“It is quite an easy journey. We can get there in less than two hours by an express train, stay for lunch and tea, and get home again in time for dinner. I’ve been down twice this spring, and it is quite easily managed,” she protested; but Miles would do nothing but grunt3, and refuse a definite answer. To spend three or four hours in Franton, a large proportion of which would be taken up in eating meals, and talking to other people—this was not his idea of a first visit to Cynthia after six years of absence. He continued to grunt and make objections for the next few weeks, and then one night at dinner he announced airily—
“I’ve taken rooms at the Grand at Franton for a week from Friday. I thought, as we were going down in any case, we might as well do the thing comfortably, and have a breath of sea-air. Awfully4 stuffy5 in town this last week! They say the Grand is the best hotel, and we shall be fairly comfortable there. Four bedrooms, and a private sitting-room6 for you, mater, in case you want to be quiet. Gerard’s coming along; and you’ll come too—over Sunday, at least—I hope, father?”
“Over Sunday, certainly. I can manage that very well; and perhaps Horton can take on my work for a few days. There are no very serious cases on at present, and a rest would be very delightful7!” said the tired doctor with a sigh. His wife brightened instantly at the thought of his pleasure, while Betty and Jill flushed with excitement.
Rooms at the Grand! The best hotel, where perchance they might be “comfortable”! They had never before stayed in an hotel; lodgings8, and cheap lodgings into the bargain, had been their portion on the occasion of their rare holiday-makings. The grandeur9 of the prospect10 drove out every other thought, and, to his own immense relief, Miles escaped embarrassing comments on his sadden change of front.
“I hope we shan’t have meals in the private room,” Jill said anxiously. “The great fun of staying in an hotel is to see the people, and—er—”
“Be seen by the people?”
“Exactly! Especially the latter. Don’t ask me to do a single thing before Friday, for I shan’t have a second to spare. I’m off remnant-hunting this morning, and shall be glued to the sewing-machine for the rest of the time. Two new blouses at least I must have, if I am to pose before the public eye—”
“Oh, bother remnants! We’ll go to Regent Street this morning, and buy half a dozen blouses between you. I am not going to take you to an hotel in remnants!” cried Miles with masculine scorn.
Since his return from abroad the eldest11 son of the family displayed a disregard of money which seemed next door to criminal in the eyes of his careful relations. Why worry to make up a blouse for three-and-sixpence when you can buy a better one for three guineas? That was his present attitude of mind; and when the girls hesitated,—fascinated yet fearful,—the reply was always the same—
“I’ve slaved hard enough all these years! This is my holiday. I’ve come home to enjoy myself, and see you enjoy yourselves, and I’m not going to worry my head about shillings. For pity’s sake take what you can get, and don’t fuss!”
It is the attitude of all men who come back to civilisation12 after a long absence, and in Miles’ case it could truthfully be said that his extravagances benefited other people infinitely13 more than himself.
It was a very merry party which travelled down to Franton a few days later, and the comfort and grandeur of the hotel exceeded even the girls’ expectation. All the bedrooms secured were situated14 on the front, and were provided with dear little balconies, on which they could sit and gaze over the sea. The drawing-room was a gorgeous apartment—all yellow satin and white archways, and banks of flowers. The dining-hall was dotted over with little tables, a larger one in a bay-window being reserved for the Trevor party. The lounge was provided with innumerable couches and wicker chairs, in which one could loll at ease, scrutinising the other visitors, or submitting to scrutiny15 on one’s own account, with a delightful consciousness of a Regent Street blouse. The gardens and shrubberies would have been quite irresistible16, had it not been that just beyond their bounds stretched the firm golden sands, on which the white-crested waves broke with a siren sound.
“Go to bed without a walk on the shore by moonlight—I can’t and won’t, not if ten fathers, and fifty thousand mothers went down on their knees and implored17 me to be prudent18!” asserted audacious Jill, as she finished her after-dinner coffee; whereupon Dr Trevor laughed good-naturedly, and said—
“There’s only one father present, and the only knees he possesses are much too stiff to exert themselves in a hopeless cause! Run along, my dear; I should have felt the same at your age. Put on a shawl. Miles, you will see that your sisters don’t run wild, and that they come in by a sensible hour.”
So the four young people wandered along the sands, and watched the moonlight play upon the waters; but there was no need of the last part of the doctor’s warning, for even Jill grew quiet and subdued19, and forgot to tease and banter20. Coming fresh from the noisy, crowded city, there was something inexpressibly impressive in the long stretch of sand, the dark, mysterious waters, the loneliness, the silence, broken only by the rhythmic21 break of the waves.
Miles walked alone, his face lifted now and again to the top of the cliff on which stood the villa22 which the Alliots had hired for the summer months. Betty looked across the waste of waters, and felt a pang23 of compunction. How long was it since she had last thought of her friend across the sea? Fainter and more faint had his image been growing, until from forming a constant background to her thoughts, it had become a positive effort to remember. She turned aside from Will Gerard’s whispered words, and passed her hand through her brother’s arm. To be beside Miles was in itself an incentive24 to loyalty25.
Next morning at eleven o’clock, Betty and Miles started to walk up to the Alliots’ villa, leaving Jill and Will Gerard seated on the shore throwing pebbles26 into the sea, with every appearance of satisfaction with themselves, and their occupation. The path was steep but not very long, and at the entrance to the garden Mrs Alliot was strolling about, as if awaiting their arrival. She kissed Betty and patted her affectionately on the shoulder.
“Cynthia is waiting for you. Run along to her, dear! I will follow with your brother, and hear some of his news,” she said in a light tone which yet held a hint of command, and, when Betty disappeared, she turned in an opposite direction, so as to take the least direct path to the house.
“I am sure your mother is delighted to have you back! It is delightful that you have been so successful in your work. We have been so interested in your adventures.”
The short conventional sentences were the only references made to Miles’ own affairs, and then, as if in a hurry to get to the subject most on her mind, Mrs Alliot began to speak of her daughter.
“You will be surprised to find Cynthia looking so well. She has put on flesh during the last few months, and the sea-air has given her a colour. Last winter she was painfully thin. It has been a long uphill struggle, but now at last we begin to see definite improvement. The doctors are confident that it will be a complete cure if we are very careful during the next two or three years. The great thing is to live in pure bracing27 air, and to keep her happy and cheerful. Anything that caused agitation28 or worry of any kind, would have a deleterious effect. She has a very sensitive nature, and things go deeply with her,—more deeply than with most girls. Her father and I hide all worries from her, even our anxiety about herself. We, and all the friends who love her, must unite in doing everything in our power to spare her during these all-important years. I know you will understand the position.”
He had grown very white beneath his tan, and Mrs Alliot, glancing swiftly at him, felt a pang of compunction. Poor young fellow, it was hard on him, if he really cared! Yet she had done no more than her duty in warning him that he could not be allowed to disturb Cynthia’s peace of mind. So far, the girl was fancy free, but her interest in the return of her boy-friend was so strong that a word, a look, a hint of his own feeling might be sufficient to fan it into a stronger flame.
“But now that I have spoken he knows how things are, and he is a good fellow! He will think of her before himself,” said Cynthia’s mother to herself with a sigh of relief.
For the rest of the way to the house Mrs Alliot talked on impersonal31 subjects, and Miles answered with colourless politeness; then, at last, across a wide green lawn, a sun shelter came into view, in which Betty could be discerned, and someone else in a white dress lying on a couch banked up with blue cushions.
When one has dealt the one great blow, it is easy enough to make trifling33 concessions34, reflected Miles bitterly, as he strode forward; but the next moment all bitterness died away as he grasped a thin white hand, and looked down into a face which was at once strange, and exquisitely35 familiar. Cynthia, but Cynthia as a woman, no longer a schoolgirl; Cynthia with her golden mane wound smoothly36 round her head, with blue shadows under the sweet eyes, and hollows where the dimples used to dip in the rounded cheeks. At the first glance the air of delicacy37 was painfully pronounced, but as she smiled and flushed, the old merry Cynthia looked at him once more.
“Miles! Is it really you? I can hardly believe it! Such a great, big man! Oh, but I’m glad! I’m glad to see you again! Sit down, sit down. Let me see you properly. I mayn’t get up from this horrid38 couch. Yes, it’s you! I’d know your eyes anywhere, and the moustache is nice—a very fine moustache, Miles! I’m glad the beard is off. I like your square chin. It is lovely to have you all here, and to know you have not to run away in a few hours. I’m looking forward immensely to the next week. Old Miles! It is good to see you!”
She laughed and coughed, and lent back against the cushions, pushing them into place with an impatient hand; while Miles stared at her in an intent silence which printed every detail so deeply in his memory that no passage of time could wear them away. The loose ends of hair which escaped from the coils and curled on her white neck, the long transparent39 hands against the blue cushions, the slight figure in the white dress—how often that vision arose before him in the years to come!
As of old, Cynthia’s friendliness40 showed no hint of embarrassment41, and she chatted away as easily as if the separation had lasted for weeks instead of years. Betty had tactfully rejoined Mrs Alliot, and for the next half-hour Miles was allowed an uninterrupted tête-à-tête.
“Tell me all about everything!” cried Cynthia, just as years before she had demanded an account of Miles’ engineering studies; and when he protested, “Oh, it’s quite easy,” she maintained, “Tell me the history of a day. You wake in the morning, and get up, and then—what next? Go through the whole programme until it is time to go to bed again.”
Then Miles spoke30, and she listened eagerly, the flush dying out of her cheeks and a wistful expression deepening in her eyes.
“It’s just as I said long ago,” she sighed plaintively42 when he had finished; “you have gone out into the world and done things, and I have stayed at home and done—nothing! Oh, Miles, it was hard being taken ill just then! Father had come home, and we were looking forward to travelling about, and having a good time together, and being so happy. I had finished classes, and was old enough to come out, and I meant to be such a good daughter, and to take care of the parents for a change, after being taken care of all my life. I was going to my first ball—my dress was in the house—when I caught influenza43, and since then”—she threw out her arms with an expressive44 gesture—“it’s been this sort of thing all the time! Lying still—eating—sleeping—being waited on hand and foot; an anxiety instead of a help; a care instead of a joy—oh, and I did want to be a joy!” She paused a moment to press her lips together, and to give her head an impatient shake. “I mustn’t be silly! Father and mother don’t guess that I feel like this, and it isn’t always so bad. Some days I feel quite bright and happy, especially lately, since I’ve been getting better, but seeing you brought back the dear old days, and oh, I want to be well again, and run about with you on the sands. I shan’t be able to go about with you at all.”
“I will come and sit with you as often as I may—as long as I may,” said Miles huskily whereupon Cynthia smiled on him again.
“How nice of you! Ah yes, you must come. I’ll keep quite quiet for the rest of the day, and then I can talk while you are here. There’s so much I want to tell, and to hear!”
She coughed again, and brushed her hair from her brow, evidently fatigued45 by her own emotion. The dainty finish and grace of her appearance, which had been the greatest charm in Miles’ eyes long ago, was accentuated46 by her illness into a fragility which made her seem more like a spirit than a flesh-and-blood woman to his unaccustomed eyes. His thoughts raced back for a moment to the scene of his Mexican home, and he realised the folly47 of the dream which had for so long made the half-conscious background of his thoughts. Even if she were willing, even if she loved him, as he loved and would always love her, it would be a madman who could dream of transplanting this fragile flower to those rude surroundings. Cynthia was not for him! Their lives, for the present at least, lay far apart. As for the future, that was in God’s hands; it would be selfish and cowardly to try to ensure it for himself. Miles’ heart was wrung48 with the agony of renunciation, but his set face showed no signs of his suffering. He cheered Cynthia with renewed promises of daily visits, chatted with her of old friends and old times, and had the reward of hearing her laugh with the old merry ring. When he took her hand in farewell, she looked at him with frank eyes, and said sweetly—
“I’m sorry I grumbled—it was wrong of me when I’m so well off. I do try to be good, but I was always impatient—you used to laugh when I said so, but it was true. This illness may be just what I need—‘They also serve, who only stand and wait’—I think so often of that line, and try to wait in patience, but it is hard—the hardest thing in the world, sometimes!”
“Yes,” said Miles quietly, “the very hardest?”
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1
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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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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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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45
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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46
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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47
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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48
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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