Gabriel, leaving the high-road, struck out a path over the meadows. The tall grass was ablaze3 with flowers—buttercups and golden trefoil, great white daisies, clover, purple vetches, delicate flax. Wild roses were opening upon the hedges. Odors of honeysuckle and of hay were in the air.
By an old oak that grew in the midst of a grass field Gabriel halted to rest and look upon the scenes he knew so well. Yonder was the hoary4 sea, and nearer still were the magic hills below old Rilchester where Joan had sunned the woodlands with her hair. Was it but yesterday that he had moped like an exile in that great labyrinth5 of brick and stone, knowing no man, known of none? Was it but yesterday that he had received that letter saying, “Come, come; the day is ours”?
That morning Gabriel had risen soon after dawn, like a school-boy yearning6 towards home. He had left London by the earliest train, and found the good borough7 of Rilchester but waking from its sleep. Even Judith had foreseen no such prodigal8 energy as this. There had been no one to meet him at the station, but Gabriel’s ardor9 was not to be damped that June.
With new color in his cheeks and a tremulous eagerness in his eyes, he came that morning towards the cottage in the fields where Joan, his wife, was lodged10. He entered in at the little gate, smiling to himself even as a man might smile who climbed to meet love at the gate of heaven. Humble11 enough was the rose-grown porch, and humble the janitor12 who stood within. Yet all was heaven to Gabriel that June morning.
“Lor’, Mr. Strong!”
“Good-morning, Mrs. Milton.”
“Good-morning, sir. Glad to see you, sir. Come inside, sir.”
“My wife is here, Mrs. Milton?”
“Your wife, sir? To be sure, there is a lady here.”
Gabriel smiled, but there was no suspicion of bitterness in his eyes.
“My wife is with you, Mrs. Milton,” he said.
“Lor’, Mr. Strong, I was just now going to say—”
“Shall I find her in the garden?”
“If you please, sir. And may I say, sir, if it ain’t presumption13 in an old woman, that I never did believe them lies.”
Gabriel colored a little, but smiled in the old woman’s kindly14 face.
“Thank you, Mrs. Milton,” he said.
“?’Twas this way, sir. Miss Judith, she says to me, sir, ‘My brother, Mrs. Milton—my brother is an English gentleman’; and what Miss Judith says, sir, might, I reckon, satisfy the old gentleman hisself.”
Gabriel, sped by a kindly gleam from the old lady’s eyes, passed round the cottage to the garden at the back. Under a fruit tree Joan was seated, gazing up at the sky through the green tracery of the leaves. An open book lay in her lap, a book that wept with those who mourned and rejoiced with those who sang.
Gabriel stood there in silence before her, waiting till her eyes should end their communing with heaven. The sunlight, flashing through the boughs15, set a golden coronet upon her hair. At last she looked to the earth once more, saw Gabriel standing16 near the cottage, his hands stretched out to her, a lover’s hands.
She gave a low cry, did Joan, and thrusting the book aside, rose up and sped to him.
“Gabriel!”
“Wife!”
The woman’s head was on the man’s shoulder and his arms were close about her body. In that glad meeting came the full consummation of all prayer and hope. Together they stood under the summer sky, while the spirit of June breathed over field and garden. The red rose had kissed the white, and heaven’s dew had touched the heart of many a flower.
“God has answered us,” said Joan, at last, lifting up her radiant face.
And Gabriel kissed her.
“You are happy?” he asked.
“Happy! What can mere17 words declare?”
“That by your martyrdom you have made of me a man.”
Even at that moment Judith came flashing in, a fair vision of womanhood under the orchard18 trees. She had not dreamed to find Gabriel so soon returned. For all the bowl of life seemed brimming with joy that morning. Brother and sister stood hand to hand, looking deeply into each other’s eyes.
“Gabriel,” said the sister, “there is justice in this old world yet.”
“Who works for justice?”
“God,” she answered him, very simply. “Has science slain19 Him? Nay20. Can the glib21 pen, the cunning instrument, tell us yet more than all our hearts have dreamed. The grander deeps are far beyond us still.”
Gabriel stood, gazing beyond the hills.
“You women are wonderful,” he said.
Joan smiled at Judith, Judith at Joan.
“Come, sister, read me the riddle22.”
“Is it not faith,” she said, “that makes love love indeed?”
Before noon father and son had met in Saltire garden, under the cedar23-tree at the end of the long lawn. They had gripped hands like men, and now paced shoulder to shoulder over the grass, talking together frankly24 and without restraint. The great trouble that had fallen upon both seemed to have strangled pride and to have broken down that barrier that had always stood between them. John Strong’s face was strangely altered. He seemed younger by some years, and he no longer stooped.
“Gabriel,” he said, bluntly, “whatever the past has brought us, let it be granted that I was the greater fool.”
“Not so, father,” retorted the son.
But even in the quaint25 thoroughness of his self-abasement, the elder man’s obstinacy26 played its part.
“Hang argument,” he said; “the facts are plain. No man likes owning that he was wrong, and I, sir, am no exception. But you struck for a principle, I for a prejudice. There is the truth in a nutshell.”
But Gabriel was not convinced.
“The fault was in measure mine,” he said, “even because I did not trust you as a son should.”
Under the trees, over the green grass below the banks of burning flowers, they saw Joan and Judith walking hand-in-hand. A calm light played upon Gabriel’s face; a smile flickered27 over John Strong’s stubborn mouth.
“Confound these women!” he said; “how they shame us.”
“True, sir, I have learned as much.”
“My own daughter has taught me a lesson.”
“And Joan has made a man of me.”
They met together under the cedar, Joan and Gabriel, Judith and her father. It seemed that they had communion in that hour and that the same spirit inspired them all.
John Strong reached out his hands to Judith and the other two.
“Come, lassies and lads,” he said, with a grim yet merry light in his gray eyes, “take hands and let us make our vow28.”
“What shall we vow?” asked Judith, holding her father’s arm.
“To stand against slander29.”
“Against slander,” said they all.
“Till death us do part.”
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收听单词发音
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1
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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2
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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3
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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4
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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5
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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6
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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7
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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8
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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10
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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11
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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12
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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13
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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14
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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15
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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16
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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17
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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18
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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19
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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20
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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21
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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22
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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23
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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24
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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25
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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26
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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27
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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29
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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