On the night of his arrival in London, Alexander went immediately to the hotel on the Embankment at which he always stopped, and in the lobby he was accosted1 by an old acquaintance, Maurice Mainhall, who fell upon him with effusive2 cordiality and indicated a willingness to dine with him. Bartley never dined alone if he could help it, and Mainhall was a good gossip who always knew what had been going on in town; especially, he knew everything that was not printed in the newspapers. The nephew of one of the standard Victorian novelists, Mainhall bobbed about among the various literary cliques3 of London and its outlying suburbs, careful to lose touch with none of them. He had written a number of books himself; among them a “History of Dancing,” a “History of Costume,” a “Key to Shakespeare’s Sonnets,” a study of “The Poetry of Ernest Dowson,” etc. Although Mainhall’s enthusiasm was often tiresome4, and although he was often unable to distinguish between facts and vivid figments of his imagination, his imperturbable5 good nature overcame even the people whom he bored most, so that they ended by becoming, in a reluctant manner, his friends. In appearance, Mainhall was astonishingly like the conventional stage-Englishman of American drama: tall and thin, with high, hitching6 shoulders and a small head glistening7 with closely brushed yellow hair. He spoke8 with an extreme Oxford9 accent, and when he was talking well, his face sometimes wore the rapt expression of a very emotional man listening to music. Mainhall liked Alexander because he was an engineer. He had preconceived ideas about everything, and his idea about Americans was that they should be engineers or mechanics. He hated them when they presumed to be anything else.
While they sat at dinner Mainhall acquainted Bartley with the fortunes of his old friends in London, and as they left the table he proposed that they should go to see Hugh MacConnell’s new comedy, “Bog10 Lights.”
“It’s really quite the best thing MacConnell’s done,” he explained as they got into a hansom. “It’s tremendously well put on, too. Florence Merrill and Cyril Henderson. But Hilda Burgoyne’s the hit of the piece. Hugh’s written a delightful11 part for her, and she’s quite inexpressible. It’s been on only two weeks, and I’ve been half a dozen times already. I happen to have MacConnell’s box for tonight or there’d be no chance of our getting places. There’s everything in seeing Hilda while she’s fresh in a part. She’s apt to grow a bit stale after a time. The ones who have any imagination do.”
“Hilda Burgoyne!” Alexander exclaimed mildly. “Why, I haven’t heard of her for — years.”
Mainhall laughed. “Then you can’t have heard much at all, my dear Alexander. It’s only lately, since MacConnell and his set have got hold of her, that she’s come up. Myself, I always knew she had it in her. If we had one real critic in London — but what can one expect? Do you know, Alexander,” — Mainhall looked with perplexity up into the top of the hansom and rubbed his pink cheek with his gloved finger, — “do you know, I sometimes think of taking to criticism seriously myself. In a way, it would be a sacrifice; but, dear me, we do need some one.”
Just then they drove up to the Duke of York’s, so Alexander did not commit himself, but followed Mainhall into the theatre. When they entered the stage-box on the left the first act was well under way, the scene being the interior of a cabin in the south of Ireland. As they sat down, a burst of applause drew Alexander’s attention to the stage. Miss Burgoyne and her donkey were thrusting their heads in at the half door. “After all,” he reflected, “there’s small probability of her recognizing me. She doubtless hasn’t thought of me for years.” He felt the enthusiasm of the house at once, and in a few moments he was caught up by the current of MacConnell’s irresistible12 comedy. The audience had come forewarned, evidently, and whenever the ragged13 slip of a donkey-girl ran upon the stage there was a deep murmur14 of approbation15, every one smiled and glowed, and Mainhall hitched16 his heavy chair a little nearer the brass17 railing.
“You see,” he murmured in Alexander’s ear, as the curtain fell on the first act, “one almost never sees a part like that done without smartness or mawkishness18. Of course, Hilda is Irish, — the Burgoynes have been stage people for generations, — and she has the Irish voice. It’s delightful to hear it in a London theatre. That laugh, now, when she doubles over at the hips19 — who ever heard it out of Galway? She saves her hand, too. She’s at her best in the second act. She’s really MacConnell’s poetic20 motif21, you see; makes the whole thing a fairy tale.”
The second act opened before Philly Doyle’s underground still, with Peggy and her battered22 donkey come in to smuggle23 a load of potheen across the bog, and to bring Philly word of what was doing in the world without, and of what was happening along the roadsides and ditches with the first gleam of fine weather. Alexander, annoyed by Mainhall’s sighs and exclamations24, watched her with keen, half-skeptical interest. As Mainhall had said, she was the second act; the plot and feeling alike depended upon her lightness of foot, her lightness of touch, upon the shrewdness and deft25 fancifulness that played alternately, and sometimes together, in her mirthful brown eyes. When she began to dance, by way of showing the gossoons what she had seen in the fairy rings at night, the house broke into a prolonged uproar26. After her dance she withdrew from the dialogue and retreated to the ditch wall back of Philly’s burrow27, where she sat singing “The Rising of the Moon” and making a wreath of primroses28 for her donkey.
When the act was over Alexander and Mainhall strolled out into the corridor. They met a good many acquaintances; Mainhall, indeed, knew almost every one, and he babbled29 on incontinently, screwing his small head about over his high collar. Presently he hailed a tall, bearded man, grim-browed and rather battered-looking, who had his opera cloak on his arm and his hat in his hand, and who seemed to be on the point of leaving the theatre.
“MacConnell, let me introduce Mr. Bartley Alexander. I say! It’s going famously to-night, Mac. And what an audience! You’ll never do anything like this again, mark me. A man writes to the top of his bent30 only once.”
The playwright31 gave Mainhall a curious look out of his deep-set faded eyes and made a wry32 face. “And have I done anything so fool as that, now?” he asked.
“That’s what I was saying,” Mainhall lounged a little nearer and dropped into a tone even more conspicuously33 confidential34. “And you’ll never bring Hilda out like this again. Dear me, Mac, the girl couldn’t possibly be better, you know.”
MacConnell grunted35. “She’ll do well enough if she keeps her pace and doesn’t go off on us in the middle of the season, as she’s more than like to do.”
He nodded curtly36 and made for the door, dodging37 acquaintances as he went.
“Poor old Hugh,” Mainhall murmured. “He’s hit terribly hard. He’s been wanting to marry Hilda these three years and more. She doesn’t take up with anybody, you know. Irene Burgoyne, one of her family, told me in confidence that there was a romance somewhere back in the beginning. One of your countrymen, Alexander, by the way; an American student whom she met in Paris, I believe. I dare say it’s quite true that there’s never been any one else.” Mainhall vouched38 for her constancy with a loftiness that made Alexander smile, even while a kind of rapid excitement was tingling39 through him. Blinking up at the lights, Mainhall added in his luxurious40, worldly way: “She’s an elegant little person, and quite capable of an extravagant41 bit of sentiment like that. Here comes Sir Harry42 Towne. He’s another who’s awfully43 keen about her. Let me introduce you. Sir Harry Towne, Mr. Bartley Alexander, the American engineer.”
Sir Harry Towne bowed and said that he had met Mr. Alexander and his wife in Tokyo.
Mainhall cut in impatiently.
“I say, Sir Harry, the little girl’s going famously to-night, isn’t she?”
Sir Harry wrinkled his brows judiciously44. “Do you know, I thought the dance a bit conscious to-night, for the first time. The fact is, she’s feeling rather seedy, poor child. Westmere and I were back after the first act, and we thought she seemed quite uncertain of herself. A little attack of nerves, possibly.”
He bowed as the warning bell rang, and Mainhall whispered: “You know Lord Westmere, of course, — the stooped man with the long gray mustache, talking to Lady Dowle. Lady Westmere is very fond of Hilda.”
When they reached their box the house was darkened and the orchestra was playing “The Cloak of Old Gaul.” In a moment Peggy was on the stage again, and Alexander applauded vigorously with the rest. He even leaned forward over the rail a little. For some reason he felt pleased and flattered by the enthusiasm of the audience. In the half-light he looked about at the stalls and boxes and smiled a little consciously, recalling with amusement Sir Harry’s judicial45 frown. He was beginning to feel a keen interest in the slender, barefoot donkey-girl who slipped in and out of the play, singing, like some one winding46 through a hilly field. He leaned forward and beamed felicitations as warmly as Mainhall himself when, at the end of the play, she came again and again before the curtain, panting a little and flushed, her eyes dancing and her eager, nervous little mouth tremulous with excitement.
When Alexander returned to his hotel — he shook Mainhall at the door of the theatre — he had some supper brought up to his room, and it was late before he went to bed. He had not thought of Hilda Burgoyne for years; indeed, he had almost forgotten her. He had last written to her from Canada, after he first met Winifred, telling her that everything was changed with him — that he had met a woman whom he would marry if he could; if he could not, then all the more was everything changed for him. Hilda had never replied to his letter. He felt guilty and unhappy about her for a time, but after Winifred promised to marry him he really forgot Hilda altogether. When he wrote her that everything was changed for him, he was telling the truth. After he met Winifred Pemberton he seemed to himself like a different man. One night when he and Winifred were sitting together on the bridge, he told her that things had happened while he was studying abroad that he was sorry for, — one thing in particular, — and he asked her whether she thought she ought to know about them. She considered a moment and then said “No, I think not, though I am glad you ask me. You see, one can’t be jealous about things in general; but about particular, definite, personal things,” — here she had thrown her hands up to his shoulders with a quick, impulsive47 gesture — “oh, about those I should be very jealous. I should torture myself — I couldn’t help it.” After that it was easy to forget, actually to forget. He wondered to-night, as he poured his wine, how many times he had thought of Hilda in the last ten years. He had been in London more or less, but he had never happened to hear of her. “All the same,” he lifted his glass, “here’s to you, little Hilda. You’ve made things come your way, and I never thought you’d do it.
“Of course,” he reflected, “she always had that combination of something homely48 and sensible, and something utterly49 wild and daft. But I never thought she’d do anything. She hadn’t much ambition then, and she was too fond of trifles. She must care about the theatre a great deal more than she used to. Perhaps she has me to thank for something, after all. Sometimes a little jolt50 like that does one good. She was a daft, generous little thing. I’m glad she’s held her own since. After all, we were awfully young. It was youth and poverty and proximity51, and everything was young and kindly52. I shouldn’t wonder if she could laugh about it with me now. I shouldn’t wonder — But they’ve probably spoiled her, so that she’d be tiresome if one met her again.”
Bartley smiled and yawned and went to bed.
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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cliques
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| n.小集团，小圈子，派系( clique的名词复数 ) | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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hitching
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| 搭乘； （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的现在分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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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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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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mawkishness
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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vouched
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| v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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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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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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