"No cousin Faith to-night. The rain has prevented her from taking this boat, and she is not likely to come later as she comes alone," said Moor1, returning from a fruitless drive to meet his expected guest one October evening.
"It always rains when I want anything very much. I seem to have a great deal of bad weather in my life," answered Sylvia, despondingly.
"Never mind the rain; let us make sunshine for ourselves, and forget it as children do."
"I wish I was a child again, they are always happy."
"Let us play at being children, then. Let us sit down upon the rug, parch3 corn, crack nuts, roast apples, and be merry in spite of wind or weather."
Sylvia's face brightened, for the fancy pleased her, and she wanted something new and pleasant to divert her thoughts from herself. Glancing at her dress, which was unusually matronly in honor of the occasion, she said smiling--
"I don't look much like a child, but I should like to try and feel like one again if I can."
"Let us both look and feel so as much as possible. You like masquerading; go make a little girl of yourself, while I turn boy, and prepare for our merry making."
No lad could have spoken with a blither face, for Moor had preserved much of the boy in spite of his thirty years. His cheerfulness was so infectious, that Sylvia already began to forget her gloom, and hurried away to do her part. Putting on a short, girlish gown, kept for scrambles6 among the rocks, she improvised7 a pinafore, and braided her long hair a la Morlena Kenwigs, with butterfly bows at the ends. When she went down, she found her husband in garden jacket, collar turned over a ribbon, hair in a curly tumble, and jackknife in hand, seated on the rug before a roaring fire, and a semicircle of apples, whittling8 and whistling like a very boy. They examined one another with mirthful commendations, and Moor began his part by saying--
"Isn't this jolly? Now come and cuddle down here beside me, and see which will keep it up the longest."
"What would Prue say? and who would recognize the elegant Mr. Moor in this big boy? Putting dignity and broadcloth aside makes you look about eighteen, and very charming I find you," said Sylvia, looking about twelve herself, and also very charming.
"Here is a wooden fork for you to tend the roast with, while I see to the corn laws and prepare a vegetable snowstorm. What will you have, little girl, you look as if you wanted something?"
"I was only thinking that I should have a doll to match your knife. I feel as if I should enjoy trotting9 a staring fright on my knee, and singing Hush-a-by. But I fancy even your magic cannot produce such a thing,--can it, my lad?"
"In exactly five minutes a lovely doll will appear, though such a thing has not been seen in my bachelor establishment for years."
With which mysterious announcement Moor ran off, blundering over the ottomans and slamming the doors as a true boy should. Sylvia pricked10 chestnuts11, and began to forget her bosom12 trouble as she wondered what would appear with the impatient curiosity appropriate to the character she had assumed. Presently her husband reappeared with much breeziness of aspect, rain drops in his hair, and a squirming bundle in his arms. Triumphantly13 unfolding many wraps, he displayed little Tilly in her night-gown.
"There is sorcery for you, and a doll worth having; being one of the sort that can shut its eyes; it was going to bed, but its mamma relented and lends it to us for the night. I told Mrs. Dodd you wanted her, and couldn't wait, so she sent her clothes; but the room is so warm let the dear play in her pretty bed-gown."
Sylvia received her lovely plaything with enthusiasm, and Tilly felt herself suddenly transported to a baby's Paradise, where beds were unknown and fruit and freedom were her welcome portion. Merrily popped the corn, nimbly danced the nuts upon the shovel14, lustily remonstrated15 the rosy16 martyrs17 on the hearth18, and cheerfully the minutes slipped away. Sylvia sung every jubilant air she knew, Moor whistled astonishing accompaniments, and Tilly danced over the carpet with nut-shells on her toes, and tried to fill her little gown with "pitty flowers" from its garlands and bouquets19. Without the wind lamented20, the sky wept, and the sea thundered on the shore; but within, youth, innocence21, and love held their blithe5 revel22 undisturbed.
"How are the spirits now?" asked one playmate of the other.
"Quite merry, thank you; and I should think I was little Sylvia again but for the sight of this."
She held up the hand that wore a single ornament23; but the hand had grown so slender since it was first put on, that the ring would have fallen had she not caught it at her finger-tip. There was nothing of the boy in her companion's face, as he said, with an anxious look--
"If you go on thinning so fast I shall begin to fear that the little wife is not happy with her old husband. Is she, dear?"
"She would be a most ungrateful woman if she were not. I always get thin as winter comes on, but I'm so careless I'll find a guard for my ring to-morrow."
"No need to wait till then; wear this to please me, and let Marion's cipher24 signify that you are _mine_."
With a gravity that touched her more than the bestowal25 of so dear a relic26, Moor unslung a signet ring from his watchguard, and with some difficulty pressed it to its place on Sylvia's finger, a most effectual keeper for that other ring whose tenure27 seemed so slight. She shrunk a little and glanced up at him, because his touch was more firm than tender, and his face wore a masterful expression seldom seen there; for instinct, subtler than perception, prompted both act and aspect. Then her eye fell and fixed28 upon the dark stone with the single letter engraved29 upon its tiny oval, and to her it took a double significance as her husband held it there, claiming her again, with that emphatic30 "Mine." She did not speak, but something in her manner caused the fold between his brows to smooth itself away as he regarded the small hand lying passively in his, and said, half playfully, half earnestly--
"Forgive me if I hurt you, but you know my wooing is not over yet; and till you love me with a perfect love I cannot feel that my wife is wholly mine."
"I am so young, you know; when I am a woman grown I can give you a woman's love; now it is a girl's, you say. Wait for me, Geoffrey, a little longer, for indeed I do my best to be all you would have me."
Something brought tears into her eyes and made her lips tremble, but in a breath the smile came back, and she added gayly--
"How can I help being grave sometimes, and getting thin, with so many housekeeping cares upon my shoulders, and such an exacting31, tyrannical husband to wear upon my nerves. Don't I look like the most miserable32 of wives?"
She did not certainly as she shook the popper laughingly, and looked over her shoulder at him, with the bloom of fire-light on her cheeks, its cheerfulness in her eyes.
"Keep that expression for every day wear, and I am satisfied. I want no tame Griselda, but the little girl who once said she was always happy with me. Assure me of that, and, having won my Leah, I can work and wait still longer for my Rachel. Bless the baby! what has she done to herself now?"
Tilly had retired33 behind the sofa, after she had swarmed34 over every chair and couch, examined everything within her reach, on _etagere_ and table, embraced the Hebe in the corner, played a fantasia on the piano, and choked herself with the stopper of the odor bottle. A doleful wail35 betrayed her hiding place, and she now emerged with a pair of nutcrackers, ditto of pinched fingers, and an expression of great mental and bodily distress36. Her woes37 vanished instantaneously, however, when the feast was announced, and she performed an unsteady _pas seul_ about the banquet, varied38 by skirmishes with her long night-gown and darts39 at any unguarded viand that tempted40 her.
No ordinary table service would suit the holders41 of this fireside _fete_. The corn was heaped in a bronze urn2, the nuts in a graceful42 basket, the apples lay on a plate of curiously43 ancient china, and the water turned to wine through the medium of a purple flagon of Bohemian glass. The refection was spread upon the rug as on a flowery table, and all the lustres were lighted, filling the room with a festal glow. Prue would have held up her hands in dismay, like the benighted44 piece of excellence45 she was, but Mark would have enjoyed the picturesque46 group and sketched47 a mate to the Golden Wedding. For Moor, armed with the wooden fork, did the honors; Sylvia, leaning on her arm, dropped corn after corn into a baby mouth that bird-like always gaped48 for more; and Tilly lay luxuriously50 between them, warming her little feet as she ate and babbled51 to the flames.
The clock was on the stroke of eight, the revel at its height, when the door opened and a servant announced--
"Miss Dane and Mr. Warwick."
An impressive pause followed, broken by a crow from Tilly, who seized this propitious52 moment to bury one hand in the nuts and with the other capture the big red apple which had been denied her. The sound seemed to dissipate the blank surprise that had fallen on all parties, and brought both host and hostess to their feet, the former exclaiming, heartily--
"Welcome, friends, to a modern saturnalia and the bosom of the Happy Family!"
"I fear you did not expect me so late," said Miss Dane. "I was detained at the time fixed upon and gave it up, but Mr. Warwick came, and we set off together. Pray don't disturb yourselves, but let us enjoy the game with you."
"You and Adam are guests who never come too early or too late. We are playing children to-night, so just put yourselves back a dozen years and let us all be merry together. Sylvia, this our cousin, Faith here is your new kinswoman. Please love one another as little people are commanded to do."
A short stir ensued while hands were shaken, wraps put off, and some degree of order restored to the room, then they all sat down and began to talk. With well bred oblivion of the short gown and long braids of her bashful-looking hostess, Miss Dane suggested and discussed various subjects of mutual53 interest, while Sylvia tried to keep her eyes from wandering to the mirror opposite, which reflected the figures of her husband and his friend.
Warwick sat erect54 in the easy-chair, for he never lounged; and Moor, still supporting his character, was perched upon the arm, talking with boyish vivacity55. Every sense being unwontedly alert, Sylvia found herself listening to both guests at once, and bearing her own part in one conversation so well that occasional lapses56 were only attributed to natural embarrassment57. What she and Miss Dane said she never remembered; what the other pair talked of she never forgot. The first words she caught were her husband's.
"You see I have begun to live for myself, Adam."
"I also see that it agrees with you excellently."
"Better than with you, for you are not looking like your old self, though June made you happy, I hope?"
"If freedom is happiness it did."
"Are you still alone?"
"More so than ever."
Sylvia lost the next words, for a look showed her Moor's hand on Adam's shoulder, and that for the first time within her memory Warwick did not meet his friend's glance with one as open, but bent58 his eyes upon the ground, while his hand went to and fro across his lips as if to steady them. It was a gesture she remembered well, for though self-control could keep the eye clear, the voice firm, that half-hidden mouth of his sometimes rebelled and grew tremulous as a woman's. The sight and the answer set her heart beating with the thought, "Why has he come?" The repetition of a question by Miss Dane recalled her from a dangerous memory, and when that friendly lady entered upon another long sentence to relieve her young hostess, she heard Moor say--
"You have had too much solitude59, Adam; I am sure of it, for no man can live long alone and not get the uncanny look you have. What have you been at?"
"Fighting the old fight with this unruly self of mine, and getting ready for another tussle60 with the Adversary61, in whatever shape he may appear."
"And now you are come to your friend for the social solace62 which the haughtiest63 heart hungers for when most alone. You shall have it. Stay with us, Adam, and remember that whatever changes come to me my home is always yours."
"I know it, Geoffrey. I wanted to see your happiness before I go away again, and should like to stay with you a day or so if you are sure that--that she would like it."
Moor laughed and pulled a lock of the brown mane, as if to tease the lion into a display of the spirit he seemed to have lost.
"How shy you are of speaking the new name! 'She' will like it, I assure you, for she makes my friends hers. Sylvia, come here, and tell Adam he is welcome; he dares to doubt it. Come and talk over old times, while I do the same with Faith."
She went, trembling inwardly, but outwardly composed, for she took refuge in one of those commonplace acts which in such moments we gladly perform, and bless in our secret souls. She had often wondered where they would next meet, and how she should comport64 herself at such a trying time. She had never imagined that he would come in this way, or that a hearth-brush would save her from the betrayal of emotion. So it was, however, and an involuntary smile passed over her face as she managed to say quite naturally, while brushing the nutshells tidily out of sight--
"You know you are always welcome, Mr. Warwick. 'Adam's Room,' as we call it, is always ready, and Geoffrey was wishing for you only yesterday."
"I am sure of his satisfaction at my coming, can I be equally sure of yours. May I, ought I to stay?"
He leaned forward as he spoke4, with an eager yet submissive look, that Sylvia dared not meet, and in her anxiety to preserve her self-possession, she forgot that to this listener every uttered word became a truth, because his own were always so.
"Why not, if you can bear our quiet life, for we are a Darby and Joan already, though we do not look so to-night, I acknowledge."
Men seldom understand the subterfuges65 women instinctively66 use to conceal67 many a natural emotion which they are not strong enough to control, not brave enough to confess. To Warwick, Sylvia seemed almost careless, her words a frivolous68 answer to the real meaning of his question, her smile one of tranquil69 welcome. Her manner wrought70 an instant change in him, and when he spoke again he was the Warwick of a year ago.
"I hesitated, Mrs. Moor, because I have sometimes heard young wives complain that their husbands' friends were marplots, and I have no desire to be one."
This speech, delivered with frosty gravity, made Sylvia as cool and quiet as itself. She put her ally down, looked full at Warwick, and said with a blending of dignity and cordiality which even the pinafore could not destroy--
"Please to consider yourself a specially71 invited guest, now and always. Never hesitate, but come and go as freely as you used to do, for nothing need be changed between us three because two of us have one home to offer you."
"Thanks; and now that the hearth is scrupulously72 clean may I offer you a chair?"
The old keenness was in his eye, the old firmness about the mouth, the old satirical smile on his lips as Warwick presented the seat, with an inclination73 that to her seemed ironical74. She sat down, but when she cast about her mind for some safe and easy topic to introduce, every idea had fled; even memory and fancy turned traitors75; not a lively sally could be found, not a pleasant remembrance returned to help her, and she sat dumb. Before the dreadful pause grew awkward, however, rescue came in the form of Tilly. Nothing daunted76 by the severe simplicity77 of her attire78 she planted herself before Warwick, and shaking her hair out of her eyes stared at him with an inquiring glance and cheeks as red as her apple. She seemed satisfied in a moment, and climbing to his knee established herself there, coolly taking possession of his watch, and examining the brown beard curiously as it parted with the white flash of teeth, when Warwick smiled his warmest smile.
"This recalls the night you fed the sparrow in your hand. Do you remember, Adam?" and Sylvia looked and spoke like her old self again.
"I seldom forget anything. But pleasant as that hour was this is more to me, for the bird flew away, the baby stays and gives me what I need."
He wrapt the child closer in his arms, leaned his dark head on the bright one, and took the little feet into his hand with a fatherly look that caused Tilly to pat his cheek and begin an animated79 recital80 of some nursery legend, which ended in a sudden gape49, reminding Sylvia that one of her guests was keeping late hours.
"What comes next?" asked Warwick.
"Now I lay me and byelow in the trib," answered Tilly, stretching herself over his arm with a great yawn.
Warwick kissed the rosy half-open mouth and seemed loth to part with the pious81 baby, for he took the shawl Sylvia brought and did up the drowsy82 bundle himself. While so busied she stole a furtive83 glance at him, having looked without seeing before. Thinner and browner, but stronger than ever was the familiar face she saw, yet neither sad nor stern, for the grave gentleness which had been a fugitive84 expression before now seemed habitual85. This, with the hand at the lips and the slow dropping of the eyes, were the only tokens of the sharp experience he had been passing through. Born for conflict and endurance, he seemed to have manfully accepted the sweet uses of adversity and grown the richer for his loss.
Those who themselves are quick to suffer, are also quick to see the marks of suffering in others; that hasty scrutiny86 assured Sylvia of all she had yearned87 to know, yet wrung88 her heart with a pity the deeper for its impotence. Tilly's heavy head drooped89 between her bearer and the light as they left the room, but in the dusky hall a few hot tears fell on the baby's hair, and her new nurse lingered long after the lullaby was done. When she reappeared the girlish dress was gone, and she was Madam Moor again, as her husband called her when she assumed her stately air. All smiled at the change, but he alone spoke of it.
"I win the applause, Sylvia; for I sustain my character to the end, while you give up before the curtain falls. You are not so good an actress as I thought you."
"No, I find I cannot be a child again."
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收听单词发音
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1
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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parch
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| v.烤干，焦干 | |
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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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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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6
scrambles
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| n.抢夺( scramble的名词复数 )v.快速爬行( scramble的第三人称单数 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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7
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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8
whittling
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的现在分词 ) | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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10
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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11
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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12
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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13
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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15
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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23
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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35
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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36
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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38
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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39
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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40
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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41
holders
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| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
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42
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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43
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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46
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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47
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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48
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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49
gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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50
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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51
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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52
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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haughtiest
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的最高级形式 | |
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comport
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| vi.相称，适合 | |
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subterfuges
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| n.（用说谎或欺骗以逃脱责备、困难等的）花招，遁词( subterfuge的名词复数 ) | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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