Billy was in white to-day—a soft, creamy white wool with a touch of black velvet2 at her throat and in her hair. The man thought she had never looked so lovely: Arkwright was still under the spell wrought3 by the soft radiance of Billy's face the two times he had mentioned his “story.”
Until the night before the operetta Arkwright had been more than doubtful of the way that story would be received, should he ever summon the courage to tell it. Since then his fears had been changed to rapturous hopes. It was very eagerly, therefore, that he turned now to greet Billy as she came into the room.
“Suppose we don't have any music to-day. Suppose we give the whole time up to the story,” she smiled brightly, as she held out her hand.
Arkwright's heart leaped; but almost at once it throbbed4 with a vague uneasiness. He would have preferred to see her blush and be a little shy over that story. Still—there was a chance, of course, that she did not know what the story was. But if that were the case, what of the radiance in her face? What of—Finding himself in a tangled5 labyrinth6 that led apparently7 only to disappointment and disaster, Arkwright pulled himself up with a firm hand.
“You are very kind,” he murmured, as he relinquished8 her fingers and seated himself near her. “You are sure, then, that you wish to hear the story?”
“Very sure,” smiled Billy.
Arkwright hesitated. Again he longed to see a little embarrassment9 in the bright face opposite. Suddenly it came to him, however, that if Billy knew what he was about to say, it would manifestly not be her part to act as if she knew! With a lighter10 heart, then, he began his story.
“You want it from the beginning?”
“By all means! I never dip into books, nor peek11 at the ending. I don't think it's fair to the author.”
“Then I will, indeed, begin at the beginning,” smiled Arkwright, “for I'm specially12 anxious that you shall be—even more than 'fair' to me.” His voice shook a little, but he hurried on. “There's a—girl—in it; a very dear, lovely girl.”
“Of course—if it's a nice story,” twinkled Billy.
“And—there's a man, too. It's a love story, you see.”
“Again of course—if it's interesting.” Billy laughed mischievously13, but she flushed a little.
“Still, the man doesn't amount to much, after all, perhaps. I might as well own up at the beginning—I'm the man.”
“That will do for you to say, as long as you're telling the story,” smiled Billy. “We'll let it pass for proper modesty14 on your part. But I shall say—the personal touch only adds to the interest.”
Arkwright drew in his breath.
“We'll hope—it'll really be so,” he murmured.
There was a moment's silence. Arkwright seemed to be hesitating what to say.
“Well?” prompted Billy, with a smile. “We have the hero and the heroine; now what happens next? Do you know,” she added, “I have always thought that part must bother the story-writers—to get the couple to doing interesting things, after they'd got them introduced.”
Arkwright sighed.
“Perhaps—on paper; but, you see, my story has been lived, so far. So it's quite different.”
“Very well, then—what did happen?” smiled Billy.
“I was trying to think—of the first thing. You see it began with a picture, a photograph of the girl. Mother had it. I saw it, and wanted it, and—” Arkwright had started to say “and took it.” But he stopped with the last two words unsaid. It was not time, yet, he deemed, to tell this girl how much that picture had been to him for so many months past. He hurried on a little precipitately15. “You see, I had heard about this girl a lot; and I liked—what I heard.”
“You mean—you didn't know her—at the first?” Billy's eyes were surprised. Billy had supposed that Arkwright had always known Alice Greggory.
“No, I didn't know the girl—till afterwards. Before that I was always dreaming and wondering what she would be like.”
“Then I met her.”
“Yes?”
“And she was everything and more than I had pictured her.”
“And you fell in love at once?” Billy's voice had grown confident again.
“Oh, I was already in love,” sighed Arkwright. “I simply sank deeper.”
“Oh-h!” breathed Billy, sympathetically. “And the girl?”
“She didn't care—or know—for a long time. I'm not really sure she cares—or knows—even now.” Arkwright's eyes were wistfully fixed17 on Billy's face.
“Oh, but you can't tell, always, about girls,” murmured Billy, hurriedly. A faint pink had stolen to her forehead. She was thinking of Alice Greggory, and wondering if, indeed, Alice did care; and if she, Billy, might dare to assure this man—what she believed to be true—that his sweetheart was only waiting for him to come to her and tell her that he loved her.
Arkwright saw the color sweep to Billy's forehead, and took sudden courage. He leaned forward eagerly. A tender light came to his eyes. The expression on his face was unmistakable.
“Billy, do you mean, really, that there is—hope for me?” he begged brokenly.
Billy gave a visible start. A quick something like shocked terror came to her eyes. She drew back and would have risen to her feet had the thought not come to her that twice before she had supposed a man was making love to her, when subsequent events proved that she had been mortifyingly18 mistaken: once when Cyril had told her of his love for Marie; and again when William had asked her to come back as a daughter to the house she had left desolate19.
Telling herself sternly now not to be for the third time a “foolish little simpleton,” she summoned all her wits, forced a cheery smile to her lips, and said:
“Well, really, Mr. Arkwright, of course I can't answer for the girl, so I'm not the one to give hope; and—”
“But you are the one,” interrupted the man, passionately20. “You're the only one! As if from the very first I hadn't loved you, and—”
“No, no, not that—not that! I'm mistaken! I'm not understanding what you mean,” pleaded a horror-stricken voice. Billy was on her feet now, holding up two protesting hands, palms outward.
“Miss Neilson, you don't mean—that you haven't known—all this time—that it was you?” The man, now, was on his feet, his eyes hurt and unbelieving, looking into hers.
Billy paled. She began slowly to back away. Her eyes, still fixed on his, carried the shrinking terror of one who sees a horrid21 vision.
“But you know—you must know that I am not yours to win!” she reproached him sharply. “I'm to be Bertram Henshaw's—wife.” From Billy's shocked young lips the word dropped with a ringing force that was at once accusatory and prohibitive. It was as if, by the mere22 utterance23 of the word, wife, she had drawn24 a sacred circle about her and placed herself in sanctuary25.
From the blazing accusation26 in her eyes Arkwright fell back.
“Wife! You are to be Bertram Henshaw's wife!” he exclaimed. There was no mistaking the amazed incredulity on his face.
Billy caught her breath. The righteous indignation in her eyes fled, and a terrified appeal took its place.
There was a moment's silence. A power quite outside herself kept Billy's eyes on Arkwright's face, and forced her to watch the change there from unbelief to belief, and from belief to set misery28.
“No, I did not know,” said the man then, dully, as he turned, rested his arm on the mantel behind him, and half shielded his face with his hand.
Billy sank into a low chair. Her fingers fluttered nervously29 to her throat. Her piteous, beseeching30 eyes were on the broad back and bent31 head of the man before her.
“But I—I don't see how you could have helped—knowing,” she stammered32 at last. “I don't see how such a thing could have happened that you shouldn't know!”
“I've been trying to think, myself,” returned the man, still in a dull, emotionless voice.
“It's been so—so much a matter of course. I supposed everybody knew it,” maintained Billy.
“Perhaps that's just it—that it was—so much a matter of course,” rejoined the man. “You see, I know very few of your friends, anyway—who would be apt to mention it to me.”
“But the announcements—oh, you weren't here then,” moaned Billy. “But you must have known that—that he came here a good deal—that we were together so much!”
“To a certain extent, yes,” sighed Arkwright. “But I took your friendship with him and his brothers as—as a matter of course. That was my 'matter of course,' you see,” he went on bitterly. “I knew you were Mr. William Henshaw's namesake, and Calderwell had told me the story of your coming to them when you were left alone in the world. Calderwell had said, too, that—” Arkwright paused, then hurried on a little constrainedly—“well, he said something that led me to think Mr. Bertram Henshaw was not a marrying man, anyway.”
Billy winced33 and changed color. She had noticed the pause, and she knew very well what it was that Calderwell had said to occasion that pause. Must always she be reminded that no one expected Bertram Henshaw to love any girl—except to paint?
“But—but Mr. Calderwell must know about the engagement—now,” she stammered.
“Very likely, but I have not happened to hear from him since my arrival in Boston. We do not correspond.”
“I think I understand now—many things. I wonder I did not see them before; but I never thought of Bertram Henshaw's being—If Calderwell hadn't said—” Again Arkwright stopped with his sentence half complete, and again Billy winced. “I've been a blind fool. I was so intent on my own—I've been a blind fool; that's all,” repeated Arkwright, with a break in his voice.
Arkwright turned sharply.
“Miss Neilson, don't—please,” he begged. “There is no need that you should suffer—too.”
“But I am so ashamed that such a thing could happen,” she faltered. “I'm sure, some way, I must be to blame. But I never thought. I was blind, too. I was wrapped up in my own affairs. I never suspected. I never even thought to suspect! I thought of course you knew. It was just the music that brought us together, I supposed; and you were just like one of the family, anyway. I always thought of you as Aunt Hannah's—” She stopped with a vivid blush.
“As Aunt Hannah's niece, Mary Jane, of course,” supplied Arkwright, bitterly, turning back to his old position. “And that was my own fault, too. My name, Miss Neilson, is Michael Jeremiah,” he went on wearily, after a moment's hesitation36, his voice showing his utter abandonment to despair. “When a boy at school I got heartily37 sick of the 'Mike' and the 'Jerry' and the even worse 'Tom and Jerry' that my young friends delighted in; so as soon as possible I sought obscurity and peace in 'M. J.' Much to my surprise and annoyance38 the initials proved to be little better, for they became at once the biggest sort of whet39 to people's curiosity. Naturally, the more determined40 persistent41 inquirers were to know the name, the more determined I became that they shouldn't. All very silly and very foolish, of course. Certainly it seems so now,” he finished.
Billy was silent. She was trying to find something, anything, to say, when Arkwright began speaking again, still in that dull, hopeless voice that Billy thought would break her heart.
“As for the 'Mary Jane'—that was another foolishness, of course. My small brothers and sisters originated it; others followed, on occasion, even Calderwell. Perhaps you did not know, but he was the friend who, by his laughing question, 'Why don't you, Mary Jane?' put into my head the crazy scheme of writing to Aunt Hannah and letting her think I was a real Mary Jane. You see what I stooped to do, Miss Neilson, for the chance of meeting and knowing you.”
Billy gave a low cry. She had suddenly remembered the beginning of Arkwright's story. For the first time she realized that he had been talking then about herself, not Alice Greggory.
“But you don't mean that you—cared—that I was the—” She could not finish.
Arkwright turned from the mantel with a gesture of utter despair.
“Yes, I cared then. I had heard of you. I had sung your songs. I was determined to meet you. So I came—and met you. After that I was more determined than ever to win you. Perhaps you see, now, why I was so blind to—to any other possibility. But it doesn't do any good—to talk like this. I understand now. Only, please, don't blame yourself,” he begged as he saw her eyes fill with tears. The next moment he was gone.
Billy had turned away and was crying softly, so she did not see him go.
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收听单词发音
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1
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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2
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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3
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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4
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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5
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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6
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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7
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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8
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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9
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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10
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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11
peek
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| vi.偷看，窥视；n.偷偷的一看，一瞥 | |
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12
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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13
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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14
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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15
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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16
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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17
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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18
mortifyingly
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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19
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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20
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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21
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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22
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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23
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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24
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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25
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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26
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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27
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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28
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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29
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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30
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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31
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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32
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
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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35
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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36
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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37
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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38
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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39
whet
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| v.磨快，刺激 | |
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40
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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41
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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