wessex tales-第4节

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adept；　on　learning　that　her　husband　was　to　be　absent　that　night　she
had　refrained　from　incontinently　rushing　upstairs　and　opening　the
picture…frame；　preferring　to　reserve　the　inspection　till　she　could
be　alone；　and　a　more　romantic　tinge　be　imparted　to　the　occasion　by
silence；　candles；　solemn　sea　and　stars　outside；　than　was　afforded　by
the　garish　afternoon　sunlight。

The　children　had　been　sent　to　bed；　and　Ella　soon　followed；　though　it
was　not　yet　ten　o'clock。　　To　gratify　her　passionate　curiosity　she
now　made　her　preparations；　first　getting　rid　of　superfluous　garments
and　putting　on　her　dressing…gown；　then　arranging　a　chair　in　front　of
the　table　and　reading　several　pages　of　Trewe's　tenderest　utterances。
Then　she　fetched　the　portrait…frame　to　the　light；　opened　the　back；
took　out　the　likeness；　and　set　it　up　before　her。

It　was　a　striking　countenance　to　look　upon。　　The　poet　wore　a
luxuriant　black　moustache　and　imperial；　and　a　slouched　hat　which
shaded　the　forehead。　　The　large　dark　eyes；　described　by　the
landlady；　showed　an　unlimited　capacity　for　misery；　they　looked　out
from　beneath　well…shaped　brows　as　if　they　were　reading　the　universe
in　the　microcosm　of　the　confronter's　face；　and　were　not　altogether
overjoyed　at　what　the　spectacle　portended。

Ella　murmured　in　her　lowest；　richest；　tenderest　tone：　　'And　it's　YOU
who've　so　cruelly　eclipsed　me　these　many　times！'

As　she　gazed　long　at　the　portrait　she　fell　into　thought；　till　her
eyes　filled　with　tears；　and　she　touched　the　cardboard　with　her　lips。
Then　she　laughed　with　a　nervous　lightness；　and　wiped　her　eyes。

She　thought　how　wicked　she　was；　a　woman　having　a　husband　and　three
children；　to　let　her　mind　stray　to　a　stranger　in　this　unconscionable
manner。　　No；　he　was　not　a　stranger！　　She　knew　his　thoughts　and
feelings　as　well　as　she　knew　her　own；　they　were；　in　fact；　the　self…
same　thoughts　and　feelings　as　hers；　which　her　husband　distinctly
lacked；　perhaps　luckily　for　himself；　considering　that　he　had　to
provide　for　family　expenses。

'He's　nearer　my　real　self；　he's　more　intimate　with　the　real　me　than
Will　is；　after　all；　even　though　I've　never　seen　him；'　she　said。

She　laid　his　book　and　picture　on　the　table　at　the　bedside；　and　when
she　was　reclining　on　the　pillow　she　re…read　those　of　Robert　Trewe's
verses　which　she　had　marked　from　time　to　time　as　most　touching　and
true。　　Putting　these　aside；　she　set　up　the　photograph　on　its　edge
upon　the　coverlet；　and　contemplated　it　as　she　lay。　　Then　she　scanned
again　by　the　light　of　the　candle　the　half…obliterated　pencillings　on
the　wall…paper　beside　her　head。　　There　they　werephrases；　couplets；
bouts…rimes；　beginnings　and　middles　of　lines；　ideas　in　the　rough；
like　Shelley's　scraps；　and　the　least　of　them　so　intense；　so　sweet；
so　palpitating；　that　it　seemed　as　if　his　very　breath；　warm　and
loving；　fanned　her　cheeks　from　those　walls；　walls　that　had
surrounded　his　head　times　and　times　as　they　surrounded　her　own　now。
He　must　often　have　put　up　his　hand　sowith　the　pencil　in　it。　　Yes；
the　writing　was　sideways；　as　it　would　be　if　executed　by　one　who
extended　his　arm　thus。

These　inscribed　shapes　of　the　poet's　world；


'Forms　more　real　than　living　man；
Nurslings　of　immortality；'


were；　no　doubt；　the　thoughts　and　spirit…strivings　which　had　come　to
him　in　the　dead　of　night；　when　he　could　let　himself　go　and　have　no
fear　of　the　frost　of　criticism。　　No　doubt　they　had　often　been
written　up　hastily　by　the　light　of　the　moon；　the　rays　of　the　lamp；
in　the　blue…grey　dawn；　in　full　daylight　perhaps　never。　　And　now　her
hair　was　dragging　where　his　arm　had　lain　when　he　secured　the
fugitive　fancies；　she　was　sleeping　on　a　poet's　lips；　immersed　in　the
very　essence　of　him；　permeated　by　his　spirit　as　by　an　ether。

While　she　was　dreaming　the　minutes　away　thus；　a　footstep　came　upon
the　stairs；　and　in　a　moment　she　heard　her　husband's　heavy　step　on
the　landing　immediately　without。

'Ell；　where　are　you？'

What　possessed　her　she　could　not　have　described；　but；　with　an
instinctive　objection　to　let　her　husband　know　what　she　had　been
doing；　she　slipped　the　photograph　under　the　pillow　just　as　he　flung
open　the　door；　with　the　air　of　a　man　who　had　dined　not　badly。

'O；　I　beg　pardon；'　said　William　Marchmill。　　'Have　you　a　headache？　　I
am　afraid　I　have　disturbed　you。'

'No；　I've　not　got　a　headache；'　said　she。　　'How　is　it　you've　come？'

'Well；　we　found　we　could　get　back　in　very　good　time　after　all；　and　I
didn't　want　to　make　another　day　of　it；　because　of　going　somewhere
else　to…morrow。'

'Shall　I　come　down　again？'

'O　no。　　I'm　as　tired　as　a　dog。　　I've　had　a　good　feed；　and　I　shall
turn　in　straight　off。　　I　want　to　get　out　at　six　o'clock　to…morrow　if
I　can　。　。　。　I　shan't　disturb　you　by　my　getting　up；　it　will　be　long
before　you　are　awake。'　　And　he　came　forward　into　the　room。

While　her　eyes　followed　his　movements；　Ella　softly　pushed　the
photograph　further　out　of　sight。

'Sure　you're　not　ill？'　he　asked；　bending　over　her。

'No；　only　wicked！'

'Never　mind　that。'　　And　he　stooped　and　kissed　her。

Next　morning　Marchmill　was　called　at　six　o'clock；　and　in　waking　and
yawning　she　heard　him　muttering　to　himself：　　'What　the　deuce　is　this
that's　been　crackling　under　me　so？'　　Imagining　her　asleep　he
searched　round　him　and　withdrew　something。　　Through　her　half…opened
eyes　she　perceived　it　to　be　Mr。　Trewe。

'Well；　I'm　damned！'　her　husband　exclaimed。

'What；　dear？'　said　she。

'O；　you　are　awake？　　Ha！　ha！'

'What　DO　you　mean？'

'Some　bloke's　photographa　friend　of　our　landlady's；　I　suppose。　　I
wonder　how　it　came　here；　whisked　off　the　table　by　accident　perhaps
when　they　were　making　the　bed。'

'I　was　looking　at　it　yesterday；　and　it　must　have　dropped　in　then。'

'O；　he's　a　friend　of　yours？　　Bless　his　picturesque　heart！'

Ella's　loyalty　to　the　object　of　her　admiration　could　not　endure　to
hear　him　ridiculed。　　'He's　a　clever　man！'　she　said；　with　a　tremor　in
her　gentle　voice　which　she　herself　felt　to　be　absurdly　uncalled　for。

'He　is　a　rising　poetthe　gentleman　who　occupied　two　of　these　rooms
before　we　came；　though　I've　never　seen　him。'

'How　do　you　know；　if　you've　never　seen　him？'

'Mrs。　Hooper　told　me　when　she　showed　me　the　photograph。'

'O；　well；　I　must　up　and　be　off。　　I　shall　be　home　rather　early。
Sorry　I　can't　take　you　to…day；　dear。　　Mind　the　children　don't　go
getting　drowned。'

That　day　Mrs。　Marchmill　inquired　if　Mr。　Trewe　were　likely　to　call　at
any　other　time。

'Yes；'　said　Mrs。　Hooper。　　'He's　coming　this　day　week　to　stay　with　a
friend　near　here　till　you　leave。　　He'll　be　sure　to　call。'

Marchmill　did　return　quite　early　in　the　afternoon；　and；　opening　some
letters　which　had　arrived　in　his　absence；　declared　suddenly　that　he
and　his　family　would　have　to　leave　a　week　earlier　than　they　had
expected　to　doin　short；　in　three　days。

'Surely　we　can　stay　a　week　longer？'　she　pleaded。　　'I　like　it　here。'

'I　don't。　　It　is　getting　rather　slow。'

'Then　you　might　leave　me　and　the　children！'

'How　perverse　you　are；　Ell！　　What's　the　use？　　And　have　to　come　to
fetch　you！　　No：　　we'll　all　return　together；　and　we'll　make　out　our
time　in　North　Wales　or　Brighton　a　little　later　on。　　Besides；　you've
three　days　longer　yet。'

It　seemed　to　be　her　doom　not　to　meet　the　man　for　whose　rival　talent
she　had　a　despairing　admiration；　and　to　whose　person　she　was　now
absolutely　attached。　　Yet　she　determined　to　make　a　last　effort；　and
having　gathered　from　her　landlady　that　Trewe　was　living　in　a　lonely
spot　not　far　from　the　fashionable　town　on　the　Island　opposite；　she
crossed　over　in　the　packet　from　the　neighbouring　pier　the　following
afternoon。

What　a　useless　journey　it　was！　　Ella　knew　but　vaguely　where　the
house　stood；　and　when　she　fancied　she　had　found　it；　and　ventured　to
inquire　of　a　pedestrian　if　he　lived　there；　the　answer　returned　by
the　man　was　that　he　did　not　know。　　And　if　he　did　live　there；　how
could　she　call　upon　him？　　Some　women　might　have　the　assurance　to　do
it；　but　she　had　not。　　How　crazy　he　would　think　her。　　She　might　have
asked　him　to　call　upon　her；　perhaps；　but　she　had　not　the　courage　for
that；　either。　　She　lingered　mournfully　about　the　picturesque　seaside
eminence　till　it　was　time　to　return　to　the　town　and　enter　the
steamer　for　recrossing；　reaching　home　for　dinner　without　having　been
greatly　missed。

At　the　last　moment；　unexpectedly　enough；　her　husband　said　that　he
should　have　no　objection　to　letting　her　and　the　children　stay　on
till　the　end　of　the　week；　since　she　wished　to　do　so；　if　she　felt
herself　able　to　get　home　without　him。　　She　concealed　the　pleasure
this　extension　of　time　gave　her；　and　Marchmill　went　off　the　next
morning　alone。

But　the　week　passed；　and　Trewe　did　not　call。

On　Saturday　morning　the　remaining　members　of　the　Marchmill　family
departed　from　the　place　which　had　been　productive　of　so　much　fervour
in　her。　　The　dreary；　dreary　train；　the　sun　shining　in　moted　beams
upon　the　hot　cushions；　the　dusty　permanent　way；　the　mean　rows　of
wirethese　things　were　her　accompaniment：　　while　out　of　the　window
the　deep　blue　sea…levels　disappeared　from　her　gaze；　and　with　them
her　poet's　home。　　Heavy…hearted；　she　tried　to　read；　and　wept
instead。

Mr。　Marchmill　was　in　a　thr