"Where's Diana?" he called, as he came from the garden through the casement3-window of the library.
"Diana—why, she's in bed an hour ago, I should hope," replied his aunt, Lady Elizabeth Kerhill. "She and Mabel went with Bates to see the decorations and then said good-night. Surely you didn't expect me to allow the children to stay up for the ball?"
Mabel was her daughter; Diana Marjoribanks was a young girl of thirteen, who had come to visit her.
"Poor imps4! they were so excited all day, and followed me about the gun-room where I was doing some packing. They wanted me to coax5 you to allow them to see the ball, and the tenantry welcome Henry to-night."
Lady Kerhill elevated her eyebrows6 in questioning amazement7 at Jim, as she nervously8 twisted the lace of her gown, and with an impatient gesture motioned the subject aside. She was a tall, angular woman, with a profile like the head on a bronze coin; there was a suggestion of the eagle in her personality, and by her friends she was likened to the famous Sarah Churchill, the first Duchess of Marlborough.
To-night her face showed that anxious thoughts were crowding in on her as she apprehensively9 watched the big, carved oak door leading into the hall. Jim knew his aunt's firmness of character, and as silence followed his words, he feared further discussion was useless; but the wistful faces of the children at tea-time in the nursery, as they coaxed10 him to plead for them to see the fun, made him venture a final appeal.
"You know, Aunt, Sir Charles brought Di over to stay with Mabel so that she might see the festivities and incidentally say good-bye to me, so you might turn angel and let Diana dance once with me at the very beginning of the ball. I sha'n't see my little playfellow for ages, you know."
A sound from outside held Lady Elizabeth's attention more intently than Jim's pleading words. He crossed to her in the window-enclosure and laid his hand caressingly11 on her shoulder.
"The Colonel wired me that we were leaving Paddington at nine to-morrow morning, and India is a long way off, Auntie mine."
"Nonsense," answered Lady Elizabeth, as she rose from the deep window-seat. "You are almost twenty, and Diana is only a babe—isn't she, Henry?" She glanced up and appealed to the young man who rather noisily entered the library.
"Who's a babe? Diana? Why, mater, she's a little witch, and I promised her I'd let her see the illuminations at ten and then old Burrow12 should carry her off to bed."
Henry Wynnegate, seventh Earl of Kerhill, dropped into a great settle close to the fire. The ball was for the tenantry in celebration of his return, after five years' absence with his regiment13. He was a tall, heavy-set young soldier of seven-and-twenty, with the famous Wynnegate beauty, but it was marred14 by the shifting expression of his rather deep-set eyes and the heavy lines about his mouth. Self was his god: it showed in every expression of his face and in every action of his life.
Jim Wynnegate, his cousin, the son of the younger brother of the late Earl, Henry's father, turned from the window as Henry entered. In the young boy's face—for he seemed younger than his years—one could easily trace the family resemblance; but Jim, with his great, clean spirit shining in his honest gray eyes, invited confidence and won it, from a mongrel dog to a superior officer. He was taller than Henry, and as slim as a young sapling. The delicate, sensitive mouth was balanced by a strong chin.
In the oak-lined room, grown almost black with age, the candle-lights flickering15 in the heavy brass16 sconces, stood these three last descendants of a great family. The Earl's brother, Dick Wynnegate, had run away with the daughter of an impecunious17 colonel. A few years later, while on service in India, he was shot, and the young wife lived only to bring the tiny boy Jim home and to leave him with her husband's brother. Even then the fortunes of the Wynnegates were somewhat impaired18, but the old Earl had taken the boy to his heart, and on his death had confided19 him to his wife to share their fortune with his son Henry. His last words were, "Be good to poor Dick's boy." The estates were entailed20, so no provision could be made by him for Jim, but Lady Kerhill, in her cold, just fashion, had tried to make Dick's boy happy.
Deep in his heart, Jim remembered the years that followed; remembered the selfish domination of the elder boy; remembered the blind adoration21 of his aunt for her son, the bearer of the torch, who was to carry on the golden light of the house of Kerhill. In the Anglo-Saxon idolatry of the Countess of Kerhill for the male of the family, all the old traditions and beliefs were justified22. Her boy—-the man-child who was to be the head of the house—was her obsession23. The tiny, flower-like girl who came shortly before her husband's death, learned soon to turn to Cousin Jim for comfort when her brother carelessly crushed her little joys, as he selfishly planned and fought for his own gratification.
Instinctively24 Jim watched his aunt, who, at Henry's word, had started to move towards him.
"Of course, if you care to go and fetch Diana, I shall be happy," Lady Kerhill said.
Henry lounged back in his chair. "Well, if I forget, Jim can remember for me—eh, Jim?"
Lady Kerhill's face became grave as she leaned over Henry's chair and closely studied the flushed face. She found there confirmation25 of the fear that had preyed26 on her mind for the past half-hour.
"Oh, Henry, you've broken your word," she whispered.
The reckless challenge of Henry's dark eyes as he moved impatiently in his chair was his only answer. Then in a burst of ill-concealed resentment27 he rose: "Don't nag28, mother."
He swayed slightly as he crossed to the open casement. As Jim turned to him, he sullenly29 pushed him aside.
"And don't you preach," he muttered, as he started for the garden.
Jim quickly caught him by the shoulder, "Pull yourself together, Henry. It's eight o'clock and the people are gathering31 in the park."
Henry's only reply was a snarl32 as he disappeared in the shadow of the trees.
The broad window opened level on an Old World garden that led into the great park beyond. The late twilight33 of the July night was bathing park and garden in a curious, unearthly light which made strange spectres of the slowly waving yew-trees. The scent34 of the rose-bushes, the call of the late nightingale to his mate, and the ghostly sundial, sentinel-like, guarding the old place, made a fitting environment for Maudsley Towers.
On a slight hill beyond the park, Jim could see the ruins of the famous Norman church. To the right, at the farther end of the garden, was the Fairies' Corner. There among the trees the fairies of the field were supposed to sleep, and to listen to and grant the requests of the children, who had the courage to venture to them at even-tide. Jim's thoughts were busy to-night; all the old memories seemed to tug35 at his heartstrings.
He had carried Diana Marjoribanks there on her first visit to the Towers. She was six then and he was twelve. She had clung to him and hid her head on his shoulder—the tiny body had stiffened36 with fear—as they made their way to the dark enclosure of the trees. He could still hear her prayer.
"Dear Fairy, please make Henry kinder to poor Jim, poor Mabel, and poor me!"
Even then, Henry had been the little tyrant37 of the Towers.
And yet to-night Henry's wish, as of old, was law to his mother. She conceded Diana to him at his first careless request, although in all probability he would forget the longing38 child in the nursery—forget his promise to give her pleasure, as he had forgotten so often when he was a boy.
Jim roused himself; as he turned to Lady Elizabeth he caught a glimpse of her with the mask off, the bitter disappointment of the mother's heart showing in every line of her proud face. He crossed to her, but the sound of carriage-wheels turning into the driveway heralded39 the approach of the first arrivals, and before Jim could speak the doors were thrown open to the guests.
Lady Elizabeth gave one look of appeal to Jim. It said: "Help Henry and me!"
Up-stairs in the right wing of the old house, a tall, slender child crouched40 close to the nursery window. She had crept from her cot, and, wrapped in a coverlet, waited, and clung to the belief that Henry would come for her. Jim had said he would try, but Henry had promised. She was old enough to know that what Henry desired he obtained. Her little face was pressed closer and closer to the window as she listened to the swelling41 music and saw the guests thronging42 towards the park. Carriage after carriage brought its load of finery, until the child fancied that the entire county must be gathered below. She could see through the climbing roses down into the library, which jutted43 out at a sharp angle almost opposite to the nursery window. But of Jim or Henry she could catch no glimpse.
The stars began to creep out and blink at the tiny figure in the window-seat. Gradually the entire house grew quiet. All—even the servants—had joined the revelry in the park.
The music crashed louder. Fiery44 showers of illumination could be seen shooting and flaming into the sky. It grew cold. Tighter she drew the coverlet and held closer the small puppy that nestled warm in her arms and slept. In the adjoining room Mabel, Lady Kerhill's little daughter, lay fast asleep.
"It's Jim's last night. I must say good-bye," the child whispered to the fleecy white bundle in her arms. "I must keep awake and say good-bye."
Fainter grew the music, darker the sky, and heavier the curved eyelids45. Slowly, with a sigh the child slipped to the floor, and the brown head pillowed itself on the cushioned window-seat. Diana slept.
In the park, the tenantry, eager to meet their young master, were shouting themselves hoarse46. A speech of welcome followed the dazzling illuminations. Over it all, Lady Elizabeth, with Sir Charles Marjoribanks, presided.
Diana and her father lived on a neighboring estate, and Sir Charles had come to-night to rejoice with his old friend on the return of her son. Sir Charles was a man of slender physique, with a gentle, winning manner; extremely delicate in health, he led for the most part a secluded47 life, and since the death of his wife, at Diana's birth, went little into the social world. Diana's childhood had been almost as lonely as Jim's had been in his aunt's home. To-night Sir Charles delighted in seeing the house of Wynnegate honored. He scarcely noted48 the reckless demeanor49 and wild spirits of Henry as unusual; only for Jim and Lady Elizabeth was it a night of anxiety. Never for a moment did Henry escape Jim's watchful50 eyes; slip after slip made by Henry was covered by Jim's tact51 and thoughtfulness, and with simple dignity he carried the night to success. Only when he stood aside and saw Henry receive the demonstrations52 of the county and tenantry did the bitterness of his position force itself upon him. Not once did Henry remember his promise to the child waiting for him. Jim remembered; but the look of appeal from his aunt, and the sullen30 defiance53 of Henry, kept him close to his cousin's side.
The final bars of the last dance were dying away and the ball was drawing to its brilliant end. In the east, a pale streak54 of light was beginning to show over the horizon. Sir Charles, half an hour before, had gone to his room. Exhausted55 by the long evening's anxiety and late festivities, Lady Kerhill forgot that Jim was to leave early in the morning and that she would not see him again, and had retired56 to her own apartment. In the great hall, tired and excited groups of guests were saying good-night.
"It's good-bye for Jim," Sir John Applegate, Diana's cousin, called as the last carriage drove away.
A half-whimsical smile played over Jim's face. Then some one remembered that he was leaving England. As he turned from the door, he met the eyes of his cousin fastened on him, all the latent rebellion rising to the surface. Henry Kerhill was sober enough to know that Jim had watched and guarded him through the entire night, and had stood between him and disgrace. As he leaned against the tall mantel, the bitter consciousness that the young boy had proved himself of fine mettle57, ate like acid into his feverish58 brain. He dug his hands deep into his pockets, then with a lurch59 he pulled himself together. Without a word he turned, crossed to the twisted staircase, and grasping the oak rails, slowly ascended60. From the landing came the slam of a heavy door, and Jim knew that he was alone.
So this was the end. The striking of the bell in the church-tower reminded him that it was now four o'clock and that he was to leave at six. His luggage had been sent on ahead the previous day. He changed quickly, without disturbing the tired servants, and in half an hour was ready to walk to the station. As he came down the broad staircase, lined with portraits of the ancestors of the house of Wynnegate, a slight noise in the corridor leading off from the broad landing attracted him. Before he could turn, a low voice called:
"Jim—Jim!"
It was Diana. Standing61 there in the dim light of the corridor, she made an entrancing picture. With the parted hair falling away from the low brow, around the oval face, and the far-apart blue-black eyes, she looked like the child Madonna of Rosetti's "Annunciation." The coverlet was drawn62 close about her, the puppy still hidden under its folds.
"It's Di, Jim," she whispered as she hurried to him. "I waited and waited for you—I knew you were going away and I wanted to say good-bye. Burrow promised that she would let me see you, but she's fast asleep, and so is Mabel. I tried to wake them but I couldn't." The little figure cuddled into his arms.
Jim's heart was very full as he looked at the frail63 child in the early dawn, the shadows of a restless night showing on her delicately modelled face. He drew her into a window-enclosure, and wrapping the heavy curtains about her, held her fast.
"Say something," the sweet voice coaxed. "I shall miss you so and wait for you to come back. You will come back, won't you?"
Jim's only answer was to press the little head close to his heart. In all the great house, she alone had cared to say good-bye—to wish him in her child's way godspeed.
"See," Diana continued as she opened her arms, "here is something for you to take away with you, so that you sha'n't be lonely any more." She opened her arms and held up the soft roll of fur with its blinking eyes and pink-tipped nose.
"Di, dear Di," Jim whispered, as he patted the towsled hair.
Quite seriously her big eyes searched Jim's face to be sure that her gift truly won approval.
The church clock boomed the hour of five. Jim hurriedly rose and slipped the dog into his coat-pocket.
"Good-bye, Di, and God bless you!"
She clung quietly to him with her arms tight around his neck for a long time; then the little face quivered, and in a burst of tears she sank back among the cushions of the window-seat. Jim hesitated a moment, then with a final pat on the dear head, hurriedly reached the doorway64 and was out on the high-road. From a turn at the top of the common he caught a last glimpse of the great house, and in the big window of the hall could see the faint outline of the white figure still huddled65 among the cushions.
All the suppression of the past days gave way. With a cry, Jim threw himself down on the damp ground and convulsive sobs66 shook his body. It had all been his—his home, his country—and he was leaving it without a friend, without a loving hand or voice to cheer him.
He suddenly felt a damp nose thrust into his hand, and a soft tongue began to lap his face as though in sympathy. The tiny puppy had fallen from his pocket and crawled on to his shoulder. He rose to his feet and picked up the fluffy67 ball; something in the round, pulpy68 mass made him laugh.
"So I've found a friend, have I? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
The dog gave a faint yelp69 in reply and began to lick his hand. Holding the dog close to him, Jim walked on, all the boy in him welling up to meet the promise of the new day. Suddenly he stopped as he neared the station platform, and stroking gently the soft fur, he whispered:
"I'll call you Di."
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收听单词发音
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1
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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suffusing
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的现在分词 ) | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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4
imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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10
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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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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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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16
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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instinctively
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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26
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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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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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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43
jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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44
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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45
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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46
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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47
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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51
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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52
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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54
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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55
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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56
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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57
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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59
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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60
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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65
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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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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67
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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68
pulpy
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| 果肉状的，多汁的，柔软的； 烂糊； 稀烂 | |
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69
yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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