“What are pixy-people?” demanded Peter, forgetting the Story Girl’s dislike of interruptions.
“There were cultivated fields between the grove2 and the dark blue gulf3; but far behind and on each side were woods, for Prince Edward Island a hundred years ago was not what it is today. The settlements were few and scattered4, and the population so scanty5 that old Hugh Townley boasted that he knew every man, woman and child in it.
“Old Hugh was quite a noted6 man in his day. He was noted for several things—he was rich, he was hospitable7, he was proud, he was masterful—and he had for daughter the handsomest young woman in Prince Edward Island.
“Of course, the young men were not blind to her good looks, and she had so many lovers that all the other girls hated her—”
“You bet!” said Dan, aside—
“But the only one who found favour in her eyes was the very last man she should have pitched her fancy on, at least if old Hugh were the judge. Kenneth MacNair was a dark-eyed young sea-captain of the next settlement, and it was to meet him that Ursula stole to the beechwood on that autumn day of crisp wind and ripe sunshine. Old Hugh had forbidden his house to the young man, making such a scene of fury about it that even Ursula’s high spirit quailed8. Old Hugh had really nothing against Kenneth himself; but years before either Kenneth or Ursula was born, Kenneth’s father had beaten Hugh Townley in a hotly contested election. Political feeling ran high in those days, and old Hugh had never forgiven the MacNair his victory. The feud9 between the families dated from that tempest in the provincial10 teapot, and the surplus of votes on the wrong side was the reason why, thirty years after, Ursula had to meet her lover by stealth if she met him at all.”
“It doesn’t make any difference what he was,” said the Story Girl impatiently. “Even a Tory would be romantic a hundred years ago. Well, Ursula couldn’t see Kenneth very often, for Kenneth lived fifteen miles away and was often absent from home in his vessel12. On this particular day it was nearly three months since they had met.
“The Sunday before, young Sandy MacNair had been in Carlyle church. He had risen at dawn that morning, walked bare-footed for eight miles along the shore, carrying his shoes, hired a harbour fisherman to row him over the channel, and then walked eight miles more to the church at Carlyle, less, it is to be feared, from a zeal13 for holy things than that he might do an errand for his adored brother, Kenneth. He carried a letter which he contrived14 to pass into Ursula’s hand in the crowd as the people came out. This letter asked Ursula to meet Kenneth in the beechwood the next afternoon, and so she stole away there when suspicious father and watchful15 stepmother thought she was spinning in the granary loft16.”
“I am not telling you what Ursula Townley ought to have done,” she said loftily. “I am only telling you what she DID do. If you don’t want to hear it you needn’t listen, of course. There wouldn’t be many stories to tell if nobody ever did anything she shouldn’t do.
“Well, when Kenneth came, the meeting was just what might have been expected between two lovers who had taken their last kiss three months before. So it was a good half-hour before Ursula said,
“‘Oh, Kenneth, I cannot stay long—I shall be missed. You said in your letter that you had something important to talk of. What is it?’
“‘My news is this, Ursula. Next Saturday morning my vessel, The Fair Lady, with her captain on board, sails at dawn from Charlottetown harbour, bound for Buenos Ayres. At this season this means a safe and sure return—next May.’
“‘Kenneth!’ cried Ursula. She turned pale and burst into tears. ‘How can you think of leaving me? Oh, you are cruel!’
“‘Why, no, sweetheart,’ laughed Kenneth. ‘The captain of The Fair Lady will take his bride with him. We’ll spend our honeymoon21 on the high seas, Ursula, and the cold Canadian winter under southern palms.’
“‘You want me to run away with you, Kenneth?’ exclaimed Ursula.
“‘Indeed, dear girl, there’s nothing else to do!’
“‘Oh, I cannot!’ she protested. ‘My father would—’
“‘We’ll not consult him—until afterward22. Come, Ursula, you know there’s no other way. We’ve always known it must come to this. YOUR father will never forgive me for MY father. You won’t fail me now. Think of the long parting if you send me away alone on such a voyage. Pluck up your courage, and we’ll let Townleys and MacNairs whistle their mouldy feuds23 down the wind while we sail southward in The Fair Lady. I have a plan.’
“‘Let me hear it,’ said Ursula, beginning to get back her breath.
“‘There is to be a dance at The Springs Friday night. Are you invited, Ursula?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Good. I am not—but I shall be there—in the fir grove behind the house, with two horses. When the dancing is at its height you’ll steal out to meet me. Then ‘tis but a fifteen mile ride to Charlottetown, where a good minister, who is a friend of mine, will be ready to marry us. By the time the dancers have tired their heels you and I will be on our vessel, able to snap our fingers at fate.’
“‘And what if I do not meet you in the fir grove?’ said Ursula, a little impertinently.
“‘If you do not, I’ll sail for South America the next morning, and many a long year will pass ere Kenneth MacNair comes home again.’
“Perhaps Kenneth didn’t mean that, but Ursula thought he did, and it decided24 her. She agreed to run away with him. Yes, of course that was wrong, too, Felicity. She ought to have said, ‘No, I shall be married respectably from home, and have a wedding and a silk dress and bridesmaids and lots of presents.’ But she didn’t. She wasn’t as prudent25 as Felicity King would have been.”
“She was a shameless hussy,” said Felicity, venting26 on the long-dead Ursula that anger she dare not visit on the Story Girl.
“Oh, no, Felicity dear, she was just a lass of spirit. I’d have done the same. And when Friday night came she began to dress for the dance with a brave heart. She was to go to The Springs with her uncle and aunt, who were coming on horseback that afternoon, and would then go on to The Springs in old Hugh’s carriage, which was the only one in Carlyle then. They were to leave in time to reach The Springs before nightfall, for the October nights were dark and the wooded roads rough for travelling.
“When Ursula was ready she looked at herself in the glass with a good deal of satisfaction. Yes, Felicity, she was a vain baggage, that same Ursula, but that kind didn’t all die out a hundred years ago. And she had good reason for being vain. She wore the sea-green silk which had been brought out from England a year before and worn but once—at the Christmas ball at Government House. A fine, stiff, rustling27 silk it was, and over it shone Ursula’s crimson28 cheeks and gleaming eyes, and masses of nut brown hair.
“As she turned from the glass she heard her father’s voice below, loud and angry. Growing very pale, she ran out into the hall. Her father was already half way upstairs, his face red with fury. In the hall below Ursula saw her step-mother, looking troubled and vexed29. At the door stood Malcolm Ramsay, a homely30 neighbour youth who had been courting Ursula in his clumsy way ever since she grew up. Ursula had always hated him.
“‘Ursula!’ shouted old Hugh, ‘come here and tell this scoundrel he lies. He says that you met Kenneth MacNair in the beechgrove last Tuesday. Tell him he lies! Tell him he lies!’
“Ursula was no coward. She looked scornfully at poor Ramsay.
“‘The creature is a spy and a tale-bearer,’ she said, ‘but in this he does not lie. I DID meet Kenneth MacNair last Tuesday.’
“‘And you dare to tell me this to my face!’ roared old Hugh. ‘Back to your room, girl! Back to your room and stay there! Take off that finery. You go to no more dances. You shall stay in that room until I choose to let you out. No, not a word! I’ll put you there if you don’t go. In with you—ay, and take your knitting with you. Occupy yourself with that this evening instead of kicking your heels at The Springs!’
“He snatched a roll of gray stocking from the hall table and flung it into Ursula’s room. Ursula knew she would have to follow it, or be picked up and carried in like a naughty child. So she gave the miserable31 Ramsay a look that made him cringe, and swept into her room with her head in the air. The next moment she heard the door locked behind her. Her first proceeding32 was to have a cry of anger and shame and disappointment. That did no good, and then she took to marching up and down her room. It did not calm her to hear the rumble33 of the carriage out of the gate as her uncle and aunt departed.
“‘Oh, what’s to be done?’ she sobbed34. ‘Kenneth will be furious. He will think I have failed him and he will go away hot with anger against me. If I could only send a word of explanation I know he would not leave me. But there seems to be no way at all—though I have heard that there’s always a way when there’s a will. Oh, I shall go mad! If the window were not so high I would jump out of it. But to break my legs or my neck would not mend the matter.’
“The afternoon passed on. At sunset Ursula heard hoof-beats and ran to the window. Andrew Kinnear of The Springs was tying his horse at the door. He was a dashing young fellow, and a political crony of old Hugh. No doubt he would be at the dance that night. Oh, if she could get speech for but a moment with him!
“When he had gone into the house, Ursula, turning impatiently from the window, tripped and almost fell over the big ball of homespun yarn35 her father had flung on the floor. For a moment she gazed at it resentfully—then, with a gay little laugh, she pounced36 on it. The next moment she was at her table, writing a brief note to Kenneth MacNair. When it was written, Ursula unwound the gray ball to a considerable depth, pinned the note on it, and rewound the yarn over it. A gray ball, the color of the twilight37, might escape observation, where a white missive fluttering down from an upper window would surely be seen by someone. Then she softly opened her window and waited.
“It was dusk when Andrew went away. Fortunately old Hugh did not come to the door with him. As Andrew untied38 his horse Ursula threw the ball with such good aim that it struck him, as she had meant it to do, squarely on the head. Andrew looked up at her window. She leaned out, put her finger warningly on her lips, pointed39 to the ball, and nodded. Andrew, looking somewhat puzzled, picked up the ball, sprang to his saddle, and galloped40 off.
“So far, well, thought Ursula. But would Andrew understand? Would he have wit enough to think of exploring the big, knobby ball for its delicate secret? And would he be at the dance after all?
“The evening dragged by. Time had never seemed so long to Ursula. She could not rest or sleep. It was midnight before she heard the patter of a handful of gravel42 on her window-panes. In a trice she was leaning out. Below in the darkness stood Kenneth MacNair.
“‘Oh, Kenneth, did you get my letter? And is it safe for you to be here?’
“‘Safe enough. Your father is in bed. I’ve waited two hours down the road for his light to go out, and an extra half-hour to put him to sleep. The horses are there. Slip down and out, Ursula. We’ll make Charlottetown by dawn yet.’
“‘That’s easier said than done, lad. I’m locked in. But do you go out behind the new barn and bring the ladder you will find there.’
“Five minutes later, Miss Ursula, hooded43 and cloaked, scrambled44 soundlessly down the ladder, and in five more minutes she and Kenneth were riding along the road.
“‘I would ride to the world’s end with you, Kenneth MacNair,’ said Ursula. Oh, of course she shouldn’t have said anything of the sort, Felicity. But you see people had no etiquette45 departments in those days. And when the red sunlight of a fair October dawn was shining over the gray sea The Fair Lady sailed out of Charlottetown harbour. On her deck stood Kenneth and Ursula MacNair, and in her hand, as a most precious treasure, the bride carried a ball of gray homespun yarn.”
“Well,” said Dan, yawning, “I like that kind of a story. Nobody goes and dies in it, that’s one good thing.”
“Did old Hugh forgive Ursula?” I asked.
“The story stopped there in the brown book,” said the Story Girl, “but the Awkward Man says he did, after awhile.”
“It must be rather romantic to be run away with,” remarked Cecily, wistfully.
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1
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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2
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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3
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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8
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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12
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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17
primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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18
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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19
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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20
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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24
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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29
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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30
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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31
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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33
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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34
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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35
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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36
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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37
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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38
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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39
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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40
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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41
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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42
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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43
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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44
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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45
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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46
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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