39小说

手机浏览器扫描二维码访问

第29部分（第1页）

but　here；　by　an　abrupt　movement　she　spilt　the　ink　ever　the　page　and　blotted　it　from　human　sight　she　hoped　for　ever。　She　was　all　of　a　quiver；　all　of　a　stew。　Nothing　more　repulsive　could　be　imagined　than　to　feel　the　ink　flowing　thus　in　cascades　of　involuntary　inspiration。　What　had　happened　to　her？　Was　it　the　damp；　was　it　Bartholomew；　was　it　Basket；　what　was　it？　she　demanded。　But　the　room　was　empty。　No　one　answered　her；　unless　the　dripping　of　the　rain　in　the　ivy　could　be　taken　for　an　answer。

Meanwhile；　she　became　conscious；　as　she　stood　at　the　window；　of　an　extraordinary　tingling　and　vibration　all　over　her；　as　if　she　were　made　of　a　thousand　wires　upon　which　some　breeze　or　errant　fingers　were　playing　scales。　Now　her　toes　tingled；　now　her　marrow。　She　had　the　queerest　sensations　about　the　thigh　bones。　Her　hairs　seemed　to　erect　themselves。　Her　arms　sang　and　twanged　as　the　telegraph　wires　would　be　singing　and　twanging　in　twenty　years　or　so。　But　all　this　agitation　seemed　at　length　to　concentrate　in　her　hands；　and　then　in　one　hand；　and　then　in　one　finger　of　that　hand；　and　then　finally　to　contract　itself　so　that　it　made　a　ring　of　quivering　sensibility　about　the　second　finger　of　the　left　hand。　And　when　she　raised　it　to　see　what　caused　this　agitation；　she　saw　nothing—nothing　but　the　vast　solitary　emerald　which　Queen　Elizabeth　had　given　her。　And　was　that　not　enough？　she　asked。　It　was　of　the　finest　water。　It　was　worth　ten　thousand　pounds　at　least。　The　vibration　seemed；　in　the　oddest　way　（but　remember　we　are　dealing　with　some　of　the　darkest　manifestations　of　the　human　soul）　to　say　No；　that　is　not　enough；　and；　further；　to　assume　a　note　of　interrogation；　as　though　it　were　asking；　what　did　it　mean；　this　hiatus；　this　strange　oversight？　till　poor　Orlando　felt　positively　ashamed　of　the　second　finger　of　her　left　hand　without　in　the　least　knowing　why。　At　this　moment；　Bartholomew　came　in　to　ask　which　dress　she　should　lay　out　for　dinner；　and　Orlando；　whose　senses　were　much　quickened；　instantly　glanced　at　Bartholomew’s　left　hand；　and　instantly　perceived　what　she　had　never　noticed　before—a　thick　ring　of　rather　jaundiced　yellow　circling　the　third　finger　where　her　own　was　bare。

‘Let　me　look　at　your　ring；　Bartholomew；’　she　said；　stretching　her　hand　to　take　it。

At　this；　Bartholomew　made　as　if　she　had　been　struck　in　the　breast　by　a　rogue。　She　started　back　a　pace　or　two；　clenched　her　hand　and　flung　it　away　from　her　with　a　gesture　that　was　noble　in　the　extreme。　‘No；’　she　said；　with　resolute　dignity；　her　Ladyship　might　look　if　she　pleased；　but　as　for　taking　off　her　wedding　ring；　not　the　Archbishop　nor　the　Pope　nor　Queen　Victoria　on　her　throne　could　force　her　to　do　that。　Her　Thomas　had　put　it　on　her　finger　twenty–five　years；　six　months；　three　weeks　ago；　she　had　slept　in　it；　worked　in　it；　washed　in　it；　prayed　in　it；　and　proposed　to　be　buried　in　it。　In　fact；　Orlando　understood　her　to　say；　but　her　voice　was　much　broken　with　emotion；　that　it　was　by　the　gleam　on　her　wedding　ring　that　she　would　be　assigned　her　station　among　the　angels　and　its　lustre　would　be　tarnished　for　ever　if　she　let　it　out　of　her　keeping　for　a　second。

‘Heaven　help　us；’　said　Orlando；　standing　at　the　window　and　watching　the　pigeons　at　their　pranks；　‘what　a　world　we　live　in！　What　a　world　to　be　sure！’　Its　plexities　amazed　her。　It　now　seemed　to　her　that　the　whole　world　was　ringed　with　gold。　She　went　in　to　dinner。　Wedding　rings　abounded。　She　went　to　church。　Wedding　rings　were　everywhere。　She　drove　out。　Gold；　or　pinchbeck；　thin；　thick；　plain；　smooth；　they　glowed　dully　on　every　hand。　Rings　filled　the　jewellers’　shops；　not　the　flashing　pastes　and　diamonds　of　Orlando’s　recollection；　but　simple　bands　without　a　stone　in　them。　At　the　same　time；　she　began　to　notice　a　new　habit　among　the　town　people。　In　the　old　days；　one　would　meet　a　boy　trifling　with　a　girl　under　a　hawthorn　hedge　frequently　enough。　Orlando　had　flicked　many　a　couple　with　the　tip　of　her　whip　and　laughed　and　passed　on。　Now；　all　that　was　changed。　Couples　trudged　and　plodded　in　the　middle　of　the　road　indissolubly　linked　together。　The　woman’s　right　hand　was　invariably　passed　through　the　man’s　left　and　her　fingers　were　firmly　gripped　by　his。　Often　it　was　not　till　the　horses’　noses　were　on　them　that　they　budged；　and　then；　though　they　moved　it　was　all　in　one　piece；　heavily；　to　the　side　of　the　road。　Orlando　could　only　suppose　that　some　new　discovery　had　been　made　about　the　race；　that　they　were　somehow　stuck　together；　couple　after　couple；　but　who　had　made　it　and　when；　she　could　not　guess。　It　did　not　seem　to　be　Nature。　She　looked　at　the　doves　and　the　rabbits　and　the　elk–hounds　and　she　could　not　see　that　Nature　had　changed　her　ways　or　mended　them；　since　the　time　of　Elizabeth　at　least。　There　was　no　indissoluble　alliance　among　the　brutes　that　she　could　see。　Could　it　be　Queen　Victoria　then；　or　Lord　Melbourne？　Was　it　from　them　that　the　great　discovery　of　marriage　proceeded？　Yet　the　Queen；　she　pondered；　was　said　to　be　fond　of　dogs；　and　Lord　Melbourne；　she　had　heard；　was　said　to　be　fond　of　women。　It　was　strange—it　was　distasteful；　indeed；　there　was　something　in　this　indissolubility　of　bodies　which　was　repugnant　to　her　sense　of　decency　and　sanitation。　Her　ruminations；　however；　were　acpanied　by　such　a　tingling　and　twanging　of　the　afflicted　finger　that　she　could　scarcely　keep　her　ideas　in　order。　They　were　languishing　and　ogling　like　a　housemaid’s　fancies。　They　made　her　blush。　There　was　nothing　for　it　but　to　buy　one　of　those　ugly　bands　and　wear　it　like　the　rest。　This　she　did；　slipping　it；　overe　with　shame；　upon　her　finger　in　the　shadow　of　a　curtain；　but　without　avail。　The　tingling　persisted　more　violently；　more　indignantly　than　ever。　She　did　not　sleep　a　wink　that　night。　Next　morning　when　she　took　up　the　pen　to　write；　either　she　could　think　of　nothing；　and　the　pen　made　one　large　lachrymose　blot　after　another；　or　it　ambled　off；　more　alarmingly　still；　into　mellifluous　fluencies　about　early　death　and　corruption；　which　were　worse　than　no　thinking　at　all。　For　it　would　seem—her　case　proved　it—that　we　write；　not　with　the　fingers；　but　with　the　whole　person。　The　nerve　which　controls　the　pen　winds　itself　about　every　fibre　of　our　being；　threads　the　heart；　pierces　the　liver。　Though　the　seat　of　her　trouble　seemed　to　be　the　left　hand；　she　could　feel　herself　poisoned　through　and　through；　and　was　forced　at　length　to　consider　the　most　desperate　of　remedies；　which　was　to　yield　pletely　and　submissively　to　the　spirit　of　the　age；　and　take　a　husband。

That　this　was　much　against　her　natural　temperament　has　been　sufficiently　made　plain。　When　the　sound　of　the　Archduke’s　chariot　wheels　died　away；　the　cry　that　rose　to　her　lips　was　‘Life！　A　Lover！’　not　‘Life！　A　Husband！’　and　it　was　in　pursuit　of　this　aim　that　she　had　gone　to　town　and　run　about　the　world　as　has　been　shown　in　the　previous　chapter。　Such　is　the　indomitable　nature　of　the　spirit　of　the　age；　however；　that　it　batters　down　anyone　who　tries　to　make　stand　against　it　far　more　effectually　than　those　who　bend　its　own　way。　Orlando　had　inclined　herself　naturally　to　the　Elizabethan　spirit；　to　the　Restoration　spirit；　to　the　spirit　of　the　eighteenth　century；　and　had　in　consequence　scarcely　been　aware　of　the　change　from　one　age　to　the　other。　But　the　spirit　of　the　nieenth　century　was　antipathetic　to　her　in　the　extreme；　and　thus　it　took　her　and　broke　her；　and　she　was　aware　of　her　defeat　at　its　hands　as　she　had　never　been　before。　For　it　is　probable　that　the　human　spirit　has　its　place　in　time　assigned　to　it；　some　are　born　of　this　age；　some　of　that；　and　now　that　Orlando　was　grown　a　woman；　a　year　or　two　past　thirty　indeed；　the　lines　of　her　character　were　fixed；　and　to　bend　them　the　wrong　way　was　intolerable。

So　she　stood　mournfully　at　the　drawing–room　window　（Bartholomew　had　so　christened　the　library）　dragged　down　by　the　weight　of　the　crinoline　which　she　had　submissively　adopted。　It　was　heavier　and　more　drab　than　any　dress　she　had　yet　worn。　None　had　ever　so　impeded　her　movements。　No　longer　could　she　stride　through　the　garden　with　her　dogs；　or　run　lightly　to　the　high　mound　and　fling　herself　beneath　the　oak　tree。　Her　skirts　collected　damp　leaves　and　straw。　The　plumed　hat　tossed　on　the　breeze。　The　thin　shoes　were　quickly　soaked　and　mud–caked。　Her　muscles　had　lost　their　pliancy。　She　became　nervous　lest　there　should　be　robbers　behind　the　wainscot　and　afraid；　for　the　first　time　in　her　life；　of　ghosts　in　the　corridors。　All　these　things　inclined　her；　step　by　step；　to　submit　to　the　new　discovery；　whether　Queen　Victoria’s　or　another’s；　that　each　man　and　each　woman　has　another　allotted　to　it　for　life；　whom　it　supports；　by　whom　it　is　supported；　till　death　them　do　part。　It　would　be　a　fort；　she　felt；　to　lean；　to　sit　down；　yes；　to　lie　down；　never；　never；　never　to　get　up　again。　Thus　did　the　spirit　work　upon　her；　for　all　her　past　pride；　and　as　she　came　sloping　down　the　scale　of　emotion　to　this　lowly　and　unaccustomed　lodging–place；　those　twangings　and　tinglings　which　had　been　so　captious　and　so　interrogative　modulated　into　the　sweetest　melodies；　till　it　seemed　as　if　angels　were　plucking　harp–strings　with　white　fingers　and　her　whole　being　was　pervaded　by　a　seraphic　harmony。

But　whom　could　she　lean　upon？　She　asked　that　question　of　the　wild　autumn　winds。　For　it　was　now　October；　and　wet　as　usual。　Not　the　Archduke；　he　had　married　a　very　great　lady　and　had　hunted　hares　in　Roumania　these　many　years　now；　nor　Mr　M。；　he　was　bee　a　Catholic；　nor　the　Marquis　of　C。；　he　made　sacks　in　Botany　Bay；　nor　the　Lord　O。；　he　had　long　been　food　for　fishes。　One　way　or　another；　all　her　old　cronies　were　gone　now；　and　the　Nells　and　the　Kits　of　Drury　Lane；　much　though　she　favoured　them；　scarcely　did　to　lean　upon。

‘Whom’；　she　asked；　casting　her　eyes　upon　the　revolving　clouds；　clasping　her　hands　as　she　knelt　on　the　window–sill；　and　looking　the　very　image　of　appealing　womanhood　as　she　did　so；　‘can　I　lean　upon？’　Her　words　formed　themselves；　her　hands　clasped　themselves；　involuntarily；　just　as　her　pen　had　written　of　its　own　accord。　It　was　not　Orlando　who　spoke；　but　the　spirit　of　the　age。　But　whichever　it　was；　nobody　answered　it。　The　rooks　were　tumbling　pell–mell　among　the　violet　clouds　of　autumn。　The　rain　had　stopped　at　last　and　there　was　an　iridescence　in　the　sky　which　tempted　her　to　put　on　her　plumed　hat　and　her　little　stringed　shoes　and　stroll　out　before　dinner。

‘Everyone　is　mated　except　myself；’　she　mused；　as　she　trailed　disconsolately　across　the　courtyard。　There　were　the　rooks；　Canute　and　Pippin　even—transitory　as　their　alliances　were；　still　each　this　evening　seemed　to　have　a　partner。　‘Whereas；　I；　who　am　mistress　of　it　all；’　Orlando　thought；　glancing　as　she　passed　at　the　innumerable　emblazoned　windows　of　the　hall；　‘am　single；　am　mateless；　am　alone。’

Such　thoughts　had　never　entered　her　head　before。　Now　they　bore　her　down　unescapably。　Instead　of　thrusting　the　gate　open；　she　tapped　with　a　gloved　hand　for　the　porter　to　unfasten　it　for　her。　One　must　lean　on　someone；　she　thought；　if　it　is　only　on　a　porter；　and　half　wished　to　stay　behind　and　help　him　to　grill　his　chop　on　a　bucket　of　fiery　coals；　but　was　too　timid　to　ask　it。　So　she　strayed　out　into　the　park　alone；　faltering　at　first　and　apprehensive　lest　there　might　be　poachers　or　gamekeepers　or　even　err

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