Anne looked up from Pickwick Papers. Now that spring examinations were over she was treating herself to Dickens.
“It has been a prosy day for us,” she said thoughtfully, “but to some people it has been a wonderful day. Some one has been rapturously happy in it. Perhaps a great deed has been done somewhere today—or a great poem written—or a great man born. And some heart has been broken, Phil.”
“Why did you spoil your pretty thought by tagging that last sentence on, honey?” grumbled2 Phil. “I don’t like to think of broken hearts—or anything unpleasant.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to shirk unpleasant things all your life, Phil?”
“Dear me, no. Am I not up against them now? You don’t call Alec and Alonzo pleasant things, do you, when they simply plague my life out?”
“You never take anything seriously, Phil.”
“Why should I? There are enough folks who do. The world needs people like me, Anne, just to amuse it. It would be a terrible place if EVERYBODY were intellectual and serious and in deep, deadly earnest. MY mission is, as Josiah Allen says, ‘to charm and allure3.’ Confess now. Hasn’t life at Patty’s Place been really much brighter and pleasanter this past winter because I’ve been here to leaven4 you?”
“Yes, it has,” owned Anne.
“And you all love me—even Aunt Jamesina, who thinks I’m stark5 mad. So why should I try to be different? Oh, dear, I’m so sleepy. I was awake until one last night, reading a harrowing ghost story. I read it in bed, and after I had finished it do you suppose I could get out of bed to put the light out? No! And if Stella had not fortunately come in late that lamp would have burned good and bright till morning. When I heard Stella I called her in, explained my predicament, and got her to put out the light. If I had got out myself to do it I knew something would grab me by the feet when I was getting in again. By the way, Anne, has Aunt Jamesina decided6 what to do this summer?”
“Yes, she’s going to stay here. I know she’s doing it for the sake of those blessed cats, although she says it’s too much trouble to open her own house, and she hates visiting.”
“What are you reading?”
“Pickwick.”
“That’s a book that always makes me hungry,” said Phil. “There’s so much good eating in it. The characters seem always to be reveling on ham and eggs and milk punch. I generally go on a cupboard rummage7 after reading Pickwick. The mere8 thought reminds me that I’m starving. Is there any tidbit in the pantry, Queen Anne?”
“I made a lemon pie this morning. You may have a piece of it.”
Phil dashed out to the pantry and Anne betook herself to the orchard9 in company with Rusty10. It was a moist, pleasantly-odorous night in early spring. The snow was not quite all gone from the park; a little dingy11 bank of it yet lay under the pines of the harbor road, screened from the influence of April suns. It kept the harbor road muddy, and chilled the evening air. But grass was growing green in sheltered spots and Gilbert had found some pale, sweet arbutus in a hidden corner. He came up from the park, his hands full of it.
Anne was sitting on the big gray boulder12 in the orchard looking at the poem of a bare, birchen bough13 hanging against the pale red sunset with the very perfection of grace. She was building a castle in air—a wondrous14 mansion15 whose sunlit courts and stately halls were steeped in Araby’s perfume, and where she reigned16 queen and chatelaine. She frowned as she saw Gilbert coming through the orchard. Of late she had managed not to be left alone with Gilbert. But he had caught her fairly now; and even Rusty had deserted17 her.
Gilbert sat down beside her on the boulder and held out his Mayflowers.
“Don’t these remind you of home and our old schoolday picnics, Anne?”
Anne took them and buried her face in them.
“I’m in Mr. Silas Sloane’s barrens this very minute,” she said rapturously.
“I suppose you will be there in reality in a few days?”
“No, not for a fortnight. I’m going to visit with Phil in Bolingbroke before I go home. You’ll be in Avonlea before I will.”
“No, I shall not be in Avonlea at all this summer, Anne. I’ve been offered a job in the Daily News office and I’m going to take it.”
“Oh,” said Anne vaguely18. She wondered what a whole Avonlea summer would be like without Gilbert. Somehow she did not like the prospect19. “Well,” she concluded flatly, “it is a good thing for you, of course.”
“Yes, I’ve been hoping I would get it. It will help me out next year.”
“You mustn’t work too HARD,” said Anne, without any very clear idea of what she was saying. She wished desperately20 that Phil would come out. “You’ve studied very constantly this winter. Isn’t this a delightful21 evening? Do you know, I found a cluster of white violets under that old twisted tree over there today? I felt as if I had discovered a gold mine.”
“You are always discovering gold mines,” said Gilbert—also absently.
“Let us go and see if we can find some more,” suggested Anne eagerly. “I’ll call Phil and—”
“Never mind Phil and the violets just now, Anne,” said Gilbert quietly, taking her hand in a clasp from which she could not free it. “There is something I want to say to you.”
“Oh, don’t say it,” cried Anne, pleadingly. “Don’t—PLEASE, Gilbert.”
“I must. Things can’t go on like this any longer. Anne, I love you. You know I do. I—I can’t tell you how much. Will you promise me that some day you’ll be my wife?”
“Don’t you care for me at all?” Gilbert asked after a very dreadful pause, during which Anne had not dared to look up.
“Not—not in that way. I do care a great deal for you as a friend. But I don’t love you, Gilbert.”
“But can’t you give me some hope that you will—yet?”
“No, I can’t,” exclaimed Anne desperately. “I never, never can love you—in that way—Gilbert. You must never speak of this to me again.”
There was another pause—so long and so dreadful that Anne was driven at last to look up. Gilbert’s face was white to the lips. And his eyes—but Anne shuddered23 and looked away. There was nothing romantic about this. Must proposals be either grotesque24 or—horrible? Could she ever forget Gilbert’s face?
“Is there anybody else?” he asked at last in a low voice.
“No—no,” said Anne eagerly. “I don’t care for any one like THAT—and I LIKE you better than anybody else in the world, Gilbert. And we must—we must go on being friends, Gilbert.”
Gilbert gave a bitter little laugh.
“Friends! Your friendship can’t satisfy me, Anne. I want your love—and you tell me I can never have that.”
“I’m sorry. Forgive me, Gilbert,” was all Anne could say. Where, oh, where were all the gracious and graceful25 speeches wherewith, in imagination, she had been wont26 to dismiss rejected suitors?
Gilbert released her hand gently.
“There isn’t anything to forgive. There have been times when I thought you did care. I’ve deceived myself, that’s all. Goodbye, Anne.”
Anne got herself to her room, sat down on her window seat behind the pines, and cried bitterly. She felt as if something incalculably precious had gone out of her life. It was Gilbert’s friendship, of course. Oh, why must she lose it after this fashion?
“What is the matter, honey?” asked Phil, coming in through the moonlit gloom.
Anne did not answer. At that moment she wished Phil were a thousand miles away.
“I suppose you’ve gone and refused Gilbert Blythe. You are an idiot, Anne Shirley!”
“Do you call it idiotic27 to refuse to marry a man I don’t love?” said Anne coldly, goaded28 to reply.
“You don’t know love when you see it. You’ve tricked something out with your imagination that you think love, and you expect the real thing to look like that. There, that’s the first sensible thing I’ve ever said in my life. I wonder how I managed it?”
“Phil,” pleaded Anne, “please go away and leave me alone for a little while. My world has tumbled into pieces. I want to reconstruct it.”
“Without any Gilbert in it?” said Phil, going.
A world without any Gilbert in it! Anne repeated the words drearily29. Would it not be a very lonely, forlorn place? Well, it was all Gilbert’s fault. He had spoiled their beautiful comradeship. She must just learn to live without it.
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1
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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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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allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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8
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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9
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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12
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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14
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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15
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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16
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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17
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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18
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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19
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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23
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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28
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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