老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
III
Three days later Matthew Peel-Swynnerton was walking along BursleyMarket Place when, just opposite the Town Hall, he met a short,fat, middle-aged lady dressed in black, with a black embroideredmantle, and a small bonnet tied with black ribbon and ornamentedwith jet fruit and crape leaves. As she stepped slowly andcarefully forward she had the dignified, important look of aprovincial woman who has always been accustomed to deference inher native town, and whose income is ample enough to extortobsequiousness from the vulgar of all ranks. But immediately shecaught sight of Matthew, her face changed. She became simple andnaive. She blushed slightly, smiling with a timid pleasure. Forher, Matthew belonged to a superior race. He bore the almostsacred name of Peel. His family had been distinguished in thedistrict for generations. 'Peel!' You could without improprietyutter it in the same breath with 'Wedgwood.' And 'Swynnerton'stood not much lower. Neither her self-respect, which was great,nor her commonsense, which far exceeded the average, could enableher to extend as far as the Peels the theory that one man is asgood as another. The Peels never shopped in St. Luke's Square.Even in its golden days the Square could not have expected such acondescension. The Peels shopped in London or in Stafford; at apinch, in Oldcastle. That was the distinction for the ageing stoutlady in black. Why, she had not in six years recovered from hersurprise that her son and Matthew Peel-Swynnerton treated eachother rudely as equals! She and Matthew did not often meet, butthey liked each other. Her involuntary meekness flattered him. Andhis rather elaborate homage flattered her. He admired herfundamental goodness, and her occasional raps at Cyril seemed toput him into ecstasies of joy.
"Well, Mrs. Povey," he greeted her, standing over her with his hatraised. (It was a fashion he had picked up in Paris.) "Here I am,you see."
"You're quite a stranger, Mr. Matthew. I needn't ask you how youare. Have you been seeing anything of my boy lately?"
"Not since Wednesday," said Matthew. "Of course he's written toyou?"
"There's no 'of course' about it," she laughed faintly. "I had ashort letter from him on Wednesday morning. He said you were inParis."
"But since that--hasn't he written?"
"If I hear from him on Sunday I shall be lucky, bless ye!" saidConstance, grimly. "It's not letter-writing that will kill Cyril."
"But do you mean to say he hasn't--" Matthew stopped.
"Whatever's amiss?" asked Constance. Matthew was at a loss to knowwhat to do or say. "Oh, nothing."
"Now, Mr. Matthew, do please--" Constance's tone had suddenlyquite changed. It had become firm, commanding, and gravelysuspicious. The conversation had ceased to be small-talk for her.
Matthew saw how nervous and how fragile she was. He had nevernoticed before that she was so sensitive to trifles, though it wasnotorious that nobody could safely discuss Cyril with her in termsof chaff. He was really astounded at that youth's carelessness,shameful carelessness. That Cyril's attitude to his mother wasmarked by a certain benevolent negligence--this Matthew knew; butnot to have written to her with the important news concerning Mrs.Scales was utterly inexcusable; and Matthew determined that hewould tell Cyril so. He felt very sorry for Mrs. Povey. She seemedpathetic to him, standing there in ignorance of a tremendous factwhich she ought to have been aware of. He was very content that hehad said nothing about Mrs. Scales to anybody except his ownmother, who had prudently enjoined silence upon him, saying thathis one duty, having told Cyril, was to keep his mouth shut untilthe Poveys talked. Had it not been for his mother's advice hewould assuredly have spread the amazing tale, and Mrs. Povey mighthave first heard of it from a stranger's gossip, which would havebeen too cruel upon her.
"Oh!" Matthew tried to smile gaily, archly. "You're bound to hearfrom Cyril to-morrow."
He wanted to persuade her that he was concealing merely somedelightful surprise from her. But he did not succeed. With all hisexperience of the world and of women he was not clever enough todeceive that simple woman.
"I'm waiting, Mr. Matthew," she said, in a tone that flattened thesmile out of Matthew's sympathetic face. She was ruthless. Thefact was, she had in an instant convinced herself that Cyril hadmet some girl and was engaged to be married. She could think ofnothing else. "What has Cyril been doing?" she added, after apause.
"It's nothing to do with Cyril," said he.
"Then what is it?"
"It was about--Mrs. Scales," he murmured, nearly trembling. As sheoffered no response, merely looking around her in a peculiarfashion, he said: "Shall we walk along a bit?" And he turned inthe direction in which she had been going. She obeyed thesuggestion.
"What did ye say?" she asked. The name of Scales for a moment hadno significance for her. But when she comprehended it she wasafraid, and so she said vacantly, as though wishing to postpone ashock: "What did ye say?"
"I said it was about Mrs. Scales. You know I m-met her in Paris."And he was saying to himself: "I ought not to be telling this poorold thing here in the street. But what can I do?" "Nay, nay!" shemuttered.
She stopped and looked at him with a worried expression. Then heobserved that the hand that carried her reticule was makingstrange purposeless curves in the air, and her rosy face went thecolour of cream, as though it had been painted with one stroke ofan unseen brush. Matthew was very much put about.
"Hadn't you better--" he began.
"Eh," she said; "I must sit me--" Her bag dropped.
He supported her to the door of Allman's shop, the ironmonger's.Unfortunately, there were two steps up into the shop, and shecould not climb them. She collapsed like a sack of flour on thefirst step. Young Edward Allman ran to the door. He was wearing ablack apron and fidgeting with it in his excitement.
Matthew stopped, looking a fool and feeling one, and he and youngAllman contemplated each other helpless for a second across thebody of Constance Povey. A part of the Market Place now perceivedthat the unusual was occurring. It was Mr. Shawcross, the chemistnext door to Allman's who dealt adequately with the situation. Hehad seen all, while selling a Kodak to a young lady, and he ranout with salts. Constance recovered very rapidly. She had notquite swooned. She gave a long sigh, and whispered weakly that shewas all right. The three men helped her into the lofty dark shop,which smelt of nails and of stove-polish, and she was balanced ona ricketty chair.
"My word!" exclaimed young Allman, in his loud voice, when shecould smile and the pink was returning reluctantly to her cheeks."You mustn't frighten us like that, Mrs. Povey!"
Matthew said nothing. He had at last created a genuine sensation.Once again he felt like a criminal, and could not understand why.
Constance announced that she would walk slowly home, down theCock-yard and along Wedgwood Street. But when, glancing round inher returned strength, she saw the hedge of faces at the doorway,she agreed with Mr. Shawcross that she would do better to have acab. Young Allman went to the door and whistled to the unique cabthat stands for ever at the grand entrance to the Town Hall.
nodded.moved by a natural scene! of joy.But I've done?
"Mr. Matthew will come with me," said Constance.
"Certainly, with pleasure," said Matthew.
And she passed through the little crowd of gapers on Mr.Shawcross's arm.
"Just take care of yourself, missis," said Mr. Shawcross to her,through the window of the cab. "It's fainting weather, and we'renone of us any younger, seemingly."
She nodded.
"I'm awfully sorry I upset you, Mrs. Povey," said Matthew, whenthe cab moved.
She shook her head, refusing his apology as unnecessary. Tearsfilled her eyes. In less than a minute the cab had stopped infront of Constance's light-grained door. She demanded her reticulefrom Matthew, who had carried it since it fell. She would pay thecabman. Never before had Matthew permitted a woman to pay for acab in which he had ridden; but there was no arguing withConstance. Constance was dangerous.
Amy Bates, still inhabiting the cave, had seen the cab-wheelsthrough the grating of her window and had panted up the kitchenstairs to open the door ere Constance had climbed the steps. Amy,decidedly over forty, was a woman of authority. She wanted to knowwhat was the matter, and Constance had to tell her that she had'felt unwell.' Amy took the hat and mantle and departed to preparea cup of tea. When they were alone Constance said to Matthew:
"Now. Mr. Matthew, will you please tell me?"
"It's only this," he began.
sorry I upset you, Mrs. Povey," said Matthew, .
And as he told it, in quite a few words, it indeed had the air ofbeing 'only that.' And yet his voice shook, in sympathy with theageing woman's controlled but visible emotion. It seemed to himthat gladness should have filled the absurd little parlour, butthe spirit that presided had no name; it was certainly not joy. Hehimself felt very sad, desolated. He would have given much moneyto have been spared the experience. He knew simply that in thememory of the stout, comical, nice woman in the rocking-chair hehad stirred old, old things, wakened slumbers that might have beeneternal. He did not know that he was sitting on the very spotwhere the sofa had been on which Samuel Povey lay when a beautifuland shameless young creature of fifteen extracted his tooth. Hedid not know that Constance was sitting in the very chair in whichthe memorable Mrs. Baines had sat in vain conflict with that sameunconquerable girl. He did not know ten thousand matters that wererushing violently about in the vast heart of Constance.
She cross-questioned him in detail. But she did not put thequestions which he in his innocence expected; such as, if hersister looked old, if her hair was grey, if she was stout or thin.And until Amy, mystified and resentful, had served the tea, on alittle silver tray, she remained comparatively calm. It was in themiddle of a gulp of tea that she broke down, and Matthew had totake the cup from her.
"I can't thank you, Mr. Matthew," she wept. "I couldn't thank youenough."
"But I've done nothing," he protested.
She shook her head. "I never hoped for this. Never hoped for it!"she went on. "It makes me so happy--in a way. ... You mustn't takeany notice of me. I'm silly. You must kindly write down thataddress for me. And I must write to Cyril at once. And I must seeMr. Critchlow."
"It's really very funny that Cyril hasn't written to you," saidMatthew.
"Cyril has not been a good son," she said with sudden, solemncoldness. "To think that he should have kept that ...!" She weptagain.
At length Matthew saw the possibility of leaving. He felt herwarm, soft, crinkled hand round his fingers.
"You've behaved very nicely over this," she said. "And verycleverly. In EVERY thing--both over there and here. Nobody couldhave shown a nicer feeling than you've shown. It's a great comfortto me that my son has got you for a friend."
When he thought of his escapades, and of all the knowledge,unutterable in Bursley, fantastically impossible in Bursley, whichhe had imparted to her son, he marvelled that the maternalinstinct should be so deceived. Still, he felt that her praise ofhim was deserved.
Outside, he gave vent to a 'Phew' of relief. He smiled, in hisworldliest manner. But the smile was a sham. A pretence tohimself! A childish attempt to disguise from himself howprofoundly he had been moved by a natural scene!