Diana crossed from the couch where she had been sitting to the open window. In a week's time she was to be married. She held a note in her hand, which had just come by messenger. It was from Henry. He could not take her to Ranelagh as he had planned, he wrote. Unexpected business had arisen, but he would see her later in the evening.
The room in which Diana stood faced Hyde Park. The house was one of those built a century ago by the mad Duke of Delford, and was famous for the purity of its architecture. On this spring day the front looked like a hanging garden, so abundant and exquisite3 were the large boxes of trailing flowers. The room with its Adam ceiling and mantel, its crimson4 brocade curtains against the pale-cream walls, its rare specimens5 of Sheraton and Chippendale and precious bits of china, made a harmonious6 setting for Diana in her dove-colored gown. Bowls of yellow jonquils and daffodils gleamed like golden bits of imprisoned7 sunlight on slender-legged tables.
Diana was alone. Lady Dillingham, her aunt, and the mistress of the Park Lane House was confined to her room with a sharp attack of gout. From the window looking out across the park, the rain glinted like a fine sheet of steel. It beat down the great beds of flaming hyacinths and daffodils that lined the park walk with their glory of purple and yellow. The blue-and-white fleecy sky of a past half-hour now hung over the town like a dirty ship's sail, with puffing8, dun-colored clouds sweeping9 past.
Diana half consciously watched the amusing scurry10 of the passers-by. Through the long, open windows protected by a projecting balcony she could hear the splashing of the rain against the pavement. The confusion of carriages began to straighten itself out. The hurrying crowds disappeared as though swallowed up in the drenched11 ground. What had been a fantastic, brilliantly colored panorama12 was now a desolate13 space.
As Diana stood there, a rising resentment14 at the broken promise filled her mind. It was not because of the disappointment. So often, at the last moment, her plans had been changed by Henry's failure to keep his engagements with her. A sharp gust15 of wind blew its damp air into the room and made her shiver. She closed the window and walked to the open log fire. The spring days of an English climate still permitted this luxury within doors. As she sat before the hearth16, the letter still in her hand hanging listlessly by her side, the door quietly opened and her father entered. On the previous day he had come up from the country to join Diana, who was visiting his sister while the necessary wedding preparations were being completed. The passing years had greatly aged17 Sir Charles. The delicate, high-bred face had grown more spiritual, and he seemed further aloof18 from material influences.
With a pang19 Diana noticed the change. She rose and crossed to him, her tall figure hovering20 protectingly over the old man. The maternal21 instinct was deeply embedded22 in Diana's nature. Quite tenderly he took the young face in his withered23 but exquisitely24 modelled hands and kissed her.
"Alone, dear?" he said. "I thought Henry was to take you to join some people at Ranelagh."
"Henry has just sent me word that he is unexpectedly detained in the city."
Something in her tone made Sir Charles wince25.
She was very beautiful, in a curious, contradictory26 way. Her tender, serious eyes suggested the Madonna, but her arched, full mouth made her a half Venus. More than tall, there was in the lithe27, girlish figure an embodiment of latent reliance and vitality28. Her usually calm face was disturbed at the moment by a look of intense perplexity. It seemed as though she were vainly trying to combat her doubts.
She stood for a moment irresolute29, then in a burst of tears she slipped down beside the big chair in which her father sat.
"I can't marry Henry—I can't," she sobbed30, as she hid her face in her hands.
For a moment Sir Charles was startled; then, smiling at what he divined to be a lover's quarrel, he patiently patted the bent31 head as though humoring a wayward child. Absorbed in his own narrow life, he had no knowledge of men, and to him Henry Wynnegate was an ideal match for his motherless girl.
He had known the late Earl well, and in the reflected glory of the parents he saw the son. His heart was set on seeing Diana safely moored32 in the house of Wynnegate and the brilliant position hers, which she could assume as the Countess of Kerhill. These tears, of course, were the foolish outcome of the afternoon's disappointment. He let her have her cry out; then gradually drew the slender hands from her face.
"You are unreasonable33, my child," he began. "Surely you can hope for no better husband than the son of my late friend. Why, I have known him from childhood. Think," he went on, "of his career as a soldier; of the respect of his tenantry; of his position in the world." He forgot the dominance of Lady Elizabeth, who, by her plans and generalship had commanded all these attributes for her son. "With his knowledge of life and the future assured him," he continued, "he can give you all that so far has been denied to you. What more can you desire, my dear?"
Diana raised her tear-stained face and listened.
He drew her close to him, his feeble body vibrating with sudden emotion as he said, "I am very feeble—far older than my years, and I long to see you safely placed." He waited a moment as though expecting a reply, but there was no answer to his appeal. "We are poor, Diana—very poor. I have carried a heavy burden for years. This marriage will make me supremely34 happy; it will make my remaining days peaceful." He paused. "You can trust me, dear, in this matter. Say that you can."
Something in the tense, pathetic face forced back Diana's words of opposition35. Perhaps she was wrong, There was no tangible36 reason for this rebellion that her perplexed37 mind could grasp. Her father, so gentle, so wise, so loving, could not be doubted. Sir Charles watched her eagerly. He loved her, but in his short-sighted desire for her happiness he failed to see the depths of her troubled heart. Almost convinced that her frightened instinct was wrong, Diana rose, and, with a gentle pressure of her father's hand, yielded to his importunities. Tactfully, and in silence, Sir Charles accepted her consent.
A strained pause followed. Sir Charles reflectively sank into the cushions of his high-backed chair. He was sure that Diana's outburst was mere38 nervousness; it was often so with young, inexperienced girls before marriage. The excitement of the London life was a great fatigue39 to him. Even the muffled40, vibrating roar that half penetrated41 into the dwellings42 of Mayfair, told on his sensitive nature. He closed his eyes.
Diana's girlhood had been singularly isolated43 from the world. Shortly after Jim's departure for India, she had been sent abroad to a school on the Continent. She had usually spent the summers with her father at some peaceful, out of the way corner. Her education completed, she had returned during the April previous, to the quiet life of her father's home.
There followed the lonely weeks with her awakening44 womanhood crying out for comprehension. Then one day Henry Wynnegate returned to the Towers. She had only a vague memory of the subsequent days of amusement that passed so quickly. All that her youth and gayety had so long desired was given her. She was unconsciously swept on by the passion of Henry's love and could hardly recall when she promised to be his wife. That was in the autumn.
At the beginning of the season she was presented at court. Her youth and beauty made a sensation, and her marriage was arranged to take place within a month.
Eager to grasp the bloom of the fresh flower he had plucked, Henry would tolerate no delay. Backed by the dominant45 influence of his mother, who in Diana saw not only the gratification of Henry's desires, but a gracious bearer of his name, and, with the persuasion46 of Sir Charles, Diana acquiesced47 to an early marriage. She was in love with love, not with the man, and her loveliness and the purity of her fresh young soul made her idealize the best of Henry's shifting, many-sided nature.
Sir Charles dozed48 peacefully. Diana, with feverish49 cheeks and burning eyes, longed to escape from the warm room. Through the closed windows she could see that the rain had ceased. She wanted to be alone, to calm the battling emotions of the past hour. As she tiptoed to the door, it was thrown open, and the Countess of Kerhill and Lady Mabel Wynnegate were announced.
Sir Charles aroused, rose quickly from his chair to greet the visitors.
"My dear," Lady Kerhill began, as she entered the room and embraced Diana, "we are going to ask you for our tea at once if you will take pity on us. Such an afternoon! We were obliged to turn back from Ranelagh because of the storm. Fortunately we had a closed carriage, but Mabel and I were so anxious to know whether you and Henry had started before the shower sprang up"—with a quick look of surprise about the room, she exclaimed, "Why, where is Henry?"
Diana rang the bell for tea.
"I had a note from Henry, dear Lady Elizabeth, saying he was detained by some unexpected business."
Sir Charles noticed with great satisfaction Diana's superb control. Her rebellious50 mood, as he surmised51, had been a mere whim52.
For a moment a half-frightened look came into Lady Elizabeth's eyes. She was never quite sure of Henry, but even to herself she never admitted it. She had cast him for a role that he neither suggested nor attempted to play, but she never flinched53 before the duty of wilfully54 blinding herself to these truths. Her love and her belief would win, and out of it all would be created the son she so desired Henry to be—that was her unconscious prayer. She threw off the moment's anxiety.
"No doubt it is a busy week for Henry," she said. She crossed to a chair near the fire, and with the announcement of tea began to gossip with Sir Charles. Mabel moved close to Diana's side at the tea-table. She had grown into a fairy-like creature, with exquisite, youthful coloring. Very shy and utterly55 subordinate to her mother and brother, she lavished56 upon Diana a great affection in return for her sympathy. She stole shy glances at Diana's unusual color, as the latter poured the tea mechanically, but joined little in the conversation. Diana caught Mabel's eyes wonderingly fastened upon her. She could no longer endure the close room.
"I must get a breath of air. Can Mabel go with me?" she said, as she rose from her untouched tea.
Sir Charles was explaining to Lady Elizabeth some details of the previous night's rowdy conduct at the House. They both paused for a moment.
"Do take a turn with Mabel in the park," said Sir Charles. "It will refresh you."
"Remember we are due at the opera to-night," Lady Elizabeth said, as she rose. Sir Charles protested. "But it's just why I'm going myself," Lady Elizabeth confessed. "I'll send the carriage back for Mabel."
A few minutes later Diana and Mabel entered the park. The pungent57 smell of the damp earth filled the air. Great crimson and yellow pools of color dotted the ground; they were the battered-down blossoms of the afternoon. Some stronger plants than the others were lifting their swaying stems. The paths were covered with bruised58 leaves, and from the branches came the drip-drip of the gleaming rain-drops. At times under interlaced branches it seemed as though the storm still continued, so heavy was the splashing of the drenched trees. The usually crowded meeting-ground of fashion was practically deserted59; even the guards had not left their corners of refuge. Here and there a stray gardener in a by-path was pityingly regarding his damaged beds.
The fresh, wet air blew against Diana's face and calmed her troubled spirit. Mabel linked her arm through Diana's: neither spoke60. On and on they walked, in and out of deserted side-paths, until a turn in the road brought them opposite to the Serpentine61 Bridge, and they faced the public driveway of the park. A gust of wind blew across the ground a deluge62 of broken boughs63; it caused them to hesitate on the edge of the crossing. Mabel started forward as a cab dashed towards them at a tremendous speed.
"Why, Di, there's Henry in that hansom," Mabel gasped64, as she blew a tangle65 of loosened hair out of her eyes.
But Diana could only see the occupant nearest to her in the cab—it was a woman with a strangely interesting foreign face.
"Nonsense," she answered, as she held firm the wind-blown hat. "Henry is in the city. You are mistaken, dear."
As she spoke the storm began afresh. The wind blew the sodden66 blossom leaves and broken branches into a hurricane cloud around them. Grasping Mabel by the hand, Diana made her way against the violence of the wind and finally reached the entrance to the park. In the rush of keen air and the fight against it, everything else was forgotten. They quickly reached the house, and Diana saw Mabel drive away in the shelter of the waiting carriage. A few minutes later she was in her own room.
She loosened her long, brown hair, and kneeling before the glowing fire held the wet coils to its warmth. On her bed lay a gown to be worn that night, and the light from the fire cast a delicate sheen over its folds. It flickered67 and blazed with merry bursts of flame, lighting68 up the old-fashioned chintz draperies of the quaintly69 furnished room. Through the closed window she could hear the faint splutter of the rain on the casement70. As she leaned against the tall chair close to the fireplace, a soft, warm languor71 stole over her and the tension of her mind relaxed. The beauty of her present life stretched out innumerable magic wands that lulled72 into insensibility the frightened thoughts of the afternoon. Soothed73 by the warmth and comfort of the room after the fatigue of her walk against the gale74 in the park, she abandoned herself to pleasant, intangible dreams. A knock at the door aroused her.
It was her aunt's maid, who carried a large box of flowers. Diana opened them; they were from Henry. Again they reiterated75 his apologies for the afternoon's disappointment. The perfume of the gardenias76 filled the room as she sank into a chair before her dressing-table and buried her face in the masses of delicate blossoms. The quiet servant gathered up the tangled77 hair.
"Her ladyship would like you to come to her room before you leave for the opera," she said, as she drew the brush across the soft brown locks.
Diana did not reply.
Yes, she was admitting to herself she had been unreasonable, as her father said. Life was beautiful and wonderful, and she meant to gather all its sweetness and bloom.
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收听单词发音
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1
exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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3
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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4
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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11
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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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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13
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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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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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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25
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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30
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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41
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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42
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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43
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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44
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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45
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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46
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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47
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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50
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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51
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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52
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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53
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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55
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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56
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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61
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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62
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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64
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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67
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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69
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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73
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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74
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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75
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
gardenias
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| n.栀子属植物，栀子花( gardenia的名词复数 ) | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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