The fervid1 land of India had become home to Raymond Bethune for so many years that it would have been difficult for him to picture his life elsewhere. The glamour2 of the East, of the East that is England's, had entered into his blood, without, however, altering its cool northern deliberate course; that it can be thus with our children, therein also lies the strength of England.
Raymond Bethune, Major of Guides, loved the fierce lads to whom he was at once father and despot, as perhaps he could have loved no troop of honest thick-skulled English soldiers. He was content with the comradeship of his brother officers, men who thought like himself and fought like himself; content to spend the best years of existence hanging between heaven and earth on the arid3 flanks of a Kashmir mountain range, in forts the walls of which had been cemented by centuries of blood; looked forward, without blenching4, to the probability of laying down his life in some obscure frontier skirmish, unmourned and unnoticed. His duty sufficed him. He found happiness in it that it was his duty. Such men as he are the very stones of our Empire's foundation.
* * * * *
Yet though he was thus intimately satisfied with his life and his life's task, Bethune was conscious of a strange emotion, almost a contraction5 of the heart, as he followed the kitmutgar to Lady Gerardine's drawing-room in the palace of the Lieutenant-Governor, this October day.
The town below hung like a great rose jewel, scintillating6, palpitating, in a heat unusual for the autumn of Northern India. Out of the glare, the colour, the movement, the noise; out of the throng7 of smells—spice, scent8, garlic, the indescribable breath of the East—into the dim cool room; it was like stepping from India into England! And by the tug9 at his heart-strings he might have analysed (had he been of those that analyse) that, after all, the old home was nearest and dearest still; might have realised that his content beneath the scorching10 suns, amid the blinding snows of his adopted country, arose after all but of his deep filial love of, and pride in, the distant English isle11.
He put down his bat and looked round: not a hint of tropical colour, not a touch of exotic fancy, of luxuriant oriental art anywhere; but the green and white and rosebud12 of chintz, the spindle-legged elegance13 of Chippendale, the soft note of Chelsea china, the cool greys and whites of Wedgwood. From the very flower-bowl a fastidious hand had excluded all but those delicate blossoms our paler sunshine nourishes. Some such room, dignified14 with the consciousness of a rigid15 selection, reticent16 to primness17 in its simple yet distinguished18 art, fragrant19 with the potpourri20 of English gardens, fragrant too with memories of generations of wholesome21 English gentlefolks, you may meet with any day in some old manor-house of the shires. To transport the complete illusion to the heart of India, Bethune knew well must have cost more labour and money than if the neighbouring palaces had been ransacked22 for their treasures. It was obvious, too, that the fancy here reigning23 supreme24 was that of one who looked upon her sojourn25 under these splendid skies with the eyes of an unresigned exile.
"The wife of the Lieutenant-Governor can evidently gratify every whim," he said to himself, bitterly enough, the while he still inhaled26 the fragrance27 of home with an unconscious yearning28.
In the distance the tinkle29 of a piano seemed to add a last touch to the illusion. In India one so seldom hears a piano touched during the hot hours. And scales, too—it was fantastic!
Suddenly the music ceased, if music it could be called. There was a flying step without. The door was thrown open. Raymond Bethune turned quickly, a certain hardness gathering30 in his eyes. Their expression changed, however, when he beheld31 the newcomer. A young, very young girl, hardly eighteen perhaps, of the plump type of immaturity32; something indeed of a cherubic babyhood still lurking33 in the round face, in the buxom34 little figure, and in the rebellious35 aureole of bronze hair rising from a very pink forehead. It was evidently the energetic musician.
She came in, examining one finger of her right hand; and, without looking at him, began to speak with severity:
"I told you, Mr. Simpson, I could not possibly see anybody in my practising hours! How am I ever to keep up my poor music in this beastly country?" Then she added, in a pettish36 undertone: "I have broken my nail now!" And glancing up, accusingly, to behold37 a stranger: "Oh!" she exclaimed.
Major Bethune smiled. The sight of this creature, so unmistakably fresh from the salt brisk English shores, was as pleasant as it was unexpected.
"Oh, it's not Mr. Simpson!" she cried, with a quaint38 air of discovery.
The officer bowed. Life had taught him not to waste his energy on a superfluous39 word.
"Oh!" she said again. She looked down at her nail once more, and then sucked it childishly. Over her finger she shot a look at him. She had very bright hazel eyes, under wide full brows. "Perhaps," she said, "you want to see the Runkle? I mean," she interrupted herself, with a little giggle—"I menu, my uncle, Sir Arthur."
"I called to see Lady Gerardine," he answered imperturbably40. "I wrote to her yesterday. She expects me."
"Oh!"
Every time this ejaculation shot from the girl's lips it was with a new lively note of surprise and a comical rounding of small mouth and big eyes. Then she remembered her manners; and, plunging41 down on a chair herself:
"Won't you take a seat?" she cried, with an engaging schoolgirl familiarity.
Bowing again, he obeyed.
"Do you think Lady Gerardine will see me?"
She glanced at the clock on the cabinet beside her.
"My aunt will be here," she replied, "in just ten minutes. She is always down at the hour, though nobody comes till half-past." She flung a look of some reproach at the visitor's inscrutable face, and passed her handkerchief over her own hot cheeks. "I think Aunt Rosamond is wonderful," she went on, preparing herself, with a small sigh, to the task of entertaining. "The Runkle—I mean my uncle—is always after her. But I am sure there is not another Lieutenant-Governor's wife in India that does her duty half so well." Here she yawned, as suddenly as a puppy. The visitor still maintaining silence, she paused, evidently revolving42 subjects of conversation in her mind, and then started briskly upon her choice:
"Of course, you don't know who I am." Two deep dimples appeared in the plump cheeks. "I am Aspasia Cuningham, and I have come to live with my uncle and aunt in India. I wish I had not; I hate it. What is your name?"
"Raymond Bethune."
"Civil?" inquired Miss Aspasia, running her eye over his light-grey suit.
"No, military. Guides. Major," he corrected.
She nodded.
"I see—turbans and things," commented she.
Bethune gave a dry chuckle43 which hardly reflected itself on his countenance44. Another silence fell; and, still scrubbing her cheeks with an energy calculated to make even the onlooker45 feel hot, the girl took a good look at him. A somewhat lantern-jawed, very thin face had he, tanned almost to copper46; brown hair, cropped close, a slight fair moustache; and steady pale eyes beneath overhanging brows. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh about the long lean figure. No mistake (thought Aspasia sagely) about his Scottish origin. She cocked her head on one side. "He would have looked well in a kilt," she told herself.
Presently the silence began to oppress her. He did not seem in the least disposed to break it. His attitude was one of patient waiting; but, second by second, the lines of his countenance grew set into deeper sternness. Miss Cuningham coughed. She played a scale upon her knee, stretched out all her fingers one after another, waggled them backwards47 and forwards, and finally, with a pout48 and a frown, dashed into exasperated49 speech:
"Could not I take a message?"
The man brought his attention to bear upon her, with an effort, as if from some distant thought.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Do you not think you could give me a message fur Aunt Rosamond?"
"I am afraid not."
"Do you want her to get the Runkle—Sir Arthur, I mean—to do anything for you?"
"No."
"Do you know Aunt Rosamond—Lady Gerardine?"
He hesitated. Then he said: "No," and "No" again, with a cold incisiveness50.
"Oh!"
Miss Cuningham was nonplussed51; yet was she interested, in spite of herself. "What a rude pig!" she thought angrily, in her downright schoolgirl vernacular52. But the next moment his saturnine53 face softened54.
"Do not let me keep you," he said. "You want to return to your music. You were practising very hard. I have never heard any one play scales with such energy over here before. It quite brought me back to the schoolroom in the old place at home."
His expression softened still more as he spoke55.
Aspasia was delighted to find him so human all at once; and, being herself the most gregarious56 little soul alive, hastened to take advantage of the opportunity.
"Oh, it does not matter now," she said. "Thank you. It is rather hot. I will finish my exercises later on. You see, I must keep up my technique." She stretched her fingers again, with an important air. "But, when he's at home, it annoys the Runkle—there it is again! I cannot help it, really. I only began it for fun, to tease him; now it's irresistible57, nervous I think. You remember, I told you my name is Aspasia. A stupid sort of name. You cannot even shorten it into anything decent. You could not call me Aspy, or Pashy, or Asia, could you? So people have got into the way of calling me Baby. I do not mind. It's better than Aspasia. But uncle won't. He is my godfather, you see, and thinks it's a lovely name. There's a stupid old cousin of ours, Lady Aspasia Something-or-other, whom he thinks the world of. So he always will say: 'My dear Raspasia ... my dear Raspasia!' So I got into the way of calling him: 'My dear Runkle Rarthur!' Rather silly, but I began it in sheer self-defence. And now—it's really quite wicked—everybody calls him the Runkle, all the secretaries and things—behind his back, of course. And there's one of them, a silly sort of creature, Mr. Simpson—I thought it was him, just now—he's not got used to it yet, and he always goes purple and explodes. And the Runkle gets mad. He has to pretend he has not noticed anything, to save his dignity!"
Her frank young laugh rang out, one might have thought infectiously enough. But the visitor's eyes had wandered from her. And as now (perceiving suddenly that he had not been listening to her) she fell into an affronted58 silence, she noticed how they became fixed59 in the direction of the door with a curious intensity60 of gaze, like that of a hawk61 sighting his quarry62.
One of the native servants, who kept squatting63 watch in the passage without, had noiselessly pushed the door-hangings aside; a soft murmur64 of muslin skirts against matting grew into the silence. Lady Gerardine came into the room. She was looking at a card in her hand.
"Major Bethune?" she said questioningly, as she approached.
"My name must be familiar to you," he replied gravely.
She paused a second, slightly contracting her brows; then shook her head, with a smile.
"I am afraid—I have such a bad memory. But I am very glad to see you."
She put out her hand graciously. He barely touched it with his fingers.
"Pray sit down," she said, and took her own chair.
One felt the accomplished65 woman of the world. No awkwardness could exist where Lady Gerardine had the direction of affairs. Sweet, cool, aloof66, the most exquisite67 courtesy marked her every gesture. Had the new comer been shy he must promptly68 have felt reassured69; for a long-looked-for guest could not have been more easily welcomed.
"You will like some tea," said she. "Baby, why did not you order tea? Dear child, how hot you are!"
A faint ripple70 of laughter broke the composure of her countenance. Miss Cuningham ran to the door clapping her hands.
"Tea, Abdul," she cried. And, like the genie71 of the Persian fairy tale, the servant instantly stood salaaming72 on the threshold.
"Oh, Aunt Rosamond, may he not have a lemon-squash? Major Bethune, I am sure you would prefer a lemon-squash!"
Bethune sat stonily73 staring at his hostess from under his heavy brows.
* * * * *
So that was she—Rose of the World! Not so beautiful as he had fancied. And yet, yes—grudgingly he had to admit it—beautiful and more. With every instant that passed, the extraordinary quality of her personality made itself felt upon him; and his heart hardened. This grace more beautiful than beauty; those deep strange eyes startling with their unexpected colour, green-hazel, in the pallor of the face under a crown of hair, fiery74 gold; those long lissom75 limbs; the head with its wealth, dropping a little on the long throat. Oh, aye, that was she! Even so had she been described to him: the "flower among women!"—even so, by lips, eloquent76 with the fulness of the heart (alas! what arid mountain wind might not now be playing with the dust of what was once instinct with such generous life!)—even so, had Harry77 English described her to his only friend. Save, indeed, that by his own telling Harry English's bride had been rosy78 as a Dorset apple-blossom, as the monthly roses that hung over the wicket-gate of the garden at home; and the wife of Sir Arthur Gerardine had no more tint79 of colour in her cheeks than the waxen petals80 of the white daturas that marked the Governor's terraces with their giant chalices81.
Raymond remembered. But she—she had such a bad memory!
* * * * *
"Have you been long here?"
She seemed to take his visit quite as a matter of course.
"I arrived yesterday. I am on leave."
"Indeed. And what regiment82?"
He told her. A change, scarcely perceptible, passed over her face. She compressed her lips and drew a breath, a trifle longer than normal, through dilated83 nostrils84.
Just then a procession of soft-footed, white-clad servants entered upon them, and the tension, if tension there had been, was dispelled85.
"Will you have tea, Major Bethune, or this child's prescription86?"
The ice tinkled87 melodiously88 in the fragrant yellow brew89. "Baby" was already sucking through a straw; she rolled her eyes, expressive90 of rapture91, towards the visitor. But he was not to be diverted.
"I will have nothing, thank you."
He had not thought himself so sentimental92. Why should he bear so deep a grudge93 against this woman? How could her forgetfulness, her indifference94, now harm the dead? It was fantastic, unreasonable95, and yet he could not bring himself to break bread with her to-day. He clasped his lean brown fingers tightly across his knees.
"I am afraid," he said briefly96, "that my presence must seem an intrusion. But I trust you will forgive me when you understand upon what errand I come."
She disclaimed97 his apology by a wave of her hand. The emeralds upon it shot green fire at him.
"The fact is," he went on, doggedly98 making for his point, "I have been asked to write a life of—your husband."
He was interrupted by a commotion99 among the ice and bubbles of Miss Aspasia's long tumbler.
"Gracious," she sputtered100; "but the Runkle is not dead yet!" She choked down, just in time, the comment: "Worse luck!" which had almost escaped her terribly frank tongue.
Lady Gerardine was smiling again in her detached manner.
"A great many people, distinguished people, Baby, have their lives written before they die. And they have then the advantage of correcting the proof-sheets. I dare say your uncle will not object."
Major Bethune allowed a pause to fall before continuing his speech. Then he said, with almost cruel deliberation:
"I beg your pardon, Lady Gerardine. I should have said your late husband. I refer to Harry English."
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收听单词发音
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1
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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3
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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4
blenching
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| v.（因惊吓而）退缩，惊悸( blench的现在分词 )；（使）变白，（使）变苍白 | |
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5
contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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6
scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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9
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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13
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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14
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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15
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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16
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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17
primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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18
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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19
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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20
potpourri
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| n.混合之事物；百花香 | |
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21
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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23
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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24
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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25
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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26
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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28
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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29
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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30
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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31
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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32
immaturity
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| n.不成熟；未充分成长；未成熟；粗糙 | |
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33
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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34
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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35
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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37
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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38
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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39
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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40
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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41
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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42
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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43
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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44
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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45
onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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46
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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47
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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48
pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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49
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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50
incisiveness
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| n.敏锐，深刻 | |
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51
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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53
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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54
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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55
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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56
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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57
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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58
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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59
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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60
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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61
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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62
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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63
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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64
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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salaaming
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| 行额手礼( salaam的现在分词 ) | |
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stonily
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| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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lissom
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| adj.柔软的，轻快而优雅的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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81
chalices
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| n.高脚酒杯( chalice的名词复数 )；圣餐杯；金杯毒酒；看似诱人实则令人讨厌的事物 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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melodiously
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brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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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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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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