One evening they were sailing near Sorrento, with a light wind. The beauty of the coast tempted3 them to keep the boat close inshore. A short time before sunset, they rounded the most picturesque4 headland they had yet passed; and a little bay, with a white-sand beach, opened on their view. They noticed first a villa surrounded by orange and olive trees on the rocky heights inland; then a path in the cliff-side leading down to the sands; then a little family party on the beach, enjoying the fragrant5 evening air.
The elders of the group were a lady and gentleman, sitting together on the sand. The lady had a guitar in her lap and was playing a simple dance melody. Close at her side a young child was rolling on the beach in high glee; in front of her a little girl was dancing to the music, with a very extraordinary partner in the shape of a dog, who was capering6 on his hind7 legs in the most grotesque8 manner. The merry laughter of the girl, and the lively notes of the guitar were heard distinctly across the still water.
“Edge a little nearer in shore,” said D’Arbino to his friend, who was steering9; “and keep as I do in the shadow of the sail. I want to see the faces of those persons on the beach without being seen by them.”
Finello obeyed. After approaching just near enough to see the countenances10 of the party on shore, and to be barked at lustily by the dog, they turned the boat’s head again toward the offing.
“A pleasant voyage, gentlemen,” cried the clear voice of the little girl. They waved their hats in return; and then saw her run to the dog and take him by the forelegs. “Play, Nanina,” they heard her say. “I have not half done with my partner yet.” The guitar sounded once more, and the grotesque dog was on his hind legs in a moment.
“I had heard that he was well again, that he had married her lately, and that he was away with her and her sister, and his child by the first wife,” said D’Arbino; “but I had no suspicion that their place of retirement11 was so near us. It is too soon to break in upon their happiness, or I should have felt inclined to run the boat on shore.”
“I never heard the end of that strange adventure of the Yellow Mask,” said Finello. “There was a priest mixed up in it, was there not?”
“Yes; but nobody seems to know exactly what has become of him. He was sent for to Rome, and has never been heard of since. One report is, that he has been condemned12 to some mysterious penal13 seclusion14 by his ecclesiastical superiors—another, that he has volunteered, as a sort of Forlorn Hope, to accept a colonial curacy among rough people, and in a pestilential climate. I asked his brother, the sculptor15, about him a little while ago, but he only shook his head, and said nothing.”
“And the woman who wore the yellow mask?”
“She, too, has ended mysteriously. At Pisa she was obliged to sell off everything she possessed16 to pay her debts. Some friends of hers at a milliner’s shop, to whom she applied17 for help, would have nothing to do with her. She left the city, alone and penniless.”
The boat had approached the next headland on the coast while they were talking. They looked back for a last glance at the beach. Still the notes of the guitar came gently across the quiet water; but there mingled18 with them now the sound of the lady’s voice. She was singing. The little girl and the dog were at her feet, and the gentleman was still in his old place close at her side.
In a few minutes more the boat rounded the next headland, the beach vanished from view, and the music died away softly in the distance.
LAST LEAVES FROM LEAH’S DIARY.
3d of June.—Our stories are ended; our pleasant work is done. It is a lovely summer afternoon. The great hall at the farmhouse19, after having been filled with people, is now quite deserted20. I sit alone at my little work-table, with rather a crying sensation at my heart, and with the pen trembling in my fingers, as if I was an old woman already. Our manuscript has been sealed up and taken away; the one precious object of all our most anxious thoughts for months past—our third child, as we have got to call it—has gone out from us on this summer’s day, to seek its fortune in the world.
A little before twelve o’clock last night, my husband dictated21 to me the last words of “The Yellow Mask.” I laid down the pen, and closed the paper thoughtfully. With that simple action the work that we had wrought22 at together so carefully and so long came to a close. We were both so silent and still, that the murmuring of the trees in the night air sounded audibly and solemnly in our room.
William’s collection of stories has not, thus far, been half exhausted23 yet; but those who understand the public taste and the interests of bookselling better than we, think it advisable not to risk offering too much to the reader at first. If individual opinions can be accepted as a fair test, our prospects24 of success seem hopeful. The doctor (but we must not forget that he is a friend) was so pleased with the two specimen25 stories we sent to him, that he took them at once to his friend, the editor of the newspaper, who showed his appreciation26 of what he read in a very gratifying manner. He proposed that William should publish in the newspaper, on very fair terms, any short anecdotes27 and curious experiences of his life as a portrait-painter, which might not be important enough to put into a book. The money which my husband has gained from time to time in this way has just sufficed to pay our expenses at the farmhouse up to within the last month; and now our excellent friends here say they will not hear anything more from us on the subject of the rent until the book is sold and we have plenty of money. This is one great relief and happiness. Another, for which I feel even more grateful, is that William’s eyes have gained so much by their long rest, that even the doctor is surprised at the progress he has made. He only puts on his green shade now when he goes out into the sun, or when the candles are lit. His spirits are infinitely28 raised, and he is beginning to talk already of the time when he will unpack29 his palette and brushes, and take to his old portrait-painting occupations again.
With all these reasons for being happy, it seems unreasonable30 and ungracious in me to be feeling sad, as I do just at this moment. I can only say, in my own justification31, that it is a mournful ceremony to take leave of an old friend; and I have taken leave twice over of the book that has been like an old friend to me—once when I had written the last word in it, and once again when I saw it carried away to London.
I packed the manuscript up with my own hands this morning, in thick brown paper, wasting a great deal of sealing-wax, I am afraid, in my anxiety to keep the parcel from bursting open in case it should be knocked about on its journey to town. Oh me, how cheap and common it looked, in its new form, as I carried it downstairs! A dozen pairs of worsted stockings would have made a larger parcel; and half a crown’s worth of groceries would have weighed a great deal heavier.
Just as we had done dinner the doctor and the editor came in. The first had called to fetch the parcel—I mean the manuscript; the second had come out with him to Appletreewick for a walk. As soon as the farmer heard that the book was to be sent to London, he insisted that we should drink success to it all round. The children, in high glee, were mounted up on the table, with a glass of currant-wine apiece; the rest of us had ale; the farmer proposed the toast, and his sailor son led the cheers. We all joined in (the children included), except the editor—who, being the only important person of the party, could not, I suppose, afford to compromise his dignity by making a noise. He was extremely polite, however, in a lofty way, to me, waving his hand and bowing magnificently every time he spoke32. This discomposed me a little; and I was still more flurried when he said that he had written to the London publishers that very day, to prepare them for the arrival of our book.
“Do you think they will print it, sir?” I ventured to ask.
“My dear madam, you may consider it settled,” said the editor, confidently. “The letter is written—the thing is done. Look upon the book as published already; pray oblige me by looking upon the book as published already.”
“Then the only uncertainty33 now is about how the public will receive it!” said my husband, fidgeting in his chair, and looking nervously34 at me.
“Just so, my dear sir, just so,” answered the editor. “Everything depends upon the public—everything, I pledge you my word of honor.”
“Don’t look doubtful, Mrs. Kerby; there isn’t a doubt about it,” whispered the kind doctor, giving the manuscript a confident smack35 as he passed by me with it on his way to the door.
In another minute he and the editor, and the poor cheap-looking brown paper parcel, were gone. The others followed them out, and I was left in the hall alone.
Oh, Public! Public! it all depends now upon you! The children are to have new clothes from top to toe; I am to have a black silk gown; William is to buy a beautiful traveling color-box; the rent is to be paid; all our kind friends at the farmhouse are to have little presents, and our future way in this hard world is to be smoothed for us at the outset, if you will only accept a poor painter’s stories which his wife has written down for him After Dark!
The End
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1
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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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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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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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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penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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32
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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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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