In a way, we felt sorry for Miss Emily. She was Mr. Leith's old-maid sister and she was not of much importance in the household. But, though we felt sorry for her, we couldn't like her. She really was fussy4 and meddlesome5; she liked to poke6 a finger into every one's pie, and she was not at all tactful. Then, too, she had a sarcastic7 tongue, and seemed to feel bitter towards all the young folks and their love affairs. Diana and I thought this was because she had never had a lover of her own.
Somehow, it seemed impossible to think of lovers in connection with Miss Emily. She was short and stout8 and pudgy, with a face so round and fat and red that it seemed quite featureless; and her hair was scanty9 and gray. She walked with a waddle10, just like Mrs. Rachel Lynde, and she was always rather short of breath. It was hard to believe Miss Emily had ever been young; yet old Mr. Murray, who lived next door to the Leiths, not only expected us to believe it, but assured us that she had been very pretty.
"THAT, at least, is impossible," said Diana to me.
And then, one day, Miss Emily died. I'm afraid no one was very sorry. It seems to me a most dreadful thing to go out of the world and leave not one person behind to be sorry because you have gone. Miss Emily was dead and buried before Diana and I heard of it at all. The first I knew of it was when I came home from Orchard11 Slope one day and found a queer, shabby little black horsehair trunk, all studded with brass12 nails, on the floor of my room at Green Gables. Marilla told me that Jack13 Leith had brought it over, and said that it had belonged to Miss Emily and that, when she was dying, she asked them to send it to me.
"But what is in it? And what am I to do with it?" I asked in bewilderment.
"There was nothing said about what you were to do with it. Jack said they didn't know what was in it, and hadn't looked into it, seeing that it was your property. It seems a rather queer proceeding—but you're always getting mixed up in queer proceedings14, Anne. As for what is in it, the easiest way to find out, I reckon, is to open it and see. The key is tied to it. Jack said Miss Emily said she wanted you to have it because she loved you and saw her lost youth in you. I guess she was a bit delirious15 at the last and wandered a good deal. She said she wanted you 'to understand her.'"
I ran over to Orchard Slope and asked Diana to come over and examine the trunk with me. I hadn't received any instructions about keeping its contents secret and I knew Miss Emily wouldn't mind Diana knowing about them, whatever they were.
It was a cool, gray afternoon and we got back to Green Gables just as the rain was beginning to fall. When we went up to my room the wind was rising and whistling through the boughs16 of the big old Snow Queen outside of my window. Diana was excited, and, I really believe, a little bit frightened.
We opened the old trunk. It was very small, and there was nothing in it but a big cardboard box. The box was tied up and the knots sealed with wax. We lifted it out and untied17 it. I touched Diana's fingers as we did it, and both of us exclaimed at once, "How cold your hand is!"
In the box was a quaint2, pretty, old-fashioned gown, not at all faded, made of blue muslin, with a little darker blue flower in it. Under it we found a sash, a yellowed feather fan, and an envelope full of withered18 flowers. At the bottom of the box was a little brown book.
It was small and thin, like a girl's exercise book, with leaves that had once been blue and pink, but were now quite faded, and stained in places. On the fly leaf was written, in a very delicate hand, "Emily Margaret Leith," and the same writing covered the first few pages of the book. The rest were not written on at all. We sat there on the floor, Diana and I, and read the little book together, while the rain thudded against the window panes19.
June 19, 18—
I came to-day to spend a while with Aunt Margaret in
Charlottetown. It is so pretty here, where she lives—and
ever so much nicer than on the farm at home. I have no cows
to milk here or pigs to feed. Aunt Margaret has given me
such a lovely blue muslin dress, and I am to have it made to
wear at a garden party out at Brighton next week. I never
had a muslin dress before—nothing but ugly prints and dark
Margaret laughed when I said this, and declared she would
give all her wealth for my youth and beauty and
light-heartedness. I am only eighteen and I know I am very
merry but I wonder if I am really pretty. It seems to me
that I am when I look in Aunt Margaret's beautiful mirrors.
They make me look very different from the old cracked one in
my room at home which always twisted my face and turned me
green. But Aunt Margaret spoiled her compliment by telling
me I look exactly as she did at my age. If I thought I'd
ever look as Aunt Margaret does now, I don't know what I'd
do. She is so fat and red.
June 29.
Last week I went to the garden party and I met a young man
called Paul Osborne. He is a young artist from Montreal who
is boarding over at Heppoch. He is the handsomest man I have
ever seen—very tall and slender, with dreamy, dark eyes and
a pale, clever face. I have not been able to keep from
thinking about him ever since, and to-day he came over here
and asked if he could paint me. I felt very much flattered
and so pleased when Aunt Margaret gave him permission. He
poplars where a fine rain of sunshine falls through. I am to
wear my blue muslin gown and a wreath of flowers on my hair.
He says I have such beautiful hair. He has never seen any of
such a real pale gold. Somehow it seems even prettier than
ever to me since he praised it.
I had a letter from home to-day. Ma says the blue hen stole
her nest and came off with fourteen chickens, and that pa has
interest me like they once did.
July 9.
The picture is coming on very well, Mr. Osborne says. I know
he is making me look far too pretty in it, although he
persists in saying he can't do me justice. He is going to
send it to some great exhibition when finished, but he says
he will make a little water-color copy for me.
He comes every day to paint and we talk a great deal and he
reads me lovely things out of his books. I don't understand
them all, but I try to, and he explains them so nicely and is
so patient with my stupidity. And he says any one with my
eyes and hair and coloring does not need to be clever. He
says I have the sweetest, merriest laugh in the world. But I
will not write down all the compliments he has paid me. I
dare say he does not mean them at all.
In the evening we stroll among the spruces or sit on the
bench under the acacia tree. Sometimes we don't talk at all,
but I never find the time long. Indeed, the minutes just
seem to fly—and then the moon will come up, round and red,
over the harbor and Mr. Osborne will sigh and say he supposes
it is time for him to go.
July 24.
I am so happy. I am frightened at my happiness. Oh, I
didn't think life could ever be so beautiful for me as it is!
Paul loves me! He told me so to-night as we walked by the
harbor and watched the sunset, and he asked me to be his
wife. I have cared for him ever since I met him, but I am
afraid I am not clever and well-educated enough for a wife
for Paul. Because, of course, I'm only an ignorant little
country girl and have lived all my life on a farm. Why, my
hands are quite rough yet from the work I've done. But Paul
just laughed when I said so, and took my hands and kissed
them. Then he looked into my eyes and laughed again, because
I couldn't hide from him how much I loved him.
We are to be married next spring and Paul says he will take
me to Europe. That will be very nice, but nothing matters so
long as I am with him.
Paul's people are very wealthy and his mother and sisters are
very fashionable. I am frightened of them, but I did not
tell Paul so because I think it would hurt him and oh, I
wouldn't do that for the world.
There is nothing I wouldn't suffer if it would do him any
good. I never thought any one could feel so. I used to
think if I loved anybody I would want him to do everything
for me and wait on me as if I were a princess. But that is
to do everything yourself for the one you love.
August 10.
Paul went home to-day. Oh, it is so terrible! I don't know
how I can bear to live even for a little while without him.
But this is silly of me, because I know he has to go and he
will write often and come to me often. But, still, it is so
lonesome. I didn't cry when he left me because I wanted him
to remember me smiling in the way he liked best, but I have
been crying ever since and I can't stop, no matter how hard I
try. We have had such a beautiful fortnight. Every day
seemed dearer and happier than the last, and now it is ended
and I feel as if it could never be the same again. Oh, I am
very foolish—but I love him so dearly and if I were to lose
his love I know I would die.
August 17.
I think my heart is dead. But no, it can't be, for it aches
too much.
Paul's mother came here to see me to-day. She was not angry
or disagreeable. I wouldn't have been so frightened of her
if she had been. As it was, I felt that I couldn't say a
word. She is very beautiful and stately and wonderful, with
a low, cold voice and proud, dark eyes. Her face is like
Paul's but without the loveableness of his.
She talked to me for a long time and she said terrible
things—terrible, because I knew they were all true. I
seemed to see everything through her eyes. She said that
Paul was infatuated with my youth and beauty but that it
would not last and what else had I to give him? She said Paul
must marry a woman of his own class, who could do honor to
his fame and position. She said that he was very talented
and had a great career before him, but that if he married me
it would ruin his life.
I saw it all, just as she explained it out, and I told her at
last that I would not marry Paul, and she might tell him so.
But she smiled and said I must tell him myself, because he
would not believe any one else. I could have begged her to
spare me that, but I knew it would be of no use. I do not
think she has any pity or mercy for any one. Besides, what
she said was quite true.
When she thanked me for being so REASONABLE I told her I was
not doing it to please her, but for Paul's sake, because I
would not spoil his life, and that I would always hate her.
She smiled again and went away.
Oh, how can I bear it? I did not know any one could suffer
like this!
August 18.
I have done it. I wrote to Paul to-day. I knew I must tell
him by letter, because I could never make him believe it face
to face. I was afraid I could not even do it by letter. I
suppose a clever woman easily could, but I am so stupid.
I wrote a great many letters and tore them up, because I felt
sure they wouldn't convince Paul. At last I got one that I
thought would do. I knew I must make it seem as if I were
spelled some words wrong and put in some mistakes of grammar
and that I had another fellow at home I liked better. I said
FELLOW because I knew it would disgust him. I said that it
I thought my heart would break while I was writing
those dreadful falsehoods. But it was for his sake, because
I must not spoil his life. His mother told me I would be a
millstone around his neck. I love Paul so much that I would
do anything rather than be that. It would be easy to die for
him, but I don't see how I can go on living. I think my
letter will convince Paul.
I suppose it convinced Paul, because there was no further entry in the little brown book. When we had finished it the tears were running down both our faces.
"Oh, poor, dear Miss Emily," sobbed28 Diana. "I'm so sorry I ever thought her funny and meddlesome."
"She was good and strong and brave," I said. "I could never have been as unselfish as she was."
I thought of Whittier's lines,
"The outward, wayward life we see
The hidden springs we may not know."
At the back of the little brown book we found a faded water-color sketch29 of a young girl—such a slim, pretty little thing, with big blue eyes and lovely, long, rippling30 golden hair. Paul Osborne's name was written in faded ink across the corner.
We put everything back in the box. Then we sat for a long time by my window in silence and thought of many things, until the rainy twilight31 came down and blotted32 out the world.
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收听单词发音
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1
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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2
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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3
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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4
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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5
meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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6
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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7
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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9
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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10
waddle
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| vi.摇摆地走；n.摇摆的走路(样子) | |
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11
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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12
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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13
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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14
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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15
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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16
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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17
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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18
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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19
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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20
woolens
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| 毛织品，毛料织物； 毛织品，羊毛织物，毛料衣服( woolen的名词复数 ) | |
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21
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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22
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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23
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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24
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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25
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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26
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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27
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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28
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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29
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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30
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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31
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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32
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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