“I’ll be there before the snow comes and I mean to stay all night. Diana can’t go because she has company, and I’m sure Miss Lavendar will be looking for me tonight. It’s a whole fortnight since I was there.”
Anne had paid many a visit to Echo Lodge since that October day. Sometimes she and Diana drove around by the road; sometimes they walked through the woods. When Diana could not go Anne went alone. Between her and Miss Lavendar had sprung up one of those fervent3, helpful friendships possible only between a woman who has kept the freshness of youth in her heart and soul, and a girl whose imagination and intuition supplied the place of experience. Anne had at last discovered a real “kindred spirit,” while into the little lady’s lonely, sequestered4 life of dreams Anne and Diana came with the wholesome5 joy and exhilaration of the outer existence, which Miss Lavendar, “the world forgetting, by the world forgot,” had long ceased to share; they brought an atmosphere of youth and reality to the little stone house. Charlotta the Fourth always greeted them with her very widest smile . . . and Charlotta’s smiles WERE fearfully wide . . . loving them for the sake of her adored mistress as well as for their own. Never had there been such “high jinks” held in the little stone house as were held there that beautiful, late-lingering autumn, when November seemed October over again, and even December aped the sunshine and hazes6 of summer.
But on this particular day it seemed as if December had remembered that it was time for winter and had turned suddenly dull and brooding, with a windless hush7 predictive of coming snow. Nevertheless, Anne keenly enjoyed her walk through the great gray maze8 of the beechlands; though alone she never found it lonely; her imagination peopled her path with merry companions, and with these she carried on a gay, pretended conversation that was wittier10 and more fascinating than conversations are apt to be in real life, where people sometimes fail most lamentably11 to talk up to the requirements. In a “make believe” assembly of choice spirits everybody says just the thing you want her to say and so gives you the chance to say just what YOU want to say. Attended by this invisible company, Anne traversed the woods and arrived at the fir lane just as broad, feathery flakes12 began to flutter down softly.
At the first bend she came upon Miss Lavendar, standing13 under a big, broad-branching fir. She wore a gown of warm, rich red, and her head and shoulders were wrapped in a silvery gray silk shawl.
“You look like the queen of the fir wood fairies,” called Anne merrily.
“I thought you would come tonight, Anne,” said Miss Lavendar, running forward. “And I’m doubly glad, for Charlotta the Fourth is away. Her mother is sick and she had to go home for the night. I should have been very lonely if you hadn’t come . . . even the dreams and the echoes wouldn’t have been enough company. Oh, Anne, how pretty you are,” she added suddenly, looking up at the tall, slim girl with the soft rose-flush of walking on her face. “How pretty and how young! It’s so delightful14 to be seventeen, isn’t it? I do envy you,” concluded Miss Lavendar candidly15.
“But you are only seventeen at heart,” smiled Anne.
“No, I’m old . . . or rather middle-aged16, which is far worse,” sighed Miss Lavendar. “Sometimes I can pretend I’m not, but at other times I realize it. And I can’t reconcile myself to it as most women seem to. I’m just as rebellious17 as I was when I discovered my first gray hair. Now, Anne, don’t look as if you were trying to understand. Seventeen CAN’T understand. I’m going to pretend right away that I am seventeen too, and I can do it, now that you’re here. You always bring youth in your hand like a gift. We’re going to have a jolly evening. Tea first . . . what do you want for tea? We’ll have whatever you like. Do think of something nice and indigestible.”
There were sounds of riot and mirth in the little stone house that night. What with cooking and feasting and making candy and laughing and “pretending,” it is quite true that Miss Lavendar and Anne comported18 themselves in a fashion entirely19 unsuited to the dignity of a spinster of forty-five and a sedate20 schoolma’am. Then, when they were tired, they sat down on the rug before the grate in the parlor21, lighted only by the soft fireshine and perfumed deliciously by Miss Lavendar’s open rose-jar on the mantel. The wind had risen and was sighing and wailing22 around the eaves and the snow was thudding softly against the windows, as if a hundred storm sprites were tapping for entrance.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Anne,” said Miss Lavendar, nibbling23 at her candy. “If you weren’t I should be blue . . . very blue . . . almost navy blue. Dreams and make-believes are all very well in the daytime and the sunshine, but when dark and storm come they fail to satisfy. One wants real things then. But you don’t know this . . . seventeen never knows it. At seventeen dreams DO satisfy because you think the realities are waiting for you further on. When I was seventeen, Anne, I didn’t think forty-five would find me a white-haired little old maid with nothing but dreams to fill my life.”
“But you aren’t an old maid,” said Anne, smiling into Miss Lavendar’s wistful woodbrown eyes. “Old maids are BORN . . . they don’t BECOME.”
“Some are born old maids, some achieve old maidenhood24, and some have old maidenhood thrust upon them,” parodied25 Miss Lavendar whimsically.
“You are one of those who have achieved it then,” laughed Anne, “and you’ve done it so beautifully that if every old maid were like you they would come into the fashion, I think.”
“I always like to do things as well as possible,” said Miss Lavendar meditatively26, “and since an old maid I had to be I was determined27 to be a very nice one. People say I’m odd; but it’s just because I follow my own way of being an old maid and refuse to copy the traditional pattern. Anne, did anyone ever tell you anything about Stephen Irving and me?”
“Yes,” said Anne candidly, “I’ve heard that you and he were engaged once.”
“So we were . . . twenty-five years ago . . . a lifetime ago. And we were to have been married the next spring. I had my wedding dress made, although nobody but mother and Stephen ever knew THAT. We’d been engaged in a way almost all our lives, you might say. When Stephen was a little boy his mother would bring him here when she came to see my mother; and the second time he ever came . . . he was nine and I was six . . . he told me out in the garden that he had pretty well made up his mind to marry me when he grew up. I remember that I said ‘Thank you’; and when he was gone I told mother very gravely that there was a great weight off my mind, because I wasn’t frightened any more about having to be an old maid. How poor mother laughed!”
“And what went wrong?” asked Anne breathlessly.
“We had just a stupid, silly, commonplace quarrel. So commonplace that, if you’ll believe me, I don’t even remember just how it began. I hardly know who was the more to blame for it. Stephen did really begin it, but I suppose I provoked him by some foolishness of mine. He had a rival or two, you see. I was vain and coquettish and liked to tease him a little. He was a very high-strung, sensitive fellow. Well, we parted in a temper on both sides. But I thought it would all come right; and it would have if Stephen hadn’t come back too soon. Anne, my dear, I’m sorry to say” . . . Miss Lavendar dropped her voice as if she were about to confess a predilection28 for murdering people, “that I am a dreadfully sulky person. Oh, you needn’t smile, . . . it’s only too true. I DO sulk; and Stephen came back before I had finished sulking. I wouldn’t listen to him and I wouldn’t forgive him; and so he went away for good. He was too proud to come again. And then I sulked because he didn’t come. I might have sent for him perhaps, but I couldn’t humble29 myself to do that. I was just as proud as he was . . . pride and sulkiness make a very bad combination, Anne. But I could never care for anybody else and I didn’t want to. I knew I would rather be an old maid for a thousand years than marry anybody who wasn’t Stephen Irving. Well, it all seems like a dream now, of course. How sympathetic you look, Anne . . . as sympathetic as only seventeen can look. But don’t overdo30 it. I’m really a very happy, contented31 little person in spite of my broken heart. My heart did break, if ever a heart did, when I realized that Stephen Irving was not coming back. But, Anne, a broken heart in real life isn’t half as dreadful as it is in books. It’s a good deal like a bad tooth . . . though you won’t think THAT a very romantic simile32. It takes spells of aching and gives you a sleepless33 night now and then, but between times it lets you enjoy life and dreams and echoes and peanut candy as if there were nothing the matter with it. And now you’re looking disappointed. You don’t think I’m half as interesting a person as you did five minutes ago when you believed I was always the prey34 of a tragic35 memory bravely hidden beneath external smiles. That’s the worst . . . or the best . . . of real life, Anne. It WON’T let you be miserable36. It keeps on trying to make you comfortable . . . and succeeding...even when you’re determined to be unhappy and romantic. Isn’t this candy scrumptious? I’ve eaten far more than is good for me already but I’m going to keep recklessly on.”
“It gave me a shock to hear about Stephen’s son that first day you were here, Anne. I’ve never been able to mention him to you since, but I’ve wanted to know all about him. What sort of a boy is he?”
“He is the dearest, sweetest child I ever knew, Miss Lavendar . . . and he pretends things too, just as you and I do.”
“I’d like to see him,” said Miss Lavendar softly, as if talking to herself. “I wonder if he looks anything like the little dream-boy who lives here with me . . . MY little dream-boy.”
“If you would like to see Paul I’ll bring him through with me sometime,” said Anne.
“I would like it . . . but not too soon. I want to get used to the thought. There might be more pain than pleasure in it . . . if he looked too much like Stephen . . . or if he didn’t look enough like him. In a month’s time you may bring him.”
Accordingly, a month later Anne and Paul walked through the woods to the stone house, and met Miss Lavendar in the lane. She had not been expecting them just then and she turned very pale.
“So this is Stephen’s boy,” she said in a low tone, taking Paul’s hand and looking at him as he stood, beautiful and boyish, in his smart little fur coat and cap. “He . . . he is very like his father.”
“Everybody says I’m a chip off the old block,” remarked Paul, quite at his ease.
Anne, who had been watching the little scene, drew a relieved breath. She saw that Miss Lavendar and Paul had “taken” to each other, and that there would be no constraint38 or stiffness. Miss Lavendar was a very sensible person, in spite of her dreams and romance, and after that first little betrayal she tucked her feelings out of sight and entertained Paul as brightly and naturally as if he were anybody’s son who had come to see her. They all had a jolly afternoon together and such a feast of fat things by way of supper as would have made old Mrs. Irving hold up her hands in horror, believing that Paul’s digestion39 would be ruined for ever.
“Come again, laddie,” said Miss Lavendar, shaking hands with him at parting.
“You may kiss me if you like,” said Paul gravely.
Miss Lavendar stooped and kissed him.
“How did you know I wanted to?” she whispered.
“Because you looked at me just as my little mother used to do when she wanted to kiss me. As a rule, I don’t like to be kissed. Boys don’t. You know, Miss Lewis. But I think I rather like to have you kiss me. And of course I’ll come to see you again. I think I’d like to have you for a particular friend of mine, if you don’t object.”
“I . . . I don’t think I shall object,” said Miss Lavendar. She turned and went in very quickly; but a moment later she was waving a gay and smiling good-bye to them from the window.
“I like Miss Lavendar,” announced Paul, as they walked through the beech9 woods. “I like the way she looked at me, and I like her stone house, and I like Charlotta the Fourth. I wish Grandma Irving had a Charlotta the Fourth instead of a Mary Joe. I feel sure Charlotta the Fourth wouldn’t think I was wrong in my upper story when I told her what I think about things. Wasn’t that a splendid tea we had, teacher? Grandma says a boy shouldn’t be thinking about what he gets to eat, but he can’t help it sometimes when he is real hungry. YOU know, teacher. I don’t think Miss Lavendar would make a boy eat porridge for breakfast if he didn’t like it. She’d get things for him he did like. But of course” . . . Paul was nothing if not fair-minded . . . “that mightn’t be very good for him. It’s very nice for a change though, teacher. YOU know.”
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1
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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hazes
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| n.（烟尘等的）雾霭( haze的名词复数 )；迷蒙；迷糊；（尤指热天引起的）薄雾v.（使）笼罩在薄雾中( haze的第三人称单数 )；戏弄，欺凌（新生等，有时作为加入美国大学生联谊会的条件） | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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wittier
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的比较级 ) | |
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lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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comported
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| v.表现( comport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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parodied
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| v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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