The household sat beneath the large western doorway9 of the old Maxwell House,—he rear door, which looks on the water. The house had just been reoccupied by my Aunt Jane, whose great-grandfather had built it, though it had for several generations been out of the family. I know no finer specimen10 of those large colonial dwellings11 in which the genius of Sir Christopher Wren12 bequeathed traditions of stateliness to our democratic days. Its central hall has a carved archway; most of the rooms have painted tiles and are wainscoted to the ceiling; the sashes are red-cedar, the great staircase mahogany; there are pilasters with delicate Corinthian capitals; there are cherubs’ heads and wings that go astray and lose themselves in closets and behind glass doors; there are curling acanthus-leaves that cluster over shelves and ledges13, and there are those graceful14 shell-patterns which one often sees on old furniture, but rarely in houses. The high front door still retains its Ionic cornice; and the western entrance, looking on the bay, is surmounted15 by carved fruit and flowers, and is crowned, as is the roof, with that pineapple in whose symbolic16 wealth the rich merchants of the last century delighted.
Like most of the statelier houses in that region of Oldport, this abode17 had its rumors18 of a ghost and of secret chambers19. The ghost had never been properly lionized nor laid, for Aunt Jane, the neatest of housekeepers20, had discouraged all silly explorations, had at once required all barred windows to be opened, all superfluous21 partitions to be taken down, and several highly eligible22 dark-closets to be nailed up. If there was anything she hated, it was nooks and odd corners. Yet there had been times that year, when the household would have been glad to find a few more such hiding-places; for during the first few weeks the house had been crammed23 with guests so closely that the very mice had been ill-accommodated and obliged to sit up all night, which had caused them much discomfort24 and many audible disagreements.
But this first tumult25 had passed away; and now there remained only the various nephews and nieces of the house, including a due proportion of small children. Two final guests were to arrive that day, bringing the latest breath of Europe on their wings,—Philip Malbone, Hope’s betrothed26; and little Emilia, Hope’s half-sister.
None of the family had seen Emilia since her wandering mother had taken her abroad, a fascinating spoiled child of four, and they were all eager to see in how many ways the succeeding twelve years had completed or corrected the spoiling. As for Philip, he had been spoiled, as Aunt Jane declared, from the day of his birth, by the joint27 effort of all friends and neighbors. Everybody had conspired28 to carry on the process except Aunt Jane herself, who directed toward him one of her honest, steady, immovable dislikes, which may be said to have dated back to the time when his father and mother were married, some years before he personally entered on the scene.
The New York steamer, detained by the heavy fog of the night before, now came in unwonted daylight up the bay. At the first glimpse, Harry29 and the boys pushed off in the row-boat; for, as one of the children said, anybody who had been to Venice would naturally wish to come to the very house in a gondola30. In another half-hour there was a great entanglement31 of embraces at the water-side, for the guests had landed.
Malbone’s self-poised easy grace was the same as ever; his chestnut32-brown eyes were as winning, his features as handsome; his complexion33, too clearly pink for a man, had a sea bronze upon it: he was the same Philip who had left home, though with some added lines of care. But in the brilliant little fairy beside him all looked in vain for the Emilia they remembered as a child. Her eyes were more beautiful than ever,—the darkest violet eyes, that grew luminous34 with thought and almost black with sorrow. Her gypsy taste, as everybody used to call it, still showed itself in the scarlet35 and dark blue of her dress; but the clouded gypsy tint36 had gone from her cheek, and in its place shone a deep carnation37, so hard and brilliant that it appeared to be enamelled on the surface, yet so firm and deep-dyed that it seemed as if not even death could ever blanch38 it. There is a kind of beauty that seems made to be painted on ivory, and such was hers. Only the microscopic39 pencil of a miniature-painter could portray40 those slender eyebrows41, that arched caressingly42 over the beautiful eyes,—or the silky hair of darkest chestnut that crept in a wavy43 line along the temples, as if longing44 to meet the brows,—or those unequalled lashes45! “Unnecessarily long,” Aunt Jane afterwards pronounced them; while Kate had to admit that they did indeed give Emilia an overdressed look at breakfast, and that she ought to have a less showy set to match her morning costume.
But what was most irresistible46 about Emilia,—that which we all noticed in this interview, and which haunted us all thenceforward,—was a certain wild, entangled47 look she wore, as of some untamed out-door thing, and a kind of pathetic lost sweetness in her voice, which made her at once and forever a heroine of romance with the children. Yet she scarcely seemed to heed48 their existence, and only submitted to the kisses of Hope and Kate as if that were a part of the price of coming home, and she must pay it.
Had she been alone, there might have been an awkward pause; for if you expect a cousin, and there alights a butterfly of the tropics, what hospitality can you offer? But no sense of embarrassment49 ever came near Malbone, especially with the children to swarm50 over him and claim him for their own. Moreover, little Helen got in the first remark in the way of serious conversation.
“Let me tell him something!” said the child. “Philip! that doll of mine that you used to know, only think! she was sick and died last summer, and went into the rag-bag. And the other split down the back, so there was an end of her.”
Polar ice would have been thawed51 by this reopening of communication. Philip soon had the little maid on his shoulder,—the natural throne of all children,—and they went in together to greet Aunt Jane.
Aunt Jane was the head of the house,—a lady who had spent more than fifty years in educating her brains and battling with her ailments52. She had received from her parents a considerable inheritance in the way of whims53, and had nursed it up into a handsome fortune. Being one of the most impulsive54 of human beings, she was naturally one of the most entertaining; and behind all her eccentricities55 there was a fund of the soundest sense and the tenderest affection. She had seen much and varied56 society, had been greatly admired in her youth, but had chosen to remain unmarried. Obliged by her physical condition to make herself the first object, she was saved from utter selfishness by sympathies as democratic as her personal habits were exclusive. Unexpected and commonly fantastic in her doings, often dismayed by small difficulties, but never by large ones, she sagaciously administered the affairs of all those around her,—planned their dinners and their marriages, fought out their bargains and their feuds57.
She hated everything irresolute58 or vague; people might play at cat’s-cradle or study Spinoza, just as they pleased; but, whatever they did, they must give their minds to it. She kept house from an easy-chair, and ruled her dependants59 with severity tempered by wit, and by the very sweetest voice in which reproof60 was ever uttered. She never praised them, but if they did anything particularly well, rebuked61 them retrospectively, asking why they had never done it well before? But she treated them munificently62, made all manner of plans for their comfort, and they all thought her the wisest and wittiest63 of the human race. So did the youths and maidens64 of her large circle; they all came to see her, and she counselled, admired, scolded, and petted them all. She had the gayest spirits, and an unerring eye for the ludicrous, and she spoke65 her mind with absolute plainness to all comers. Her intuitions were instantaneous as lightning, and, like that, struck very often in the wrong place. She was thus extremely unreasonable66 and altogether charming.
Such was the lady whom Emilia and Malbone went up to greet,—the one shyly, the other with an easy assurance, such as she always disliked. Emilia submitted to another kiss, while Philip pressed Aunt Jane’s hand, as he pressed all women’s, and they sat down.
“Now begin to tell your adventures,” said Kate. “People always tell their adventures till tea is ready.”
“Who can have any adventures left,” said Philip, “after such letters as I wrote you all?”
“Of which we got precisely67 one!” said Kate. “That made it such an event, after we had wondered in what part of the globe you might be looking for the post-office! It was like finding a letter in a bottle, or disentangling a person from the Dark Ages.”
“I was at Neuchatel two months; but I had no adventures. I lodged68 with a good Pasteur, who taught me geology and German.”
“That is suspicious,” said Kate. “Had he a daughter passing fair?”
“Indeed he had.”
“Yes.”
“What was her name?”
“Lili.”
“What a pretty name! How old was she?”
“She was six.”
“O Philip!” cried Kate; “but I might have known it. Did she love you very much?”
Hope looked up, her eyes full of mild reproach at the possibility of doubting any child’s love for Philip. He had been her betrothed for more than a year, during which time she had habitually70 seen him wooing every child he had met as if it were a woman,—which, for Philip, was saying a great deal. Happily they had in common the one trait of perfect amiability71, and she knew no more how to be jealous than he to be constant.
“Lili was easily won,” he said. “Other things being equal, people of six prefer that man who is tallest.”
“Philip is not so very tall,” said the eldest72 of the boys, who was listening eagerly, and growing rapidly.
“When Lili found that she could reach the ceiling from Mr. Malbone’s shoulder,” said Emilia, “she asked no more.”
“Then you knew the pastor’s family also, my child,” said Aunt Jane, looking at her kindly75 and a little keenly.
“I was allowed to go there sometimes,” she began, timidly.
“To meet her American Cousin,” interrupted Philip. “I got some relaxation76 in the rules of the school. But, Aunt Jane, you have told us nothing about your health.”
“There is nothing to tell,” she answered. “I should like, if it were convenient, to be a little better. But in this life, if one can walk across the floor, and not be an idiot, it is something. That is all I aim at.”
“Not at all,” said Aunt Jane, composedly. “I naturally fall back into happiness, when left to myself.”
“So you have returned to the house of your fathers,” said Philip. “I hope you like it.”
“It is commonplace in one respect,” said Aunt Jane. “General Washington once slept here.”
“Oh!” said Philip. “It is one of that class of houses?”
“Yes,” said she. “There is not a village in America that has not half a dozen of them, not counting those where he only breakfasted. Did ever man sleep like that man? What else could he ever have done? Who governed, I wonder, while he was asleep? How he must have travelled! The swiftest horse could scarcely have carried him from one of these houses to another.”
“I never was attached to the memory of Washington,” meditated78 Philip; “but I always thought it was the pear-tree. It must have been that he was such a very unsettled person.”
“He certainly was not what is called a domestic character,” said Aunt Jane.
“I suppose you are, Miss Maxwell,” said Philip. “Do you often go out?”
“Sometimes, to drive,” said Aunt Jane. “Yesterday I went shopping with Kate, and sat in the carriage while she bought under-sleeves enough for a centipede. It is always so with that child. People talk about the trouble of getting a daughter ready to be married; but it is like being married once a month to live with her.”
“I wonder that you take her to drive with you,” suggested Philip, sympathetically.
“It is a great deal worse to drive without her,” said the impetuous lady. “She is the only person who lets me enjoy things, and now I cannot enjoy them in her absence. Yesterday I drove alone over the three beaches, and left her at home with a dress-maker. Never did I see so many lines of surf; but they only seemed to me like some of Kate’s ball-dresses, with the prevailing79 flounces, six deep. I was so enraged80 that she was not there, I wished to cover my face with my handkerchief. By the third beach I was ready for the madhouse.”
“Is Oldport a pleasant place to live in?” asked Emilia, eagerly.
“It is amusing in the summer,” said Aunt Jane, “though the society is nothing but a pack of visiting-cards. In winter it is too dull for young people, and only suits quiet old women like me, who merely live here to keep the Ten Commandments and darn their stockings.”
Meantime the children were aiming at Emilia, whose butterfly looks amazed and charmed them, but who evidently did not know what to do with their eager affection.
“I know about you,” said little Helen; “I know what you said when you were little.”
“Did I say anything?” asked Emilia, carelessly.
“Yes,” replied the child, and began to repeat the oft-told domestic tradition in an accurate way, as if it were a school lesson. “Once you had been naughty, and your papa thought it his duty to slap you, and you cried; and he told you in French, because he always spoke French with you, that he did not punish you for his own pleasure. Then you stopped crying, and asked, ‘Pour le plaisir de qui alors?’ That means ‘For whose pleasure then?’ Hope said it was a droll81 question for a little girl to ask.”
“I do not think it was Emilia who asked that remarkable82 question, little girl,” said Kate.
“I dare say it was,” said Emilia; “I have been asking it all my life.” Her eyes grew very moist, what with fatigue83 and excitement. But just then, as is apt to happen in this world, they were all suddenly recalled from tears to tea, and the children smothered84 their curiosity in strawberries and cream.
They sat again beside the western door, after tea. The young moon came from a cloud and dropped a broad path of glory upon the bay; a black yacht glided85 noiselessly in, and anchored amid this tract86 of splendor87. The shadow of its masts was on the luminous surface, while their reflection lay at a different angle, and seemed to penetrate88 far below. Then the departing steamer went flashing across this bright realm with gorgeous lustre89; its red and green lights were doubled in the paler waves, its four reflected chimneys chased each other among the reflected masts. This jewelled wonder passing, a single fishing-boat drifted silently by, with its one dark sail; and then the moon and the anchored yacht were left alone.
Presently some of the luggage came from the wharf90. Malbone brought out presents for everybody; then all the family went to Europe in photographs, and with some reluctance91 came back to America for bed.
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1
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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23
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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24
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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30
gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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38
blanch
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| v.漂白；使变白；使(植物)不见日光而变白 | |
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microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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40
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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41
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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42
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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43
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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44
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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45
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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46
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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47
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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49
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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50
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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51
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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52
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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53
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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54
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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55
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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56
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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60
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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61
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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munificently
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wittiest
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
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64
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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65
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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66
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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67
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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68
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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69
beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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70
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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72
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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73
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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74
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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75
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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76
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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77
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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78
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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79
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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80
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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81
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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82
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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83
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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84
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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85
glided
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| 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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86
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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87
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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88
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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89
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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90
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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