But to Rosamond these hours in the forgotten old manor-house on the moorlands, where the winds were the only visitors, brought so great a change that it was as if a gate had been shut upon her former road.
A common prate5 is that Time works the changes in us. And when we look from the child to the man, it would seem absurd even to raise the question. Yet it is not time that works the mightiest6 changes. Nay7, in the world of the soul time but emphasises. The great upheavals8 that obliterate9 in our lives all familiar landmarks—that do alter everything down to our most intimate capacity of feeling, are sometimes but the work of one instant. It is not time that ravages10, it is not time that draws the wrinkle seared into the heart; not to time do we owe the spread of the grey, instead of the gold that used to colour the web of existence. A man may carry the singing soul of his April to the death-bed of his old body. Yet again the heart may wither11 in a span so short as scarce to be measured.
And sometimes a change, so complete that even within our own soul we find ourselves suddenly on foreign ground, will come without any striking external event, without any apparent outside reason. In the life of the soul a crisis has occurred—and lo! the very world of God is different. Nay, God himself is another to us.
During these short wind-swept November days in the green and brown manor-house, there, amid the solitary12 downs, did such a change come to Rosamond. Had she tried, she could scarce have found her old self again. But she did not try; for this new self was at peace, was wrapped in dreams of great sweetness, and yet awake to a life hitherto not even guessed at.
* * * * *
In the attic13 room that had been Harry14's own, she sat alone. A furious shower was pattering on the tiles close over her head, a drenched15 ivy16 spray was beating against the gable window like a frantic17 thing that wanted shelter, a pair of sparrows were answering each other with defiant18 chirrup. Far below in the house, Aspasia was lustily calling upon a recreant19 kitten. In the moorland silence these few trivial sounds became insistent20, and yet seemed but to assert the silence itself.
She was seated at the wide battered21 old writing-table which schoolboy Harry English had scored with penknife and chisel22, burned and inkstained. Before her a small writing-desk was spread open, and two or three letters lay loosely under her clasped hands. Her eyes were musingly23 fixed24 upon the rain-beaten pane25 with the knocking ivy branch; her lips were parted by a vaguely26 recurrent smile. And, as the smile came and went, a transient red glowed faintly upon her cheeks.... The world for her now was not upon the edge of winter: it was spring. She was not Rosamond Gerardine, out of touch with life, she was not Rosamond English, widow—she was Rosamond Tempest, maid once more, on the threshold of her life, at the April of the year. And Harry English was her lover. And yet she was a Rosamond Tempest such as he had never known—such a Rosamond Tempest as had never yet existed.
She took the letter that lay uppermost to her hand. It was dated Saltwoods. Written here—at this very desk, no doubt. Perhaps with this very ivory penholder, fluted27, yellow, stained, while he sat in this same Windsor chair.... Unconsciously she caressed28 the worn wooden arms whereon his arms must have rested. Then again she set herself to read:—
"Saltwoods, 19th April."
On that April 19, all those years ago, he was thinking of her, writing to her! And she—so many miles away, shut in by the dreariest29 prison walls fate had ever built round a young impatient soul—had then not the faintest hint of her deliverer's approach.
DEAR MISS TEMPEST,—I dare say you have quite forgotten me. I was the youngest griffin, just before the old Colonel's death. I hope you will not think it a great impertinence in me to write like this to you; but my leave is up in a week or so, and I don't like to leave England without having seen your father's daughter again. I can never forget how kind he was to me—and your mother too. It made all the difference to me; such a young fool as I was, and so new to India and everything. I find I know some of the fellows at Fort Monkton, and I'm going to stop there a few days. May I call—and if so, when? Yours sincerely, HARRY ENGLISH. P.S.—I've only just found out where you are.
To Rosamond—most unwilling30 inmate31 in a household where, if she was not actually a burden, the smallness of her pittance32 rendered her certainly no material gain—this letter had brought a sort of vision of the past, a gleam of bygone light which made the present even more intolerable by contrast. It had been something to her to think that she should meet some one at last belonging to her old life, some one who had known her in those glamorous33 years of her happiness, some one straight from the magic shores that had held her in her happy years.
From eight to sixteen had Rosamond Tempest spent her life between the little hill station, the refuge of their hot season, and the historic old northern town where her father's duty lay—a sort of little Princess Royal, with a hundred devoted34 slaves and a score of gallant35 young courtiers, the imperious favourite of the whole station, native and white alike.... Oh the rides in the dawn! oh the picnics by moonlight! the many-coloured, vivid days that went with such swing, where every man almost was a hero, where the very air seemed full of the romance of frontier fights, of raids, and big game hunts, of "Tiger, tiger, burning bright" in jungle haunts! ... It had been surely the cruellest stroke of fate that had thrust the little spoilt girl, the beloved only child, from this pinnacle36 of bliss37 and importance!
Between one day and another Rosamond had become the penniless orphan38, whom nobody wanted ... whom it was so kind of Major and Mrs. Carter to escort back to England, whom it was almost superhumanly good of Uncle and Aunt Baynes to admit into their family.
"A self-centered child," said Mrs. "General Baynes." "A cold-blooded little wretch39," opined her cousins. Well, it was a fact that, during the four years that elapsed between her departure from India and the receipt of Captain English's letter, Rosamond had not given a human being one word, one look in confidence....
Late April on the Hampshire coast, with the gorse breaking into gorgeous yellow flame, honey-sweet in the sunshine; with the white clouds scurrying40 across a blue sky, chased by the merriest madcap wind that ever scampered41; with the waves breaking from afar off, dashing up a thousand diamonds falling over and over each other in their race for the beach, roaring on the shingle42 in clamorous43 good-fellowship, the foam44 creaming in ever wider circles. And, across the leaping belt of waters, green and amber45 and white, the island, flashing too: the windows and roofs of the happy-looking town throwing back the sun glances, set in smooth slopes, mildly radiating green, like chrysoprase and peridot....
* * * * *
Rosamond had dropped the letter from her hand; again she was dreaming. Not the plaint of the November wind round the gable roof of Saltwoods in her ears, but the chant of this April chorus on Alverstoke beach. Not the monotonous46 ting of Aspasia's finger exercise from the room below, but the irregular boom and thud of gun practice far out at sea, brought in by the gust47. And the voice that fell into silence so far away between the wild Indian hills was speaking to her again. And she heard, heard for the first time....
Rosamond Gerardine, virgin48 of heart through her two marriages, was being wooed! And the virgin in her was trembling and troubled, as womanhood awoke.... He held her hands and looked into her eyes. His cheeks were pale under their bronze, his lips trembled—"Could you trust me? Do you think me mad? I've only known you four days, but I've dreamt of you, all my life.... Rosamond!"
The sea wind was eddying49 round them, the grasses at Rosamond's feet were nodding like mad things in the gusts50. Her hair was whipped against her face. So, on this English shore, with the taste of the salt in their mouths, with the wild salt moist winds all about them—this Englishman wooed this English girl, to come away and be his love in the burning East. Yes, she could trust him. Who could look into his true eyes and not trust him? But then it was the thought of the East, the East of her lost childhood's joy, that won her. Now, back in England's heart, from an East abhorred51, to the loathing52 as of blood and cruelty, it was the lover, it was the love!
Again she felt the touch of his first kiss. He had sought her lips, but she had turned her cheek. Now—the blood rushed up into her face; her heart beat faster, almost a faintness crept over her. She dropped her head upon her outstretched arms, her burning cheek upon his letter ... again his strong arms held her.
* * * * *
Once more they parted at the gate of the house that was her prison. He was going back to India in ten days, and she would go with him, confidently, gladly!
She walked up the path between the straggling wallflowers, the pungent53 marigolds, into the mean narrow hall. Then her only thought had been of sailing away from that sordid54 genteel abode55, back to fair India, the land of her dreams. Now—now, as across these years she re-lived that great day of her youth, her heart was swooning over the memory of his kiss; her brain was filled with a vision of his tender trembling lips; of the light in his eyes as he looked back at her, of the swing of his broad shoulders as he rounded the crescent towards the fort.
* * * * *
Miss Aspasia Cuningham was in a decidedly bad temper. To be home again, in England, to have unlimited56 opportunity of working out the Leschetizky method on a superfine Steinway piano, the most complete immunity57 from interfering58 uncles, from social duties, philistine59 secretaries and attaches, appeared a most delightful60 existence—in theory. But, in practice it was dull. Yes, dull was the word.
With four fingers pressing four consecutive61 notes while the remaining digit62 hammered away, vindictively63, at the fifth; with pouting64 lip out-thrust, she had reached the point of telling herself that even India was better than this.
"Horrid65 place," ran Baby's angry cogitation66, while the finger conscientiously67 drummed, "nothing but those stupid trees and that deadly moor4, and the birds' chirp68, chirp, and not a neighbour within miles; or if there were, with Aunt Rosamond not wanting to see a soul; not even the curate—and he's got eyes like marbles!"
Aspasia gave a little titter and changed the drumming finger from the third to the fourth. This was a less elastic69 member; and she grew pink with unconscious energy, while pursuing the inner monologue70.
"I do think that disgusting Major Bethune might have given us some sign of life. People have no business to look into people's eyes like that, and press people's hands, and then go off and mean nothing at all. Not," said Baby, blowing out her nostrils71 with a fine breath of scorn, "that one ever thought of him in that way. But he—oh, he's just a horrid wretch like the rest! All the nice ones die, I think. At least, I've never met any."
She brought down the left hand in its turn, with a crash, on the five notes; and the fine discord72 seemed to have relieving effect. The reflections proceeded in a softer vein73.
"Harry English—he must have been a dear." She turned her head to look for the inevitable74 portrait. There was scarce a room in Saltwoods that did not hold two or three presentments of him; sketches76, most of them, by the faithful, forcible hand of the artist mother; photographs, too, in well-nigh every stage of the boy's development. Even Aspasia, positive, practical, unimaginative, could not but have fallen under the influence of the haunting presence. And in her actual mood of disillusion77 with Raymond Bethune, the ante-room of her girl's heart, that airy space open to all the winds, where so many come, pause, and go, was now, half in idleness, half in contradiction, consecrate78 to the image of gallant Harry English.
"How Aunt Rosamond could!" she thought, as she dreamily fixed her eyes upon that charcoal79 sketch75 which held one panel of the drawing-room, and which had been Mrs. English's last work. It was a much enlarged copy of the photograph on the shrine80, and, whether by some unconscious transcription of her own sorrow, or whether her mother eyes had discovered in the little picture some stern premonition of his own approaching fate, the artist had given the strong bold face an expression that was almost bitter in its melancholy81.
"How Aunt Rosamond could——" thought the girl, "when she had been loved by such a man, ever, ever have looked at any one else? Fancy—the Runkle!" Ah, if Aspasia had been loved by English, how nobly she would have borne her widowhood! Her heart, of course, would have been absolutely, completely broken; she would have gone about in deep, deep widow's weeds. And strangers, looking after her, noticing the sweet pale face amid the crape, would ask who she was and would be told in whispers: the widow of the hero of the Baroghil expedition. "Ah, it would have been sweet to have been loved by you, Harry English!"
Her hands fell from the piano; her soul was away upon a dream as vague and innocent as it was absorbing. Too often did the Leschetizky method end in this manner. The while Rosamond, high in her attic, dreamed that she was a girl once more, and that she had just been told that Harry English loved her.
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1
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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2
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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4
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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5
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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8
upheavals
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| 突然的巨变( upheaval的名词复数 )； 大动荡； 大变动； 胀起 | |
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9
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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10
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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11
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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12
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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13
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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14
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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15
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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16
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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17
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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18
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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19
recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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20
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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21
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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22
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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23
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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24
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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25
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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26
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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27
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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28
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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30
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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31
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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32
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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33
glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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34
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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35
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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36
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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37
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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38
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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39
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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40
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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41
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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43
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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44
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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45
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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46
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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47
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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48
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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49
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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50
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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51
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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52
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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53
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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54
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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55
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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56
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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57
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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58
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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59
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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60
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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61
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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62
digit
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| n.零到九的阿拉伯数字，手指，脚趾 | |
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63
vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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64
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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65
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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66
cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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67
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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68
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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69
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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70
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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71
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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72
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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73
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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74
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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75
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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76
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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77
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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78
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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79
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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80
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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81
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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