“I guess that must have been before Lydia Orr came to Brookville,” said Ellen, in a hard, sweet voice.
“Yes; it was,” admitted Fanny reluctantly. “Everything seems to be different since then.”
“What has Jim been doing that's any queerer than usual?” inquired Ellen, with some asperity5.
Fanny hesitated.
“You won't tell?”
“Of course not, if it's a secret.”
“Cross your heart an' hope t' die?” quoted Fanny from their childhood days.
Ellen giggled6.
“Cross m' heart an' hope t' die,” she repeated.
“Well, Jim's been off on some sort of a trip,” said Fanny.
“I don't see anything so very queer about that.”
“Wait till I tell you— You must be sure and not breathe a word, even to your mother; you won't, will you?”
“Fan, you make me mad! Didn't I just say I wouldn't?”
“Well, then; he went with her in the auto7; they started about five o'clock in the morning, and Jim didn't get home till after twelve that night.”
Ellen laughed, with studied indifference8.
“Pity they couldn't have asked us to go along,” she said. “I'm sure the car's plenty big enough.”
“I don't think it was just for fun,” said Fanny.
“You don't? What for, then?”
“I asked Jim, and he wouldn't tell me.”
“When did you ask him?”
“The morning they went. I came down about half past four: mother doesn't get up as early as that, we haven't much milk to look after now; but I wake up awfully early sometimes, and I'd rather be doing something than lying there wide awake.”
Ellen squeezed Fanny's arm sympathetically. She herself had lost no moments of healthy sleep over Jim Dodge9's fancied defection; but she enjoyed imagining herself to be involved in a passionate10 romance.
“Isn't it awful to lie awake and think—and think, and not be able to do a single thing!” she said, with a tragic11 gesture.
Fanny bent12 down to look into Ellen's pretty face.
“Why, Ellen,” she said, “is it as bad as that? I didn't suppose you really cared.”
She clasped Ellen's slender waist closer and kissed her fervently13.
Ellen coaxed14 two shining tears into sparkling prominence15 on her long lashes16.
“Oh, don't mind me, Fan,” she murmured; “but I can sympathize with you, dear. I know exactly how you feel—and to think it's the same girl!”
Ellen giggled light-heartedly:
“Anyway, she can't marry both of them,” she finished.
Fanny was looking away through the boles of the gnarled old trees, her face grave and preoccupied17.
“Perhaps I oughtn't to have told you,” she said.
“Why, you haven't told me anything, yet,” protested Ellen. “You're the funniest girl, Fan! I don't believe you know how to—really confide18 in anybody. If you'd tell me more how you feel about him, you wouldn't care half so much.”
Fanny winced19 perceptibly. She could not bear to speak of the secret—which indeed appeared to be no secret—she strove daily to bury under a mountain of hard work, but which seemed possessed20 of mysterious powers of resurrection in the dark hours between sunset and sunrise.
“But there's nothing to—to talk about, Ellen,” she said; and in spite of herself her voice sounded cold, almost menacing.
“Oh, very well, if you feel that way,” retorted Ellen. “But I can tell you one thing—or, I might tell you something; but I guess I won't.”
“Please, Ellen,—if it's about—”
“Well, it is.”
Fanny's eyes pleaded hungrily with the naughty Ellen.
“You haven't finished your account of that interesting pleasure excursion of Jim's and Miss Orr's,” said Ellen. “Isn't it lovely Jim can drive her car? Is he going to be her regular chauffeur21? And do you get an occasional joy-ride?”
“Of course not,” Fanny said indignantly. “Oh, Ellen, how can you go on like that! I'm sure you don't care a bit about Jim or me, either.”
“I do!” declared Ellen. “I love you with all my heart, Fan; but I don't know about Jim. I—I might have—you know; but if he's crazy over that Orr girl, what's the use? There are other men, just as good-looking as Jim Dodge and not half so sarcastic22 and disagreeable.”
“Jim can be disagreeable, if he wants to,” conceded Jim's sister. “When I asked him where he was going with the car so early in the morning—you know he's been bringing the car home nights so as to clean it and fix the engine, till she can get somebody—I was surprised to find him putting in oil and tightening23 up screws and things, when it was scarcely daylight; and I said so. He wouldn't tell me a thing. ‘You just 'tend to your own knitting, Fan,’ was all he said; ‘perhaps you'll know some day; and then again, perhaps you won't.’”
“And didn't you find out?” cried Ellen, her dark eyes alight with curiosity. “If that doesn't sound exactly like Jim Dodge! But you said you heard him when he came in that night; didn't he tell you anything then?—You don't think they ran off to get married? Oh, Fan!”
“Of course not, you goose! Do you suppose he'd have come back home alone, if it had been anything like that?”
Ellen heaved a sigh of exaggerated relief.
“‘Be still, my heart’!” she murmured.
“No; they went to get somebody from somewhere,” pursued Fanny.
“To get somebody from somewhere,” repeated Ellen impatiently. “How thrilling! Who do you suppose it was?”
Fanny shook her head:
“I haven't the slightest idea.”
“How perfectly24 funny! ...Is the somebody there, now?”
“I don't know. Jim won't tell me a thing that goes on there. He says if there's anything on top of the earth he absolutely despises it's a gossiping man. He says a gossiping woman is a creation of God—must be, there's so many of 'em; but a gossiping man—he can't find any word in the dictionary mean enough for that sort of a low-down skunk25.”
Ellen burst into hysterical26 laughter.
“What an idea!” she gasped27. “Oh, but he's almost too sweet to live, Fan. Somebody ought to take him down a peg28 or two. Fan, if he proposes to that girl, I hope she won't have him. 'Twould serve him right!”
“Perhaps she won't marry anybody around here,” mused29 Fanny. “Did you ever notice she wears a thin gold chain around her neck, Ellen?”
Ellen nodded.
“Perhaps there's a picture of somebody on it.”
“I shouldn't wonder.”
Ellen impatiently kicked a big apple out of her way, to the manifest discomfiture30 of two or three drunken wasps31 who were battening on the sweet juices.
“I've got to go back to the house,” she said. “Mother'll be looking for me.”
“But, Ellen—”
“Well?”
“You said you knew something—”
Ellen yawned.
“Did I?”
“You know you did, Ellen! Please—”
“'Twasn't much.”
“What was it?”
“Oh, nothing, only I met the minister coming out of Lydia Orr's house one day awhile ago, and he was walking along as if he'd been sent for— Never even saw me. I had a good mind to speak to him, anyway; but before I could think of anything cute to say he'd gone by—two-forty on a plank32 road!”
Fanny was silent. She was wishing she had not asked Ellen to tell. Then instantly her mind began to examine this new aspect of her problem.
“He didn't look so awfully pleased and happy,” Ellen went on, “his head was down—so, and he was just scorching33 up the road. Perhaps they'd been having a scrap34.”
“Oh, no!” burst from Fanny's lips. “It wasn't that.”
“Why, what do you know about Wesley Elliot and Lydia Orr?” inquired Ellen vindictively35. “You're a whole lot like Jim—as close-mouthed as a molasses jug36, when you don't happen to feel like talking.... It isn't fair,” she went on crossly. “I tell you everything—every single thing; and you just take it all in without winking37 an eyelash. It isn't fair!”
“Oh, Ellen, please don't—I can't bear it from you!”
Fanny's proud head drooped38 to her friend's shoulder, a stifled39 sob40 escaped her.
“There now, Fan; I didn't mean a word of it! I'm sorry I told you about him—only I thought he looked so kind of cut up over something that maybe— Honest, Fan, I don't believe he likes her.”
“You don't know,” murmured Fanny, wiping her wet eyes. “I didn't tell you she came to see me.”
“She did!”
“Yes; it was after we had all been there, and mother was going on so about the furniture. It all seemed so mean and sordid42 to me, as if we were trying to—well, you know.”
Ellen nodded:
“Of course I do. That's why you wouldn't let her have your furniture. I gloried in your spunk43, Fan.”
“But I did let her have it, Ellen.”
“You did? Well!”
“I'll tell you how it happened. Mother'd gone down to the village, and Jim was off somewhere—he's never in the house day-times any more; I'd been working on the new curtains all day, and I was just putting them up in the parlor44, when she came.... Ellen, sometimes I think perhaps we don't understand that girl. She was just as sweet— If it wasn't for— If I hadn't hardened my heart against her almost the first thing, you know, I don't believe I could help loving her.”
“Fanny!” cried Ellen protestingly. “She certainly is a soft-soap artist. My mother says she is so refined; and Mrs. Daggett is always chanting her praises.”
“Think of all she's done for the village,” urged Fanny. “I want to be just, even if—”
“Well, I don't!” cried Ellen. “I just enjoy being real spiteful sometimes—especially when another girl gobbles all the men in sight; and I know I'm prettier than she is. It's just because she's new and—and stylish45 and rich. What made you give in about your furniture, Fan?”
“Because I—”
Fanny stopped short, puckering46 her forehead.
“I don't know whether I can explain it, Ellen; but I notice it every time I am with her. There's something—”
“Good gracious, Fan! She must have hypnotized you.”
“Be quiet, Ellen, I'm trying to think just how it happened. She didn't say so very much—just sat down and watched me, while I sewed rings on the curtains. But the first thing I knew, I piped up and said: ‘Do you really want that old furniture of mine so much?’ And she said— Well, no matter what she said; it was more the way she looked. I guess I'd have given her the eyes out of my head, or any old thing.”
“That's just what I told you,” interrupted Ellen. “There are people like that. Don't you remember that horrid47 old what's-his-name in ‘Trilby’?”
“Don't be silly, Ellen,” said Fanny rebukingly48. “Well, I took her up to my room and showed her my bed and bureau and washstand. There were some chairs, too; mother got them all for my room at that old auction49 we've heard so much about; I was just a baby then. I told her about it. She sat down in my rocking-chair by the window and just looked at the things, without saying a word, at first. After a while, she said: ‘Your mother used to come in and tuck the blankets around you nice and warm in the night; didn't she?’”
“‘Why, I suppose she did,’ I told her. ‘Mother's room is right next to mine.’ ... Ellen, there was a look in her eyes—I can't tell you about it—you wouldn't understand. And, anyway, I didn't care a bit about the furniture. ‘You can have it,’ I said. ‘I don't want it, and I don't see why you do; it isn't pretty any more.’ I thought she was going to cry, for a minute. Then such a soft gladness came over her face. She came up to me and took both my hands in hers; but all she said was ‘Thank you.’”
“And did she pay you a whole lot for it?” inquired Ellen sordidly50.
“I didn't think anything about that part of it,” said Fanny. “Jim carried it all over the next day, with a lot of old stuff mother had. Jim says she's had a man from Grenoble working in the barn for weeks and weeks, putting everything in order. My old set was painted over, with all the little garlands and blue ribbons, like new.”
“But how much—” persisted Ellen. “She must have paid you a lot for it.”
“I didn't ask mother,” said Fanny. “I didn't want to know. I've got a new set; it's real pretty. You must come over and see my room, now it's all finished.”
What Fanny did not tell Ellen was that after Lydia's departure she had unexpectedly come upon the photograph of the picnic group under a book on her table. The faded picture with its penciled words had meant much to Fanny. She had not forgotten, she told herself, she could never forget, that day in June, before the unlooked-for arrival of the strange girl, whose coming had changed everything. Once more she lived over in imagination that perfect day, with its white clouds floating high in the blue, and the breath of clover on the wind. She and Wesley Elliot had gone quietly away into the woods after the boisterous51 merriment of the picnic luncheon52.
“It's safe enough, as long as we follow the stream,” Fanny had assured him, piloting the way over fallen logs and through dense53 thickets54 of pine and laurel, further and further away from the sounds of shrill55 laughter and the smoky smell of the camp fire, where the girls were still busy toasting marshmallows on long sticks for the youths who hovered56 in the rear.
The minister had expressed a keen desire to hear the rare notes of the hermit57 thrush; and this romantic quest led them deep into the forest. The girl paused at last on the brink58 of a pool, where they could see the shadowy forms of brook4 trout59 gliding60 through the clear, cold water.
“If we are quiet and listen,” she told him, “I think we shall hear the hermit.”
On a carpet of moss61, thicker and softer than a deep-piled rug, they sat down. Not a sound broke the stillness but the gurgle of water and the soft soughing of the wind through great tree tops. The minister bared his head, as if aware of the holy spirit of solitude62 in the place. Neither spoke nor stirred; but the girl's heart beat loud—so loud she feared he might hear, and drew her little cape41 closer above her breast. Then all at once, ringing down the somber63 aisles64 of the forest came the song of the solitary65 bird, exquisite66, lonely, filled with an indescribable, yearning67 sweetness. The man's eloquent68 eyes met her own in a long look.
“Wonderful!” he murmured.
His hand sought and closed upon hers for an instant. Then without further speech they returned to the picnickers. Someone—she thought it was Joyce Fulsom—snapped the joyous69 group at the moment of the departure. It had been a week later, that he had written the words “Lest we forget”—with a look and smile which set the girl's pulses fluttering. But that was in June. Now it was September. Fanny, crouched70 by the window where Lydia Orr had been that afternoon, stared coldly at the picture. It was downright silly to have carried it about with her. She had lost it somewhere—pulling out her handkerchief, perhaps. Had Lydia Orr found and brought it back? She ardently71 wished she knew; but in the meanwhile—
She tore the picture deliberately72 across, thereby73 accomplishing unhindered what Wesley Elliot had attempted several days before; then she burned the fragments in the quick spurt74 of a lighted match.... Lest we forget, indeed!
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收听单词发音
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1
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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14
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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17
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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18
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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26
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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28
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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29
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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30
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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31
wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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32
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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34
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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37
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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38
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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40
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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41
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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42
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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43
spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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45
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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46
puckering
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 )；小褶纹；小褶皱 | |
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47
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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48
rebukingly
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49
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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50
sordidly
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| adv.肮脏地；污秽地；不洁地 | |
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51
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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52
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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53
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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54
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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55
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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56
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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57
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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58
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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59
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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60
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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61
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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62
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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63
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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65
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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66
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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67
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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69
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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70
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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72
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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73
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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