Up to the present, however, this training had scarcely come to Miss Oliphant. She was almost without relations and she was possessed3 of more money than she knew what to do with. She had great abilities and loved learning for the sake of learning, but till she came to St. Benet's, her education had been as desultory4 as her life. She had never been to school; her governess only taught her what she chose to learn. As a child she was very fickle5 in this respect, working hard from morning till night one day but idling the whole of the next. When she was fifteen her guardian6 took her to Rome. The next two years were spent in traveling, and Maggie, who knew nothing properly, picked up that kind of superficial miscellaneous knowledge which made her conversation brilliant and added to her many charms.
"You shall be brought out early," her guardian had said to her. "You are not educated in the stereotyped7 fashion, but you know enough. After you are seventeen I will get you a suitable chaperon and you shall live in London."
This scheme, however, was not carried out. For, shortly after her seventeenth birthday, Maggie Oliphant met a girl whose beauty and brilliance8 were equal to her own, whose nature was stronger and who had been carefully trained in heart and mind while Maggie had been neglected. Miss Lee was going through a course of training at St. Benet's College for Women at Kingsdene. She was an uncommon9 girl in every sense of the word. The expression of her lovely face was as piquant10 as its features were beautiful; her eyes were dark as night; they also possessed the depth of the tenderest, sweetest summer night, subjugating11 all those who came in contact with her. Annabel Lee won Maggie's warmest affections at once; she determined12 to join her friend at St. Benet's. She spoke13 with ineffable14 scorn of her London season and resolved, with that enthusiasm which was the strongest part of her nature, to become a student in reality. Under Annabel's guidance she took up the course of study which was necessary to enable her to pass her entrance examination. She acquitted15 herself well, for her abilities were of the highest order, and entered the college with eclat16. Miss Lee was a student in Heath Hall, and Maggie thought herself supremely17 happy when she was given a room next to her friend.
Those were brilliant days at the hall. Some girls resided there at this time whose names were destined19 to be known in the world by and by. The workers were earnest; the tone which pervaded20 the life at Heath Hall was distinctly high. Shallow girls there must always be where any number are to be found together, but, during Maggie Oliphant's first year, these girls had little chance of coming to the front. Maggie, who was as easily influenced as a wave is tossed by the wind, rose quickly to the heights with her companions. Her splendid intellect developed each day. She was merry with the merry, glad with the glad, studious with the studious. She was also generous, kind and unselfish in company with those girls who observed the precepts21 of the higher life. Next to Miss Lee, Maggie was one of the most popular girls in the college. Annabel Lee had the kindest of hearts, as well as the most fascinating of ways. She was an extraordinary girl; there was a great deal of the exotic about her; in many ways she was old for her years. No one ever thought or spoke of her as a prig, but all her influence was brought to bear in the right direction. The girl who could do or think meanly avoided the expression of Annabel's beautiful eyes. It was impossible for her to think badly of her fellow-creatures, but meanness and sin made her sorrowful. There was not a girl in Heath Hall who would willingly give Annabel Lee sorrow.
In the days that followed people knew that she was one of those rare and brilliant creatures who, like a lovely but too ethereal flower, must quickly bloom into perfection and then pass away. Annabel was destined to a short life, and after her death the high tone of Heath Hall deteriorated22 considerably23.
This girl was a born leader. When she died no other girl in the college could take her place, and for many a long day those who had loved her were conscious of a sense which meant a loss of headship. In short, they were without their leader.
If Annabel in her gaiety and brightness could influence girls who were scarcely more than acquaintances, the effect of her strong personality on Maggie was supreme18. Maggie often said that she never knew what love meant until she met Annabel. The two girls were inseparable; their love for each other was compared to that of Jonathan and David of Bible story and of Orestes and Pylades of Greek legend. The society of each gave the other the warmest pleasure.
Annabel and Maggie were both so beautiful in appearance, so far above the average girl in their pose, their walk, their manner that people noticed these friends wherever they went. A young and rising artist, who saw them once at St. Hilda's, begged permission to make a picture of the pair. It was done during the summer recess24 before Annabel died and made a sensation in the next year's Academy. Many of the visitors who went there stopped and looked at the two faces, both in the perfection of their youthful bloom and beauty. Few guessed that one even now had gone to the Home best fitted for so ardent25 and high a spirit.
Annabel Lee died a year before Priscilla came to the college. Whatever Maggie inwardly felt, she had got over her first grief; her smile was again as brilliant as when Annabel Lee was by her side, her laugh was as merry; but the very few who could look a little way into Maggie's perverse and passionate26 heart knew well that something had died in her which could never live again, that her laugh was often hollow and her brilliant smile had only a foundation in bitterness.
Maggie did not only grieve for her friend when she mourned for Annabel. She had loved her most deeply, and love alone would have caused her agony in such a loss; but Maggie's keenest and most terrible feelings were caused by an unavailing regret.
This regret was connected with Geoffrey Hammond.
He had known Annabel from her childhood. He was an old friend of some of her friends, and during those last, long summer holidays, which the two girls spent together under the roof of Maggie's guardian, Hammond, who was staying with relations not far away, came to see them almost daily. He was the kind of man who could win both respect and admiration27; he was grave in his nature and his aspirations28, aims and ambitions were high. In their conversations during this lovely summer weather these young people dreamt happy dreams together and planned a future which meant good to all mankind. Maggie, to all appearance, was heart and soul with Annabel and Geoffrey in what they thought and said.
Nothing could have been simpler or more unconventional than the intercourse29 between these young people. Miss Lee had known Hammond all her life; Maggie always spoke and thought of herself as second to Annabel in Geoffrey Hammond's regard. One brilliant autumn day, however, he surprised Maggie by asking her to take a long walk alone with him. No words were said during this ramble30 to open Maggie Oliphant's eyes to the true state of Hammond's feelings for her, but when she returned from her walk she could not help noticing Annabel Lee's unaccountable depression. It was not until later, however, that Maggie attributed a certain pathetic, almost heart-broken, look in her friend's lovely eyes to its true cause.
Hammond was a graduate of St. Hilda's College at Kingsdene, and the three friends often talked of the happy meetings they would have during the coming winter. He was a man of large property, and the favorite amusement of these young people was in talking over the brilliant life which lay before Hammond when he took possession of his estates. He would be the ideal landlord of his age; the people who lived on his property would, when he attained31 his majority, enter into a millennium32 of bliss33.
Maggie returned to St. Benet's, imagining herself quite heart-whole, but happiness shone out of her eyes, and there was a new, tender ring in her voice for which she could not account to herself and which added a new fascination34 to her beauty.
Shortly after the commencement of the term Hammond met Miss Oliphant by accident just outside Kingsdene.
"I was going to post a letter to you," he said. His face was unusually pale, his eyes full of joy and yet of solicitude35.
"You can tell me what you have written," replied Maggie in her gayest voice.
"No, I would rather you read my letter."
He thrust it into her hand and immediately, to her astonishment36, left her.
As she walked home through the frosty air she opened Hammond's letter and read its contents. It contained an earnest appeal for her love and an assurance that all the happiness of the writer's future life depended on her consenting to marry him. Would she be his wife when her three years' term at St. Benet's came to an end?
No letter could be more manly37, more simple. Its contents went straight to the depths of a heart easily swayed and full of strong affection.
"Yes, I love him," whispered the girl; "I did not know it until I read this letter, but I am sure of myself now. Yes, I love him better than any one else in the world."
A joyous38 light filled Maggie's brown eyes; her heart was gay. She rushed to Annabel's room to tell her news and to claim the sympathy which had never hitherto been denied her and which was essential to the completion of her happiness.
When Maggie entered her friend's room she saw, to her surprise, that Annabel was lying on her bed with flushed cheeks. Two hours before she had been, to all appearance, in brilliant health; now her face burned with fever and her beautiful dark eyes were glazed39 with pain.
Maggie rushed up and kissed her. "What is it; darling," she asked; "what is wrong? You look ill; your eyes have a strange expression."
Annabel's reply was scarcely audible. The pain and torpor40 of her last short illness were already overmastering her. Maggie was alarmed at the burning touch of her hand, but she had no experience to guide her and her own great joy to make her selfish.
"Annabel, look at me for a moment. I have wonderful news to give you."
Annabel's eyes were closed, She opened them wide at this appeal for sympathy, stretched out her hand and pushed back a tangle41 of bright hair from Maggie's brow.
"I love you, Maggie," she said in that voice which had always power to thrill its listeners.
Maggie kissed her friend's hand and pressed it to her own beating heart. "I met Geoffrey Hammond today," she said. "He gave me a letter; I have read it. Oh, Annabel, Annabel! I can be good now. No more bad half-hours, no more struggles with myself. I can be very good now."
With some slight difficulty Annabel Lee drew her hot hand away from Maggie's fervent42 clasp; her eyes, slightly distended43, were fixed44 on her friend's face; the flush of fever left her cheeks; a hot flood of emotion seemed to press against her beating heart; she looked at Maggie with passionate longing45.
"What is it?" she asked in a husky whisper. "Why are you so glad, Maggie? Why can you be good now?"
"Because I love Geoffrey Hammond," answered Maggie; "I love him with all my heart, all my life, all my strength, and he loves me. He has asked me to be his wife."
Maggie paused. She expected to feel Annabel's arms round her neck; she waited impatiently for this last crowning moment of bliss. Her own happiness caused her to lower her eyes; her joy was so dazzling that for a moment she felt she must shade their brilliance even from Annabel's gaze.
Instead of the pressure of loving arms, however, and the warm kiss of sympathy, there came a low cry from the lips of the sick girl. She made an effort to say something, but words failed her: the next moment she was unconscious. Maggie rushed to the bell and gave an alarm, which brought Miss Heath and one or two servants to the room.
A doctor was speedily sent for, and Maggie Oliphant was banished46 from the room. She never saw Annabel Lee again. That night the sick girl was removed to the hospital, which was in a building apart from the halls, and two days afterward47 she was dead.
Typhus fever was raging at Kingsdene at this time, and Annabel Lee had taken it in its most virulent48 form. The doctors (and two or three were summoned) gave up all hope of saving her life from the first. Maggie also gave up hope. She accused herself of having caused her friend's death. She believed that the shock of her tidings had killed Annabel, who, already suffering from fever, had not strength to bear the agony of knowing that Hammond's love was given to Maggie.
On the night of Annabel's death Maggie wrote to Hammond refusing his offer of marriage, but giving no reason for doing so. After posting her letter she lay down on her own sick bed and nearly died of the fever which had taken Annabel away.
All these things happened a year ago. The agitation49 caused by the death of one so young, beautiful and beloved had subsided50. People could talk calmly of Annabel, and although for a long time her room had remained vacant, it was now occupied by a girl in all respects her opposite.
Nothing would induce Maggie to enter this room, and no words would persuade her to speak of Annabel. She was merry and bright once more, and few gave her credit for secret hours of misery51, which were seriously undermining her health and ruining what was best of her character.
On this particular day, as she lay back in her carriage, wrapped in costly52 furs, a great wave of misery and bitterness was sweeping53 over her heart. In the first agony caused by Annabel's death Maggie had vowed54 a vow55 to her own heart never, under any circumstances, to consent to be Hammond's wife. In the first misery of regret and compunction it had been easy to Maggie Oliphant to make such a vow; but she knew well, as the days and months went by, that its weight was crushing her life, was destroying her chance of ever becoming a really strong and good woman. If she had loved Hammond a year ago her sufferings made her love him fifty times better now. With all her outward coldness and apparent indifference56, his presence gave her the keenest pain. Her heart beat fast when she caught sight of his face; if he spoke to another, she was conscious of being overcome by a spirit of jealousy57. The thought of him mingled58 with her waking and sleeping hours; but the sacrifice she owed to the memory of her dead friend must be made at all hazards. Maggie consulted no one on this subject. Annabel's unhappy story lay buried with her in her early grave; Maggie would have died rather than reveal it. Now, as she lay back in her carriage, the tears filled her eyes.
"I am too weak for this to go on any longer," she said to herself. "I shall leave St. Benet's at the end of the present term. What is the winning of a tripos to me? What do I want with honors and distinctions? Everything is barren to me. My life has no flavor in it. I loved Annabel, and she is gone. Without meaning it, I broke Annabel's heart. Without meaning it, I caused my darling's death, and now my own heart is broken, for I love Geoffrey— I love him, and I can never, under any circumstances, be his wife. He misunderstands me— he thinks me cold, wicked, heartless— and I can never, never set myself right with him. Soon he will grow tired of me and give his heart to some one else, and perhaps marry some one else. When he does, I too shall die. Yes, whatever happens, I must go away from St. Benet's."
Maggie's tears always came slowly; she put up her handkerchief to wipe them away. It was little wonder that when she returned from her drive her head was no better.
"We must put off the rehearsal59," said Nancy Banister, She came into Maggie's room and spoke vehemently60. "I saw you at lunch, Maggie: you ate nothing— you spoke with an effort. I know your head is worse. You must lie down, and, unless you are better soon, I will ask Miss Heath to send for a doctor."
"No doctor will cure me," said Maggie. "Give me a kiss, Nance61; let me rest my head against yours for a moment. Oh, how earnestly I wish I was like you."
"Why so? What have I got? I have no beauty; I am not clever; I am neither romantically poor, like Prissie, nor romantically rich, like you. In short, the fairies were not invited to my christening."
"One of two fairies came, however," replied Maggie, "and they gave you an honest soul, and a warm heart, and— and happiness, Nancy. My dear, I need only look into your eyes to know that you are happy."
Nancy's blue eyes glowed with pleasure. "Yes," she said, "I don't know anything about dumps and low spirits."
"And you are unselfish, Nancy; you are never seeking your own pleasure."
"I am not obliged to: I have all I want. And now to turn to a more important subject. I will see the members of our Dramatic Society and put off the rehearsal."
"You must not; the excitement will do me good."
"For the time, perhaps," replied Nancy, shaking her wise head, "but you will be worse afterward."
"No. Now, Nancy, don't let us argue the point. If you are truly my friend, you will sit by me for an hour and read aloud the dullest book you can find, then perhaps I shall go to sleep."
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1
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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subjugating
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的现在分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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eclat
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| n.显赫之成功，荣誉 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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nance
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| n.娘娘腔的男人，男同性恋者 | |
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