Chapter 8 LADY TAMPLIN WRITES A LETTER 

"Well," said Lady Tamplin, "well." 

She laid down the continental Daily Mail and stared out across the blue waters of the Mediterranean. A branch of golden mimosa, hanging just above her head, made an effective frame for a very charming picture. A golden-haired, blue-eyed lady in a very becoming negligee. That the golden hair owed something to art, as did the pink-and-white complexion, was undeniable, but the blue of the eyes was Nature's gift, and at forty-four Lady Tamplin could still rank as a beauty. 

Charming as she looked, Lady Tamplin was, for once, not thinking of herself. That is to say, she was not thinking of her appearance. She was intent on graver matters. Lady Tamplin was a well-known figure on the Riviera, and her parties at the Villa Marguerite were justly celebrated. She was a woman of considerable experience, and had had four husbands. The first had been merely an indiscretion, and so was seldom referred to by the lady. He had had the good sense to die with commendable promptitude, and his widow thereupon espoused a rich manufacturer of buttons. He too had departed for another sphere after three years of married life - it was said after a congenial evening with some good companions. After him came Viscount Tamplin, who had placed Rosalie securely on those heights where she wished to tread. She had retained her title when she married for a fourth time. This fourth venture had been undertaken for pure pleasure. Mr Charles Evans, an extremely good-looking young man of twenty-seven, with delightful manners, a keen love of sport, and an appreciation of this world's goods, had no money of his own whatsoever. Lady Tamplin was very pleased and satisfied with life generally, but she had occasional faint preoccupations about money. 

The button manufacturer had left his widow a considerable fortune, but, as Lady Tamplin was wont to say, "what with one thing and another -" (one thing being the depreciation of stocks owing to the war, and the other the extravagances of the late Lord Tamplin). She was still comfortably off. But to be merely comfortably off is hardly satisfactory to one of Rosalie Tamplin's temperament. 

So, on this particular January morning, she opened her blue eyes extremely wide as she read a certain item of news and uttered that noncommittal monosyllable "Well." 

The only other occupant of the balcony was her daughter, the Hon Lenox Tamplin. A daughter such as Lenox was a sad thorn in Lady Tamplin's side, a girl with no kind of tact, who actually looked older than her age, and whose peculiar sardonic form of humour was, to say the least of it, uncomfortable. 

"Darling," said Lady Tamplin, "just fancy." 

"What is it?" 

Lady Tamplin picked up the Daily Mail, handed it to her daughter, and indicated with an agitated forefinger the paragraph of interest. 

Lenox read it without any of the signs of agitation shown by her mother. She handed back the paper. 

"What about it?" she asked. "It is the sort of thing that is always happening. Cheeseparing old women are always dying in villages and leaving fortunes of millions to their humble companions." 

"Yes, dear, I know," said her mother, "and I dare say the fortune is not anything like as large as they say it is; newspapers are so inaccurate. But even if you cut it down by half -" 

"Well," said Lenox, "it has not been left to us." 

"Not exactly, dear," said Lady Tamplin, "but this girl, this Katherine Grey, is actually a cousin of mine. One of the Worcestershire Greys, the Edgeworth lot. My very own cousin! 

Fancy!" 

"Ah-ha," said Lenox. 

"And I was wondering -" said her mother. 

"What there was in it for us," finished Lenox, with that sideways smile that her mother always found difficult to understand. 

"Oh, darling," said Lady Tamplin, on a faint note of reproach. 

It was very faint, because Rosalie Tamplin was used to her daughter's outspokenness and to what she called Lenox's 

uncomfortable way of putting things. 

"I was wondering," said Lady Tamplin, again drawing her artistically pencilled brows together, "whether - oh, good morning, Chubby darling; are you going to play tennis? How nice!" 

Chubby, thus addressed, smiled kindly at her, remarked 

perfunctorily, "How topping you look in that peach-coloured thing," and drifted past them and down the steps. 

"The dear thing," said Lady Tamplin, looking affectionately after her husband. 

"Let me see, what was I saying? Ah!" She switched her mind back to business once more. "I was wondering -" 

"Oh, for God's sake get on with it. That is the third time you have said that." 

"Well, dear," said Lady Tamplin, "I was thinking that if would be very nice if I wrote to dear Katherine and suggested that she should pay us a little visit out here. Naturally, she is quite out of touch with Society. It would be nicer for her to be launched by one of her own people. An advantage for her and an advantage for us." 

"How much do you think you would get her to cough up?" asked Lenox. 

Her mother looked at her reproachfully and murmured. 

"We should have to come to some financial arrangement, of course. What with one thing and another - the war - your poor father -" 

"And Chubby now," said Lenox. "He is an expensive luxury if you like." 

"She was a nice girl as I remember her," murmured Lady Tamplin, pursuing her own line of thought -"quiet, never wanted to shove herself forward, not a beauty, and never a man-hunter." 

"She will leave Chubby alone, then?" said Lenox. 

Lady Tamplin looked at her in protest. 

"Chubby would never -" she began. 

"No," said Lenox, "I don't believe he would; he knows a jolly sight too well which way his bread is buttered." 

"Darling," said Lady Tamplin, "you have such a coarse way of putting things." 

"Sorry," said Lenox. 

Lady Tamplin gathered up the Daily Mail and her negligee, a vanity-bag, and various odd letters. 

"I shall write to dear Katherine at once," she said, "and remind her of the dear old days at Edgeworth." 

She went into the house, a light of purpose shining in her eyes. 

Unlike Mrs Samuel Harfield, correspondence flowed easily from her pen. She covered four sheets without pause or effort, and on re-reading it found no occasion to alter a word. 

Katherine received it on the morning of her arrival in London. Whether she read between the lines of it or not is another matter. 

She put it in her handbag and started out to keep the appointment she had made with Mrs Harfield's lawyers. 

The firm was an old-established one in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and after a few minutes' delay Katherine was shown into the presence of the senior partner, a kindly, elderly man with shrewd blue eyes and a fatherly manner. 

They discussed Mrs Harfield's will and various legal matters for some minutes, then Katherine handed the lawyer Mrs Samuel's letter. 

"I had better show you this, I suppose," she said, "though it is really rather ridiculous." 

He read it with a slight smile. 

"Rather a crude attempt, Miss Grey. I need hardly tell you, I suppose, that these people have no claim of any kind upon the estate, and if they endeavour to contest the will no court will uphold them." 

"I thought as much." 

"Human nature is not always very wise. In Mrs Samuel Harfield's place, I should have been more inclined to make an appeal to your generosity." 

"That is one of the things I wanted to speak to you about. I should like a certain sum to go to these people." 

"There is no obligation." 

"I know that." 

"And they will not take it in the spirit it is meant. They will probably regard it as an attempt to pay them off, though they will not refuse it on that account." 

"I can see that, and it can't be helped." 

"I should advise you, Miss Grey, to put that idea out of your head." 

Katherine shook her head. "You are quite right, I know, but I should like it done all the same." 

"They will grab at the money and abuse you all the more afterwards." 

"Well," said Katherine, "let them if they like. We all have our own ways of enjoying ourselves. They were, after all, Mrs Harfield's only relatives, and though they despised her as a poor relation and paid no attention to her when she was alive, it seems to me unfair that they should be cut off with nothing." 

She carried her point, though the lawyer was still unwilling, and she presently went out into the streets of London with a comfortable assurance that she could spend the money freely and make what plans she liked for the future. Her first action was to visit the establishment of a famous dressmaker. 

A slim, elderly Frenchwoman, rather like a dreaming duchess, received her, and Katherine spoke with a certain naiveté. 

"I want, if I may, to put myself in your hands. I have been very poor all my life and know nothing about clothes, but now I have come into some money and want to look really well dressed." 

The 

Frenchwoman 

was 

charmed. 

She 

had 

an 

artist's 

temperament, which had been soured earlier in the morning by a visit from an Argentine meat queen, who had insisted on having those models least suited to her flamboyant type of beauty. She scrutinized Katherine with keen, clever eyes. "Yes - yes, it will be a pleasure, Mademoiselle has a very good figure; for her the simple lines will be best. She is also très anglaise. Some people it would offend them if I said that, but Mademoiselle, no. Une belle Anglaise, there is no style more delightful." 

The demeanour of a dreaming duchess was suddenly put off. She 

screamed out diction to various mannequins. "Clothilde, Virginie, quickly, my little ones, the little tailleur gris clair and the robe de soirée soupir d'automne. Marcelle, my child, the little mimosa suit of crepe de chine." 

It was a charming morning. Marcelle, Clothilde, Virginie, bored and scornful, passed slowly round, squirming and wriggling in the time-honoured fashion of mannequins. 

The Duchess stood by Katherine and made entries in a small notebook. 

"An excellent choice, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle has great go?t. Yes, indeed. Mademoiselle cannot do better than those little suits if she is going to the Riviera, as I suppose, this winter." 

"Let me see that evening dress once more," said Katherine - "the pinky mauve one." 

Virginie appeared, circling slowly. 

"That is the prettiest of all," said Katherine, as she surveyed the exquisite draperies of mauve and grey and blue. "What do you call it?" 

"Soupir d'automne; yes, yes, that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle." 

What was there in these words that came back to Katherine with a faint feeling of sadness after she had left the dressmaking establishment. 

"'Soupir d'automne; that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle.'" Autumn, yes, it was autumn for her. She who had never known spring or summer, and would never know them now. Something she had lost never could be given to her again. These years of servitude in St Mary Mead - and all the while life passing by. 

"I am an idiot," said Katherine. "I am an idiot. What do I want? 

Why, I was more contented a month ago than I am now." 

She drew out from her handbag the letter she had received that morning from Lady Tamplin. Katherine was no fool. She 

understood the nuances of that letter as well as anybody and the reason of Lady Tamplin's sudden show of affection towards a long-forgotten cousin was not lost upon her. It was for profit and not for pleasure that Lady Tamplin was so anxious for the company of her dear cousin. Well, why not? There would be profit on both sides. 

"I will go," said Katherine. 

She was walking down Piccadilly at the moment, and turned into Cook's to clinch the matter then and there. She had to wait for a few minutes. The man with whom the clerk was engaged was also 

going to the Riviera. Everyone, she felt, was going. Well, for the first time in her life, she, too, would be doing what 'everybody did.' 

The man in front of her turned abruptly, and she stepped into his place. She made her demand to the clerk, but at the same time half of her mind was busy with something else. That man's face - in some vague way it was familiar to her. Where had she seen him before? Suddenly she remembered. It was in the Savoy outside her room that morning. 

She had collided with him in the passage. 

Rather an odd coincidence that she should run into him twice in a day. She glanced over her shoulder, rendered uneasy by 

something, she knew not what. The man was standing in the doorway looking back at her. A cold shiver passed over Katherine; she had a haunting sense of tragedy, of doom impending... 

Then she shook the impression from her with her usual good sense and turned her whole attention to what the clerk was saying. 

第八章 坦普林女士的信

    坦普林女士把《每日邮报》的巴黎版放下，深思地望着地中海的波涛。合欢树的金黄色的枝柯在她的头上摇曳着，构成了一副颇为动人而美丽的图画。她是一位碧眼金发的女郎，身着一件华丽的睡衣。金发可能是染成的，但眼睛确实是蓝色的。四十四岁的坦普林还是保持她那时昔日的风韵。

    但是，坦普林女士现在却不是思虑自己的事，或者说，不完全是为自己的美貌而深思。她正是在解决一个棘手的问题。

    坦普林女士在利维埃拉是个有名的人物。在侯爵镇上交际很广。她是个生活经验丰富的太太，有过四个男人。第一个男人只是一种误会，所以她厌恶提起他。那男人聪明、机敏，但很快死去了，于是寡妇就同一个钮扣厂的老板结了婚。但是这一位在三年之后也到了冥间。那是在一个快乐的晚上，他狂饮之后发了酒疯死去的。第三个男人名叫洛德·坦普林，他把妻子带到了上流社会，这正是她的宿愿。当她第四次结婚时，她保留了男人的姓氏。第四个丈夫使她第一次享受到婚后生活的幸福。查理·艾万斯先生是个很出色的小伙子，二十七岁，具有一切吸引人的气质，爱好很多体育运动；另外他还有一个特点：一贫如洗。

    坦普林女士对他的现状是比较满意的，不过有时花费颇大。好在钮扣老板给她留下了相当可观的财产，但是她没有用这些钱做点买卖。因为单身汉洛德·坦普林挥霍无度，花掉了很多钱。她生活在一个富裕和环境里，但光是这一点对一个女人还是不够的。

    正月的一个早晨，当她从报上读到一条消息之后，她便睁大了眼睛陷入了深思。身边坐着她的女儿雷诺斯·坦普林，这位姑娘已经成为妈妈的眼中钉。因为年满十八周岁之后，她已经是母亲的竞争对手了。雷诺斯那种玩世不恭的幽默感，常常弄得别人啼笑皆非。

    “亲爱的，”坦普林女士说，“你看……”

    “什么呀？”

    坦普林女士指着报纸上那条她非常感兴趣的新闻。

    雷诺斯看了一眼报上的新闻，对母亲的激动之情完全无动于衷。

    “这类事多的是。在一些偏僻的乡村里很多老妇常常留给她们的忠诚养女们几百万块钱。”

    “数目可没那么大，报纸上登的不一定可靠。就是其中的一半数目也够多的了。”

    “可是她并没有给我们留下什么钱。”雷诺斯说。

    “当然没有，我的孩子！可是这个叫卡泰丽娜·格蕾的女士是我的一个堂妹。你想象一下吧，如果是……”

    “如果是对我们有点什么……”女儿把母亲的话接下去说完。

    坦普林女士狠狠地瞪了女儿一眼。雷诺斯有一个坏习惯，总愿把事情的真相一语道破。

    “我想。“母亲耐心地说道，紧皱着画过的眉毛。这时丘比来了。她说道：“早晨好，丘比，我亲爱的，现在去打网球吗？多美妙啊！”

    丘比──这是坦普林女士为丈夫起的爱称──说道：“你穿这件衣服显得多美啊！”话音未落便急忙地消失在阳台的梯子上。

    “可爱的小伙子。”坦普林女士多情地目送着自己的丈夫。“可是我要说什么来着？对，对……”她又想起了自己的计划。

    “我是想……”

    “你倒是快说啊，妈妈，你到底想什么呀？”

    “是的，孩子，我是想，如果我建议那个可爱的卡泰丽娜到我这里来做客，不是很妙吗？她一定想到上流社会里出头露面。如果由我出面来周旋，要比别人办强得多。对她对我们都有益处。”

    “你认为从她身上可以榨出多少油水来？”雷诺斯问道。

    母亲严厉地看着女儿，喃喃地说道：“当然要些经济方面的开支了。你当然知道我们的开支情况，你那可怜的爸爸……”

    “现在可是丘比了。他是一个顺从的玩物。”

    “我记得，她是一个可爱的女郎。”坦普林女士自言自语地说，想着自己的心事。

“她恬静、纯朴，不算漂亮，从未追求过男性。”

    “你是说，她对丘比构不成一种威胁，是吗？”

    坦普林觉得是在刺她。“丘比可从来不……”

    “不，”雷诺斯说，“我才不相信呢。他自己也明白他同你结婚为是什么，是贪图金钱。”

    “亲爱的，你总是把话说得那么粗鲁。”

    “请原谅！”雷诺斯说道。

    坦普林女士把《每日邮报》、乱七八糟的手提包，还有其它一些东西都收拾好。

    “我要立即给卡泰丽娜小姐写信，使她想起在埃奇沃思的那些美妙时刻。”

    她回到房间里去，眼神流露出坚定的决心。

    卡泰丽娜到达伦敦的第二天接到了一封四页的长信。她把信塞进手提包就去找哈尔费德多年的律师和财产管理人。律师以慈父般的感情接待了她。寒暄之后，卡泰丽娜递给他一封信，这是死者亲属写来的信。

    律师读了信之后微微一笑。

    “这简直是无耻的觊觎，格蕾小姐。我可以对你说，按照法律，这些人丝毫也没有理由对遗嘱提出任何要求。”

    “我也是这样想。”

    “人们有时是多么的愚蠢。我要是处在他们的地位，我将指望您的宽宏大量。”

    “我正想同您谈谈这件事。我想给死者的亲属留下一笔钱。”

    “您完全可以不承担这样的义务。”

    “我知道。”

    “但是您可能有这样的错觉，好象您欠了他们债似的。当然，您将领取这些钱。这之后可能有人要暗算您。”

    “这些我都知道。但尽管如此，我还是决定这样做。这对我是无所谓的。另外，她毕竟还是哈尔费德女士唯一的亲属。尽管哈尔费德女士在世的时候这位亲属从未过问过她的生活，我还是不想让她空着手回去。”

    虽然律师一再劝阻，她还是坚持已见。当她走到伦敦街头上时，内心里感到很宽慰，这样她就可以心平气和地筹划未来。她的第一件事是去裁缝店。

    接待她的是一位身材瘦长的老妇，看起来很象个公爵夫人。卡泰丽娜很天真地说：“我完全听从您的安排，我有生以来一直很穷，也不懂穿戴。现在我有了钱，也的确想穿戴得好一点。”

    法国女裁缝兴致勃勃。一个钟头之前有个阿根廷胖女人在这里挑剔了半天，使她甚为烦恼。她用行家的眼光打量着卡泰丽娜。

    “当然，当然，您一定会满意，小姐，您的身材很美。小姐，我给您挑选一件线条朴素的。小姐，您是位典型的英国人。有些人认为这是对他们的嘲弄。世界上可没有十全十美的人。”

    这位公爵夫人完全成了能干的生意人，她来回忙碌于模特儿之间，向卡泰丽娜介绍着形形色色的服装。“这是克洛蒂尔德，这是维吉妮。快，我的小天使，这是浅灰色的连衣裙，还有晚秋服。”

    这是一个有趣的上午。各式各样的服装在眼前闪耀。公爵夫人拿着小笔记本记着。

    “小姐，您挑选的这些衣裳太好了。小姐，您真有眼力。在利维埃拉过个冬天，这些衣服是最合适不过的了。”

    “请您给我看一下那件紫黄色的睡衣。”卡泰丽娜说道。

    睡衣被拿到她的面前。

    “这件比任何一件都好。”卡泰丽娜说，“您管这件衣服叫什么来着？”

    “‘晚秋’。是的，这件衣服正适合小姐您穿。”

    当卡泰丽娜离开裁缝店的时候，“晚秋”这个词又浮现在她的脑海里。这是为什么？为什么她无法排除这种忧郁的感情？

    “晚秋。这件衣服正适合小姐您穿。”是的，她一生中的秋天已经到来。春天和夏天她从来没有体验过，也永远不会返。她失掉了一些东西，而没有任何人可以把失去的还给她。十年来，在玛丽麦德村里她一直过着奴役般的生活，而人世间的光阴却荏苒而逝。

    “我真是一个傻瓜。”卡泰丽娜说，“我到底想干什么呢？说真的，我觉得一个月之前要比现在满意得多。”

    她从手提包里拿出早晨接到的信。这是坦普林女士写给她的。卡泰丽娜并不愚蠢。

她很明白信中字里行间的含义，而且她对坦普林女士突然对她表示的好意也不抱任何幻想。她的堂姐并不是邀请她去享福，而是对她有所冀求。为什么不去呢！对卡泰丽娜来说，这种安排了许是有益的。“我接受邀请。”她说道。

    她来到考瑞克旅行社以便立即办好手续。她订了一张火车票，同时还想着另外一件事：有一位特别面熟的男人，在哪里见过他呢？突然间她回忆起来，是在萨沃旅馆的走廊里。那时卡泰丽娜同他打了个照面。真巧，今天又遇上了他。她回头看了一眼，感到很不快，但不知为什么。那个男人站在门旁看着她。一阵恐惧向她袭来，她预感到会有一场悲剧……

    她坚决地摆脱了这种预感，全神贯注同旅行社职员办理手续。