老妇人的故事 英文版The Old Wives' Tale
阿诺德.本涅特 Arnold Bennett
V
Sophia sat waiting on the sofa in the parlour. It appeared to herthat, though little more than a month had elapsed since herarrival in Bursley, she had already acquired a new set ofinterests and anxieties. Paris and her life there had receded inthe strangest way. Sometimes for hours she would absolutely forgetParis. Thoughts of Paris were disconcerting; for either Paris orBursley must surely be unreal! As she sat waiting on the sofaParis kept coming into her mind. Certainly it was astonishing thatshe should be just as preoccupied with her schemes for the welfareof Constance as she had ever been preoccupied with schemes for theimprovement of the Pension Frensham. She said to herself: "My lifehas been so queer--and yet every part of it separately seemedordinary enough--how will it end?"
Then there were footfalls on the steps outside, and a key was putinto the door, which she at once opened.
"Oh!" exclaimed Cyril, startled, and also somewhat out ofcountenance. "You're still up! Thanks." He came in, smoking theend of a cigar. "Fancy having to cart that about!" he murmured,holding up the great old-fashioned key before inserting it in thelock on the inside.
"I stayed up," said Sophia, "because I wanted to talk to you aboutyour mother, and it's so difficult to get a chance."
Cyril smiled, not without self-consciousness, and dropped into hismother's rocking-chair, which he had twisted round with his feetto face the sofa.
"Yes," he said. "I was wondering what was the real meaning of yourtelegram. What was it?" He blew out a lot of smoke and waited forher reply.
"I thought you ought to come down," said Sophia, cheerfully butfirmly. "It was a fearful disappointment to your mother that youdidn't come yesterday. And when she's expecting a letter from youand it doesn't come, it makes her ill."
"Oh, well!" he said. "I'm glad it's no worse. I thought from yourtelegram there was something seriously wrong. And then when youtold me not to mention it--when I came in ...!"
She saw that he failed to realize the situation, and she liftedher head challengingly.
"You neglect your mother, young man," she said.
"Oh, come now, auntie!" he answered quite gently. "You mustn'ttalk like that. I write to her every week. I've never missed aweek. I come down as often as----"
"You miss the Sunday sometimes," Sophia interrupted him.
"Perhaps," he said doubtfully. "But what---"
"Don't you understand that she simply lives for your letters? Andif one doesn't come, she's very upset indeed--can't eat! And itbrings on her sciatica, and I don't know what!"
He was taken aback by her boldness, her directness.
"But how silly of her! A fellow can't always----"
"It may be silly. But there it is. You can't alter her. And, afterall, what would it cost you to be more attentive, even to write toher twice a week? You aren't going to tell me you're so busy asall that! I know a great deal more about young men than yourmother does." She smiled like an aunt.
He answered her smile sheepishly.
do I!"realize the situation,
"If you'll only put yourself in your mother's place ...!"
"I expect you're quite right," he said at length. "And I'm muchobliged to you for telling me. How was I to know?" He threw theend of the cigar, with a large sweeping gesture, into the fire.
"Well, anyhow, you know now!" she said curtly; and she thought:"You OUGHT to have known. It was your business to know." But shewas pleased with the way in which he had accepted her criticism,and the gesture with which he threw away the cigar-end struck heras very distinguished.
"That's all right!" he said dreamily, as if to say: "That's donewith." And he rose.
Sophia, however, did not stir.
"Your mother's health is not what it ought to be," she went on,and gave him a full account of her conversation with the doctor.
"Really!" Cyril murmured, leaning on the mantel-piece with hiselbow and looking down at her. "Stirling said that, did he? Ishould have thought she would have been better where she is, inthe Square."
"Why better in the Square?"
"Oh, I don't know!"
"Neither do I!"
"She's always been here."
"Yes." said Sophia, "she's been here a great deal too long."
"What do YOU suggest?" Cyril asked, with impatience in his voiceagainst this new anxiety that was being thrust upon him.
"Well," said Sophia, "what should you say to her coming to Londonand living with you?"
Cyril started back. Sophia could see that he was genuinelyshocked. "I don't think that would do at all," he said.
"Why?"
"Oh! I don't think it would. London wouldn't suit her. She's notthat sort of woman. I really thought she was quite all right downhere. She wouldn't like London." He shook his head, looking up atthe gas; his eyes had a dangerous glare.
"But supposing she said she did?"
"Look here," Cyril began in a new and brighter tone. "Why don'tyou and she keep house together somewhere? That would be the very---"
He turned his head sharply. There was a noise on the staircase,and the staircase door opened with its eternal creak.
"Yes," said Sophia. "The Champs Elysees begins at the Place de laConcorde, and ends----. Is that you, Constance?"
The figure of Constance filled the doorway. Her face was troubled.She had heard Cyril in the street, and had come down to see why heremained so long in the parlour. She was astounded to find Sophiawith him. There they were, as intimate as cronies, chatteringabout Paris! Undoubtedly she was jealous! Never did Cyril talklike that to her!
"I thought you were in bed and asleep, Sophia," she said weakly."It's nearly one o'clock."
"No," said Sophia. "I didn't seem to feel like going to bed; andthen Cyril happened to come in."
But neither she nor Cyril could look innocent. And Constanceglanced from one to the other apprehensively.
The next morning Cyril received a letter which, he said--with nofurther explanation--forced him to leave at once. He intimatedthat there had been danger in his coming just then, and thatmatters had turned out as he had feared.
"You think over what I said," he whispered to Sophia when theywere alone for an instant, "and let me know."