《星期一和星期二》第10章

throb　of　the　heart　of　an　ancient　whaler　when　the　seas　press　thick　and　the　green　is　clouded。　“dear；　dear！”　what　a　passing　bell　for　the　souls　of　the　fretful　to　soothe　them　and　solace　them；　lap　them　in　linen；　saying；　“so　long。　good　luck　to　you！”　and　then；　“what’s　your　pleasure？”　for　though　moggridge　would　pluck　his　rose　for　her；　that’s　done；　that’s　over。　now　what’s　the　next　thing？　“madam；　you’ll　miss　your　train；”　for　they　don’t　linger。
that’s　the　man’s　way；　that’s　the　sound　that　reverberates；　that’s　st。　paul’s　and　the　motor–omnibuses。　but　we’re　brushing　the　crumbs　off。　oh；　moggridge；　you　won’t　stay？　you　must　be　off？　are　you　driving　through　eastbourne　this　afternoon　in　one　of　those　little　carriages？　are　you　man　who’s　walled　up　in　green　cardboard　boxes；　and　sometimes　has　the　blinds　down；　and　sometimes　sits　so　solemn　staring　like　a　sphinx；　and　always　there’s　a　look　of　the　sepulchral；　something　of　the　undertaker；　the　coffin；　and　the　dusk　about　horse　and　driver？　do　tell　me—but　the　doors　slammed。　we　shall　never　meet　again。　moggridge；　farewell！
yes；　yes；　i’m　ing。　right　up　to　the　top　of　the　house。　one　moment　i’ll　linger。　how　the　mud　goes　round　in　the　mind—what　a　swirl　these　monsters　leave；　the　waters　rocking；　the　weeds　waving　and　green　here；　black　there；　striking　to　the　sand；　till　by　degrees　the　atoms　reassemble；　the　deposit　sifts　itself；　and　again　through　the　eyes　one　sees　clear　and　still；　and　there　es　to　the　lips　some　prayer　for　the　departed；　some　obsequy　for　the　souls　of　those　one　nods　to；　the　people　one　never　meets　again。
james　moggridge　is　dead　now；　gone　for　ever。　well；　minnie—“i　can　face　it　no　longer。”　if　she　said　that—（let　me　look　at　her。　she　is　brushing　the　eggshell　into　deep　declivities）。　she　said　it　certainly；　leaning　against　the　wall　of　the　bedroom；　and　plucking　at　the　little　balls　which　edge　the　claret–coloured　curtain。　but　when　the　self　speaks　to　the　self；　who　is　speaking？—the　entombed　soul；　the　spirit　driven　in；　in；　in　to　the　central　catab；　the　self　that　took　the　veil　and　left　the　world—a　coward　perhaps；　yet　somehow　beautiful；　as　it　flits　with　its　lantern　restlessly　up　and　down　the　dark　corridors。　“i　can　bear　it　no　longer；”　her　spirit　says。　“that　man　at　lunch—hilda—the　children。”　oh；　heavens；　her　sob！　it’s　the　spirit　wailing　its　destiny；　the　spirit　driven　hither；　thither；　lodging　on　the　diminishing　carpets—meagre　footholds—shrunken　shreds　of　all　the　vanishing　universe—love；　life；　faith；　husband；　children；　i　know　not　what　splendours　and　pageantries　glimpsed　in　girlhood。　“not　for　me—not　for　me。”
but　then—the　muffins；　the　bald　elderly　dog？　bead　mats　i　should　fancy　and　the　consolation　of　underlinen。　if　minnie　marsh　were　run　over　and　taken　to　hospital；　nurses　and　doctors　themselves　would　exclaim。　。　。　there’s　the　vista　and　the　vision—there’s　the　distance—the　blue　blot　at　the　end　of　the　avenue；　while；　after　all；　the　tea　is　rich；　the　muffin　hot；　and　the　dog—“benny；　to　your　basket；　sir；　and　see　what　mother’s　brought　you！”　so；　taking　the　glove　with　the　worn　thumb；　defying　once　more　the　encroaching　demon　of　what’s　called　going　in　holes；　you　renew　the　fortifications；　threading　the　grey　wool；　running　it　in　and　out。
running　it　in　and　out；　across　and　over；　spinning　a　web　through　which　god　himself—hush；　don’t　think　of　god！　how　firm　the　stitches　are！　you　must　be　proud　of　your　darning。　let　nothing　disturb　her。　let　the　light　fall　gently；　and　the　clouds　show　an　inner　vest　of　the　first　green　leaf。　let　the　sparrow　perch　on　the　twig　and　shake　the　raindrop　hanging　to　the　twig’s　elbow。　。　。　why　look　up？　was　it　a　sound；　a　thought？　oh；　heavens！　back　again　to　the　thing　you　did；　the　plate　glass　with　the　violet　loops？　but　hilda　will　e。　ignominies；　humiliations；　oh！　close　the　breach。
having　mended　her　glove；　minnie　marsh　lays　it　in　the　drawer。　she　shuts　the　drawer　with　decision。　i　catch　sight　of　her　face　in　the　glass。　lips　are　pursed。　chin　held　high。　next　she　laces　her　shoes。　then　she　touches　her　throat。　what’s　your　brooch？　mistletoe　or　merry–thought？　and　what　is　happening？　unless　i’m　much　mistaken；　the　pulse’s　quickened；　the　moment’s　ing；　the　threads　are　racing；　niagara’s　ahead。　here’s　the　crisis！　heaven　be　with　you！　down　she　goes。　courage；　courage！　face　it；　be　it！　for　god’s　sake　don’t　wait　on　the　mat　now！　there’s　the　door！　i’m　on　your　side。　speak！　confront　her；　confound　her　soul！
“oh；　i　beg　your　pardon！　yes；　this　is　eastbourne。　i’ll　reach　it　down　for　you。　let　me　try　the　handle。”　＇but；　minnie；　though　we　keep　up　pretences；　i’ve　read　you　right—i’m　with　you　now＇。
“that’s　all　your　luggage？”
“much　obliged；　i’m　sure。”
（but　why　do　you　look　about　you？　hilda　don’t　e　to　the　station；　nor　john；　and　moggridge　is　driving　at　the　far　side　of　eastbourne）。
“i’ll　wait　by　my　bag；　ma’am；　that’s　safest。　he　said　he’d　meet　me。　。　。　oh；　there　he　is！　that’s　my　son。”
so　they　walk　off　together。
well；　but　i’m　confounded。　。　。　surely；　minnie；　you　know　better！　a　strange　young　man。　。　。　stop！　i’ll　tell　him—minnie！—miss　marsh！—i　don’t　know　though。　there’s　something　queer　in　her　cloak　as　it　blows。　oh；　but　it’s　untrue；　it’s　indecent。　。　。　look　how　he　bends　as　they　reach　the　gateway。　she　finds　her　ticket。　what’s　the　joke？　off　they　go；　down　the　road；　side　by　side。　。　。　well；　my　world’s　done　for！　what　do　i　stand　on？　what　do　i　know？　that’s　not　minnie。　there　never　was　moggridge。　who　am　i？　life’s　bare　as　bone。
and　yet　the　last　look　of　them—he　stepping　from　the　kerb　and　she　following　him　round　the　edge　of　the　big　building　brims　me　with　wonder—floods　me　anew。　mysterious　figures！　mother　and　son。　who　are　you？　why　do　you　walk　down　the　street？　where　to–night　will　you　sleep；　and　then；　to–morrow？　oh；　how　it　whirls　and　surges—floats　me　afresh！　i　start　after　them。　people　drive　this　way　and　that。　the　white　light　splutters　and　pours。　plate–glass　windows。　carnations；　chrysanthemums。　ivy　in　dark　gardens。　milk　carts　at　the　door。　wherever　i　go；　mysterious　figures；　i　see　you；　turning　the　corner；　mothers　and　sons；　you；　you；　you。　i　hasten；　i　follow。　this；　i　fancy；　must　be　the　sea。　grey　is　the　landscape；　dim　as　ashes；　the　water　murmurs　and　moves。　if　i　fall　on　my　knees；