“La Donna e Mobile,” hummed Charley again and again, as he sat in the smoking-room of his hotel. He had paid no heed1 to the concert, his eyes being fixed2 all the while upon Max and his two companions; but that air had been sung by one of the great artistes, and words and music had forced themselves upon him so that they seemed for hours after to be ringing in his ears.
“La Donna e Mobile.” Yes, it was all plain enough, and it was nothing new. He had made an impression at first, and she had seemed to love him—perhaps, after her fashion, had loved him—but woman’s love, he said, required feeding. The fuel absent, the flame must become extinct.
He laughed bitterly, and a waiter came up.
“Did you ask for something, sir?”
“No!” roared Charley savagely3; and the man shrunk away.
“I’ll pester4 her no more,” he said; “let things take their course. I’ll go down home and see the poor old gentleman to-morrow. I may just as well, as hang about here torturing myself over a slow fire. I wonder how the mare5 looks. A good run or two would do me no end of good. I’ll pack up and run down to-morrow.”
Then he laughed bitterly, for he knew that he was playing at self-deceit; he felt that he could not stir from London—that he was, as it were, fixed, and without a desire to leave the spot where he could feel that she was near.
“No,” he said, after a while; “I’ll not give up yet. I made a vow6, and I’ll keep it. She is not his yet. She may have been—she must have been—deceived. I have been condemned7. No; she would not listen. I don’t know—there, I think I’m half mad!”
Just then his hand came in contact with a couple of letters which had been awaiting him on his return, and which one of the waiters had handed to him, to be thrust unnoticed into his pocket.
“Bills,” said the waiter, to one of his fellows. “How nice to be tradesman to those young swells8! I s’pose some of them must pay, some time or other, or else people couldn’t live.”
“O yes,” said the other; “some of them pay, and those who will pay, have to pay for those who won’t.”
“Through the nose,” said number one with a wink9.
“To be sure,” said his confrère; and then they laughed at one another, and winked10 again.
But the waiter was wrong: those were not bills; one being a long and affectionate letter from Sir Philip Vining, telling Charley that he would be in town the next day, and asking if it would be convenient for his son to meet him at the station. The other was from Laura Bray11, saying that they had heard from Sir Philip that he would be in town the next day, and asking that he and Charley would dine in Harley-street, where was the Brays12’ town house, on the next day but one.
The above was all formal, and written at mamma’s command, but Laura had added a postscript13, asking that Charley would come for the sake of the old times when they were friends. Max would be away, and the party very small.
Then came a quiet reminder14 of the encounter, and a word to say that the writer had looked out day by day, in the expectation of receiving a call, while poor Nelly was au désespoir.
Charley smiled grimly as he read the letter over, and then carelessly thrust it back into the envelope with the bold address which waiter number one had kindly15 taken for a tradesman’s hand.
“Take the good the gods provide one,” said Charley with a bitter laugh, as he smoked furiously, and tossed down glass after glass of claret to allay16 the fevered rush of thought through his brain.
“I’ll go,” he said at last, “and see little Nell. Poor little wiry weedy Nell!—what a genuine, free-hearted, jolly little lass it is! But there, if I do, shell only make some reference to the past.”
Charley Vining’s thoughts came so fast that night, that they jostled and stumbled over one another in the most confused way imaginable, till once more, shining out like a star amidst the surrounding darkness, the light of Ella’s face seemed to slowly rise, and he sat there thinking of her till the waiters yawned with misery17 because he did not retire.
But he went at last; and Ella’s name was on his lips as he fell off into a heavy weary sleep, as it was the first word he uttered when waking.
The next day Sir Philip was in town, surprised and shocked to see the alteration18 in his son’s face; for Charley looked haggard and worn, and as if he had been engaged in a long career of dissipation. He laughed, though, when Sir Philip reverted19 to it, and seemed most assiduous in his endeavours to promote the old man’s comfort.
“About this dinner at the Brays’, Charley: I should like to go,” Sir Philip said—“that is, if you will go with me.”
“Do you particularly wish it, sir?” said Charley.
“It would give me much pleasure, if you have no other engagement.”
“Engagement!” said Charley, with a bitter laugh that shocked Sir Philip. “No, father, I have no engagements. I’ll go.”
“But, my dear boy, what have you been doing with yourself?—how do you pass your time?”
“Preparing myself for a private lunatic asylum20, father,” said Charley, with a cynical21 laugh; and the old man felt a swelling22 in his throat as he thought of the alteration that had taken place since the morning of the memorable23 conversation in the library.
There was a something in Charley’s looks that troubled Sir Philip more than he cared to intimate: had the young man sternly refused to visit the Brays, or to accede24 to his wishes in any way, he would not have been surprised; but his strange looks, his bitter words, and ready acquiescence25 alarmed Sir Philip; and when, an hour after, Charley left the room, the old gentleman looked anxiously for his return, till, unable to bear the suspense26 any longer, he rang and summoned a waiter.
“Has my son gone out?” he asked.
“Think not, Sir Philip. I’ll make inquiry27.”
Five anxious minutes passed, and then the man returned.
“No, Sir Philip, he went up to his bedroom.”
Pale and trembling, Sir Philip rose and hurried upstairs. He knew that Charley had had some more than usually bitter reverse, and a horrible dread28 had invaded the troubled father’s breast, so that when he reached his son’s room door, he feared to summon him; but at last he knocked, and waited for a few moments before he struck again upon the panels, this time more forcibly.
There was no reply.
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收听单词发音
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1
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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2
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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3
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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4
pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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5
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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6
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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7
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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8
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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9
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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10
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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11
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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12
brays
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| n.驴叫声，似驴叫的声音( bray的名词复数 )；（喇叭的）嘟嘟声v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的第三人称单数 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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13
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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14
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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15
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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16
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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17
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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18
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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19
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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20
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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21
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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22
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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23
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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24
accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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25
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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26
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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27
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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28
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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