The young girl had but yesterday entered upon her twentieth spring. Four months ago there had not been a merrier, lighter-hearted, gayer, more coquettish young maiden14 in tidewater Virginia; and to-day, she thought, as she looked down at her thin hand outlined so clearly upon the vivid cardinal15 cloak she wore, which had dropped unheeded on the seat by her side, to-day she was like that man in the play of whom her father read,—a grave man. No, not a man at all. Once, in her enthusiasm, she had fondly imagined that she had possessed16 all those daring qualities of energy and action, those manly17 virtues18, which might have been hers by inheritance could the accident of sex have been reversed. But now she knew she was but a woman, after all,—so weak, so feeble, so listless. What had she left to live for? Once it was her father, then it was her country, then it was her lover; now? Nothing! Her father at the request of Congress would soon resume his interrupted duties in France, now become more important than ever. He was a man of the world and a soldier, a diplomat19. The hard experiences of the past few months were for him episodes, exciting truly, but only part of a lifetime spent in large adventure, soon forgotten in some other strenuous20 part demanded by some other strenuous exigency21. But she,—no, she was not a man at all, but a woman,—unused to such scenes and happenings as fate had lately made her a participant in. Her father might have his country,—he had not lost his love, his heart was not buried out in the depths of the cruel sea. What had become of that Roman patriotism22 upon which she prided herself in times past? Her country! What had changed her so? There were many answers.
There was Blodgett's grave at the foot of the hill. She had played in childhood with that faithful old soldier. Many a tale had he told her of her gallant father when, as a young man, he gayly rode away to the wars, leaving her lady mother in tears behind. She could sympathize with waiting women now, and understand. Those were such deeds of daring that the rude recital23 of the old man once stirred her very heart with joy and terror; now she was sick at the thought of them. And Blodgett was gone; he had died defending them, where he had been stationed. That was an answer.
There, too, far away in another State, lay the lover of her girlhood's happy day,—the bright-eyed, eager, gallant, joyous24 lad. What good comrades they had been! How they had laughed, and played, and ridden, and rowed, and hunted, and danced, and flirted25, through the morning of life,—how pleasant had been that life indeed! He was quiet now; she could no longer join in his ringing laugh, the sound of his voice was stilled, they might never play together again,—was there any play at all in life? That was another answer.
There was the white-haired mother, the stately little royalist, Madam Talbot, who slept in peace on the hill at Fairview Hall, her ambitions, her hopes, and her loyalty26 buried with her, leaving the place untenanted save by wistful memories; she too had gone.
Answers?—they crowded thick upon her! There were the officers of the Yarmouth, Captain Vincent, Beauchamp, Hollins, and the little boy, the Honorable Giles, and all the other officers and men with whom she had come in contact on that frightful27 cruise. There were the heroic men who had stayed by their ship, who had seen the favored few go away in the only boat that was left seaworthy, without a murmur12 at being left behind, who had faced death unheeding, unrepining, sinking down in the dark water with a cheer upon their lips. There was the old sailor, too, with his unquenchable patriotism, her friend because the friend of her lover; and Philip, her brother; and there was Seymour himself. Ah, what were all the rest to him! Gone, and how she loved him!
She leaned her head upon her hand and thought of him. Here in this boat-house he had first spoken to her of his love. Here she had first felt his lips touch her cheek. There, rocked gently by the light breeze, upon the water at her feet was the familiar little pleasure-boat; she had not allowed any one to row her about in it since her return, in spite of much entreaty29. It was this very cloak she wore that day, nearly the very hour. The place was redolent with sweet memories of happy days, though to think on them now broke her heart. It all came back to her as it had come again and again. She briefly30 reviewed that acquaintance, short though it was, which had changed the whole course of her life. She saw him again, as he struck prompt to defend her honor in the hall, resenting a ruffian's soiling hand stretched out to her; she saw him lying wounded and senseless there at her feet. She saw him stretched prone31 on that shattered deck, on that ruined ship, pale, blood-stained, senseless again, again unheeding her bitter cry. She would have called once more upon him, save that she knew humanity has no voice which reaches out into the darkness by which it may call back those who are once gone to live beyond. She did not weep,—that were a small thing, a trifle; she sat and brooded. What had she lost in the service of her country? What sacrifices had been exacted from her by that insatiable country! Alas32, alas, she thought, men may have a country, a woman has only a heart.
Four short months had changed it all. How young she had been! Would she ever be young again? How full of the joy of life! Its currents swept by her unheeded now. Why had not God been merciful to her, that she could have died there upon the sea, she thought. Ah, poor humanity never learns His mercy; perhaps it is because we have no measure by which to fathom33 its mighty34 depths. She saw herself old and lonely, forgotten but not forgetting. But even then lacked she not opportunity; woman-like, in spite of her constancy, she took a melancholy35 pleasure in the thought that there was one still who hungered for the shattered remnants of her broken heart, who lived for the sound of her voice and the glance other eyes and the light of her face. One there was, handsome, brave, distinguished36, gentle, of ancient name, assured station, ample fortune, who longed to lay all he was or had at her feet.
But what were these things? Nothing to her, nothing. There was but one, as she had said on the ship to Desborough: "I love a sailor; you are not he." And yet her soul was filled with pity for the gallant gentleman, and she thought of him tenderly with deep affection.
Presently she heard quick footsteps on the floor of the boat-house, and turning her head she saw him. He held a letter, an official packet, with the seal broken, open in his hand.
"Oh, Miss Wilton, you here?" he said. "I have looked everywhere for you. Do you not think the evening air grows chill? Is it not too cold for you out here in the boat-house? Allow me;" and then, with that gentle solicitude37 which women prize, he lifted the neglected cloak and tenderly wrapped it about her shoulders.
"Thank you," she said gratefully, faintly smiling up at him, "but I hardly need it. I do not feel at all cold. The air is so pleasant and the sun is not yet set, you see. Did you wish to see me about anything special, Lord Desborough?"
"No—yes—that is— Oh, Mistress Katharine, the one special want of my life is to see you always and everywhere. You know that,—nay, never lift your hand,—I remember. I will try not to trespass38 upon your orders again. I came to tell you that—I am going away."
"Going away," she repeated sadly. "Has your exchange been made?"
"Yes; a courier came to the Hall a short time since, and here it is.
My orders, you see; I must leave at once."
"I am sorry, indeed sorry that you must go."
He started suddenly as if to speak, a little flash of hope flickering39 in his despondent face; but she continued quickly,—
"It has been very pleasant for us to have you here, except that you have been a prisoner; but now you will be free, and for that, of course, I rejoice. But I have so few friends left," she went on mournfully, "I am loath40 to see one depart, even though he be an enemy."
"Oh, do not call me an enemy, I entreat28 you, Katharine. Oh, let me speak just once again," he interrupted with his usual impetuosity; "and talk not to me of freedom! While the earth holds you I am not free: ay, even should Heaven claim you, I still am bound. All the days of my captivity41 here I have been a most willing and happy prisoner,—your prisoner. I have looked forward with dread42 and anguish43 to the day when I might be exchanged and have to go away. Here would I have been content to pass my life, by your side. Oh, once again let me plead! My duty, my honor, call me now to the service of my king. I no longer have excuse for delay, but you have almost made me forget there was a king. Now that I must go, why should I go alone?" he went on eagerly. "I know, I know you love the—the other,—but he is gone. You do not hate me, you even like me; you regret my going; perhaps as days go by, you will regret it more. We are at least friends; let me take care of you in future. Oh, it kills me to see you so white, and indifferent to life and all that it has or should have for you. You are only a girl yet,—I cannot bear to see all the color gone out of your sweet face, the light out of your eyes; the sight of that thin hand breaks my heart. Won't you live for me to love,—live, and let me love you? Your father goes to-morrow, so he says, and you will be left alone here; why should it be? Go with me. Give me a right to do what my heart aches to do for you,—to coax44 the roses back into your cheek, to woo the laugh to your lips, to win happiness back to your heart; to devote my life to you, darling. Have pity on me, have pity on my love,—have pity!"
His voice dropped into a passionate45 whisper; as he pleaded with her, he sank down upon one knee by her side, beseeching46 by word and gesture and look that she should show him that pity he could see in her eyes, that he knew was in her heart, and to which he made his last appeal; and then, lifting the hem6 of her dress to his lips with an unconscious movement of passionate reverence47, he waited.
She looked at him in silence a moment. So young, so handsome, so appealing, her heart filled with sorrow and sympathy for him. There was hope in his eyes which she had not seen for many days; how could she drive it away and crush his heart! It might be cruel, but she had no answer, no other answer, no new word, to tell him. Her eyes filled with tears; she could not trust herself to speak, she only shook her head.
"Ah," he said, rising to his feet and throwing up his hands with a gesture of despair, "I knew it. Well, the dream is over at last. This is the end. I sought life, and found death; that, at least, if it shall come I shall welcome. Would God I had gone down with the ship! You have no pity; you let a dead image—an idea—stand between you and a living love. Will you never forget?"
"Never," she said softly. "Love knows no death. He is alive—here. But do not grieve so for me; I am not worth it. You will go away and forget, and—"
"No; you have said it, 'Love knows no death.' I, too, cannot forget. As long as I live I shall love—and remember. How if I waited and waited? Katharine, I would wait forever for you," he said, suddenly catching48 at the trifle.
"No, it would be no use. My friend, we both must suffer; it cannot be otherwise. I esteem49 you, respect you, admire you. You have protected me, honored me; my gratitude—" She went on brokenly, "You might ask anything of me but my heart, and that is given away."
"Let me take you without it, then. I want but you."
"No, Lord Desborough, it cannot be. Do not ask me again. No, I cannot say I wish it otherwise."
His flickering hope died away in silence. "Katharine, will you promise me, if there ever comes a time—"
"I promise," she said; "but the time will never come."
He looked at her as dying men look to the light, there was a long silence, and then he said,—
"I must go now, Katharine. I suppose I must bid you good-by now?"
"Yes, I think it would be best."
"I shall pass this way again on my journey to Alexandria in half an hour; may I not speak once more to you then?"
"No," she said finally, after a long pause. "I think it best that we should end it now. It can do no good at all. Good-by, and may God bless you."
He bent50 and kissed her hand, and then stopped a moment and looked at her, saying never a word.
"Good-by, again," she said.
On the instant he turned and left her.
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收听单词发音
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1
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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7
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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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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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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21
exigency
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| n.紧急；迫切需要 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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28
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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32
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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38
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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39
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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40
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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41
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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42
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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43
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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44
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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45
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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46
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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47
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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48
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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49
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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50
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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