Джон Фаулз – The French Lieutenant's Woman / Любовница французского лейтенанта (страница 9)

He broke off as she looked quickly round at the trees behind them. Her sharper ears had heard a sound, a branch broken underfoot. But before he could ask her what was wrong, he too heard men's low voices. But by then she had already acted; gathering up her skirt she walked swiftly over the grass to the east, some forty yards; and there disappeared behind a thicket of gorse[117]. Charles stood dumbfounded.

The men's voices sounded louder. He went up the upper path and soon two faces, looking up, came into his sight. Charles opened his mouth to bid them good day; but the faces disappeared quickly.

He waited a minute, until he was certain they had gone, then he walked round to the gorse. She stood pressed against the sharp needles, her face turned away.

“They have gone. Two poachers, I fancy.”

She nodded, but continued to avoid his eyes. The gorse was in full bloom, the yellow flowers so dense they almost hid the green. The air was full of their honeyed scent.

He said, “I think that was not necessary.”

“No gentleman who cares for his good name can be seen with the scarlet woman[118] of Lyme.”

And there was a bitterness in her voice. He smiled at her averted face.

“I think the only truly scarlet things about you are your cheeks.”

Her eyes flashed at him then, as if he were torturing some animal. Then she turned away again.

Charles said gently, “Do not misunderstand me. I feel sorry for your unfortunate situation.”

She did not move.

“My dear Miss Woodruff, I have seen a good deal of life. And I have a long nose for bigots. There is no impropriety in our meeting in this chance way. And you must allow me to finish what I was about to say.”

He stepped aside and she walked out again onto the turf. He saw that her eyelashes were wet.

“Mrs. Tranter would like to help you, if you wish to change your situation.”

Her only answer was to shake her head.

“No one is beyond help who inspires sympathy in others.” He paused. “I am merely saying what I know Mrs. Tranter would wish to say herself.”

Charles was not exaggerating; for during the lunch that followed the reconciliation, Mrs. Poulteney and Sarah had been discussed.

“You should leave Lyme… this district. I understand you have excellent qualifications.” Sarah made no response. “I know Miss Freeman and her mother would be most happy to make inquiries[119] in London.”

She walked away from him then, to the edge of the cliff meadow; and stared out to sea a long moment; then turned to look at him still standing by the gorse. She lowered her eyes. “I thank you. But I cannot leave this place.”

He gave the smallest shrug. “Then once again I have to apologize for intruding on your privacy. I shall not do so again.”

He bowed and turned to walk away. But he had not gone two steps before she spoke.

“I. I know Mrs. Tranter wishes to be kind.”

“Then permit her to have her wish.”

She looked at the turf between them.

“Such kindness is crueler to me than – ”

She did not finish the sentence, but turned to the sea looking at a distant brig. Charles felt a great desire to reach out and take her shoulders and shake her.

“Miss Woodruff, let me be frank. I have heard it said that you are… not altogether of sound mind[120]. I think that is very far from true. I believe you simply judged yourself for your past conduct too severely. Now why in heaven's name must you always walk alone? Have you not punished yourself enough? You are young. You are able to gain your living[121]. You have no family ties, I believe, that confine you to Dorset.”

“I have ties.”

“To this French gentleman?” She turned away, as if that subject was banned. “Permit me to insist. If he does not return, he was not worthy of you. If he returns, I believe that he will find out where you are and follow you there. Now is that not common sense?”

There was a long silence. Her expression was strange, almost calm.

She remained looking out to sea, then spoke quietly.

“He will never return.”

“You fear he will never return?”

“I know he will never return.”

“I do not take your meaning[122].”

She turned then and looked at Charles's puzzled and anxious face. Then she looked away.

“I have long since received a letter. The gentleman is.” and again she was silent. Suddenly she was walking, almost running, across the turf towards the path.

“Miss Woodruff!”

She took a step or two more, then turned. Her voice had a pent-up harshness.

“He is married!”

“Miss Woodruff!”

But she took no notice[123]. He was left standing there. What was unnatural was his sense of guilt. It was as if he had shown lack of sympathy, when he was quite sure he had done his best[124]. He stared after her several moments after she had disappeared. Then he turned and looked at the distant brig, as if that might give an answer to this enigma. But it did not.

17

That evening Charles found himself seated between Mrs. Tranter and Ernestina in the Assembly Rooms. He and his ladies were in the building for a concert. It was not, of course – it being Lent – a secular concert, the program was religious.

Our three had come early; for these concerts were really enjoyed as much for the company as for the music. It gave the ladies an excellent opportunity to assess and comment on their neighbors' finery; and of course to show off their own. Even Ernestina, with all her contempt for the provinces, fell a victim to this vanity[125]. At least here she knew she would have few rivals in the taste and luxury of her clothes. She was in a mischievous mood that evening as people came in. According to Ernestina, there were far more gooseberries than humans patiently waiting for the concert to begin. Every decade invents such a useful epithet; in the 1860s “gooseberry” meant “all that is dreary and old-fashioned”. But at last the distinguished soprano from Bristol appeared, together with her accompanist, and Charles was free to examine his conscience.

In simple truth he had become a little obsessed with Sarah… or at any rate with the enigma she presented. He had – or so he believed – intended to tell them of his meeting – though of course on the strict understanding that they must speak to no one about Sarah's wanderings over Ware Commons. But somehow the moment had not seemed suitable.

He was well aware that Ernestina would feel jealousy. At worst, she would be angry with him; at best, she would only tease him. Charles could perhaps have told Mrs. Tranter. She, he knew, certainly shared his charitable concern. He could not ask her not to tell Ernestina; and if Tina should learn of the meeting through her aunt, then he would be in very hot water indeed. On his mood toward Ernestina that evening, he hardly dared to dwell. Her humor did not exactly irritate him, but it seemed unusually and unwelcomely artificial, as if it were something she had put on with her French hat. It also required a response from him: a corresponding twinkle in his eyes, a constant smile, also artificial. He caught himself stealing glances[126] at the girl beside him – looking at her as if he saw her for the first time, as if she were a total stranger to him. She was very pretty, charming… but was not that face a little characterless, a little monotonous? But this cruel thought no sooner entered Charles's head than he dismissed it[127].

His mind went back to Sarah, to visual images, attempts to recollect that face, that mouth. He said it to himself: It is the stupidest thing, but that girl attracts me. It seemed clear to him that it was not Sarah in herself who attracted him – how could she, he was betrothed – but some emotion, some possibility she symbolized. She made him aware of a deprivation. His future had always seemed to him of vast potential; and now suddenly it was a fixed voyage to a known place. She had reminded him of that.

Ernestina's elbow reminded him gently of the present. He smiled at her. She was so young, such a child. He could not be angry with her. After all, she was only a woman. There were so many things she must never understand: the richness of male life, the enormous difficulty of being one to whom the world was rather more than dress and home and children.

All would be well when she was truly his; in his bed and in his bank, and of course in his heart, too.

Sam, at that moment, was thinking the very opposite. It is difficult to imagine today the enormous differences then separating a lad born in the Seven Dials[128] and a carter's daughter from a Devon village. They had hardly a common language, so often did they not understand what the other had just said.

Yet this distance was not wholly bad. People knew less of each other, perhaps, but they felt more free of each other, and so were more individual.

Sam was contemptuous of anything that did not come from the West End of London. But deep down inside, it was another story. There he was a timid and uncertain person.

Now Mary was quite the reverse at heart. She was certainly dazzled by Sam to begin with: he was very much a superior being, and her teasing of him had been pure selfdefense before such obvious cultural superiority. But she had a basic solidity of character, a kind of self-confidence, a knowledge that she would one day make a good wife and a good mother; and she knew, in people, what was what. After all, she was a peasant; and peasants live much closer to real values.