seems to me no remember too mucs, are set ac of striking looks and poses. I o longer say ainty it. easing, tening: I c to uand. Perer all. Perorment. It is certainly a torment to me noo sit at a lesson o sit at a diable o read to nig begins to be a torment, too, to pass time ines are spoiled. I am t
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