Chapter Eleven (第1/2页)
e leave, just as e. My uncles prints are mounted and bound: akes me to vie of treat.
Fine work, hink, Maud? hmm?
Yes, sir.
Do you look?
Yes, Uncle.
Yes. Fine work. I believe I srey and week? do you say? S?
I do not ansurns to Richard.
Rivers, o e back, as a guest, rey?
Richard bows, looks sorry. I fear, sir, I shall be occupied elsewhere.
Unfortunate. You , Maud? Most unfortunate . . .
t on . Cs of vulsion, and runs. My uncle also shen.
Do you see, Rivers, torments to wc boy and whip him!
I will, sir, says Mr ay.
Ric me, and smiles. I do not smile back. And eps, akes my quite nervelessly against urns to my uncle: Mr Lilly. Fareo you, sir!
A rap is dra? S you like it, to o return to our solitary ways?
e go bato tairs at my uncles side, as I once, as a girl, climbed tiles. imes, I ted times ruck t, t spot? rait goworn? uous words ly read?—lemen?
tairs, tlemen, tle crest I once picked out in t t covers try to imagi, eyeless. I remember co gatself toget of t, / s I s I t Briar oo.— Or else, I , ial life beyond its walls.
I t I s, monotonous g,
-soled feet, to ttern of a carpets.
But perer all, I am a g already. Fo to Sue and so take, to s s all meeting my gaze; and I cs sakes up; feel tir of of s last so s only . e take our luny motare at tone, feeling notreaks of mud.
I o Riy u, t—t so mucs as by y of . I sit at my supper, I eat, I read; I return to Sue a ake and at t fully, from foot to foot. Look at tly, it is! Look at t time is it? Not eleveo ter, no;
to do, before I go: one deed—oerrible deed—to goad and e, tten-do Briar; and no nears, as t, still, unsuspeg, I do it. Sue leaves me, to look over s. I ening buckles.—t is all I for.
I go stealt need a lamp, and my dark dress o tairs, cross quickly ts of moonlig ten. Silence. So to t t door I pause again, and listen again, to be sure t all is still hin.
to my uncles rooms. I ered , as I guess, t greased, and turn a sound. tep.
look at to my ear to take turn it. One in again. If irs, I urn and go. Does ill I , uain. t, even rasp of hing.
ains pulled close but keeps a ligable: to me, I so be nervous of t t moving from my place beside t me; and at last see to take. On and, beside er: c, to ; and his razor.
I go quickly and take tly, I feel it slit my glove. If it s does not fall. t, ts clasp, at an angle, ss edge. I pull it a little freer, and turn it to t: it must be s I it for. I t is s my el, picked out against t pass firl in an allegory. fidence Abused.
Beo my uncles bed do not quite meet. In t of lig is , but rato , like a c is drao ig out ter dreams, pering spines. acles sit ly, as if able beside h
t eyes ture. the razor is warming in my hand . . .
But t t kind of story. Not yet. I stand and c a minute; and tly. I go to tairs, and from to t room I lock t my bad lig is beating , noicipation. But time is rag, and I ot . I cross to my uncles sen tain Dra: I take it, and open it, a upon t tig. tiff, but springs t inc is its nature to cut, after all.
Still, it is is terribly ot do it—to put tal for t time to t and naked paper. I am almost afraid t it does not s sigs oion; and s bee ser and more true.
urn to Sue s t . But soo relieved to se. en it up noake y.—Not t o ooo go. Ss o my mouteady takes my he house.
Soft as a tells me I ly stood, ligc ts airs are strao me, all t e to me. Sil s doo make turn. Sc ac.
takes me into t; and the house seems queer—for of course, I have never
before seen it at sucood at my . If I stood tugging my rees, tones and stumps of ivy? For a sed I ate, turn and ce sure t, if I only , I ther windows. ill no-one wake, and e, and call me back?
No-one my urn and folloe in t again I let it fall among tand in sing a Pyramus. t black.
o t. t sits loer—a dark-, slender, rising at t of my dreams. I e, feel Sues urn in miep from ake ts, let o my seat, uing. Saggering, against ts, urn, and t takes us.
No-one speaks. No-one moves, save Ricly, in silence, into our dark and separate hells.
follo t I so keep upon t, but am made to leave it and mount a any otime; but I sit lifelessly upon it noting it bear me—as, I t it t co. I remember t, talks of y, my o of fio anoting of a ring. I am made to say certain I ten. I remember ter, in a surplice smudged recall Rig of my name. I do not remember t I recall is a room, Sue loosening my go my
c, coarser; and , still. Sues fingers slip from mine.
You must be different now, surn my face.
me. In ands Rics out s to o stifle laughter.
Oly, s, he says; and laughs again.
I c speak, ts pulled . I am sober, noe aep. A mouse, or bird, moves in ters. t must show in my face.
Its queer for you, o me. Dont mind it. You s London soon. t. I say not be fey; not no, Maud! o my side. , il t the floor.
I y eyes. tinues anot, till. But co see till moves in ts back o follos pat, and udies me again.
And t my cly. range. Dont say youre afraid. strike me. But do t. tles at t. ed. your beats, o test, he rag of my blood.
touc, I say. toud die. I have poison in me.
ops, an inc. I blinking. raig curls in s.
Did you ted you? speak too loudly, in case Sue satedly smoot. God damn it, akes off , tugs at to one of you stare so? I already told you, you are safe? If you to be married— o t act glad, of en?
, exposing t t covers ttress, at ts, and aurns. o t of rousers and dra. A pen-knife.
I see it, and t ony uncles razor. It life, I stealt sleeping tcs o t is spotted black. astefully at it, t against uainly, flincal touche knife.
God damn it, c look, so uselessly. you, to save me t s again. ell, t is like you. I s t, being obliged to bleed, you migo some advantage; but, no . . .
Do you mean, I say, to insult me, in every possible way?
Be quiet, ill speaking in o t once, I offer it. away. No, no, ,
in a moment. s it in one of t takes anot! tle blood springs to t—it seems dark, in t, upon te s it fall to t muc. t and palm, and t falls faster. catch my eye.
After a moment, ly: Do you suppose t enough?
I study you kno kno—
But ter uous girl, t one. You ougo know.
till feebly runs. urn a ry on it in antly, at ture s to t . e tle of monsters you females must be, to eo madness. See s? er all I cut too deep. t , provokile brandy ore me.
to his arm. I say, I have no brandy.
No brandy. or ot you do. kept?
I ate; but noo
rs creeping my and limbs. In my leattle to me, dra its stopper, puts o it, grimaces. Bring me a glass, also, I say. tle dusty er.
Not like t, for me, t it quicker. akes ttle from me, uncovers , lets a single drop fall into ted fles stings. runs, . tc my breast.
At lengt;t," e a n on us, in the London papers.
I ss falls, c ttle. first, s it out of my grasp.
No, no, onigs it in , and I am too o try to take it from ands and ya t t of tating manner, at t my side; tends to shudder.
I s be astoniser all, o o t my t. No, I s risk it.
eps to ts ongue, puts out ts in a of . te. But han I do.
And tain back. till brig to lie in darkness. But after all, every surface t takes up t is strao me; and my fio some mark upon taking my touco grer. My cloak and gown and linen are closed in
t. I look, and look, for somet last, in tand, my so toop, and place my straigouchem again.
ten o—for bells and gro back my t lies Sue. If surned in . S make any sound, any at all—I c, I am certain I would.
Ss in creeps across time, I sleep. I sleep and dream of Briar. But t as I recall te for my uncle, and lost.
Ser t, to o set food before me, to take aouce; but, as in t of our days at Briar, ss my gaze. ts near me, but rarely d nigry, t muddy s. rangeness. . Above all, he angular arm-chair.
See ? It is rising from its socket—it is quite t. I srousers. I s Cer all. At te I s London only to be laugs streets.
London, I to me now.
, every ottes tain on o t. Nos me take a dose of my draug tle.
Very good, c much longer, now.
o your best goomorrow, will you?
I do. I ao our long . I end fear, and nervousness, and looking at Sue—or else, looking at ely, to see if s I remember sliding upon me, pressing, turning, opening me up—oucly lifeless and ors.
e —I ot say last: tomorrooday. You remember?
I errible dreams.
I ot see t send t e anotime.
Doiresome, Maud.
ands and dresses, fastening ie. lies ly on the bed.
I see them! I say.
You ion. You e it ime to leave.
I am too nervous.
anso raise a bruso —find t, ttle of drops—but o me and plucks it from my hand.
O. I be quite clear in your mind.
urns ttle to t. hen I reach again, he dodges.
Let me , I say. Ric me . One drop only, I s t t to remove the impression of my fingers.
Not yet, .
I ot! I s be calm, a dose of it.
You sry, for my sake. For our sake, Maud.
Damn you!
Yes, yes, damn us all, damn us all. urns to the
bruser a moment I sink back, ches
my eye.
antrum, kindly. And t to do, . Be modest. eep if you must, a little. You are sure o say?
I am, despite myself; for , ts at , at ttle of drops. ts on every street er, there.
My moutrembles in s. You till my medie, in London?
to my ears. urns akes up ands at to cast slivers of dirt, fastidiously, into the flames.
akes t to talk urned mad, t, speaking in to a maids room. I airs and floorboards bes. I onous—but not t all. I sit upon til tand and curtsey. Susan, says Ricly. My . But I t be strange. I see tudying me. Ri he es close.
A faito tors. rengtaxed, t ts me in t of t here,
ly, in your mistresss clemen only rifling questions. You must ansly.
to reassure or to one of mine. I still wear my wedding-ring. free and , his palm.
Very good, says one of tors, more satisfied noes in a book. I a page and, suddenly, long for paper. Very good. e ress. You do o t and o tell you to be your name, ory o resembles yours? You kno?
Ricches.
Yes, sir, I say, in a whisper.
And your name is Susan Smith?
Yes, sir.
And you o Mrs Rivers—Miss Lilly, as was—in her uncles house, of Briar, before her marriage?
I nod.
And before t— treet, Mayfair?
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e leave, just as e. My uncles prints are mounted and bound: akes me to vie of treat.
Fine work, hink, Maud? hmm?
Yes, sir.
Do you look?
Yes, Uncle.
Yes. Fine work. I believe I srey and week? do you say? S?
I do not ansurns to Richard.
Rivers, o e back, as a guest, rey?
Richard bows, looks sorry. I fear, sir, I shall be occupied elsewhere.
Unfortunate. You , Maud? Most unfortunate . . .
t on . Cs of vulsion, and runs. My uncle also shen.
Do you see, Rivers, torments to wc boy and whip him!
I will, sir, says Mr ay.
Ric me, and smiles. I do not smile back. And eps, akes my quite nervelessly against urns to my uncle: Mr Lilly. Fareo you, sir!
A rap is dra? S you like it, to o return to our solitary ways?
e go bato tairs at my uncles side, as I once, as a girl, climbed tiles. imes, I ted times ruck t, t spot? rait goworn? uous words ly read?—lemen?
tairs, tlemen, tle crest I once picked out in t t covers try to imagi, eyeless. I remember co gatself toget of t, / s I s I t Briar oo.— Or else, I , ial life beyond its walls.
I t I s, monotonous g,
-soled feet, to ttern of a carpets.
But perer all, I am a g already. Fo to Sue and so take, to s s all meeting my gaze; and I cs sakes up; feel tir of of s last so s only . e take our luny motare at tone, feeling notreaks of mud.
I o Riy u, t—t so mucs as by y of . I sit at my supper, I eat, I read; I return to Sue a ake and at t fully, from foot to foot. Look at tly, it is! Look at t time is it? Not eleveo ter, no;
to do, before I go: one deed—oerrible deed—to goad and e, tten-do Briar; and no nears, as t, still, unsuspeg, I do it. Sue leaves me, to look over s. I ening buckles.—t is all I for.
I go stealt need a lamp, and my dark dress o tairs, cross quickly ts of moonlig ten. Silence. So to t t door I pause again, and listen again, to be sure t all is still hin.
to my uncles rooms. I ered , as I guess, t greased, and turn a sound. tep.
look at to my ear to take turn it. One in again. If irs, I urn and go. Does ill I , uain. t, even rasp of hing.
ains pulled close but keeps a ligable: to me, I so be nervous of t t moving from my place beside t me; and at last see to take. On and, beside er: c, to ; and his razor.
I go quickly and take tly, I feel it slit my glove. If it s does not fall. t, ts clasp, at an angle, ss edge. I pull it a little freer, and turn it to t: it must be s I it for. I t is s my el, picked out against t pass firl in an allegory. fidence Abused.
Beo my uncles bed do not quite meet. In t of lig is , but rato , like a c is drao ig out ter dreams, pering spines. acles sit ly, as if able beside h
t eyes ture. the razor is warming in my hand . . .
But t t kind of story. Not yet. I stand and c a minute; and tly. I go to tairs, and from to t room I lock t my bad lig is beating , noicipation. But time is rag, and I ot . I cross to my uncles sen tain Dra: I take it, and open it, a upon t tig. tiff, but springs t inc is its nature to cut, after all.
Still, it is is terribly ot do it—to put tal for t time to t and naked paper. I am almost afraid t it does not s sigs oion; and s bee ser and more true.
urn to Sue s t . But soo relieved to se. en it up noake y.—Not t o ooo go. Ss o my mouteady takes my he house.
Soft as a tells me I ly stood, ligc ts airs are strao me, all t e to me. Sil s doo make turn. Sc ac.
takes me into t; and the house seems queer—for of course, I have never
before seen it at sucood at my . If I stood tugging my rees, tones and stumps of ivy? For a sed I ate, turn and ce sure t, if I only , I ther windows. ill no-one wake, and e, and call me back?
No-one my urn and folloe in t again I let it fall among tand in sing a Pyramus. t black.
o t. t sits loer—a dark-, slender, rising at t of my dreams. I e, feel Sues urn in miep from ake ts, let o my seat, uing. Saggering, against ts, urn, and t takes us.
No-one speaks. No-one moves, save Ricly, in silence, into our dark and separate hells.
follo t I so keep upon t, but am made to leave it and mount a any otime; but I sit lifelessly upon it noting it bear me—as, I t it t co. I remember t, talks of y, my o of fio anoting of a ring. I am made to say certain I ten. I remember ter, in a surplice smudged recall Rig of my name. I do not remember t I recall is a room, Sue loosening my go my
c, coarser; and , still. Sues fingers slip from mine.
You must be different now, surn my face.
me. In ands Rics out s to o stifle laughter.
Oly, s, he says; and laughs again.
I c speak, ts pulled . I am sober, noe aep. A mouse, or bird, moves in ters. t must show in my face.
Its queer for you, o me. Dont mind it. You s London soon. t. I say not be fey; not no, Maud! o my side. , il t the floor.
I y eyes. tinues anot, till. But co see till moves in ts back o follos pat, and udies me again.
And t my cly. range. Dont say youre afraid. strike me. But do t. tles at t. ed. your beats, o test, he rag of my blood.
touc, I say. toud die. I have poison in me.
ops, an inc. I blinking. raig curls in s.
Did you ted you? speak too loudly, in case Sue satedly smoot. God damn it, akes off , tugs at to one of you stare so? I already told you, you are safe? If you to be married— o t act glad, of en?
, exposing t t covers ttress, at ts, and aurns. o t of rousers and dra. A pen-knife.
I see it, and t ony uncles razor. It life, I stealt sleeping tcs o t is spotted black. astefully at it, t against uainly, flincal touche knife.
God damn it, c look, so uselessly. you, to save me t s again. ell, t is like you. I s t, being obliged to bleed, you migo some advantage; but, no . . .
Do you mean, I say, to insult me, in every possible way?
Be quiet, ill speaking in o t once, I offer it. away. No, no, ,
in a moment. s it in one of t takes anot! tle blood springs to t—it seems dark, in t, upon te s it fall to t muc. t and palm, and t falls faster. catch my eye.
After a moment, ly: Do you suppose t enough?
I study you kno kno—
But ter uous girl, t one. You ougo know.
till feebly runs. urn a ry on it in antly, at ture s to t . e tle of monsters you females must be, to eo madness. See s? er all I cut too deep. t , provokile brandy ore me.
to his arm. I say, I have no brandy.
No brandy. or ot you do. kept?
I ate; but noo
rs creeping my and limbs. In my leattle to me, dra its stopper, puts o it, grimaces. Bring me a glass, also, I say. tle dusty er.
Not like t, for me, t it quicker. akes ttle from me, uncovers , lets a single drop fall into ted fles stings. runs, . tc my breast.
At lengt;t," e a n on us, in the London papers.
I ss falls, c ttle. first, s it out of my grasp.
No, no, onigs it in , and I am too o try to take it from ands and ya t t of tating manner, at t my side; tends to shudder.
I s be astoniser all, o o t my t. No, I s risk it.
eps to ts ongue, puts out ts in a of . te. But han I do.
And tain back. till brig to lie in darkness. But after all, every surface t takes up t is strao me; and my fio some mark upon taking my touco grer. My cloak and gown and linen are closed in
t. I look, and look, for somet last, in tand, my so toop, and place my straigouchem again.
ten o—for bells and gro back my t lies Sue. If surned in . S make any sound, any at all—I c, I am certain I would.
Ss in creeps across time, I sleep. I sleep and dream of Briar. But t as I recall te for my uncle, and lost.
Ser t, to o set food before me, to take aouce; but, as in t of our days at Briar, ss my gaze. ts near me, but rarely d nigry, t muddy s. rangeness. . Above all, he angular arm-chair.
See ? It is rising from its socket—it is quite t. I srousers. I s Cer all. At te I s London only to be laugs streets.
London, I to me now.
, every ottes tain on o t. Nos me take a dose of my draug tle.
Very good, c much longer, now.
o your best goomorrow, will you?
I do. I ao our long . I end fear, and nervousness, and looking at Sue—or else, looking at ely, to see if s I remember sliding upon me, pressing, turning, opening me up—oucly lifeless and ors.
e —I ot say last: tomorrooday. You remember?
I errible dreams.
I ot see t send t e anotime.
Doiresome, Maud.
ands and dresses, fastening ie. lies ly on the bed.
I see them! I say.
You ion. You e it ime to leave.
I am too nervous.
anso raise a bruso —find t, ttle of drops—but o me and plucks it from my hand.
O. I be quite clear in your mind.
urns ttle to t. hen I reach again, he dodges.
Let me , I say. Ric me . One drop only, I s t t to remove the impression of my fingers.
Not yet, .
I ot! I s be calm, a dose of it.
You sry, for my sake. For our sake, Maud.
Damn you!
Yes, yes, damn us all, damn us all. urns to the
bruser a moment I sink back, ches
my eye.
antrum, kindly. And t to do, . Be modest. eep if you must, a little. You are sure o say?
I am, despite myself; for , ts at , at ttle of drops. ts on every street er, there.
My moutrembles in s. You till my medie, in London?
to my ears. urns akes up ands at to cast slivers of dirt, fastidiously, into the flames.
akes t to talk urned mad, t, speaking in to a maids room. I airs and floorboards bes. I onous—but not t all. I sit upon til tand and curtsey. Susan, says Ricly. My . But I t be strange. I see tudying me. Ri he es close.
A faito tors. rengtaxed, t ts me in t of t here,
ly, in your mistresss clemen only rifling questions. You must ansly.
to reassure or to one of mine. I still wear my wedding-ring. free and , his palm.
Very good, says one of tors, more satisfied noes in a book. I a page and, suddenly, long for paper. Very good. e ress. You do o t and o tell you to be your name, ory o resembles yours? You kno?
Ricches.
Yes, sir, I say, in a whisper.
And your name is Susan Smith?
Yes, sir.
And you o Mrs Rivers—Miss Lilly, as was—in her uncles house, of Briar, before her marriage?
I nod.
And before t— treet, Mayfair?
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