“I’ve an invitation from the queen,” he said with a bit of dry humor. “After she heard you sing, she wants to tell you how you please her. Don’t refuse or we’ll all be beheaded in the tower! Thurley dear, I’m a silly old man—what I mean is that Abigail Clergy2 wants you to drive with her. She won’t harm you—she’s as sane3 as you or I—only she heard you sing and she liked it. For land’s sake and Mrs. Davis, don’t refuse! We’d lose the one chance of maybe makin’ her be her own self again. Never mind a hat; just go out to the coupé and drive about with her. Let her talk to you!” The hand which held the silk hat trembled from excitement.
To have lived with a haunted creature for over thirty years and suddenly have that haunted creature express a normal desire was nothing less than terrifying to the two aged4 servitors.
“Me? Drive with Abby Clergy? Ali Baba, sure it’s not a joke? Come? Of course I will,” and with no more thought for her “penance,” Thurley danced out of the house, down the flagstone walk and with an abrupt5, determined6 hand opened the door of the curtained coupé.
Trembling with excitement herself, Miss Clergy managed to extend her hand. “I wanted to tell you something,[79] Thurley Precore,” she began. “Ali Baba—an hour’s drive—not too fast!” this a discreet7 hint to Ali Baba that eavesdropping8 was not to be tolerated, and, as Melba stalked down the road, injured to the last buckle9 of her shining harness at the extra weight thrust upon her, Thurley turned an unaffectedly delighted face to Miss Clergy and said,
“What in the world is it? You’ve no idea how larky10 it is to drive with you—I’ve made up stories about you ever since I found my way into your house years ago—the side way—and you ran after me,” her clear, musical laugh seemed to clear the atmosphere of excited unrest.
“So it was you! Strange ... never mind myself—tell me, have you always sung like this?”
“Of course! I can’t help it any more than to breathe.”
“You have no relatives—no one nearer than Betsey Pilrig?”
Thurley admitted sorrowfully that she had not.
“Nor money?”
“I hear you are to marry,” Miss Clergy’s voice broke as she said the words, “the Birge boy? My dear, I’m not so old as I seem, but I had a great sorrow when I was younger than you and it changed everything. I’ve never chosen to explain to the world, since I was not dependent on it, and if I preferred to live alone and brood, it was my right. But this much do I know, and because you are young and have a God-given talent, I shall tell you. You are a fool—as great a fool in your way as I was in mine to trust the man who cheated me—to marry a country boy and try to be content. You’ll be running off with the first goodlooking stranger that comes your way ... ah, but I know, times never have[80] changed women’s hearts. They eloped years ago by a team of fast horses, and now they do it by the aid of an automobile12, and in a little while they’ll be eloping in a flying machine. You see, I’m not so queer as people say, I’ve kept up a bit! Birges have bad tempers. I knew the grandfather, and they are Englishmen regarding their wives. You can sing and you are young and spirited; you should go away to New York and have teachers and the chance to become great. I am not telling you this to break your engagement, but from your eyes I see that singing is as dear to you as Daniel Birge or you would have stopped me when I first mentioned his name. Is that not so?”
“Quite,” said Thurley simply.
“Then remember this! Should some disagreement come between you two, I could not say what,” she shrugged13 her black shoulders and waved the withered14 hands with their flashing rings, “say, if you wanted to sing and he tried to prevent you from so doing—as all beasts of men try to cheat women of the things dearest to them,” her teeth made a grinding, unpleasant noise, “if you should be brave enough and big enough, as I think you would be, to tell this boy to go his way and you with your voice would go yours, come to me, Thurley! I may be odd, but I am very rich, and your singing has made me realize I’m a lonesome old woman. I’d like nothing better, my child, than to take you to New York to make you the success God intended. Don’t thank me. It is not goodness of heart—not half so much as revenge. If you came with Dan Birge’s child in your arms and told me he was out of work and you needed aid, I’m afraid I would have a deaf ear. But I want to cheat some man of the woman he loves, to turn the tables. This boy loves you in his over-colored,[81] peasant way. It would break his heart, as nearly as any man’s heart can be broken, to have you leave him. It would sting his pride and scratch his vanity—”
“But Dan is true blue, Miss Clergy! I couldn’t hurt him to please any one.”
“No, but if he forbade your singing—as he will—and you were lucky enough to find it out before you married him instead of afterwards—what then? Would you meekly15 lock your piano and follow him into the kitchen? What then? Speak up, my girl! Remember, I am not trying to cause trouble. I ask you only for the promise. Should you have an argument with your—your lover, come to me; do not weaken! I am rich—and lonesome—and your voice has made me know I want to love some one again—just before I die. I’ll let you out here, my dear. You can scamper16 back. Don’t forget, will you, Thurley?”
She pressed the tube for Ali Baba to halt. Thurley, bewildered, impressed, angered, yet amused, all in one, knew that yellowed lips brushed her fresh cheek, and, when she looked up to say good-by, there were tears in Abby Clergy’s restless eyes!
Fate sometimes pursues people, even if they are not willing to be pursued. Certainly it was fate pursued Thurley Precore. As she came to Betsey Pilrig’s gate tingling17 with excitement, inclined to laugh and then to protest against the abuse of Dan, and, finally, to cry a little like a true woman, she glanced in the letter-box to find an offer from Rufus Westcott, manager of the South Wales county fair. He asked if Thurley would sing during fair week at five dollars a night, and to let him know as soon as possible.
Betsey Pilrig wondered why Thurley stayed so long at the gate reading her letter. But only Thurley knew![82] Miss Clergy had spoken barely in time. An hour before and Thurley would have said to Dan,
“Please let me. You can take me home every night—I want to—there’s no harm and it’s such a lark—please,” and would have ended in being coaxed18 out of her desire.
But she marched into the dining-room, and, sitting at the table, opened a writing pad and picked up a pencil. Fate did not even let her wait for ink! She accepted Mr. Westcott’s offer with pleasure and would send him her programme of songs inside of two days.
Thurley sealed the envelope with an emphatic22 little thump23, “I can’t tell you until I’ve told Dan.”
“I guess as long as you tell Dan first, I can wait,” Betsey answered.
But had she witnessed the telling she would not have complacently24 made beaten biscuit, wondering if Dan was coming home for supper with Thurley.
For Thurley, racing25 impatiently back from the post office to keep her daily tryst26 with Dan, had come upon him returning from the cemetery27.
“You’re an hour late,” he complained.
She started to explain and then something kept “ticking” these words into her head like an insistent28 clock, “I am rich and lonesome and your voice has made me know I want to love some one again.” So all she answered was,
“Must I account to you for every moment?” flinging herself down by the road and playing with Zaza.
Although he felt he ought to tower down at her in[83] conventional, jealous rage, Dan seated himself meekly beside her. “Why, I didn’t mean it that way! Only you’re never late and I worried. I was afraid you were hurt. You are going to be my wife and I’ve the right to ask questions. What’s wrong, dear? Your eyes are like stars and your cheeks as pink as your dress! You look as if you’d found some one you liked better than you do me,” he could not refrain from adding. “Do you know I’m terribly envious29 of any one you like at all? I’d like to lock away all your smiles for myself.”
“Silly,” reproached Thurley, as she trailed a stick in front of Zaza. “As if I couldn’t have personal errands. I don’t go asking you where you are every minute in the day—”
“I’d rather you did than to seem not to care.” He tried to put his arm around her, but she drew away.
“Don’t! It’s terribly childish to make love at every fence corner. Let’s be dignified—not boy and girl style! I don’t like it any more.”
“You used to,” he objected.
“Oh, no, it was just the young of me that liked excitement. There isn’t any excitement at the Corners unless the gods happen to favor one. I’ve been thinking for a long time I should not have been so lazy as I am, staying at Granny’s and hardly earning my ‘keep.’”
“Have you been reading more silly books?”
“Dan, suppose we quarreled! Well, just suppose we did—and Miss Clergy, the funny old lady at the Fincherie, took it into her head that she wanted to give me a chance to learn how to sing and talk and dance and all the things that are just crying inside of me to be learned! Oh, Dan, dear, don’t look like that! I’m just supposing. And suppose I decided30 to let her take me to New York—and our engagement was broken, would you care so[84] terribly?” The latent maternal31 in Thurley was asking the question; it lacked the usual ruse32 of the vapid33 coquette.
He looked as if he scarcely comprehended what she had said. Then he answered, “Don’t suppose that way. Something inside me would just die.”
Thurley’s handsome eyebrows34 drew together in a straight line. “Dan,” she added a moment later, “I’ve promised Rufus Westcott, the county fair manager, to sing at the South Wales fair every night. Do you mind?”
“Never!” he cried, standing up. “So that’s what has caused this talk? I’ll not let my future wife sing at a county fair with painted dancers and half-drunken fakirs! What do you think I am?”
“I’m not your wife yet,” she retorted, angry youth rising to face angry youth, and tender love quite helpless between them! “I’ve written and promised—I just posted the letter.”
“You didn’t even ask me!” he accused.
“Why should I ask you?”
“Because I love you! I’d ask you about anything I was going to do, you know that. How much did he offer you? I’ll double it, if you say no.”
She shook her head. “If you gave me five hundred dollars, I’d not be bribed35. It isn’t the money. It’s the joy of singing to people—but you can’t understand.”
“You belong to me and you shall not do it!” The Birge temper was gaining control of the good-natured, generous boy. “Do you hear me?”
“I belong to whom I choose! Don’t look at me like that! Do you think I’ll marry a man so narrow-minded that he refuses me the chance to sing in respectable fashion? Better women than I have done so.” The Precore[85] temper was matching the Birge temper without hesitation36.
“I won’t give my consent,” Dan said in a dangerous tone. “If you sing at that fair, by God—I—I won’t marry you!” Then his face went white as soon as he had spoken. “Oh, no, of course I,” he began piteously, “Thurley—listen—don’t do it, will you—”
Thurley’s eyes were closed for a moment. She saw in tempting37 panorama38 the old coupé with Miss Clergy saying good-by and adding, “I am rich and lonesome and—”
She opened them to look with impersonal39 scorn at Dan Birge. In that brief interlude he became a presuming, ill-tempered, small-town man who would drive her into becoming an equally ill-tempered, small-town woman—she would have none of it!
“Very well,” she answered, drawing off the seal ring which she was wearing until the solitaire was ready, “you’ve said it—not I. Good-by and I hope you’ll be happy.”
She turned and walked in the opposite direction. At first Dan started to follow; then he threw back his head with the same insolent40 toss as Thurley’s, and, squaring off his shoulders, walked in the direction of the hotel. Of course their engagement was not broken; that was too absurd even to fancy. But Thurley must know, first as well as last, that when she married Dan his wishes were to count. Lovely, wilful41 Thurley-girl, what a wonderful time of it they would have making up! Of course nothing would really interfere42 with the September wedding—impish and unwelcome thought. It was just that Thurley must see he was in the right, and, when she sang, it would be in her husband’s house—the twenty-thousand-dollar house with the statue of a deer in the[86] front and a pergola and steam heat! He would go up to see Thurley that same night and they would begin all new again and he would write Westcott on a typewriter and on the store official paper and explain that Miss Precore could not keep her engagement. His Thurley singing at a county fair—never!
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1
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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8
eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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larky
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| adj.爱闹玩的 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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13
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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15
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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17
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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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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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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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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22
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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34
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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35
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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36
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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38
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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41
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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