CHAPTER XXXIII
關燈
小
中
大
wacurtain.Lightfloodedthedrawing-roomfurniturefromWickhamPlace.“Andthedining-room.”Morecurtainsweredrawn,morewindowswereflungopentothespring.“Thenthroughhere—”MissAverycontinuedpassingandreprisingthroughthehall.Hervoicewaslost,butMargaretheardherpullingupthekitchenblind.“I’venotfinishedhereyet,”sheannounced,returning.“There’sstilladealtodo.Thefarmladswillcarryyourgreatwardrobesupstairs,forthereisnoneedtogointoexpenseatHilton.”
“Itisallamistake,”repeatedMargaret,feelingthatshemustputherfootdown.“Amisunderstanding.Mr.WilcoxandIarenotgoingtoliveatHowardsEnd.”
“Oh,indeed!Onaccountofhishayfever?”
“WehavesettledtobuildanewhomeforourselvesinSussex,andpartofthisfurniture—mypart—willgodowntherepresently.”ShelookedatMissAveryintently,tryingtounderstandthekinkinherbrain.
Herewasnomaunderingoldwoman.Herwrinkleswereshrewdandhumorous.Shelookedcapableofscathingwitandalsoofhighbutunostentatiousnobility.“Youthinkthatyouwon’tcomebacktolivehere,Mrs.Wilcox,butyouwill.”
“Thatremainstobeseen,”saidMargaret,smiling.“Wehavenointentionofdoingsoforthepresent.Wehappentoneedamuchlargerhouse.Circumstancesobligeustogivebigparties.Ofcourse,someday—oneneverknows,doesone?”
MissAveryretorted:“Someday!Tcha!tcha!Don’ttalkaboutsomeday.Youarelivingherenow.”
“AmI?”
“Youarelivinghere,andhavebeenforthelasttenminutes,ifyouaskme.”
Itwasasenselessremark,butwithaqueerfeelingofdisloyaltyMargaretrosefromherchair.ShefeltthatHenryhadbeenobscurelycensured.Theywentintothedining-room,wherethesunlightpouredinuponhermother’schiffonier,andupstairs,wheremanyanoldgodpeepedfromanewniche.Thefurniturefittedextraordinarilywell.Inthecentralroom—overthehall,theroomthatHelenhadsleptinfouryearsago—MissAveryhadplacedTibby’soldbassinette.
“Thenursery,”shesaid.
Margaretturnedawaywithoutspeaking.
Atlasteverythingwasseen.Thekitchenandlobbywerestillstackedwithfurnitureandstraw,but,asfarasshecouldmakeout,nothinghadbeenbrokenorscratched.Apatheticdisplayofingenuity!Thentheytookafriendlystrollinthegarden.Ithadgonewildsinceherlastvisit.Thegravelsweepwasweedy,andgrasshadsprungupattheveryjawsofthegarage.AndEvie’srockerywasonlybumps.PerhapsEviewasresponsibleforMissAvery’soddness.ButMargaretsuspectedthatthecauselaydeeper,andthatthegirl’ssillyletterhadbutloosedtheirritationofyears.
“It’sabeautifulmeadow,”sheremarked.Itwasoneofthoseopen-airdrawing-roomsthathavebeenformed,hundredsofyearsago,outofthesmallerfields.Sotheboundaryhedgezigzaggeddownthehillatrightangles,andatthebottomtherewasalittlegreenannex—asortofpowder-closetforthecows.
“Yes,themaidy’swellenough,”saidMissAvery,“forthose,thatis,whodon’tsufferfromsneezing.”Andshecackledmaliciously.“I’veseenCharlieWilcoxgoouttomyladsinhaytime—oh,theyoughttodothis—theymustn’tdothat—he’dlearnthemtobelads.Andjustthentheticklingtookhim.Hehasitfromhisfather
