“I was just coming down, Miss Avesham,” she said; “I should have come down before, but I just waited to collect myself. Now, please tell me truly. Dr. Maitland, I thought, looked very grave. Is that not so?”
Jeannie could hardly believe that this brisk, cheerful woman was the same who had sat so limply and undecidedly in the drawing-room half an hour ago. What had caused this change of front she could not guess, for, evidently, Dr. Maitland had not been reassuring1. But her own part was made easier for her.
“Yes, he was very grave,” said Jeannie. “Dear Miss Clifford, it is idle for me to say how sorry I am. But it is very grave, indeed.[310]”
Ph?be stood at the window a moment with her back to Jeannie, and Jeannie could see that her hand, which played with the blind-cord, trembled, and at that her courage again failed her, and a sickening helplessness took its place. But almost immediately Ph?be turned round again, and her poor, gray face was quite composed, and her hand firm.
“Please tell me what it is, Miss Avesham,” she said.
Jeannie rose, took both her hands in hers, and looked at her with infinite compassion2.
“It is cancer,” she said.
Phoebe drew a long sigh.
“You will think it very singular of me, Miss Avesham,” she said, “but it is almost a relief to hear that. The fear of it, I think, was worse than the knowledge. Can anything be done?”
“An operation could be attempted,” said Jeannie, “but it would be very dangerous, and not hopeful.”
“I am glad of that,” said Miss Ph?be, “for you must know, Miss Avesham, that I[311] am a terrible coward, and if there is one thing I dread3 it is being pulled about by a professional man. I have three teeth now that ought to come out. Would you think it very cowardly of me if I preferred not to have the operation?”
“Oh, thank God you bear it so well!” cried Jeannie, suddenly. “No, I should not think it cowardly. I think you are right. You a coward!” she said; “you are the bravest woman I ever saw.”
Miss Clifford’s face brightened with pleasure.
“I prayed God to let me not be very foolish about it,” she said. “Tell me one more thing. Would there have been a chance if I had gone to a doctor sooner?”
“There would,” said Jeannie, simply.
“Then will you promise me something?” asked Ph?be.
“Anything.”
“Don’t let poor Clara know that,” said Ph?be. “And oh, Miss Avesham, supposing she puts it to you rather directly, do you think you could go so far as to—well, to tell her just a little fib about it? It would save[312] Clara a great deal of distress4, for she would reproach herself for not having insisted on my seeing a doctor.”
“I will lie to any extent,” said Jeannie; “and I promise you that Dr. Maitland shall, too.”
Ph?be shrank back.
“Oh, you put it so strongly, Miss Avesham,” she said. “I would not ask you to tell a lie, but if you could just be a little diplomatic, if you could lead Clara off the scent5, so to speak.”
“She shall never know,” said Jeannie.
“Thank you so much. And now I will put on my hat and go home. I wonder, Miss Avesham, would it be too much to ask you to come and see us to-morrow morning? I am afraid Clara will be very much upset, and you can deal with her as no one else can. I shall send a line to Dr. Maitland, asking him to come and tell me what I must do.”
And she put on her hat, taking great care to have it straight, and adjusted her silk scarf round her neck.
“It is a little chilly6 this afternoon,” she said, “and to catch a cold at this time of[313] year is so tiresome7. It is curious how much harder it is to throw off a cold in the summer.”
To Jeannie there was something infinitely8 pathetic about this. The poor lady had a mortal disease, yet the possibility of getting a cold in the head appeared, even at this first stunning9 moment, to rank at far greater importance in her mind. In a few weeks, now even, she was beyond all mortal aid, yet the adjustment of the silk scarf to shield her throat from possible chills was not less advisable.
The scarf adjusted, Miss Clifford paused again to pull down her veil to its accustomed point. At first it was too low, and then too high; this mattered no less than before. Little pleasures, little pains, seem to have a deeper and more intimate hold over certain natures than the greater calls: a man going out to be hung has been known to complain that his boot hurt him.
Jeannie called at Villa10 Montrose next morning, and, standing11 on the steps while the door was being answered, she heard the subdued12 tremolo of a mandolin. She was[314] shown at once into the drawing-room, and there in Ph?be’s corner was sitting Ph?be, with one leg thrown over the other, in the approved attitude, and in front of her, on a brass13 music-stand, was Funiculi, Funicula. She got up with alacrity14 when Jeannie entered.
“A lovely morning, is it not?” she said. “Dr. Maitland was so kind as to come early, and he told me I might get up and spend a quiet morning, going out in the afternoon, if I felt inclined. He recommended a drive, which I think I shall enjoy.”
Evidently for Ph?be the day of little things was not over. Uncertainty15 had worried her, the relief of certainty had let her tiny occupations resume their wonted importance. It seemed to Jeannie that condolence or congratulations on her bravery would be alike misplaced. It is good to weep with those who weep, but weeping friends are bad company if one does not show any inclination16 to weep one’s self, and certainly Ph?be showed none. And to continue congratulating any one on their fortitude17 is gratuitous18. Courage, above all the virtues,[315] brings its own reward, for it is warming to the heart.
“But Clara offered to take off my hands all the work of the household,” continued Ph?be, “which was very thoughtful of her, for she had noticed, she said, that it seemed to have fatigued19 me these last few weeks. And so, Miss Avesham, I have been spending a holiday morning with my music. I have hardly any pain this morning.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” said Jeannie, “and I see you have Funiculi. I know it, so I will accompany you.”
Clara upstairs, employed in looking out the towels in the bed-room, heard the light-hearted, rollicking tune20 vibrate through the house, and guessed Jeannie had come. Clara had a marked bedside manner, and her custom when any one was ill was to batter21 them with innocent questions as to whether they would have the door shut or the window opened, and to look at them with anxious, deprecating eyes, and to walk on a creaking tip-toe. Ph?be’s faint tinkling22 had been inaudible upstairs, and to play that song now seemed scarcely proper. She felt as she[316] would have felt if some one in the house was dead and the blinds had not been drawn23 down.
She was nearly at an end of her tour of inspection24, and when, a few minutes later, she entered the drawing-room, the third verse of the song was not yet ended. She closed the door with elaborate precaution, and walking on tip-toe to Ph?be’s side, gazed into her face with a sad smile. But Ph?be only frowned; Jeannie was taking the song at a pace she was not used to, and it was as much as she could do to keep up.
“Turn over quick, Clara,” she said. “Now!” and Ph?be’s soul was in the thrumming of the mandolin.
The verse came to an end, and Jeannie turned round.
“That’s more the pace,” she said. “I remember I was with my father and mother in Naples when it came out, and it was the first sound you heard in the morning and the last you heard at night. I have a book of those Neapolitan airs; I’ll send them round to you if you like.”
[317]
Jeannie’s manner was anything but the ideal mortal-disease attitude which Clara had expected. She had expected to find her sitting by Ph?be’s side, with one hand in hers, talking about the next world and the lessons to be learned from pain. Perhaps she might with advantage have been found playing a hymn25 on the soft pedal, but instead of that she was thumping26 Neapolitan songs, and Ph?be seemed to be enjoying it. Was it possible that Dr. Maitland was wrong, and had told Jeannie so? In that case surely Jeannie would have let her know.
“There is another one,” Jeannie went on, running her hands gently over the keys. “Yes, that is right. It’s a duet, Stella d’Amore. The young man is walking by the sea, and sees a girl. He does not speak to her, but he sings to himself, as he passes, ‘There is a star by the sea,’ and when he has finished his verse, she sings, like him, ‘There is a star by the sea, but who am I that the star should hear me?’ And then they both sing, ‘Star of love by the sea.’”
Clara flushed.
“How romantic!” she said. “And did they marry?[318]”
“It doesn’t say,” said Jeannie. “You must write an extra verse, Miss Clara, saying that they did.”
Jeannie got up from the piano and began putting on her gloves.
“I must go,” she said; “but whenever you feel up to it, Miss Clifford, send me a note, and we’ll have another go at the mandolin. I won’t forget to let you have the book. Now mind you do all that Dr. Maitland tells you. Good-bye.”
Clara came to show Jeannie out, and stopped her in the hall.
“Oh, Miss Avesham,” she said, “is Ph?be better? Is it not what Dr. Maitland thought?”
Jeannie shook her head.
“Better?” she said. “Has he not told you?”
Clara’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, he told me,” she said; “but you were so cheerful, I thought perhaps it was not as bad as he said.”
“No; you must not comfort yourself with that,” said Jeannie. “But comfort her, if I may suggest it, in little ways. You see, she[319] still cares for little things. She has not lost interest in life at all, it seems to me. Do not do or say anything that will remind her of what she is suffering from. My dear Miss Clara, it is not that I do not realize it that I recommend you this, but just because I do. All we can do is to help her in little ways. It is just that we can do.”
Poor Miss Clara looked bewildered and puzzled.
“But these things matter so little now,” she said. “I cannot understand Ph?be caring for her songs and her mandolin now. To be sure, she was never very fond of going to church, and she always says there are a great many black sheep who are clergymen. But now, Miss Avesham. Oh, to think of her playing Funiculi!”
Miss Clara delivered herself of this incoherent dissatisfaction with shaking head and trembling lips. It was all she could do to keep herself from bursting out crying, and the effort tied her face into hard knots. Ph?be had evidently taken up her mandolin again, for its little metallic27 notes came from the drawing-room, playing Funiculi, and in[320] a few bars her quavering voice joined it. They had been speaking in low tones for fear Ph?be should hear them, but when the song began again Jeannie spoke28 louder.
“It seems to me such a great thing that she can still take an interest and a pleasure in things,” said Jeannie. “I would encourage her all I could to continue to do that.”
“But it seems so strange,” said Clara. “I know my poor mother saw a clergyman every day for six weeks before she died. And when I suggested this morning to Ph?be that I should ask Mr. Crawshaw to call she got quite angry, and said, ‘What for?’ So as any agitation29, Dr. Maitland told me, is bad for her, I didn’t urge it. But my conscience has pricked30 me ever since.”
Jeannie smiled.
“Put it in a pin-cushion, then,” she said. “Oh, how little I should want to see a clergyman if I was going to die soon. Fancy wanting a clergyman when you were dying,” she said, half to herself.
For a moment Miss Clara looked shocked, but any opinion expressed by her idol31 de[321]manded unusual thought before it was condemned32. And, after a little reflection:
“I think I see what you mean,” she said. “But it seems so odd.”
“Well, I must go,” said Jeannie; “and I think it would be wise of you to let your sister do as she likes and to encourage her in anything she may wish.”
Clara sighed.
“I am sure you must be right,” she said. “Dear Miss Avesham, there is one thing more I wanted to ask you. You do not think, do you, that if Ph?be had seen a doctor sooner it would have been more hopeful?”
“I am sure it would have made no difference,” said Jeannie, with assurance. Then, seeing that doubt still lingered on Miss Clara’s face:
“I happened to ask Dr. Maitland that myself,” she added, which happened to be quite true.
Clara looked inexpressibly relieved.
“You can’t think how I worried about it since Ph?be told me last night,” she said. “I was afraid it might have been, however indirectly33, my fault.[322]”
“Well, anyhow, you needn’t worry about that any more,” said Jeannie.
She went down the steps and turned homeward, a little shocked at herself at the ease with which what Miss Ph?be had called “the little fib” had been spoken. No one had practised the difficult art of lying less than she, but it seemed to come quite naturally. And not for a moment did she repent34 it. “If it was wrong,” she said to herself, “God will understand.”
Clara stayed for a moment looking after Jeannie and composing herself. Then she nailed a smile to her face and went back into the drawing-room.
Ph?be was still sitting in her chair strumming to herself on the mandolin, but she stopped as Clara entered.
“I wonder if you could play that accompaniment,” she said; “I want to try the song that comes next, Amore Mysterio.”
“I will try,” said Clara, and seated herself at the piano.
But she did not make much of a success out of it, for, in addition to the fact that she found four sharps even at the best of times a[323] scarcely negotiable quantity, her fingers were trembling, and she could scarcely see the keys. Then quite suddenly, in the middle of the second part, she put her elbows on the piano and, burying her face in her hands, burst out crying.
Ph?be, whose mind had been entirely35 concentrated on her own difficulties with the mandolin, looked up suddenly at this cessation of the accompaniment. Then she got up and went to her sister.
“Clara,” she said, “don’t cry so. My dear, it is very hard on you, and you will be lonely, I think. But don’t make it worse for yourself, and don’t make it worse for me.”
Poor Clara turned her tear-stained face to her sister.
“Ph?be, Ph?be, I can’t bear it!” she sobbed36. “Oh, to think of what is coming! Indeed, I am not crying for myself; but if only it was me, and not you. Oh, Ph?be, I prayed and I prayed last night that I might have this, and not you, and I hoped God would hear me. But I am just as well as ever this morning. Perhaps if you had seen a doctor sooner. No, that can’t be, because[324] Miss Jeannie told me that it would have made no difference.”
Ph?be blessed Jeannie in her heart.
“So you know that nothing has been left undone37 that could have been done,” she said. “And now, Clara, please go and wash your face, and please try, love, to behave just as usual, just as you have behaved, my own dear sister, all these years. Oh, it is hard, I know. Perhaps, Clara, if we kneel down together and say Our Father we shall feel better, and then let us both make up our minds to make the best of things and to go on living quite simply and ordinarily. That has seemed right to us before, and I do not see that it is not right still. There is no use in my going to be a missionary38 just because of this.”
They said the prayer together, and when it was done Ph?be kissed her sister.
“Go upstairs if you like, dear,” she said, “and have a good cry. Then when you come down again, if you will be so kind, we will just try this Amore Mysterio again. I should like to surprise Miss Avesham by playing it when she comes. I told her I did not know it this morning.[325]”
Clara stood irresolute39 a moment. Then she blew her nose, and wiped up her face generally.
“We will try it at once,” she said, in rather a quavering voice. “I hope I shall play it better this time, Ph?be.”
For the most part it is the natures of very strong vitality40 to whom death seems so unfaceable, and all their courage is needed to meet it. But Ph?be had never been a lusty swimmer in the waves and foam41 of life; she had but dabbled42 with her feet in it, and perhaps it was this unacquaintance with the thrill and throb43 of mere44 living which helped her to face what was before her with such simple unconcern. She had passed her life in safe and shallow waters, the buffeting45 and bracing46 risks of the world had not been her affair; and to her straightforward47, if shallow and short-sighted, nature death did not seem an unnatural48 thing. Her grasp of life had never been firm, and the relaxation49 and loss of it came with no shock. Her fingers were but holding it lightly, they would come away without a struggle.
But Clara’s capacity for suffering was[326] greater. In her gentle way she raged over that hideous50 end to existence, and it required all her fortitude to meet that which Ph?be met without effort. She had never rebelled or struggled against the ordinary necessities of life, and of these death was one.
But from that day her case grew very rapidly worse. That cruel and inexorable malady51, whose only mercy is the swiftness with which it does its work, was to her very merciful, and her suffering was comparatively little. A fortnight after this she came downstairs for the last time, and, sitting once more in her corner, talked very cheerfully to Clara about Jeannie’s approaching marriage.
“It will take place in the Cathedral, so Miss Avesham told me yesterday,” she said, “and Lord Avesham will give her away. I wish—” and she paused.
“Yes, dear,” said Clara.
“I wish I could have been there,” said Ph?be, “but I am afraid Dr. Maitland was not so cheerful this morning. Clara, love, I hope you will go.”
Clara could not speak.
“I shall want to hear all about it, you[327] know,” said Ph?be; “and your new dress and bonnet52 and all are ready. I shall want to hear how they all looked, and whether Miss Jeannie spoke up, and who was there.”
Again Ph?be paused.
“And if—if, Clara—I am not here for you to tell, please go very quietly just the same. You can easily slip in among the crowd and see it. In fact, I want you to promise me to go in any case. You will be sorry to have missed it. And now—don’t let us talk any more about that. You were going to read Lord Fauntleroy to me. I think Mr. Arthur must have been so like him when he was little. We had just got to where he went out to ride.”
And Miss Clara wiped her eyes furtively53, and found her place.
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1
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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8
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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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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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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buffeting
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| 振动 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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48
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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51
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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52
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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53
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
参考例句： |
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