Such was the morning that greeted Christian8 Vellacott, as he opened the door of his little Chelsea home and stepped forth9 a free man. When once he had made up his mind to go, every obstacle was thrown aside, and his determination was now as great as had been his previous reluctance10. He had no presentiment11 that he was taking an important step in life—one of those steps which we hardly notice at the time, but upon which we look back in after years and note how clear and definite it was, losing ourselves in vague conjecture12 as to what might have been had we held back.
Christian being practical in all things, knew how to travel comfortably, dispensing13 with rugs and bags and such small packages as are understood to be dear to the elderly single female heart.
The smoky suburbs were soon left behind, and the smiling land gave forth such gentle, pastoral odours as only long confinement14 in cities can teach us to detect. Christian lowered the window, and the warm air played round him as it had not done for two long years. The whizz of the wind past his face brought back the memory of the long, idle, happy days spent with his father in the Mediterranean15, when they had been half sailors and wholly Bohemians, gliding16 from port to port, village to city, in their yacht, as free and careless as the wind. The warm breeze almost seemed to be coming to him from some parched17 Italian plain instead of pastoral Buckinghamshire.
Then his thoughts travelled still further back to his school-days in Prague, when his father and Mr. Carew were colleagues in a brilliant but unfortunate embassy. Five years had passed since then. The two fathers were now dead, and the children had dropped apart as men and women do when their own personal interests begin to engross18 them. Now again, in this late summer time, they were to meet. All, that is, who were left. The débris, as it were. Three voices there were whose tones would never more be heard in the round of merry jest. Mr. Carew, Walter Vellacott (Uncle Walter, the young ones called him), and little Charlie Carew, the bright-eyed sailor of the family, had all three travelled on. The two former, whose age and work achieved had softened19 their departure, were often spoken of with gently lowered voice, but little Charlie's name was never mentioned. It was a fatal mistake—this silence—if you will; but it was one of those mistakes which are often made in wisdom. In splendid, solitary21 grandeur22 he lay awaiting the end of all things—the call of his Creator—in the grey ice-fields of the North. The darling of his ship, he had died with a smile in his blue eyes and a sad little jest upon his lips to cheer the rough fur-clad giants kneeling at his side. Time, the merciful, had healed, as best he could (which is by no means perfectly23), the wound in the younger hearts. It is only the old that are quite beyond his powers; he cannot touch them. Mrs. Carew, a woman with a patient face and a ready smile, was the only representative of the vanishing generation. Her daughters—ay! and perhaps her sons as well (though boys are not credited with so much tender divination)—knew the meaning of the little droop24 at the side of their mother's smiling lips. They detected the insincerity of her kindly25 laugh.
Shortly after leaving Exeter, Christian's station was reached. This was an old-fashioned seaport26 town, whose good fortune it was to lie too far west for a London watering-place, and too far east for Plymouth or Bristol. Sidney Carew was on the platform—a sturdy, typical Englishman, with a certain sure slowness of movement handed down to him by seafaring ancestors. The two friends had not met for many years, but with men absence has little effect upon affection. During the space of many years they may never meet and seldom write, but at the end that gulf27 of time is bridged over by a simple “Halloa, old fellow!” and a warm grip. Slowly, piece by piece, the history of the past years comes out. Both are probably changed in thought and nature, but the old individuality remains28, the old bond of friendship survives.
“Well, Sidney?”
“How are you?”
Simultaneously—and that was all. The changes were there in both, and noted29 by both, but not commented upon.
“Molly is outside with the dog-cart,” said Sidney; “is your luggage forward?”
“Yes, that is it being pitched out now.”
It was with womanly foresight30 that Miss Molly Carew had elected to wait outside with the dog-cart while her brother met Christian on the platform. She feared a little natural embarrassment31 at meeting the old playfellow of the family, and concluded that the first moments would be more easily tided over here than at the train. Her fears were, as it turned out, unnecessary, but she did not know what Christian might be like after the lapse32 of years. Of herself she was sure enough, being one of those happy people who have no self-consciousness whatever.
On seeing her, Christian came forward at once, raising his hat and shaking hands as if they had parted the day before.
She saw at once that it was all right. This was Christian Vellacott as she had remembered him. She looked down at him as he stood with one hand resting on the splashboard, and he, looking up to her, smiled in return.
“Christian,” she said, “do you know I should scarcely have recognised you. You are so big, and—and you look positively33 ghastly!” She finished her remark with a little laugh which took away from the spoken meaning of it.
“Ghastly?” he replied. “Thanks: I do not feel like it—only hungry. Hungry, and desperately34 glad to see a face that does not look overworked.”
“Meaning me.”
“Meaning you.”
“Nevertheless I am the only person in the house who does any work at all. Hilda, for instance—”
At this moment Sidney came up and interrupted them.
“Jump up in front, Chris,” he said; “Molly will drive, while I sit behind. Your luggage will follow in the cart.”
The drive of six miles passed away very pleasantly. Molly's strong little hands were quite accustomed to the reins36, and the men were free to talk, which, however, she found time to do as well. The two young people on the front seat stole occasional sidelong glances at each other. The clever, mischievous37 little girl of Christian's recollection was transformed by the kindly hand of time into a fascinating and capable young lady. The uncertain profile had grown clear and regular. The truant38 hair was somewhat more under control, which, however, was all that could be said upon that subject. Only her eyes were unchanged, the laughing, fearless eyes of old. Fearless they had been in the times of childish mischief39 and adventure; fearless they remained in the face of life's graver mischances now.
Christian had been a shy and commonplace-enough boy as she recollected40 him. Now she found a self-possessed41 man of the world. Tall and strong of body she saw he was, and she felt that he possessed another strength—a strength of mind and will which, reaching out, can grasp and hold anything or everything.
With practised skill, Molly turned into the narrow gateway42 at a swinging trot43, and then only was the house visible—a low, rambling44 building of brick and stone uncouthly45 mixed. Its chief outward characteristic was a promise of inward comfort. The sturdy manner in which its windows faced the scantily-wooded tableland that stretched away unbroken by wall or hedgerow to the sea, implied a certain thickness of wall and woodwork. The doorway46 which looked inland was singularly broad, and bore signs about its stonework of having once been even broader. The house had originally been a hollow square, with a roofless courtyard in the centre, into which the sheep and cattle were in olden times driven for safety at night against French marauders. This had later on been roofed in, and transformed into a roomy and comfortable hall, such as might be used as a sitting-room47. All around the house, except, indeed, upon the sea-ward side, stood gnarled and twisted trees; Scotch48 firs in abundance, here and there a Weymouth pine, and occasionally a knotted dwarf49 oak with a tendency to run inland. The garden was, however, rich enough in shrubs50 and undergrowth, and to the landward side was a gleam of still water, being all that remained of a broad, deep moat.
Mrs. Carew welcomed Christian at the open door. She said very little, but her manner was sufficiently51 warm and friendly to dispense52 with words.
“Where is Hilda?” asked Molly, as she leapt lightly to the ground.
“I do not know, dear. She is out, somewhere; in the garden, I expect. You are before your time a little. The train must have been punctual, for a wonder. Had Hilda known, she would have been here to welcome you, I know, Christian.”
“I expect she is at the moat,” said Molly. “Come along, Christian; we will go and look for her. This way.”
In the meantime Sidney had driven the dog-cart round to the stables, kneeling awkwardly upon the back seat.
As Christian followed his fair guide down the little path leading to the moat, he began to feel that it was not so difficult after all to throw off the dull weight of anxiety that lay upon his mind. The thoughts about the Beacon53 were after all not so very absorbing. The anxiety regarding the welfare of the two old ladies was already alleviated54 by distance. The strong sea air, the change to pleasant and kindly society, were already beginning their work.
Suddenly Molly stopped, and Christian saw that she was standing55 at the edge of a long, still sheet of water bounded by solid stonework, which, however, was crumbling56 away in parts, while everywhere the green moss57 grew in velvety58 profusion59.
“Oh, Christian,” said Molly lightly, “I suppose Sidney told you a little of our news. Men's letters are not discursive60 as a rule I know, but no doubt he told you—something.”
He was standing beside her at the edge of the moat, looking down into the deep, clear water.
“Yes,” he replied slowly, “yes, Molly; he told me a little in a scrappy, unsatisfactory way.”
A pained expression came into her eyes for a moment, and then she spoke20, rather more quickly than was habitual61 with her, but without raising her voice.
“He told you—nothing about Hilda?” she said interrogatively.
He turned and looked down at her.
“No—nothing.”
Then he followed the direction of her eyes, and saw approaching them a young man and a maiden62 whose footsteps had been inaudible upon the moss-grown path. The man was of medium height, with an honest brown face. He was dressed for riding, and walked with a slight swagger, which arose less from conceit63 than from excessive riding on horseback. The maiden was tall and stately, and in her walk there was an old-fashioned grace of movement which harmonised perfectly with the old-world surroundings. She was looking down, and Christian could not see her face; but as she wore no hat, he saw and recognised her hair. This was of gold—not red, not auburn, not flaxen, but pure and living gold. The sun glinting through the trees shone upon it and gleamed, but in reality the hair gleamed without the aid of sunlight.
点击收听单词发音
1 soothed | |
v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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2 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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3 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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4 reeking | |
v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 );散发臭气;发出难闻的气味 (of sth);明显带有(令人不快或生疑的跡象) | |
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5 hulls | |
船体( hull的名词复数 ); 船身; 外壳; 豆荚 | |
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6 gaily | |
adv.欢乐地,高兴地 | |
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7 barges | |
驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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8 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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9 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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10 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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11 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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12 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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13 dispensing | |
v.分配( dispense的现在分词 );施与;配(药) | |
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14 confinement | |
n.幽禁,拘留,监禁;分娩;限制,局限 | |
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15 Mediterranean | |
adj.地中海的;地中海沿岸的 | |
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16 gliding | |
v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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17 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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18 engross | |
v.使全神贯注 | |
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19 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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20 spoke | |
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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21 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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22 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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23 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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24 droop | |
v.低垂,下垂;凋萎,萎靡 | |
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25 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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26 seaport | |
n.海港,港口,港市 | |
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27 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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28 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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29 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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30 foresight | |
n.先见之明,深谋远虑 | |
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31 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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32 lapse | |
n.过失,流逝,失效,抛弃信仰,间隔;vi.堕落,停止,失效,流逝;vt.使失效 | |
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33 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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34 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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35 sarcastic | |
adj.讥讽的,讽刺的,嘲弄的 | |
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36 reins | |
感情,激情; 缰( rein的名词复数 ); 控制手段; 掌管; (成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的)保护带 | |
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37 mischievous | |
adj.调皮的,恶作剧的,有害的,伤人的 | |
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38 truant | |
n.懒惰鬼,旷课者;adj.偷懒的,旷课的,游荡的;v.偷懒,旷课 | |
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39 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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40 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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42 gateway | |
n.大门口,出入口,途径,方法 | |
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43 trot | |
n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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44 rambling | |
adj.[建]凌乱的,杂乱的 | |
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45 uncouthly | |
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46 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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47 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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48 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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49 dwarf | |
n.矮子,侏儒,矮小的动植物;vt.使…矮小 | |
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50 shrubs | |
灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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51 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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52 dispense | |
vt.分配,分发;配(药),发(药);实施 | |
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53 beacon | |
n.烽火,(警告用的)闪火灯,灯塔 | |
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54 alleviated | |
减轻,缓解,缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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56 crumbling | |
adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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57 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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58 velvety | |
adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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59 profusion | |
n.挥霍;丰富 | |
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60 discursive | |
adj.离题的,无层次的 | |
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61 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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62 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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63 conceit | |
n.自负,自高自大 | |
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