On Sunday afternoon Alexander remembered Miss Burgoyne’s invitation and called at her apartment. He found it a delightful1 little place and he met charming people there. Hilda lived alone, attended by a very pretty and competent French servant who answered the door and brought in the tea. Alexander arrived early, and some twenty-odd people dropped in during the course of the afternoon. Hugh MacConnell came with his sister, and stood about, managing his tea-cup awkwardly and watching every one out of his deep-set, faded eyes. He seemed to have made a resolute2 effort at tidiness of attire3, and his sister, a robust4, florid woman with a splendid joviality5 about her, kept eyeing his freshly creased6 clothes apprehensively7. It was not very long, indeed, before his coat hung with a discouraged sag8 from his gaunt shoulders and his hair and beard were rumpled9 as if he had been out in a gale10. His dry humor went under a cloud of absent-minded kindliness11 which, Mainhall explained, always overtook him here. He was never so witty12 or so sharp here as elsewhere, and Alexander thought he behaved as if he were an elderly relative come in to a young girl’s party.
The editor of a monthly review came with his wife, and Lady Kildare, the Irish philanthropist, brought her young nephew, Robert Owen, who had come up from Oxford14, and who was visibly excited and gratified by his first introduction to Miss Burgoyne. Hilda was very nice to him, and he sat on the edge of his chair, flushed with his conversational15 efforts and moving his chin about nervously16 over his high collar. Sarah Frost, the novelist, came with her husband, a very genial17 and placid18 old scholar who had become slightly deranged19 upon the subject of the fourth dimension. On other matters he was perfectly20 rational and he was easy and pleasing in conversation. He looked very much like Agassiz, and his wife, in her old-fashioned black silk dress, overskirted and tight-sleeved, reminded Alexander of the early pictures of Mrs. Browning. Hilda seemed particularly fond of this quaint21 couple, and Bartley himself was so pleased with their mild and thoughtful converse22 that he took his leave when they did, and walked with them over to Oxford Street, where they waited for their ‘bus. They asked him to come to see them in Chelsea, and they spoke23 very tenderly of Hilda. “She’s a dear, unworldly little thing,” said the philosopher absently; “more like the stage people of my young days — folk of simple manners. There aren’t many such left. American tours have spoiled them, I’m afraid. They have all grown very smart. Lamb wouldn’t care a great deal about many of them, I fancy.”
Alexander went back to Bedford Square a second Sunday afternoon. He had a long talk with MacConnell, but he got no word with Hilda alone, and he left in a discontented state of mind. For the rest of the week he was nervous and unsettled, and kept rushing his work as if he were preparing for immediate24 departure. On Thursday afternoon he cut short a committee meeting, jumped into a hansom, and drove to Bedford Square. He sent up his card, but it came back to him with a message scribbled25 across the front.
So sorry I can’t see you. Will you come and
dine with me Sunday evening at half-past seven?
H.B.
When Bartley arrived at Bedford Square on Sunday evening, Marie, the pretty little French girl, met him at the door and conducted him upstairs. Hilda was writing in her living-room, under the light of a tall desk lamp. Bartley recognized the primrose26 satin gown she had worn that first evening at Lady Walford’s.
“I’m so pleased that you think me worth that yellow dress, you know,” he said, taking her hand and looking her over admiringly from the toes of her canary slippers27 to her smoothly28 parted brown hair. “Yes, it’s very, very pretty. Every one at Lady Walford’s was looking at it.”
Hilda curtsied. “Is that why you think it pretty? I’ve no need for fine clothes in Mac’s play this time, so I can afford a few duddies for myself. It’s owing to that same chance, by the way, that I am able to ask you to dinner. I don’t need Marie to dress me this season, so she keeps house for me, and my little Galway girl has gone home for a visit. I should never have asked you if Molly had been here, for I remember you don’t like English cookery.”
Alexander walked about the room, looking at everything.
“I haven’t had a chance yet to tell you what a jolly little place I think this is. Where did you get those etchings? They’re quite unusual, aren’t they?”
“Lady Westmere sent them to me from Rome last Christmas. She is very much interested in the American artist who did them. They are all sketches30 made about the Villa31 d’Este, you see. He painted that group of cypresses32 for the Salon33, and it was bought for the Luxembourg.”
Alexander walked over to the bookcases. “It’s the air of the whole place here that I like. You haven’t got anything that doesn’t belong. Seems to me it looks particularly well to-night. And you have so many flowers. I like these little yellow irises34.”
“Rooms always look better by lamplight — in London, at least. Though Marie is clean — really clean, as the French are. Why do you look at the flowers so critically? Marie got them all fresh in Covent Garden market yesterday morning.”
“I’m glad,” said Alexander simply. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you so pretty and comfortable here, and to hear every one saying such nice things about you. You’ve got awfully35 nice friends,” he added humbly36, picking up a little jade37 elephant from her desk. “Those fellows are all very loyal, even Mainhall. They don’t talk of any one else as they do of you.”
Hilda sat down on the couch and said seriously: “I’ve a neat little sum in the bank, too, now, and I own a mite38 of a hut in Galway. It’s not worth much, but I love it. I’ve managed to save something every year, and that with helping39 my three sisters now and then, and tiding poor Cousin Mike over bad seasons. He’s that gifted, you know, but he will drink and loses more good engagements than other fellows ever get. And I’ve traveled a bit, too.”
Marie opened the door and smilingly announced that dinner was served.
“My dining-room,” Hilda explained, as she led the way, “is the tiniest place you have ever seen.”
It was a tiny room, hung all round with French prints, above which ran a shelf full of china. Hilda saw Alexander look up at it.
“It’s not particularly rare,” she said, “but some of it was my mother’s. Heaven knows how she managed to keep it whole, through all our wanderings, or in what baskets and bundles and theatre trunks it hasn’t been stowed away. We always had our tea out of those blue cups when I was a little girl, sometimes in the queerest lodgings41, and sometimes on a trunk at the theatre — queer theatres, for that matter.”
It was a wonderful little dinner. There was watercress soup, and sole, and a delightful omelette stuffed with mushrooms and truffles, and two small rare ducklings, and artichokes, and a dry yellow Rhone wine of which Bartley had always been very fond. He drank it appreciatively and remarked that there was still no other he liked so well.
“I have some champagne42 for you, too. I don’t drink it myself, but I like to see it behave when it’s poured. There is nothing else that looks so jolly.”
“Thank you. But I don’t like it so well as this.” Bartley held the yellow wine against the light and squinted43 into it as he turned the glass slowly about. “You have traveled, you say. Have you been in Paris much these late years?”
Hilda lowered one of the candle-shades carefully. “Oh, yes, I go over to Paris often. There are few changes in the old Quarter. Dear old Madame Anger is dead — but perhaps you don’t remember her?”
“Don’t I, though! I’m so sorry to hear it. How did her son turn out? I remember how she saved and scraped for him, and how he always lay abed till ten o’clock. He was the laziest fellow at the Beaux Arts; and that’s saying a good deal.”
“Well, he is still clever and lazy. They say he is a good architect when he will work. He’s a big, handsome creature, and he hates Americans as much as ever. But Angel — do you remember Angel?”
“Perfectly. Did she ever get back to Brittany and her bains de mer?”
“Ah, no. Poor Angel! She got tired of cooking and scouring44 the coppers45 in Madame Anger’s little kitchen, so she ran away with a soldier, and then with another soldier. Too bad! She still lives about the Quarter, and, though there is always a soldat, she has become a blanchisseuse de fin29. She did my blouses beautifully the last time I was there, and was so delighted to see me again. I gave her all my old clothes, even my old hats, though she always wears her Breton headdress. Her hair is still like flax, and her blue eyes are just like a baby’s, and she has the same three freckles46 on her little nose, and talks about going back to her bains de mer.”
Bartley looked at Hilda across the yellow light of the candles and broke into a low, happy laugh. “How jolly it was being young, Hilda! Do you remember that first walk we took together in Paris? We walked down to the Place Saint–Michel to buy some lilacs. Do you remember how sweet they smelled?”
“Indeed I do. Come, we’ll have our coffee in the other room, and you can smoke.”
Hilda rose quickly, as if she wished to change the drift of their talk, but Bartley found it pleasant to continue it.
“What a warm, soft spring evening that was,” he went on, as they sat down in the study with the coffee on a little table between them; “and the sky, over the bridges, was just the color of the lilacs. We walked on down by the river, didn’t we?”
Hilda laughed and looked at him questioningly. He saw a gleam in her eyes that he remembered even better than the episode he was recalling.
“I think we did,” she answered demurely47. “It was on the Quai we met that woman who was crying so bitterly. I gave her a spray of lilac, I remember, and you gave her a franc. I was frightened at your prodigality48.”
“I expect it was the last franc I had. What a strong brown face she had, and very tragic49. She looked at us with such despair and longing50, out from under her black shawl. What she wanted from us was neither our flowers nor our francs, but just our youth. I remember it touched me so. I would have given her some of mine off my back, if I could. I had enough and to spare then,” Bartley mused51, and looked thoughtfully at his cigar.
They were both remembering what the woman had said when she took the money: “God give you a happy love!” It was not in the ingratiating tone of the habitual52 beggar: it had come out of the depths of the poor creature’s sorrow, vibrating with pity for their youth and despair at the terribleness of human life; it had the anguish53 of a voice of prophecy. Until she spoke, Bartley had not realized that he was in love. The strange woman, and her passionate54 sentence that rang out so sharply, had frightened them both. They went home sadly with the lilacs, back to the Rue55 Saint–Jacques, walking very slowly, arm in arm. When they reached the house where Hilda lodged56, Bartley went across the court with her, and up the dark old stairs to the third landing; and there he had kissed her for the first time. He had shut his eyes to give him the courage, he remembered, and she had trembled so —
Bartley started when Hilda rang the little bell beside her. “Dear me, why did you do that? I had quite forgotten — I was back there. It was very jolly,” he murmured lazily, as Marie came in to take away the coffee.
Hilda laughed and went over to the piano. “Well, we are neither of us twenty now, you know. Have I told you about my new play? Mac is writing one; really for me this time. You see, I’m coming on.”
“I’ve seen nothing else. What kind of a part is it? Shall you wear yellow gowns? I hope so.”
He was looking at her round slender figure, as she stood by the piano, turning over a pile of music, and he felt the energy in every line of it.
“No, it isn’t a dress-up part. He doesn’t seem to fancy me in fine feathers. He says I ought to be minding the pigs at home, and I suppose I ought. But he’s given me some good Irish songs. Listen.”
She sat down at the piano and sang. When she finished, Alexander shook himself out of a reverie.
“Sing ‘The Harp13 That Once,’ Hilda. You used to sing it so well.”
“Nonsense. Of course I can’t really sing, except the way my mother and grandmother did before me. Most actresses nowadays learn to sing properly, so I tried a master; but he confused me, just!”
Alexander laughed. “All the same, sing it, Hilda.”
Hilda started up from the stool and moved restlessly toward the window. “It’s really too warm in this room to sing. Don’t you feel it?”
Alexander went over and opened the window for her. “Aren’t you afraid to let the wind low like that on your neck? Can’t I get a scarf or something?”
“Ask a theatre lady if she’s afraid of drafts!” Hilda laughed. “But perhaps, as I’m so warm — give me your handkerchief. There, just in front.” He slipped the corners carefully under her shoulder-straps. “There, that will do. It looks like a bib.” She pushed his hand away quickly and stood looking out into the deserted57 square. “Isn’t London a tomb on Sunday night?”
Alexander caught the agitation58 in her voice. He stood a little behind her, and tried to steady himself as he said: “It’s soft and misty59. See how white the stars are.”
For a long time neither Hilda nor Bartley spoke. They stood close together, looking out into the wan40, watery60 sky, breathing always more quickly and lightly, and it seemed as if all the clocks in the world had stopped. Suddenly he moved the clenched61 hand he held behind him and dropped it violently at his side. He felt a tremor62 run through the slender yellow figure in front of him.
She caught his handkerchief from her throat and thrust it at him without turning round. “Here, take it. You must go now, Bartley. Good-night.”
Bartley leaned over her shoulder, without touching63 her, and whispered in her ear: “You are giving me a chance?”
“Yes. Take it and go. This isn’t fair, you know. Good-night.”
Alexander unclenched the two hands at his sides. With one he threw down the window and with the other — still standing64 behind her — he drew her back against him.
She uttered a little cry, threw her arms over her head, and drew his face down to hers. “Are you going to let me love you a little, Bartley?” she whispered.
收听单词发音 |
1
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
resolute
|
|
| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
attire
|
|
| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
robust
|
|
| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
joviality
|
|
| n.快活 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
creased
|
|
| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
apprehensively
|
|
| adv.担心地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
sag
|
|
| v.下垂，下跌，消沉；n.下垂，下跌，凹陷，[航海]随风漂流 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
rumpled
|
|
| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
gale
|
|
| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
kindliness
|
|
| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
witty
|
|
| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
harp
|
|
| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
conversational
|
|
| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
placid
|
|
| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
deranged
|
|
| adj.疯狂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
quaint
|
|
| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
converse
|
|
| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
scribbled
|
|
| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
primrose
|
|
| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
slippers
|
|
| n. 拖鞋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
smoothly
|
|
| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
fin
|
|
| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
sketches
|
|
| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
villa
|
|
| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
cypresses
|
|
| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
salon
|
|
| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
irises
|
|
| n.虹( iris的名词复数 )；虹膜；虹彩；鸢尾（花） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
humbly
|
|
| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
jade
|
|
| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
mite
|
|
| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
helping
|
|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
wan
|
|
| (wide area network)广域网 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
lodgings
|
|
| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
squinted
|
|
| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
scouring
|
|
| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
coppers
|
|
| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
freckles
|
|
| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
demurely
|
|
| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
prodigality
|
|
| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
mused
|
|
| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
habitual
|
|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
rue
|
|
| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
lodged
|
|
| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
agitation
|
|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
misty
|
|
| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
watery
|
|
| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
clenched
|
|
| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
tremor
|
|
| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |