As I stood there in the cool, gray dawn, with my wet habit, the dew-drops still standing1 on the curls of my red hair, my face—I make no doubt—pale with distress2, and my gray eyes at their darkest from the same cause, I suppose I looked rather a sorry spectacle, and one that melted her heart; anyhow, I know that she put her arm round me and gave me a hasty kiss before she pushed me forward to meet father. For a moment I felt something rise in my throat, and I suppose I ought by rights to have cried. But I did not cry; I was too happy in spite of it all, and luckily neither father nor mother was of those people who expect one to cry because one is sorry.
As I have said, they neither of them said a word of rebuke3. I gave my explanation, and it was accepted; father only declared that it was a very good thing Trayton Harrod had met me when he did; and mother only remarked that "least said soonest mended." I suppose they were both glad to have me safe home. And that drive with father's bailiff, which had meant so much to me, was thus buried in sacred silence.
It was the day that Joyce was to come home. As I dressed myself again after the couple of hours' sleep, which I could not manage to do without, I remembered that it was the day for Joyce to come home. How was it that I had not thought of it? How was it that I had not thought of it all yesterday, nor for many yesterdays before it?
I was conscious that even my letters to my sister had been fewer and more hurried than they were at the beginning of her absence. I was angry with myself for it, for I would not have believed that any length of absence could have made her anything but the first person of importance in my life. But of course now that she was home again, everything would be as before.
I felt very happy to think that I was to see her again. I begged the gig to go down to the station and meet her myself. The mare4 was used to me now, so that even Joyce would not be nervous. Her face lit up with her own quiet smile as she saw me, breaking the curves of the sweet mouth, and depressing, ever so little, that short upper lip of hers, that always looked as if it had been pinched into its pretty pout5. She looked handsomer than ever; I don't know whether it was because it was so long since I had seen her, but I thought she was far more beautiful than I had ever imagined. I pitied poor Frank more than ever for having to wait so long for a sight of her.
"Why, Meg," said she, as she came out with all her little parcels, "how tanned you are! I declare your hair and your face are just upon one color."
I laughed aloud merrily.
"Well, if my face is the color of my hair, it must be flame indeed," I cried. "But I've been out haymaking, you see, all the time that you, lazy thing, have been getting a white skin cooped up in a London parlor6. Oh, my dear! I wouldn't have been you."
"No, you wouldn't have liked it," answered she. "I was pleased to be of use to poor old aunt, but it was rather dull, and I must say I'm glad to be home."
"Everybody has missed you dreadfully," said I. "As for mother and Deb, they can't tell me often enough that I can't hold a candle to you."
"Oh, what nonsense, Meg!" murmured she. "You know well enough they don't mean it."
"My dear, I don't mind," cried I. "I know it well enough, and I can do my own bit of work in my own way all the same. But mother has missed you and no mistake," added I, "though as likely as not she won't let you guess it. She wanted you home long ago, only then Captain Forrester came down again."
A troubled shade came over Joyce's face, as I had noticed it come once or twice before, at mention of her lover's name.
"He came down for a few days a week ago, you know," I added. "I told you so, didn't I?" I was not quite sure whether I had even remembered to give that great piece of news.
"Oh yes, you told me," replied Joyce, in a slow voice.
"He inquired a great deal after you, of course," I went on. "He asked me to give you a great many messages."
She did not answer. A blush had crept up on her dainty cheek, as it was so apt to do. But we had reached the hill, and I jumped down and walked up it, giving her the reins7 to hold. And when we got to the top, Deborah was there hanging clothes in the back garden ready to catch the first sight of us along the road, and Reuben at the gate looking half asleep because he had been out the best part of the night with Jack8 Barnstaple, looking for me in the fog. There was no time for any more private talk.
Mother, it is true, did not come to the gate, that not being her way, and when we got inside, you might have thought Joyce had been no farther than to market from the way in which she received her; but that meant nothing, it was only Maliphant manners, and father said no more than, "You're looking hearty9, child," before he took me away to write out his prospectus10 for him because his hand was stiff.
It was not till late in the evening that I got time to have a chat with Joyce in the dear old attic11 bedroom that she and I had always shared, and I was anxious for a chat. She had brought back two new gowns for us, and apart from all I had to say to her, I wanted to see the new gowns. I had never cared for clothes till quite lately; I used to be rather ashamed of a new frock, as though folk must think me a fool for wearing it, and had been altogether painfully wanting in the innocent vanity which is supposed to be one of a young girl's charms. But lately it had been different. I wanted to look nice, and I had my own ideas of how that was to be achieved. Alas12! when I saw the gowns, I knew that they did not meet my views.
Joyce was settling her things—laying aside her few laces and ribbons with tender care; she opened the heavy old oak press and took out the gowns with pride. I think that she was so busy shaking them out that she did not see my face; I hope so, for I know it fell. The gowns were pale blue merino, the very thing for her dainty loveliness, but not, I felt instinctively13, the thing for a rough, ruddy colt like me.
"Won't they spot?" said I, diffidently.
"That's what mother said," replied she, a little sadly; "but, dear me, they're our only best frocks; we sha'n't wear them o' bad weather."
I am so glad I said no more, for she had brought me a book from London—it was a novel by a famous author of whom we had heard; the author was a woman, and I had expressed a great wish to read it in consequence. I was very pleased to think that Joyce should have remembered it. I recollect14 that I kissed her for it, and I thought no more about the frocks, I only felt that it was nice to have sister home. I had not known until now how much I had missed her.
"I wonder how we shall all get on when you go away for good and marry that young man of yours?" said I. "It don't seem as if the place were itself somehow when you are not there."
"Time enough to think of that when the day comes," answered Joyce, I thought a trifle sadly.
"Well, yes, maybe," said I, doubtfully; "and yet it isn't so very far off, you know. And if only you had a little more determination in you it might be a great deal nearer."
"You seem to be very anxious to get rid of me just as soon as you have got me home," said she, with just the merest tone of wounded sensibility in her voice.
Of course I laughed at that—it wasn't really worth answering. But I could have said that since three weeks ago, I had learned that which made me think it harder than ever that Joyce should be separated from the man she loved. I had not thought much of her or her concerns of late, but now that she was close to me I felt very sorry for her. When Joyce had gone away I had been conscious of a curious feeling of inferiority with regard to her as though she knew some secret which was to me sealed, but now—now I felt that there was a rent in the cloud that divided us; I felt that I could look into her world, I felt that I was on her level. And it was only with a more delicate feeling of sympathy than formerly16 that I began to give her some of the messages with which Frank had intrusted me.
I could not exactly pretend that he had looked very miserable17, but I could assure her of his continued ardent18 devotion to her, and this I did most fervently19. Somehow, when I had entered upon this task I began to feel that it was rather a queer compliment to assure a girl that her lover was not forgetting her, and I asked myself why I felt obliged to do it.
She listened quietly to all that I repeated to her of the short interview, but when I began to speak of my endeavors to induce mother to cut the term of the engagement short, she interrupted me with that serene20 air of determination which I knew there was no gainsaying21.
"Meg," she said, "I want you never to do that again. I want you to understand once and for all that if things don't come naturally, it's because I believe that they oughtn't to come at all. If Frank cares for me as he says, he will care for me just as much at the end of a year, and I had rather wait and see."
I looked at her open-mouthed.
"I think you're a queer girl," I said at last. "I shouldn't have thought you wanted to punish yourself for the sake of putting a man to a test. But I suppose I don't understand. That's the sort of way mother talks, and I know it's very wise, and all that; but, dear me, I think it's all stuff wanting to sit down and wait till the wave comes over you. I'm sure that if I wanted a thing very badly I should love to fight for it—I should have to fight for it."
It was close upon midsummer, and the evenings were exquisitely23 long and luminous24, the twilight stretching almost across to the dawn. After the heat of the day, lovely soft gray mists rose in transparent25 sheets off the marsh26 below us, and floated upward towards the hill. It was not a thick fog, as it had been the night before, but just a ghostly veil thrown across the land, above which lights twinkled amid dark houses on the distant hill. There was not a breath of wind, and in the silence the lapping of the sea came faintly to our ear. Joyce looked out into the mist.
"Of course," continued I after a while, "I'm not engaged to a man, and so I don't know what I should do if I were."
"I think you would do what you do in other matters," answered Joyce. "I think you would try very hard to get your own way. But then you and I are not alike."
No, we were not alike, I felt that. And I supposed that my sister was right, and that the only difference lay in my being more obstinate28.
"I don't think that a woman ought to fight to have her own way," added she, in a low voice.
I considered a moment before I understood what she meant. "Do you mean to say that if any one fights, it ought to be the man?" asked I. "Well, you are an unreasonable29 girl! Good gracious me! When Frank lifts a finger you are angry with him."
Joyce smiled a faint smile like the gray mists below.
"I don't think you know what you mean nor what you want," added I, impatiently.
Without taking any notice of my short tone, she said, gravely, "I know that it will be all as it is ordained30."
When Joyce talked about things being as they were ordained, it always put me in a horrible temper; and it was either this or some little feeling of awkwardness in my mind about Harrod which made me reply very shortly when she began asking me presently about the new bailiff.
From some motive31 entirely32 incomprehensible to myself, there arose within me a sudden dislike to the idea that Joyce should guess at my liking33 for him. And so when she asked what he was like, I replied, gruffly, "Oh, like many other men—plain and very obstinate."
This was true, but the impression that I gave in saying it was false; I knew that perfectly34 well, but I was too proud to change it, although in my heart I felt ashamed that I should be guilty of any sort of deception35 towards my dear, simple Joyce, and when I was really so glad to have her back again.
She looked distressed36 for a moment, but then she brightened up and said, gayly, "Well, many a good-fellow is plain, and as for being obstinate, that should be to your liking."
"So it is," said I. "Of course."
"I hope father and he get on nicely. I hope he isn't obstinate with father."
I laughed. "Oh, birds of a feather, you know," said I. "We're all obstinate together. But we none of us waste words, so we get on first-rate."
Joyce sighed a little. "Mother said what a good-fellow he was, but father wouldn't say a word about him to me," she said. "Of course he never does. But I don't think he's looking well. He has aged27 so of late."
"Good gracious, Joyce!" I cried. "You're always saying that. Father's hale and hearty enough. Folk are bound to grow older. And I can tell you one thing, he's not half so touchy38 as he was. He and squire39 haven't had more than two rows since you left. That's a very good sign."
"Yes, I am glad of that," agreed Joyce. "The squire's too good a friend to quarrel with. And though of course I know the quarrels never meant anything, they used to make me uncomfortable, Meg, and worse than ever when you used to follow father's way. It didn't seem pretty in one of us girls, dear. Something's good for mere15 manners. We don't think enough of them."
I was silent. My manners were certainly of the worst when my heart did not go with them. But I was conscious that I was not quite the same girl as I had been when my sister left. Even to the squire I was different; since his talk to me on the garden terrace I had felt no inclination40 to be anything but gentle to him.
"Of course, if father quarrels with the bailiff it's as bad for his own health as if he quarrelled with the squire," went on my sister, concernedly.
"Why, dear me, Joyce, who said he quarrelled with him?" cried I. "I only said they were both obstinate. Father wouldn't think of quarrelling with his bailiff."
I took off my dress and hung it up, and shook out my red mop of hair before I said another word.
Then I added, "And I think Mr. Harrod is very considerate towards father. He's far too good a fellow not to be respectful to an old man." I felt bound to say that much for honesty.
"Well, then, you do like him?" cried Joyce.
"Who said I didn't?" answered I. "He's a downright honest fellow, with no nonsense about him."
It wasn't quite what I felt about Trayton Harrod, but it was as near as I could get to the truth, and it seemed to give Joyce some idea of my liking him, for she turned round with a brightened face, and laid her hand on my shoulder.
"Oh, Meg, you can't think how pleased you make me by saying that," she murmured, softly; "I have been afraid you would just set your face against the poor man out of mere obstinacy41, and make things unpleasant for everybody. You do sometimes, you know. And when you never mentioned him in your letters, I made sure that was the reason. I thought you were just making yourself as disagreeable as ever you could to show you hated his coming to Knellestone."
"Well, you must think me a dreadful old cross-patch," laughed I, awkwardly.
"You are tetchy when you have a mind to be, you know, though you can be so bright when you're pleased that one's forced to love you. That's just the pity."
"Well, of course, I did hate a bailiff coming to Knellestone," answered I; "but now that I see how much cleverer he is about farming than we are, I'm pleased."
"I see," said Joyce. "Then he is clever?"
"Oh yes," answered I. "He's clever."
Joyce paused.
"Well, then," she said, diffidently, "I hope before long you'll be real good friends. I have often thought, Meg, that the folk here aren't bright enough for you. I believe if you weren't set down in a country village you'd be a real clever girl."
I laughed, not ill pleased.
"Oh no, Joyce," said I. "I expect what you and I think clever wouldn't really be so."
"I know more than you think," said Joyce, sagely42, nodding her pretty head with an authoritative43 air. "I don't mean book-learning clever, I mean mother-wit. And do you know, Meg, I do so hope that Mr. Harrod being here may make a difference to you! But you don't seem to have seen much of him yet."
"Oh yes," said I, evasively. "He comes in to supper most nights; and of course one meets out-doors now and then in a country place."
"Well," concluded Joyce, with a sort of air of resignation, "of course it wasn't to be expected you'd be great friends just at once. It's a great deal to be thankful for you don't quarrel."
"Oh no," said I; "we don't quarrel."
And then we both said our prayers and got into bed.
But for a long while I lay awake thinking—wondering why I had pretended that I did not like the new bailiff, and whether I really was a clever girl; and—shall I confess it?—hoping a little that the pale blue dress would become me. And then, as I fell asleep and far into my dreams, the memory of my ride with Trayton Harrod shone through the mist, and I thought again of that bar of silver promise across the dawn beyond which I had not been able to see.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
rebuke
|
|
| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
mare
|
|
| n.母马，母驴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
pout
|
|
| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
parlor
|
|
| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
reins
|
|
| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
jack
|
|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
hearty
|
|
| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
prospectus
|
|
| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
attic
|
|
| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
instinctively
|
|
| adv.本能地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
formerly
|
|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
fervently
|
|
| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
serene
|
|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
gainsaying
|
|
| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
exquisitely
|
|
| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
luminous
|
|
| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
marsh
|
|
| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
aged
|
|
| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
obstinate
|
|
| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
unreasonable
|
|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
ordained
|
|
| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
deception
|
|
| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
distressed
|
|
| 痛苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
defiantly
|
|
| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
touchy
|
|
| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
squire
|
|
| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
inclination
|
|
| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
obstinacy
|
|
| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
sagely
|
|
| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
authoritative
|
|
| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |