A light wind was blowing through the courtyard. It scattered2 the pink petals3 of a too full-blown la France rose upon the garden path. They chased each other round in a little mad dance, first down the path, then in circles at the foot of the statue of a little faun playing on a long thin reed. The faun looked at them with mocking, laughing eyes, while he piped to their dancing.
A thrush in the laburnum tree looked at Barnabas for a moment, but as it had already got used to the fact that he was neither a cat nor a boy with a stone handy, it began to sing a sweet full-throated song.
Barnabas fingered a la France rosebud4. There were half a dozen little green blights5 clinging to the petals. He blew a cloud of tobacco smoke round it. The blights smiled at him, so to speak. It would require something stronger than cigarette smoke to remove them from their lodging6. Barnabas let go his hold on the rosebud.
“Hang it all,” he said. “I daresay they’re enjoying life and the sunshine as much as I am. They don’t seem to be hurting the roses, anyhow.”
A couple of white butterflies flew into the garden. One of them settled on the sleeve of his dressing-gown. Barnabas looked at it. It did not move, only its wings quivered a little.
He felt a sudden odd remorse8 at the thought of other butterflies he had long ago enclosed in wide-topped bottles filled with camphor, and then pinned down on to pieces of cork9. The destructive age had not lasted long with Barnabas. His love of Nature was too whole-hearted and genuine.
The door of studio number seven suddenly opened, and Sally came out in her blue print dress. She held a duster in her hand which she flapped two or three times. The butterfly flew away to perch10 on the shoulder of the faun.
Sally paused for a moment to sniff11 the morning air. She did not see Barnabas. She was feeling very happy. She was seventeen, it was eight o’clock on a June morning, and last night she had written to her young man—a stalwart coal-heaver. The letter had been written with a stubby end of pencil on a scrap12 of paper. The envelope into which she had put it had not stuck well. It had required much pressure from Sally’s thumb. The cleanest thumb will leave a mark on an envelope if it is much rubbed on it. The envelope had looked a little dirty, and Sally had sighed. She felt, however, that the words it contained would more than make up in Jim’s eyes for the smear13. Later she would ask leave to go out and buy a stamp.
Then she saw Barnabas. Her work having lain hitherto in the kitchen rather than in the upstair regions, she was not used to the appearance of young men in Turkish dressing-gowns, and she blushed.
“Morning,” said Barnabas pleasantly, smiling at the girl. She made him think of a wild-rose.
“Good morning, sir,” said Sally, and she dropped a curtsey.
Barnabas looked at her with approval.
“Where did you learn to make curtsies, child? I thought they’d gone out of fashion with Bibles, brown sugar on bread and butter, and old ladies.”
Sally dropped another curtsey from pure nervousness.
“Please, sir, mother taught me, sir. She was still-room maid in a big house before she married father. She said born ladies curtseyed to the King and Queen, and we curtseyed to the born ladies—and gentlemen,” she added.
“Then your mother, child, is not a Socialist,” said Barnabas.
“Please, sir, mother says,” said Sally seriously, “that Socialism is a lot of silly talk among discontented people who’d be discontented if they had the moon to play with. She says Christ’s socialism was love and respect.”
Barnabas gave a low whistle.
“Your mother must be a very remarkable14 woman,” he said.
There was a moment’s pause, while Sally looked at him and at the white butterfly which had returned to perch upon his sleeve. Then a sudden spirit of mischief15, born of the wind of the morning, took possession of Barnabas.
“I hope we didn’t disturb your mistress with our singing last night,” he said. There was a little glint of gay devilry in his eyes.
“Oh, no, sir,” said Sally quickly. “I asked her ten minutes ago, sir, and she said, ‘Bless you, no, child. Enjoyed it. They sounded so delightfully16 young and happy. Like to have that kind of lullaby every night.’”
Sally was an unconscious mimic17. Barnabas got a sudden and not inaccurate18 mental image of Miss Mason as she spoke19 the words. A little pang20 of remorse, not unlike the pang he had experienced at the thought of the butterflies, smote21 him as he remembered his half-joking conversation with Dan.
“Give your mistress my compliments, and tell her I am glad we didn’t disturb her. Also that I shall do myself the pleasure of calling upon her at no very distant date.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sally, and she turned back towards the studio.
“By the way,” said Barnabas, “what is your mistress’s name?”
“Miss Mason, sir,” said Sally. She dropped a final curtsey and disappeared within the studio.
Barnabas lifted his arm with the butterfly on it, and brushed its wings lightly against his lips. Apparently22 it appreciated the treatment, for it remained passive.
“Is it the influence of the morning, the wings of a white butterfly, or the wild-rose face of that child?” said Barnabas.
“I fancy I am going to fall in love with Miss Mason.”
点击收听单词发音
1 slippers | |
n. 拖鞋 | |
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2 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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3 petals | |
n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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4 rosebud | |
n.蔷薇花蕾,妙龄少女 | |
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5 blights | |
使凋萎( blight的第三人称单数 ); 使颓丧; 损害; 妨害 | |
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6 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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7 morsel | |
n.一口,一点点 | |
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8 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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9 cork | |
n.软木,软木塞 | |
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10 perch | |
n.栖木,高位,杆;v.栖息,就位,位于 | |
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11 sniff | |
vi.嗅…味道;抽鼻涕;对嗤之以鼻,蔑视 | |
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12 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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13 smear | |
v.涂抹;诽谤,玷污;n.污点;诽谤,污蔑 | |
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14 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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15 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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16 delightfully | |
大喜,欣然 | |
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17 mimic | |
v.模仿,戏弄;n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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18 inaccurate | |
adj.错误的,不正确的,不准确的 | |
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19 spoke | |
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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20 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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21 smote | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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22 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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