“Yes,” said Joy contentedly1.
It had not been Grant who had finally called Joy up, but Betty, all thrills and eagerness. She asked Joy to come down for the week-end—“and Grant wants you to come, too!” she added, as if that settled it.
It had.
“You’ll get some rest,” said Jerry; “you never do here.”
“Why don’t you go somewhere for a few weeks?”
Jerry shrugged6 her shoulders, and knocked the ashes off her cigarette. “No funds, as the banks tell me constantly. I have to stick around town and do a little work once in awhile.”
“Work!”
Jerry laughed. “It’s time I took in washing on the side again. I am not a young lady of independent means.”
“Must, my lady, the situation spells must, if I am to continue to buy our delicatessen breakfasts. At times, food seems scarcely worth while to me.”
“It seems to me,” said Joy, “that we are pretty extravagant9 for people having no visible income.”
“How?” demanded Sarah. “We hardly ever buy any meals except breakfasts——”
“But look at the stuff we drink and pass around—so far as I can see, keeping the cellarette filled is as expensive as running a free bar——”
“Little one,” Jerry drawled, “our cellarette is endowed. Some day when I have a lot of time I’ll take you around to the wine closet and tell you the names of who has contributed to which. To send a case of spirits to a young lady was ever a delicate mark of attention. We had a wonderful collection this spring, and before the first of July—don’t you remember the cases and cases of supplies that were pouring in around then? We have to go easy on those Prohibition10 allotments, though. The donors11 collect on them every once in so often.”
Joy realized that she was learning something new every day. She travelled down to the Grey’s in a rather sombre frame of mind. Her father had returned home and she had just escaped his descending12 upon her on the way by business necessity which had made him haste on through and write her, wishing her to return as soon as she could. She had written him that she was at a critical period in voice-placing and did not want to leave her teacher just now, especially when she was so lucky as to have him in Boston during the summer. It was true, she was going through a critical period in voice placing. In spite of her irregular hours, under Pa Graham’s magical touch and through the scales she practised regularly, her voice was coming forth in a way that now bewildered her, now filled her with an exultant13 sense of power. But the moments of exultation14 were few and far between. It was baffling to let loose one pure, golden note, and while yet tingling15 from the joy of it, to follow it with half a dozen that were edgy16, or swallowed, or had a thread in them—there seemed to be no end to the variety of ways one could defeat tone production. She had just achieved sufficient grasp in the art of singing to know how little she knew, and instead of discouraging her as it might have at first, she was lured17 on and stimulated18 to further endeavour. She was right not to leave Pa,—but she knew that was not the real reason she had signified her wish to remain in Boston. Was it this boy—this boy whom she had seen only once? She ought to know by this time how transient her fancies were. But this was so different from her other affair. She knew more about men now.
Betty met her at the station in a little runabout, and had driven away the flurry in Joy’s brain with her eager chatter19. Grant had been intending to come to the station, too, she informed her; but at the last minute Mrs. Grey had found a number of things for him to do. Grant humoured mother a lot. Betty didn’t believe in it; encourage mothers too much, and they’ll expect everything of you.
It had been a shock to meet Mrs. Grey. She was the woman who surveyed Joy so critically the night of the dance. A tall, large woman, with independent demeanor20, marcelled white hair and snapping eyes still almost as blue as Grant’s. She was gracious, but far from cordial. Very little appeared to escape the scrutiny21 of those eyes, and she made Joy feel exceedingly uncomfortable. Joy remembered what Packy had said: “Mother’s the Gorgon22 of the beach;” she decided23 that Packy had great descriptive powers. Mrs. Grey inspired the “what-have-I-done-anyway” feeling in one. Mr. Grey was only a shade more approachable. He seemed to consider Joy Betty’s age, to be talked to as such at convenient moments, and ignored as such most of the time.
Immediately upon arriving, Joy had had to dress for dinner, which was an absurdly formal meal for a beach house, and then after dinner the whole family had gone for a moonlight sail. She had no moment alone with Grant, and both were silent most of the evening, acutely conscious of each other’s presence, while Betty chattered24 and Mr. and Mrs. Grey admired the light effects of the moon on the water, and spoke25 of art and science and other impersonally26 interesting subjects to which none of the three young people listened.
Betty came in while Joy was undressing, her eyes dancing with excitement. “Joy—mother thinks Grant’s crazy about you—I heard her tell father. Do you think so? It would be so screaming! He never gets that way!”
“I think so? Why, Betty——”
“Well—can’t you always tell when a man’s crazy about you? I can!”
Joy laughed hysterically28. “Maybe I haven’t had as much experience as you, Betty,” she suggested.
After Betty had gone, something happened that terrified her. For no concrete reason she burst into tears, and the more she cried, the more hysterical27 she became at the thought that she was crying with no apparent reason. Of course, she was very much excited. And her nerves were pretty raw, and she had not had the usual “prescription29” with which to deaden them. But it couldn’t be because she had no recourse to alcohol that she felt this way. That was the way only awful people got, and after they had been drinking for years and years and years! She finally fell into a tear-tinted slumber30, from which she awoke barely in time for breakfast.
And now she and Grant found themselves miraculously31 left alone. Betty had gone to play tennis with some friends, and to Joy’s stupefaction, Mr. and Mrs. Grey had motored up to town together. And so the two sat on the piazza, still wrapped in an anticipatory32 silence.
They watched the sailboat out of sight, then Grant turned to her. “I say—let’s get away from everything. Let’s take the roadster and some lunch and go way off into the country—will you?”
There are few perfect days in life that stand out golden, untarnished, with no flaws or worrisome little details to bar the way of loving memory; but that Saturday was one for Joy. As they rode far into the country, past orchards33 and immaculate white New England farmhouses34, the hours seemed to be resting motionless, while they talked aimlessly and with long, happy silences, shyly sitting as near together as they dared. Time, as well as everything else, had gone away and left them alone.
They ate beside a pebble-hindered brook35, with tall trees gossiping above them. There were not even mosquitoes to hum their way through the rainbow haze36 in which the two were lingering. A large and elaborate repast had been put up for them, but Joy could not eat. He, too, seemed to find difficulty in raising any enthusiasm over the luncheon37, and looked at her instead. Finally they gravely repacked the almost unimpaired repast, then looked at each other over the basket. Because they were young and American, they laughed.
“It’s too hot to eat now,” said Grant, recovering hastily; “we’ll take out the basket again later, when we get hungry.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” said Joy, with dancing eyes.
It was so peaceful by the brook; she had not realised how the hectic38 life in the apartment had been wearing upon her. She closed her eyes with a little shiver of ecstasy39. “Let’s stay here a little while,” she said. “It’s nice under the trees.”
“I was just going to suggest that,” said Grant. “We think the same in almost everything, don’t we?”
How many millions of lovers have “thought the same”—lovers are distanced in tastes, likes and dislikes, ideas and ideals, as the poles are distanced one from the other!
“Yes,” said Joy dreamily. By now they had passed into the “you and I” stage. They drifted into what they thought was a discussion of modern education; but he was telling her about his years at Harvard. He had just graduated; Packy’s class.
“But Packy and I never ran together much,” he said. “Packy is a natural-born fusser; I’ve always been more or less of a woman-hater.”
“They say woman-haters are really the most romantic,” said Joy lightly.
“Well, they usually have the highest ideals; that’s what makes ’em dislike most women. I had almost impossibly high ideals; so high that I was getting afraid I’d never meet her.”
“I said,” said Grant, looking up at a patch of sky through the branches while Joy plucked a blade of grass into tiny bits; “I said—I was getting afraid I’d never meet her.”
A blue-jay shrieked42 discordantly43 from near by, and with a hitch44, they resumed more general subjects. Somehow, when one talks about ideals, one always gets personal.
“Girls nowadays don’t encourage men to look up to them,” said Grant. “There isn’t the respect there used to be—and the girls don’t seem to miss it.”
“Some girls miss it,” said Joy; “but what can they do about it? If they object, and try to bring back past conditions, they are labelled old-fashioned, slow, stiff,—and let alone. Respect and what men consider a good time can no longer be combined.”
“That’s the girls’ side, I suppose. But a man’s position is hard, too. No man wants to fall in love with a girl who is unattractive to other men. Probably you would call that sheep-like, but it’s something we can’t help. And the popular girls nowadays, the girls that men run after, are spoiled by that very quality that makes them popular. Betty says I’m awfully45 stuffy—but most of them seem to me hard—flippant—and—well, unreserved. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Joy, amazed at his putting into words the half-formed thoughts that had been sifting47 through her brain ever since she had begun to observe boys and girls together, which had been at an early age, as with most small-town girls.
“It seems,” Grant went on, “it seems almost as if girls were trying to break down every difference that exists between them and men—smoking and drinking are only two examples——”
She winced48. Vaguely49 conscious of her unrest, he turned to her with an impulsive50 gesture. “The only reason I’m saying all this is because it’s so wonderful to find a girl like you nowadays——”
“Oh, I don’t think things are as bad as all that!” she said. He sensed her withdrawal51, and they left the Modern Girl to return to Modern Education.
They started back when the sun began to gleam redly through the trees. The way seemed shorter than coming, and they talked more, whirling through a world of fiery52 golden sun. Before they had even thought of opening the luncheon basket, they were back at the beach house where Betty with an accusing face awaited them on the piazza.
“We’re back,” said Joy. The sun had gone, and everything seemed suddenly grey and flat.
Betty came dashing down to them. “Do you call this nice, to go off and leave me for a whole day?” she demanded, pouting53. “Lucky mother and father haven’t got back yet. And now you’ll have to hurry like everything to get ready for the dance!”
They realized that she was in evening dress.
“Oh, yes, there’s a dance to-night,” said Grant intelligently.
“There usually is, Saturday nights at the club house,” Betty retorted with fine sarcasm54 appreciated by no one but herself. “I’m not going to wait for you two—here comes my man now and there’s a wonderful orchestra!” She waved to her “man,” a gentleman about town, possibly all of seventeen, who was boiling up the driveway in a racer, and ran off to meet him.
Joy and Grant looked at each other. “I had forgotten all about the dance,” said Grant.
“Let’s not go!” It was Joy who spoke impulsively55. “I—I dance so much up in town—and it’s so beautiful just here, by the sea——”
But the golden day had faded, the perfect moment passed. “We ought to go,” Grant considered. “Mother would think Betty and I weren’t entertaining you very well. Besides, there are some duty dances I’ve got to work off, that mother’s been after me about for a long time.”
Joy bowed her head. What was this feeling of impending56 distress—it must be only that the sun had set!
“We’ll get dressed,” said Grant, “and then we can decide whether it’s too late to go or not.” He met her eyes with a twinkle in his. “I dress—very slowly!”
“I’ve torn my evening gown—and it will take me a long time to mend it!” Joy returned with a laugh, and they separated.
Joy dressed as slowly as she dared. Her head was aching—two days now without her prescription. Was that why she felt so depressed57? She had brought the same blue evening dress, and when the work was over, even to her anxious eyes she had never shone more gorgeously. The only question was color. Her face was temporarily red from driving in the wind; but she knew it wouldn’t stay, and it would leave her pale and dragged looking, as she had been lately most of the time. Which was preferable; to put on some rouge58 and run the risk of looking conspicuously59 painted until the wind-burn died down, or to omit the rouge and face the certainty of looking ghastly later?—She put on some rouge.
When she finally went down, about nine o’clock, Grant was on the piazza. She stood in the doorway61 and looked at him, as he came towards her. Why couldn’t all boys be like Grant—Grant, with reverence62 and purity shining in those clear blue eyes——
“I was hoping you’d wear that dress,” he was saying. “It’s the one you wore the first time I ever saw you——”
The first time already seemed impossible ages away.
“That’s why I wore it,” said Joy, in a matter-of-fact tone.
Neither kept the other in doubt by word or look. They looked now—and then, because they were human, they went and ate a fairly good meal from the lunch basket. Now there was no excuse for not starting to the dance—but still they lingered.
“I never heard you sing, you know,” said Grant. “Can’t you sing after eating—or will you sing to me before we go?”
They went into the music room, where Joy had already sounded out the piano. “Singing right after a meal gives me an excuse for not doing it well,” she smiled, but her fingers trembled as she played a few chords. What if he shouldn’t like it? That would be something she could not bear. Unconsciously music was already a part of herself. It would be so hard to sing to him—the hardest singing she had ever done! “I’ll sing a song called ‘The Unrealized Ideal,’” she said.
To most singers it is a handicap to play for themselves, but for Joy, to whom playing was as natural and spontaneous as breathing, it was only an added delight. She could almost hear her heart trembling as she modulated63 into the song.
The accompaniment stole out—a sound as of little bells chiming from far away—and then Joy’s voice, muted and shaky, but all the more poignant64 for that reason——
“My only love is always near
??In country or in town
It seems that he must feel, must hear
“I foot it after him, so young
??My locks are tied in haste—
And one is o’er my shoulder flung
??And hangs below my waist.
“He runs before me in the meads
??And down the world-worn track
He leads me on—but as he leads
??He never glances back.
“Yet still his voice is in my dreams
??To witch me o’er and o’er
That wooing voice! Ah, me—it seems
??Less near me than before.”
“Lightly I speed while hope is high
I follow—follow still—but I
??Shall never see his face.”
Grant had risen and had come over to her, his eyes blazing.
“You have never sung that to Packy, have you? Joy——”
“No—I haven’t ever sung it to anybody.”
“Somehow—I couldn’t have borne it, if you had, Joy——”
A cool voice from the doorway smote69 in upon their throbbing hearts. “Dear me! Have you two not gone to the dance yet?”
Mrs. Grey came forward into the room, her chill eyes dwelling70 first on Grant, then upon Joy, lingering on her face where the mixed colours strove for supremacy71. “It was a great pity Mr. Grey and I were delayed in town.” She turned to Joy. “So you’re a—singer! I rather thought you—expressed yourself in some way.” Her eyes still rested with emphasis upon Joy’s colour; it was almost as if she wished Grant to follow her gaze and see what she saw. But Grant was not looking at Joy with his mother’s eyes. “What are you going to do with your voice?”
Joy took a deep breath. “I am going to study for opera.” It was the first time she had admitted it, even to herself. Once the statement was out, she contemplated72 it with delight.
“Oh, indeed. A professional—with all that that entails73.” The bleak74 words fell between Joy and Grant; and although neither dreamed it then, with the rose flush of the vanished day still upon them, they stayed between them.
Almost without words, it was determined75 that they start at once for the dance. Grant remarked that he and Joy would walk up the beach. A snowbound glance from the blue eyes, and the two left the house, with the understanding that they would meet Mr. and Mrs. Grey over there.
The tide had gone out, leaving long stretches of hard sand. The moon was up, full and round, staring down upon them with friendly curiosity.
“I always used to wonder why people raved77 so about the moon,” said Grant. A little farther on, and they were out of sight of the house, on a lonely stretch of beach and sky. “Joy, when you sang, I felt—I can’t explain how I felt. It’s wonderful, it’s—you.”
Somehow they came to a pause on the sands looking out on the moon’s arclight reflection on the water.
“I—I once read some of Shelley—in college,” and Grant looked down at her, suddenly scarlet——
“See the mountains kiss high heaven
??And the wavelets kiss the sea
What is all this kissing worth
??If thou kiss not me?”
Almost a gasp78 in the murmuring ocean air—and then their lips met, brushing shyly, in a frightened thistledown of contact.
“Joy—I worship you.” His trembling whisper in her ear. “I love you—I love you so! Joy——”
This time they clung together, half frightened at the passion that surged to their lips.
And then a long interval79 without words—until they found themselves sitting on the sand, she with her head on his shoulder, he stroking her hair.
“You have the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen. Everything about you is the most wonderful I’ve ever seen. Your eyes, your voice, your lips—” Another interval. “Joy—I never knew what it was to feel like this. You—you’re the only girl I’ve ever kissed.”
“I didn’t know a man existed, who could say that,” said Joy with a happy laugh which died away on his next words.
“And I didn’t know there were girls like you—until I met you. For I am the first with you—am I not?”
“I’ve been kissed before—once.”
An intake80 of breath. Then, before she could continue: “Don’t tell me about it, Joy, dear—” a pause to accustom81 oneself to the unfamiliar82 “dear”—“don’t tell me about it—I’d rather not hear any more. I’ll make you forget him—just once isn’t much——”
After a month of whiles, they walked slowly up the beach. Their conversation was incoherent, but adequate.
“The dance will be almost over—what does it matter to us—isn’t it all strange and wonderful—your mother will think we were drowned——”
They came into the club house with unmistakably luminous83 faces. There is something about young love that stands starkly84 revealed, and they were as patent as if they had been hung with sandwich-man signs.
At times life seems to move in a quick succession of scenes until the scenes begin to seem unreal, and one feels apart from the drama of events, watching impersonally while life plays on with oneself. So Joy felt, as she saw Packy at the far corner of the room, and so she watched with impartial85 interest as he looked at them, first carelessly, then in swift incredulity, then with a face that grew thunderous, as, hands in pockets, he strode across to where they were about to join the dancers.
“Hello, Joy,” he said shortly. “Doesn’t take you a long time to change running mates, does it?”
“My goodness, look at Packy, entirely86 surrounded by a frown,” she tossed back at him—how easily Jerry’s line came to one’s lips.
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” he demanded, blocking their way as they started again to join the dancers.
Joy remembered a saying of Jerry’s which seemed peculiarly pat at this moment: “A girl never has the right amount of men. If she has few, it’s boring; if she has many, they get in the way and cramp87 her style.” She laughed. Packy was really a grotesque88 figure, with his glowering89 face and childish remarks. “You make me feel like a dancing school, with all this talk of changing partners,” she observed, and turned to Grant. She was amazed at the transformation90. Grant’s lips were drawn91 back over his teeth, his eyes glittering.
“Would you mind stating what business it is of yours, who Joy goes to a dance with?” he asked, in a voice as chill and cold as Mrs. Grey’s herself; a voice with the ring of generations of Boston ancestors behind it.
It was the end of the dance; and Joy now realized, in a sort of detached horror, that they were becoming conspicuous60. Grant and Packy were facing each other in the same tense, bristly pose that dogs assume before a pitched battle; faces were turning their way; she could see Mrs. Grey rising, in impotent protest, across the room——
A voice assailed92 her memory. “Is it really you, Miss Nelson?” Standing76 close at hand, his eyes upon their little group in grave attention, was a good-looking boy of medium height, with blond, wavy93 hair that had been plastered back in an attempt to make it look straight—At her look of vague recognition, he stepped nearer, said to Grant and Packy in an undertone: “Couldn’t you talk it over just as well out-doors?” then smiled at Joy, and in a normal, bread-and-butter voice that seemed to have the effect of suddenly bringing everything back to an everyday basis, said: “You don’t remember me, do you? I met you at Prom this spring—my name’s Dalton.”
“Mr. Dalton—of course!” she exclaimed. “I remember you very well—” she stopped, and twinkled. The echo of his blunt lecture seemed for a moment to hang in the air. She turned to introduce him to Grant and Packy; but Packy had gone. The scene was over, and she relaxed.
“I’ll cut in later,” said Jim Dalton, and moved away. The music had started again, the orchestra-leader announcing that this was “the last dance.” In Grant’s arms she floated off to the strains of “I Love You Truly.”
“Hope that fellow who said he’d cut in, will have sense enough not to do it on the last dance,” he growled94, clasping her almost fiercely to him.
“If that fellow hadn’t come up just then, I don’t know what might have happened,” Joy suggested.
“Damn Packy! Forgive me, Joy; but don’t you think Packy rates a damn or two? Of all the cake-eating parlour pythons——”
“Your mother was watching us. In fact, she still is. That was an awful scene to make, Grant.”
“Scene! Asking him one question. It was nothing to what I wanted to do. At that, though, he faded away pretty quick. Joy you dance like—like nothing at all.”
“So do you!” she thrilled up at him; and they drifted rapturously past Mrs. Grey, whose eyes, freshly iced, followed them everywhere.
Jim Dalton did not cut in until the very last encore. Grant relinquished95 Joy, then went revengefully to cut in on Betty, who looked far from delighted to be interrupted in the midst of “I Love You Truly” by a brother.
“I want to thank you for coming up when you did,” Joy said.
“It was nothing; I wanted to see you. How have you been? You look——”
“I look—what?”
“It’s not easy to describe the change. I would hardly have known you if I hadn’t overheard one of those two young men—ah—mentioning your name.”
Joy’s lips twitched96. “Do I look like ‘a typical model showing off some undress creation’?” She was as surprised as he at the ease with which she remembered his words. Certainly, being with Jerry sharpened one’s wits.
“No. Of course not. You look older, for one thing—and——”
“And—what?”
“And as if—well, as if you were—unsettled in your mind—looking for something you hadn’t found.”
“Everyone—always is looking for something they haven’t found—don’t you think so?” she countered, watching Grant from the corner of her eye, while her heart beat a painful tattoo97 of triumph against her side. She had—found what she had always been looking for! Girlhood’s tentative dream was victorious98 certainty.
“I haven’t asked you how you happened to be around these parts?”
She told him she was studying music in Boston, and living with Jerry. This he received in a silence which became so long that she did not know what thread he was taking up when he finally demanded:
“Did you mean that?”
“Mean what?”
“That you were living with Jerry. Were you serious?” Receiving an affirmative answer, he fell back again into a silence which lasted until Grant cut back at the end of the dance.
They rode home with Betty and her “man,” thus escaping Mrs. Grey, and Joy and Betty went upstairs before Mr. and Mrs. Grey returned. Betty was full of thrills. She confided99 to Joy that she “had found someone harmonious100, even to dancing, at last.” He was her escort of the evening, and they were engaged.
“Engaged!” Joy exclaimed. “You, at your age—you don’t want to be married at sixteen, do you?”
“Of course not!” Betty tossed her head. “My goodness, Joy, I’ve been engaged three times already—being engaged and getting married have got nothing to do with each other!”
Saying which, she departed, leaving Joy undecided whether to laugh or be horrified101. Decidedly, there was more to these na?ve, sunburned kittens than met the eye of the innocent bystander.
Sunday breakfast at the Greys’ was a late affair, and the table was not fully46 assembled until eleven. Joy dreaded102 meeting Mrs. Grey’s scrutiny again; she even shrank from seeing Grant, for in the morning sun she blushed at the memory of things under the white heat of the moon, and longed for another moon with no glaring day intervening; but finally she could not longer postpone103 it. Mrs. Grey was presiding at the table, immaculate and unruffled as ever, not a hair of her marcel straying from its designated path. She enquired104 meticulously105 if Joy had slept well, then talked past Joy on one side and Grant and Betty on the other, to Mr. Grey at the head. Joy and Grant met each other’s eyes for one glowing moment, then devoted106 their attention to their plates. After all, it was the first real meal they had had since yesterday morning. Conversation flitted its way about as noncommittally as a feather-duster, ignoring the vital corners. It was Mr. Grey who grew expansive after his soft-boiled eggs and toast.
“In my day,” he remarked with a chuckle107, “we didn’t choose a club-house dance in which to pick a fight. We chose some vacant lot.”
Mrs. Grey allowed her sea blue eyes, cold and sparkling as salt water, to rest on Joy for one pungent109 moment. The air tingled110 with omission111. She spoke finally, as she rose from the table: “We shall hope to hear you sing later in the day, Miss Nelson.”
A stupid, hot Sunday, composed of working through the Sunday papers, sitting on the piazza talking about weather probabilities, and keeping maids perspiring112 to bring cooling drinks. Grant and Joy had no excuse to slip away, with the events of the day before stalking in the minds if not the words of the Greys, and the stubborn fact that Joy was nominally113 Betty’s guest. Betty remarked that it was a pity church attendance had gone out of style; it did fill in part of Sunday, anyway. She had suggested golf, which Joy did not play, and tennis, which Joy had expressed a willingness to watch; and everyone had unanimously declared that it was too hot to go down on the beach in the blaze of the sun. Motoring was voted down, since on Sunday “there was such a fearful rabble114 in the road,” and the day groaned115 away in an agony of repressions116 for Grant and Joy.
Towards evening, as it grew cooler, some callers arrived, and Betty pointed117 out that now was the time for Joy to sing. So Joy sang—not the “Unrealized Ideal” this time, but some little French songs which evoked118 polite murmurs119 of appreciation120 from the guests who were of the type that know nothing about music and care less, but know that it is the thing to appreciate it. And then Betty, rolling her eyes in a manner she considered romantic, requested “Last Night.”
The room with its conventional puppets of listeners faded away; Joy was only conscious of one intent brown face. What if all day they had been and still were hedged about by tiresome121 details; she could speak to him if there were thousands listening. Oh, to make love with one’s voice:
“I think of you in the daytime
??I dream of you by night
I wake and would you were here, love
??And tears are blinding my sight.
I hear a low breath in the lime-tree
??The wind is floating through
And oh, the night, my darling,
??Is sighing, sighing for you, for you.”
Her emotion was mastering her, so that her voice came forth in bursts of gorgeous tone or died away in a tremulous whisper; but it carried a quality that made her listeners look uncomfortable, as conventional people tend to do when they feel that their emotions are being aroused in a public place.
She ended, and there was a small moment of recapitulation before the polite murmurs started again. She left the piano and crossed to Grant—veiled under the general chatter, it was the first moment they had to speak to each other.
“I sang to you,” she said; and the Chinese masks which they had both been assuming all day, made easier by the breath-taking weather and the environment, fell away from them as they looked at each other.
“You must always sing to me, Joy—your singing’s you—and I can’t bear to have anyone else even get a part of you.”
She smiled up at him, seeing only the worship of the idea. The callers stayed to a “simple” Sunday supper of three courses and “on the sides,” then left the Grey family to settle down to a repletely quiet Sunday evening. Not so Betty; she announced that “Mr. Cortland” was coming to take her riding, and Joy and Grant could come along too. Mrs. Grey made a few quiet remarks about the ordinary people who rode Sunday evenings, but “Mr. Cortland,” Betty’s newly-acquired fiancé, arrived about that time, and the four set off without even a pretense122 of asking Mr. and Mrs. Grey to accompany them. They went in “Mr. Cortland’s” racer, which necessitated123 three-in-one seat and one-on-the-floor, always a piquant124 combination.
“No use taking a larger car,” said the fiancé, in a bored-man-of-the-world tone: “everyone would scrap125 as to who wouldn’t drive, and I’d have to, and I can’t drive with one arm—I can only stop.”
“Oh, Nick, you do tear off the worst line,” trilled Betty. “Come on—take the Jerusalem road—of course we’ll go to Nantasket. I want to ride in the roller-coasters!”
Grant turned and looked up at Betty. “You’re not going to Nantasket to-night,” he said. “I suppose you want to ride the merry-go-round too, and dance in the Palm Garden! Where do you get your lowbrow tastes?”
Betty played a tune126 on Nick’s shoulder. “Drive straight to the border,” she told him in a sepulchral127 voice, then to Grant: “Stuffy old thing! I’ve been cooped in all day till I could scream—, thank goodness, we can forget it’s Sunday at Paragon128 Park!”
What was there about visiting an amusement park on Sunday to call forth such dignity from Grant? It was almost like his mother might have spoken—Joy anxiously intervened before the brother-and-sister controversy129 became too distressing130: “It’s Mr. Cortland’s car, so we can’t help where they go;—but we can sit and wait for them.”
So they sat in the car outside Paragon Park, while Betty went in to try her fiancé’s endurance on the roller-coaster and in eating pop-corn. The time raced by as swiftly as their heart-beats; they had a whole day to catch up with, Grant said. “Our whole lives, too, Grant,” Joy whispered against his lips.
“To think that we never knew each other—before!”
“But—loving this way is much more beautiful! If we had known each other always—love would have made no more impression than a—a candle lighted in a room blazing with electricity. But what a difference—when the candle is lit in the darkness!”
“Joy, how can you say such wonderful things? You say them all—everything that I can only feel, you say—or sing! How can a girl like you ever be satisfied with me?”
“I can’t bear to think of you going away to-morrow. We’ve seen each other so little. I’ll be coming up to Boston every day, though.”
“Every day!—Every single day? Could—could we honestly keep that up?”
“Silly girl. . . . Now you make me feel almost up to your level. Do you realize how much we’ll have to see of each other before we dare spring an engagement on my people?”
“Oh . . . I had forgotten all about . . . people and things,” she mumbled132 and the exalted133 rhythm of her heart-beat sagged134 ever so little. Mrs. Grey had such adequately discouraging eyes. . . .
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1
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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donors
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| n.捐赠者( donor的名词复数 )；献血者；捐血者；器官捐献者 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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edgy
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| adj.不安的；易怒的 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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gorgon
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| n.丑陋女人，蛇发女怪 | |
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23
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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25
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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26
impersonally
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| ad.非人称地 | |
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27
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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29
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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30
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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anticipatory
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| adj.预想的，预期的 | |
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33
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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35
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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36
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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37
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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38
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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39
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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40
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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41
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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42
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
discordantly
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| adv.不一致地，不和谐地 | |
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44
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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45
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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46
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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47
sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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48
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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50
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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51
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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52
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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53
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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54
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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56
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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57
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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58
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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59
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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60
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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61
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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62
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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63
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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65
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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66
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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67
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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68
beguiles
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| v.欺骗( beguile的第三人称单数 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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69
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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70
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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71
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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72
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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74
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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76
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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77
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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78
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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79
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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80
intake
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| n.吸入，纳入；进气口，入口 | |
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81
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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82
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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83
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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84
starkly
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| adj. 变硬了的,完全的 adv. 完全,实在,简直 | |
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85
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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86
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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87
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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88
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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89
glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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90
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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91
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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92
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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93
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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94
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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95
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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96
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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97
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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98
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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99
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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100
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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101
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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102
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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103
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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104
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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105
meticulously
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| adv.过细地，异常细致地；无微不至；精心 | |
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106
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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107
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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108
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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109
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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110
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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112
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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113
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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114
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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115
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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116
repressions
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| n.压抑( repression的名词复数 )；约束；抑制；镇压 | |
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117
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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118
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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119
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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120
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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121
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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122
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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123
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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125
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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126
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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127
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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128
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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129
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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130
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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131
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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132
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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