And then there came the last stage, the strange leaden-grey stormy sea, which was so unlike those blue ripples9 that came up just so far—no farther, on the beach at Bordighera. She began to understand what is said in the Bible about the waves that mount up like mountains, when she saw the roll of the Channel. She had always a little wondered what that meant. To be sure, there were storms now and then along the Riviera, when the blue edge to the sea-mantle disappeared, and all became a deep purple, solemn enough for a king’s pall10, as it has been the pall of so{v2-84} many a brave man; but even that was never like the dangerous threatening lash6 of the waves along those rocks, and the way in which they raised their awful heads. And was that England, white with a faint line of green, so sodden11 and damp as it looked, rising out of the sea? The heart of Frances sank: it was not like her anticipations12. She had thought there would be something triumphant13, grand, about the aspect of England—something proud, like a monarch14 of the sea; and it was only a damp, greyish-white line, rising not very far out of those sullen15 waves. An east wind was blowing with that blighting16 greyness which here, in the uttermost parts of the earth, we are so well used to: and it was cold. A gleam of pale sun indeed shot out of the clouds from time to time; but there was no real warmth in it, and the effect of everything was depressing. The green fields and hedgerows cheered her a little; but it was all damp, and the sky was grey. And then came London, with a roar and noise as if they had fallen into a den8 of wild beasts, and throngs17, multitudes of people at every little station{v2-85} which the quick train flashed past, and on the platform, where at last she arrived dizzy and faint with fatigue18 and wonderment. But Markham always was more kind than words could say. He sympathised with her, seeing her forlorn looks at everything. He did not ask her how she liked it, what she thought of her native country. When they arrived at last, he found out miraculously19, among the crowd of carriages, a quiet, little, dark-coloured brougham, and put her into it. “We’ll trundle off home,” he said, “you and I, Fan, and let John look after the things; you are so tired you can scarcely speak.”
“Not so much tired,” said Frances, and tried to smile, but could not say any more.
“I understand.” He took her hand into his with the kindest caressing20 touch. “You mustn’t be frightened, my dear. There’s nothing to be frightened about. You’ll like my mother. Perhaps it was silly of me to say that, and make you cry. Don’t cry, Fan, or I shall cry too. I am the foolishest little beggar, you know, and always do what my companions do. Don’t make a fool of your old brother, my dear.{v2-86} There, look out and see what a beastly place old London is, Fan.”
“Don’t call me Fan,” she cried, this slight irritation21 affording her an excuse for disburdening herself of some of the nervous excitement in her. “Call me Frances, Markham.”
“Life’s too short for a name in two syllables22. I’ve got two syllables myself, that’s true; but many fellows call me Mark, and you are welcome to, if you like. No; I shall call you Fan; you must make up your mind to it. Did you ever see such murky23 heavy air? It isn’t air at all—it’s smoke, and animalculæ, and everything that’s dreadful. It’s not like that blue stuff on the Riviera, is it?”
“Oh no!” cried Frances, with fervour. “But I suppose London is better for some things,” she added with a doubtful voice.
“Better! It’s better than any other place on the face of the earth; it’s the only place to live in,” said Markham. “Why, child, it is paradise,”—he paused a moment, and then added, “with pandemonium24 next door.”
“Markham!” the girl cried.
“I was wrong to mention such a place in{v2-87} your hearing. I know I was. Never mind, Fan; you shall see the one, and you shall know nothing about the other. Why, here we are in Eaton Square.”
The door flashed open as soon as the carriage stopped, letting out a flood of light and warmth. Markham almost lifted the trembling girl out. She had got her veil entangled25 about her head, her arms in the cloak which she had half thrown off. She was not prepared for this abrupt26 arrival. She seemed to see nothing but the light, to know nothing until she found herself suddenly in some one’s arms; then the light seemed to go out of her eyes. Sight had nothing to do with the sensation, the warmth, the softness, the faint rustle27, the faint perfume, with which she was suddenly encircled; and for a few moments she knew nothing more.
“Dear, dear, Markham, I hope she is not delicate—I hope she is not given to fainting,” she heard in a disturbed but pleasant voice, before she felt able to open her eyes.
“Not a bit,” said Markham’s familiar tones. “She’s overdone28, and awfully29 anxious about meeting you.{v2-88}”
“My poor dear! Why should she be anxious about meeting me?” said the other voice, a voice round and soft, with a plaintive30 tone in it; and then there came the touch of a pair of lips, soft and caressing like the voice, upon the girl’s cheek. She did not yet open her eyes, half because she could not, half because she would not, but whispered in a faint little tentative utterance31, “Mother!” wondering vaguely32 whether the atmosphere round her, the kiss, the voice, was all the mother she was to know.
“My poor little baby, my little girl! open your eyes. Markham, I want to see the colour of her eyes.”
“As if I could open her eyes for you!” cried Markham with a strange outburst of sound, which, if he had been a woman, might have meant crying, but must have been some sort of a laugh, since he was a man. He seemed to walk away, and then came back again. “Come, Fan, that’s enough. Open your eyes, and look at us. I told you there was nothing to be frightened for.”
And then Frances raised herself; for, to her{v2-89} astonishment33, she was lying down upon a sofa, and looked round her, bewildered. Beside her stood a little lady, about her own height, with smooth brown hair like hers, with her hands clasped, just as Frances was aware she had herself a custom of clasping her hands. It began to dawn upon her that Constance had said she was very like mamma. This new-comer was beautifully dressed in soft black satin, that did not rustle—that was far, far too harsh a word—but swept softly about her with the faintest pleasant sound; and round her breathed that atmosphere which Frances felt would mean mother to her for ever and ever,—an air that was infinitely34 soft, with a touch in it of some sweetness. Oh, not scent35! She rejected the word with disdain—something, nothing, the atmosphere of a mother. In the curious ecstasy36 in which she was, made up of fatigue, wonder, and the excitement of this astounding37 plunge38 into the unknown, that was how she felt.
“Let me look at you, my child. I can’t think of her as a grown girl, Markham. Don’t you know she is my baby. She has never{v2-90} grown up, like the rest of you, to me. Oh, did you never wish for me, little Frances? Did you never want your mother, my darling? Often, often, I have lain awake in the night and cried for you.”
“Oh mamma!” cried Frances, forgetting her shyness, throwing herself into her mother’s arms. The temptation to tell her that she had never known anything about her mother, to excuse herself at her father’s expense, was strong. But she kept back the words that were at her lips. “I have always wanted this all my life,” she cried, with a sudden impulse, and laid her head upon her mother’s breast, feeling in all the commotion39 and melting of her heart a consciousness of the accessories, the rich softness of the satin, the delicate perfume, all the details of the new personality by which her own was surrounded on every side.
“Now I see,” cried the new-found mother, “it was no use parting this child and me, Markham. It is all the same between us—isn’t it, my darling?—as if we had always been together—all the same in a moment. Come up-stairs now, if you feel able, dear one.{v2-91} Do you think, Markham, she is able to walk up-stairs?”
“Oh, quite able; oh, quite, quite well. It was only for a moment. I was—frightened, I think.”
“But you will never be frightened any more,” said Lady Markham, drawing the girl’s arm through her own, leading her away. Frances was giddy still, and stumbled as she went, though she had pledged herself never to be frightened again. She went in a dream up the softly carpeted stairs. She knew what handsome rooms were, the lofty bare grandeur40 of an Italian palazzo; but all this carpeting and cushioning, the softness, the warmth, the clothed and comfortable look, bewildered her. She could scarcely find her way through the drawing-room, crowded with costly41 furniture, to the blazing fire, by the side of which stood the tea-table, like, and yet how unlike, that anxious copy of English ways which Frances had set up in the loggia. She was conscious, with a momentary42 gleam of complacency, that her cups and saucers were better, though! not belonging to an ordinary modern set, like{v2-92} these; but, alas43, in everything else how far short! Then she was taken up-stairs, through—as she thought—the sumptuous44 arrangements of her mother’s room, to another smaller, which opened from it, and in which there was the same wealth of carpets, curtains, easy-chairs, and writing-tables, in addition to the necessary details of a sleeping-room. Frances looked round it admiringly. She knew nothing about the modern-artistic, though something, a very little, about old art. The painted ceilings and old gilding45 of the Palazzo—which she began secretly and obstinately46 to call home from this moment forth—were intelligible47 to her; but she was quite unacquainted with Mr Morris’s papers and the art fabrics48 from Liberty’s. She looked at them with admiration49, but doubt. She thought the walls “killed” the pictures that were hung round, which were not like her own little gallery at home, which she had left with a little pang50 to her sister. “Is this Constance’s room?” she asked timidly, called back to a recollection of Constance, and wondering whether the transfer was to be complete.
“No, my love; it is Frances’ room,” said{v2-93} Lady Markham. “It has always been ready for you. I expected you to come some time. I have always hoped that; but I never thought that Con1 would desert me.” Her voice faltered51 a little, which instantly touched Frances’ heart.
“I asked,” she said, “not just out of curiosity, but because, when she came to us, I gave her my room. Our rooms are not like these; they have very few things in them. There are no carpets; it is warmer there, you know; but I thought she would find the blue room so bare, I gave her mine.”
Lady Markham smiled upon her, and said, but with a faint, the very faintest indication of being less interested than Frances was, “You have not many visitors, I suppose?”
“Oh, none!” cried Frances. “I suppose we are—rather poor. We are not—like this.”
“My darling, you don’t know how to speak to me, your own mother! What do you mean, dear, by we? You must learn to mean something else by we. Your father, if he had chosen, might have had—all that you see, {v2-94}and more. And Constance—— But we will say nothing more to-night on that subject. This is Con’s room, see, on the other side of mine. It was always my fancy, my hope, some time to have my two girls, one on each side.”
Frances followed her mother to the room on the other side with great interest. It was still more luxurious52 than the one appropriated to herself—more comfortable, as a room which has been occupied, which shows traces of its tenant’s tastes and likings, must naturally be; and it was brighter, occupying the front of the house, while that of Frances’ looked to the side. She glanced round at all the fittings and decorations, which, to her unaccustomed eyes, were so splendid. “Poor Constance!” she said under her breath.
“Why do you say poor Constance?” said Lady Markham, with something sharp and sudden in her tone. And then she, too, said regretfully, “Poor Con! You think it will be disappointing to her, this other life which she has chosen. Was it—dreary for you, my poor child?”
Then there rose up in the tranquil53 mind of{v2-95} Frances a kind of tempest-blast of opposition54 and resentment55. “It is the only life I know—it was—everything I liked best,” she cried. The first part of the sentence was very firmly, almost aggressively said. In the second, she wavered, hesitated, changed the tense—it was. She did not quite know herself what the change meant.
Lady Markham looked at her with a penetrating56 gaze. “It was—everything you knew, my little Frances. I understand you, my dear. You will not be disloyal to the past. But to Constance, who does not know it, who knows something else—— Poor Con! I understand. But she will have to pay for her experience, like all the rest.”
Frances had been profoundly agitated57, but in the way of happiness. She did not feel happy now. She felt disposed to cry, not because of the relief of tears, but because she did not know how else to express the sense of contrariety, of disturbance58 that had got into her mind. Was it that already a wrong note had sounded between herself and this unknown mother, whom it had been a rapture59 to see{v2-96} and touch? Or was it only that she was tired? Lady Markham saw the condition into which her nerves and temper were strained. She took her back tenderly into her room. “My dear,” she said, “if you would rather not, don’t change your dress. Do just as you please to-night. I would stay and help you, or I would send Josephine, my maid, to help you; but I think you will prefer to be left alone and quiet.”
“Oh yes,” cried Frances with fervour; then she added hastily, “If you do not think me disagreeable to say so.”
“I am not prepared to think anything in you disagreeable, my dear,” said her mother, kissing her—but with a sigh. This sigh Frances echoed in a burst of tears when the door closed and she found herself alone—alone, quite alone, more so than she had ever been in her life, she whispered to herself, in the shock of the unreasonable60 and altogether fantastic disappointment which had followed her ecstasy of pleasure. Most likely it meant nothing at all but the reaction from that too highly raised level of feeling.{v2-97}
“No; I am not disappointed,” Lady Markham was saying down-stairs. She was standing61 before the genial62 blaze of the fire, looking into it with her head bent63 and a serious expression on her face. “Perhaps I was too much delighted for a moment; but she, poor child, now that she has looked at me a second time, she is a little, just a little disappointed in me. That’s rather hard for a mother, you know; or I suppose you don’t know.”
“I never was a mother,” said Markham. “I should think it’s very natural. The little thing has been forming the most romantic ideas. If you had been an angel from heaven——”
“Which I am not,” she said with a smile, still looking into the fire.
“Heaven be praised,” said Markham. “In that case, you would not have suited me—which you do, mammy, you know, down to the ground.”
She gave a half glance at him, a half smile, but did not disturb the chain of her reflections. “That’s something, Markham,” she said.
{v2-98}
“Yes; it’s something. On my side, it is a great deal. Don’t go too fast with little Fan. She has a deal in her. Have a little patience, and let her settle down her own way.”
“I don’t feel sure that she has not got her father’s temper; I saw something like it in her eyes.”
“That is nonsense, begging your pardon. She has got nothing of her father in her eyes. Her eyes are like yours, and so is everything about her. My dear mother, Con’s like Waring, if you like. This one is of our side of the house.”
“Do you really think so?” Lady Markham looked up now and laid her hand affectionately upon his shoulder, and laughed. “But, my dear boy, you are as like the Markhams as you can look. On my side of the house, there is nobody at all, unless, as you say——”
“Frances,” said the little man. “I told you—the best of the lot. I took to her in a moment by that very token. Therefore, don’t go too fast with her, mother. She has her own {v2-99}notions. She is as stanch64 as a little—Turk,” said Markham, using the first word that offered. When he met his mother’s eye, he retired65 a little, with the air of a man who does not mean to be questioned; which naturally stimulated66 curiosity in her mind.
“How have you found out that she is stanch, Markham?”
“Oh, in half-a-dozen ways,” he answered, carelessly. “And she will stick to her father through thick and thin, so mind what you say.”
Then Lady Markham began to bemoan67 herself a little gently, before the fire, in the most luxurious of easy-chairs.
“Was ever woman in such a position,” she said, “to be making acquaintance, for the first time, at eighteen, with my own daughter—and to have to pick my words and to be careful what I say?”
“Well, mammy,” said Markham, “it might have been worse. Let us make the best of it. He has always kept his word, which is something, and has never annoyed you. And it is quite a nice thing for Con to have him to go{v2-100} to, to find out how dull it is, and know her own mind. And now we’ve got the other one too.”
Lady Markham still rocked herself a little in her chair, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. “For all that, it is very hard, both on her and me,” she said.
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收听单词发音
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1
con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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7
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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41
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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43
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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45
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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46
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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49
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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50
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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51
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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52
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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53
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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54
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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56
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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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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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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