“I’m dreadfully sorry that you can’t spend your last evening with us,” said Miss Ley. “But the Trevor-Jones will never forgive us if we don’t go to their dinner-party.”
“Of course it was my fault for not finding out before, when I sailed.”
“I’m afraid you’re very glad that for one night we can’t look after you.”
In a little while Miss Ley, looking at her watch, told Bertha that it was time to dress. Gerald got up, and kissing Miss Ley, thanked her for her kindness.
“My dear boy, please don’t sentimentalise. And you’re not going for ever. You’re sure to make a mess of things and come back—the Leys always do.”
Then Gerald turned to Bertha and held out his hand.
“You’ve been awfully3 good to me,” he said, smiling; but there was in his eyes a steadfast4 look, which seemed trying to make her understand something. “We’ve had some ripping times together.”
Miss Ley watched them, admiring their composure. She thought they took the parting very well.
“I dare say it was nothing but a little flirtation7 and not very serious. Bertha’s so much older than he and so sensible that she’s most unlikely to have made a fool of herself.”
But she had to fetch the gift which she had prepared for Gerald.
“Wait just one moment, Gerald,” she said. “I want to get something.”
“Don’t go out to-night, Bertha. I must see you again.”
Before Bertha could reply, Miss Ley called from the hall.
“Good-bye,” said Gerald, aloud.
“Good-bye, I hope you’ll have a nice journey.”
“Here’s a little present for you, Gerald,” said Miss Ley, when he was outside. “You’re dreadfully extravagant9, and as that’s the only virtue10 you have, I feel I ought to encourage it. And if you want money at any time, I can always scrape together a few guineas, you know.”
She put into his hand two fifty-pound notes and then, as if she were ashamed of herself, bundled him out of doors. She went to her room; and having rather seriously inconvenienced herself for the next six months, for an entirely unworthy object, she began to feel remarkably11 pleased. In an hour Miss Ley returned to the drawing-room to wait for Bertha, who presently came in, dressed—but ghastly pale.
“Oh, Aunt Polly, I simply can’t come to-night. I’ve got a racking headache; I can scarcely see. You must tell them that I’m sorry, but I’m too ill.”
She sank on a chair and put her hand to her forehead, groaning12 with pain. Miss Ley lifted her eyebrows13; the affair was evidently more serious that she thought. However, the danger now was over; it would ease Bertha to stay at home and cry it out. She thought it brave of her even to have dressed.
“You’ll get no dinner,” she said. “There’s nothing in the place.”
“Oh, I want nothing to eat.”
Miss Ley expressed her concern, and promising14 to make the excuses, went away. Bertha started up when she heard the door close and went to the window. She looked round for Gerald, fearing he might be already there; he was incautious and eager: but if Miss Ley saw him, it would be fatal. The hansom drove away and Bertha breathed more freely. She could not help it; she too felt that she must see him. If they had to part, it could not be under Miss Ley’s cold eyes.
She waited at the window, but he did not come. Why did he delay? He was wasting their few precious minutes; it was already past eight. She walked up and down the room and looked again, but still he was not in sight. She fancied that while she watched he would not come, and forced herself to read. But how could she! Again she looked out of window; and this time Gerald was there. He stood in the porch of the opposite house, looking up; and immediately he saw her, crossed the street. She went to the door and opened it gently, as he came upstairs.
He slipped in as if he were a thief, and on tiptoe they entered the drawing-room.
“Oh, it’s so good of you,” he said. “I couldn’t leave you like that. I knew you’d stay.”
“Why have you been so long? I thought you were never coming.”
“I dared not risk it before. I was afraid something might happen to stop Aunt Polly.”
“I said I had a headache. I dressed so that she might suspect nothing.”
The night was falling and they sat together in the dimness. Gerald took her hands and kissed them.
“This week has been awful. I’ve never had the chance of saying a word to you. My heart has been breaking.”
“My dearest.”
“I wondered if you were sorry I was going.”
She looked at him and tried to smile; already she could not trust herself to speak.
“Every day I thought you would tell me to stop and you never did—and now it’s too late. Oh, Bertha, if you loved me you wouldn’t send me away.”
“I think I love you too much. Don’t you see it’s better that we should part?”
“I daren’t think of to-morrow.”
“You are so young; in a little while you’ll fall in love with some one else. Don’t you see that I’m old?”
“But I love you. Oh, I wish I could make you believe me. Bertha, Bertha, I can’t leave you. I love you too much.”
“For God’s sake don’t talk like that. It’s hard enough to bear already—don’t make it harder.”
The night had fallen, and through the open window the summer breeze came in, and the softness of the air was like a kiss. They sat side by side in silence, the boy holding Bertha’s hand; they could not speak, for words were powerless to express what was in their hearts. But presently a strange intoxication15 seized them, and the mystery of passion wrapped them about invisibly. Bertha felt the trembling of Gerald’s hand, and it passed to hers. She shuddered16 and tried to withdraw, but he would not let it go. The silence now became suddenly intolerable: Bertha tried to speak, but her throat was dry, and she could utter no word.
A weakness came to her limbs and her heart beat painfully. Her eye crossed with Gerald’s, and they both looked instantly aside, as if caught in some crime. Bertha began to breathe more quickly. Gerald’s intense desire burned itself into her soul; she dared not move. She tried to implore17 God’s help, but she could not. The temptation which all the week had terrified her returned with double force—the temptation which she abhorred18, but to which she had a horrible longing19 not to resist.
And now she asked what it mattered. Her strength was dwindling20, and Gerald had but to say a word. And now she wished him to say the word; he loved her, and she loved him passionately21. She gave way; she no longer wished to resist. She turned her face to Gerald; she leant towards him with parted lips.
“Bertha,” he whispered, and they were nearly in one another’s arms.
But a fine sound pierced the silence; they started back and listened. They heard a key put into the front-door, and the door was opened.
“Take care,” whispered Bertha, and pushed Gerald away.
“It’s Aunt Polly.”
Bertha pointed22 to the electric switch, and understanding, Gerald turned on the light. He looked round instinctively23 for some way of escape, but Bertha, with a woman’s quick invention, sprang to the door and flung it open.
“Is that you, Aunt Polly?” she cried. “How fortunate you came back; Gerald is here to bid us definitely good-bye.”
“He makes as many farewells as a prima donna,” said Miss Ley.
She came in, somewhat breathless, with two spots of red upon her cheeks.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind if I came here to wait till you returned,” said Gerald. “And I found Bertha.”
“How funny that our thoughts should have been identical,” said Miss Ley. “It occurred to me that you might come, and so I hurried home as quickly as I could.”
“You’re quite out of breath,” said Bertha.
Miss Ley sank on a chair, exhausted24. As she was eating her fish and talking to a neighbour, it suddenly dawned upon her that Bertha’s indisposition was assumed.
“Oh, what a fool I am! They’ve hoodwinked me as if I were a child.... Good heavens, what are they doing now?”
The dinner seemed interminable, but immediately afterwards she took leave of her astonished hostess and gave the cabman orders to drive furiously. She arrived, inveighing25 against the deceitfulness of the human race. She had never run up the stairs so quickly.
“How is your headache, Bertha?”
“Thanks, it’s much better. Gerald has driven it away.”
This time Miss Ley’s good-bye to the precocious26 youth was rather chilly27; she was devoutly28 thankful that his boat sailed next morning.
“I’ll show you out, Gerald,” said Bertha. “Don’t trouble, Aunt Polly—you must be dreadfully tired.”
They went into the hall and Gerald put on his coat. He stretched out his hand to Bertha without speaking, but she, with a glance at the drawing-room, beckoned29 to him to follow her, and slid out of the front-door. There was no one on the stairs. She flung her arms round his neck and pressed her lips to his. She did not try to hide her passion now; she clasped him to her heart, and their very souls flew to their lips and mingled30. Their kiss was rapture31, madness; it was an ecstasy32 beyond description, their senses were powerless to contain their pleasure. Bertha felt herself about to die. In the bliss33, in the agony, her spirit failed and she tottered34; Gerald pressed her more closely to him.
But there was a sound of some one climbing the stairs. She tore herself away.
“Good-bye, for ever,” she whispered, and slipping in, closed the door between them.
She sank down half fainting, but, in fear, struggled to her feet and dragged herself to her room. Her cheeks were glowing and her limbs trembled, the kiss still thrilled her whole being. Oh, now it was too late for prudence35! What did she care for her marriage; what did she care that Gerald was younger that she! She loved him, she loved him insanely; the present was there with its infinite joy, and if the future brought misery36, it was worth suffering. She could not let him go; he was hers—she stretched out her arms to take him in her embrace. She would surrender everything. She would bid him stay; she would follow him to the end of the earth. It was too late now for reason.
She walked up and down her room excitedly. She looked at the door; she had a mad desire to go to him now—to abandon everything for his sake. Her honour, her happiness, her station, were only precious because she could sacrifice them for him. He was her life and her love, he was her body and her soul. She listened at the door; Miss Ley would be watching, and she dared not go.
“I’ll wait,” said Bertha.
She tried to sleep, but could not. The thought of Gerald distracted her. She dozed37, and his presence became more distinct. He seemed to be in the room and she cried: “At last, my dearest, at last!” She awoke and stretched out her hands to him; she could not realise that she had dreamed, that nothing was there.
Then the day came, dim and gray at first, but brightening with the brilliant summer morning; the sun shone in her window, and the sunbeams danced in the room. Now the moments were very few, she must make up her mind quickly—and the sunbeams spoke38 of life, and happiness, and the glory of the unknown. Oh, what a fool she was to waste her life, to throw away her chance of happiness—how weak not to grasp the love thrown in her way! She thought of Gerald packing his things, getting off, of the train speeding through the summer country. Her love was irresistible39. She sprang up, and bathed, and dressed. It was past six when she slipped out of the room and made her way downstairs. The street was empty as in the night; but the sky was blue and the air fresh and sweet, she took a long breath and felt curiously40 elated. She walked till she found a cab, and told the driver to go quickly to Euston. The cab crawled along, and she was in an agony of impatience41. Supposing she arrived too late? She told the man to hurry.
The Liverpool train was fairly full; but Bertha walking up the crowded platform quickly saw Gerald. He sprang towards her.
“Bertha you’ve come. I felt certain you wouldn’t let me go without seeing you.”
He took her hands and looked at her with eyes full of love.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said at last. “I want—I want to beg your pardon.”
“What do you mean?” whispered Bertha, and suddenly she felt a dreadful fear which gripped her heart with unendurable pain.
“I’ve been thinking of you all night, and I’m dreadfully ashamed of myself. I must tell you how sorry I am that I’ve caused you unhappiness. I was selfish and brutal42; I only thought of myself. I forgot how much you had to lose. Please forgive me, Bertha.”
“Oh, Gerald, Gerald.”
“I shall always be grateful to you, Bertha. I know I’ve been a beast, but now I’m going to turn over a new leaf. You see, you have reformed me after all.”
He tried to smile in his old, light-hearted manner; but it was a very poor attempt. Bertha looked at him. She wished to say that she loved him with all her heart, and was ready to accompany him to the world’s end; but the words stuck in her throat.
“I don’t know what has happened to me,” he said, “but I seem to see everything now so differently. Of course it is much better that I’m going away; but it’s dreadfully hard.”
“No,” said Gerald; and then, when the man had passed: “You won’t forget me, Bertha, will you? You won’t think badly of me; I lost my head. I didn’t realise till last night that I wanted to do you the most frightful44 wrong. I didn’t understand that I should have ruined you and your whole life.”
At last Bertha forced herself to speak. The time was flying, and she could not understand what was passing in Gerald’s mind.
“If you only knew how much I love you!” she cried.
He had but to ask her to go and she would go. But he did not ask. Was he repenting45 already? Was his love already on the wane46? Bertha tried to make herself speak again, but could not. Why did he not repeat that he could not live without her!
“Take your seats, please! Take your seats, please!”
A guard ran along the platform. “Jump in, sir. Right behind!”
“Good-bye,” said Gerald. “May I write to you?”
She shook her head. It was too late now.
“Jump in, sir. Jump in.”
Gerald kissed her quickly and got into the carriage.
“Right away!”
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收听单词发音
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1
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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2
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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3
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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4
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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5
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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6
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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7
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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8
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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9
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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10
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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11
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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12
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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13
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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14
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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15
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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16
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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17
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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18
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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19
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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21
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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22
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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inveighing
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的现在分词 ) | |
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26
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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27
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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28
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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29
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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31
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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32
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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33
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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34
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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35
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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36
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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37
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
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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39
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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40
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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41
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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42
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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43
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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44
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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45
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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46
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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47
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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