Alice's talk was little more than cheerful sound, but, to fill a desolate11 interval12, served its purpose; and her mother supported her with ever-faithful cooings of applausive laughter. “What a funny thing weather is!” the girl ran on. “Yesterday it was cool—angels had charge of it—and to-day they had an engagement somewhere else, so the devil saw his chance and started to move the equator to the North Pole; but by the time he got half-way, he thought of something else he wanted to do, and went off; and left the equator here, right on top of US! I wish he'd come back and get it!”
“Why, Alice dear!” her mother cried, fondly. “What an imagination! Not a very pious13 one, I'm afraid Mr. Russell might think, though!” Here she gave Gertrude a hidden signal to remove the soup; but, as there was no response, she had to make the signal more conspicuous14. Gertrude was leaning against the wall, her chin moving like a slow pendulum15, her streaked16 eyes fixed17 mutinously18 upon Russell. Mrs. Adams nodded several times, increasing the emphasis of her gesture, while Alice talked briskly; but the brooding waitress continued to brood. A faint snap of the fingers failed to disturb her; nor was a covert19 hissing20 whisper of avail, and Mrs. Adams was beginning to show signs of strain when her daughter relieved her.
“Imagine our trying to eat anything so hot as soup on a night like this!” Alice laughed. “What COULD have been in the cook's mind not to give us something iced and jellied instead? Of course it's because she's equatorial, herself, originally, and only feels at home when Mr. Satan moves it north.” She looked round at Gertrude, who stood behind her. “Do take this dreadful soup away!”
Thus directly addressed, Gertrude yielded her attention, though unwillingly21, and as if she decided22 only by a hair's weight not to revolt, instead. However, she finally set herself in slow motion; but overlooked the supposed head of the table, seeming to be unaware23 of the sweltering little man who sat there. As she disappeared toward the kitchen with but three of the cups upon her tray he turned to look plaintively25 after her, and ventured an attempt to recall her.
“Here!” he said, in a low voice. “Here, you!”
“What is it, Virgil?” his wife asked.
“What's her name?”
Mrs. Adams gave him a glance of sudden panic, and, seeing that the guest of the evening was not looking at her, but down at the white cloth before him, she frowned hard, and shook her head.
Unfortunately Alice was not observing her mother, and asked, innocently: “What's whose name, papa?”
“Why, this young darky woman,” he explained. “She left mine.”
“Never mind,” Alice laughed. “There's hope for you, papa. She hasn't gone forever!”
“I don't know about that,” he said, not content with this impulsive26 assurance. “She LOOKED like she is.” And his remark, considered as a prediction, had begun to seem warranted before Gertrude's return with china preliminary to the next stage of the banquet.
Alice proved herself equal to the long gap, and rattled27 on through it with a spirit richly justifying28 her mother's praise of her as “always ready to smooth things over”; for here was more than long delay to be smoothed over. She smoothed over her father and mother for Russell; and she smoothed over him for them, though he did not know it, and remained unaware of what he owed her. With all this, throughout her prattlings, the girl's bright eyes kept seeking his with an eager gayety, which but little veiled both interrogation and entreaty—as if she asked: “Is it too much for you? Can't you bear it? Won't you PLEASE bear it? I would for you. Won't you give me a sign that it's all right?”
He looked at her but fleetingly29, and seemed to suffer from the heat, in spite of every manly30 effort not to wipe his brow too often. His colour, after rising when he greeted Alice and her father, had departed, leaving him again moistly pallid31; a condition arising from discomfort32, no doubt, but, considered as a decoration, almost poetically33 becoming to him. Not less becoming was the faint, kindly34 smile, which showed his wish to express amusement and approval; and yet it was a smile rather strained and plaintive24, as if he, like Adams, could only do the best he could.
He pleased Adams, who thought him a fine young man, and decidedly the quietest that Alice had ever shown to her family. In her father's opinion this was no small merit; and it was to Russell's credit, too, that he showed embarrassment35 upon this first intimate presentation; here was an applicant36 with both reserve and modesty37. “So far, he seems to be first rate a mighty38 fine young man,” Adams thought; and, prompted by no wish to part from Alice but by reminiscences of apparent candidates less pleasing, he added, “At last!”
Alice's liveliness never flagged. Her smoothing over of things was an almost continuous performance, and had to be. Yet, while she chattered39 through the hot and heavy courses, the questions she asked herself were as continuous as the performance, and as poignant40 as what her eyes seemed to be asking Russell. Why had she not prevailed over her mother's fear of being “skimpy?” Had she been, indeed, as her mother said she looked, “in a trance?” But above all: What was the matter with HIM? What had happened? For she told herself with painful humour that something even worse than this dinner must be “the matter with him.”
The small room, suffocated41 with the odour of boiled sprouts, grew hotter and hotter as more and more food appeared, slowly borne in, between deathly long waits, by the resentful, loud-breathing Gertrude. And while Alice still sought Russell's glance, and read the look upon his face a dozen different ways, fearing all of them; and while the straggling little flowers died upon the stained cloth, she felt her heart grow as heavy as the food, and wondered that it did not die like the roses.
With the arrival of coffee, the host bestirred himself to make known a hospitable42 regret, “By George!” he said. “I meant to buy some cigars.” He addressed himself apologetically to the guest. “I don't know what I was thinking about, to forget to bring some home with me. I don't use 'em myself—unless somebody hands me one, you might say. I've always been a pipe-smoker, pure and simple, but I ought to remembered for kind of an occasion like this.”
“Not at all,” Russell said. “I'm not smoking at all lately; but when I do, I'm like you, and smoke a pipe.”
Alice started, remembering what she had told him when he overtook her on her way from the tobacconist's; but, after a moment, looking at him, she decided that he must have forgotten it. If he had remembered, she thought, he could not have helped glancing at her. On the contrary, he seemed more at ease, just then, than he had since they sat down, for he was favouring her father with a thoughtful attention as Adams responded to the introduction of a man's topic into the conversation at last. “Well, Mr. Russell, I guess you're right, at that. I don't say but what cigars may be all right for a man that can afford 'em, if he likes 'em better than a pipe, but you take a good old pipe now——”
He continued, and was getting well into the eulogium customarily provoked by this theme, when there came an interruption: the door-bell rang, and he paused inquiringly, rather surprised.
“Just say, 'Not at home.'”
“What?”
“If it's callers, just say we're not at home.”
Gertrude spoke out freely: “You mean you astin' me to 'tend you' front do' fer you?”
She seemed both incredulous and affronted44, but Mrs. Adams persisted, though somewhat apprehensively45. “Yes. Hurry—uh—please. Just say we're not at home if you please.”
Again Gertrude obviously hesitated between compliance46 and revolt, and again the meeker47 course fortunately prevailed with her. She gave Mrs. Adams a stare, grimly derisive48, then departed. When she came back she said:
“He say he wait.”
“But I told you to tell anybody we were not at home,” Mrs Adams returned. “Who is it?”
“Say he name Mr. Law.”
“We don't know any Mr. Law.”
“Yes'm; he know you. Say he anxious to speak Mr. Adams. Say he wait.”
“Tell him Mr. Adams is engaged.”
“Hold on a minute,” Adams intervened. “Law? No. I don't know any Mr. Law. You sure you got the name right?”
“Say he name Law,” Gertrude replied, looking at the ceiling to express her fatigue49. “Law. 'S all he tell me; 's all I know.”
Adams frowned. “Law,” he said. “Wasn't it maybe 'Lohr?'”
“Law,” Gertrude repeated. “'S all he tell me; 's all I know.”
“What's he look like?”
“He ain't much,” she said. “'Bout you' age; got brustly white moustache, nice eye-glasses.”
“It's Charley Lohr!” Adams exclaimed. “I'll go see what he wants.”
“But, Virgil,” his wife remonstrated50, “do finish your coffee; he might stay all evening. Maybe he's come to call.”
Adams laughed. “He isn't much of a caller, I expect. Don't worry: I'll take him up to my room.” And turning toward Russell, “Ah—if you'll just excuse me,” he said; and went out to his visitor.
When he had gone, Mrs. Adams finished her coffee, and, having glanced intelligently from her guest to her daughter, she rose. “I think perhaps I ought to go and shake hands with Mr. Lohr, myself,” she said, adding in explanation to Russell, as she reached the door, “He's an old friend of my husband's and it's a very long time since he's been here.”
Alice nodded and smiled to her brightly, but upon the closing of the door, the smile vanished; all her liveliness disappeared; and with this change of expression her complexion51 itself appeared to change, so that her rouge52 became obvious, for she was pale beneath it. However, Russell did not see the alteration53, for he did not look at her; and it was but a momentary54 lapse55 the vacation of a tired girl, who for ten seconds lets herself look as she feels. Then she shot her vivacity56 back into place as by some powerful spring.
“Penny for your thoughts!” she cried, and tossed one of the wilted57 roses at him, across the table. “I'll bid more than a penny; I'll bid tuppence—no, a poor little dead rose a rose for your thoughts, Mr. Arthur Russell! What are they?”
He shook his head. “I'm afraid I haven't any.”
“No, of course not,” she said. “Who could have thoughts in weather like this? Will you EVER forgive us?”
“What for?”
“Making you eat such a heavy dinner—I mean LOOK at such a heavy dinner, because you certainly didn't do more than look at it—on such a night! But the crime draws to a close, and you can begin to cheer up!” She laughed gaily58, and, rising, moved to the door. “Let's go in the other room; your fearful duty is almost done, and you can run home as soon as you want to. That's what you're dying to do.”
“Not at all,” he said in a voice so feeble that she laughed aloud.
“Good gracious!” she cried. “I hadn't realized it was THAT bad!”
For this, though he contrived59 to laugh, he seemed to have no verbal retort whatever; but followed her into the “living-room,” where she stopped and turned, facing him.
“Why, of course not. Not at all.”
“Of course yes, though, you mean!”
“Not at all. It's been most kind of your mother and father and you.”
“Do you know,” she said, “you've never once looked at me for more than a second at a time the whole evening? And it seemed to me I looked rather nice to-night, too!”
“You always do,” he murmured.
“I don't see how you know,” she returned; and then stepping closer to him, spoke with gentle solicitude62: “Tell me: you're really feeling wretchedly, aren't you? I know you've got a fearful headache, or something. Tell me!”
“Not at all.”
“You are ill—I'm sure of it.”
“Not at all.”
“On your word?”
“I'm really quite all right.”
“But if you are——” she began; and then, looking at him with a desperate sweetness, as if this were her last resource to rouse him, “What's the matter, little boy?” she said with lisping tenderness. “Tell auntie!”
It was a mistake, for he seemed to flinch63, and to lean backward, however, slightly. She turned away instantly, with a flippant lift and drop of both hands. “Oh, my dear!” she laughed. “I won't eat you!”
And as the discomfited64 young man watched her, seeming able to lift his eyes, now that her back was turned, she went to the front door and pushed open the screen. “Let's go out on the porch,” she said. “Where we belong!”
Then, when he had followed her out, and they were seated, “Isn't this better?” she asked. “Don't you feel more like yourself out here?”
But she cut him off sharply: “Please don't say 'Not at all' again!”
“I'm sorry.”
“You do seem sorry about something,” she said. “What is it? Isn't it time you were telling me what's the matter?”
“Nothing. Indeed nothing's the matter. Of course one IS rather affected65 by such weather as this. It may make one a little quieter than usual, of course.”
She sighed, and let the tired muscles of her face rest. Under the hard lights, indoors, they had served her until they ached, and it was a luxury to feel that in the darkness no grimacings need call upon them.
“Of course, if you won't tell me——” she said.
“I can only assure you there's nothing to tell.”
“I know what an ugly little house it is,” she said. “Maybe it was the furniture—or mama's vases that upset you. Or was it mama herself—or papa?”
“Nothing 'upset' me.”
At that she uttered a monosyllable of doubting laughter. “I wonder why you say that.”
“Because it's so.”
“No. It's because you're too kind, or too conscientious66, or too embarrassed—anyhow too something—to tell me.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin in hands, in the reflective attitude she knew how to make graceful67. “I have a feeling that you're not going to tell me,” she said, slowly. “Yes—even that you're never going to tell me. I wonder—I wonder——”
“Yes? What do you wonder?”
“I was just thinking—I wonder if they haven't done it, after all.”
“I don't understand.”
“I wonder,” she went on, still slowly, and in a voice of reflection, “I wonder who HAS been talking about me to you, after all? Isn't that it?”
“Not at——” he began, but checked himself and substituted another form of denial. “Nothing is 'it.'”
“Are you sure?”
“Why, yes.”
“How curious!” she said.
“Why?”
“But in this weather——”
“No. That wouldn't make you afraid to look at me all evening!”
“But I did look at you. Often.”
“No. Not really a LOOK.”
“But I'm looking at you now.”
“Yes—in the dark!” she said. “No—the weather might make you even quieter than usual, but it wouldn't strike you so nearly dumb. No—and it wouldn't make you seem to be under such a strain—as if you thought only of escape!”
“But I haven't——”
“You shouldn't,” she interrupted, gently. “There's nothing you have to escape from, you know. You aren't committed to—to this friendship.”
“I'm sorry you think——” he began, but did not complete the fragment.
She took it up. “You're sorry I think you're so different, you mean to say, don't you? Never mind: that's what you did mean to say, but you couldn't finish it because you're not good at deceiving.”
“Oh, no,” he protested, feebly. “I'm not deceiving. I'm——”
“Never mind,” she said again. “You're sorry I think you're so different—and all in one day—since last night. Yes, your voice SOUNDS sorry, too. It sounds sorrier than it would just because of my thinking something you could change my mind about in a minute so it means you're sorry you ARE different.”
“No—I——”
But disregarding the faint denial, “Never mind,” she said. “Do you remember one night when you told me that nothing anybody else could do would ever keep you from coming here? That if you—if you left me it would be because I drove you away myself?”
“Yes,” he said, huskily. “It was true.”
“Are you sure?”
“Indeed I am,” he answered in a low voice, but with conviction.
“Then——” She paused. “Well—but I haven't driven you away.”
“No.”
“And yet you've gone,” she said, quietly.
“Do I seem so stupid as all that?”
“You know what I mean.” She leaned back in her chair again, and her hands, inactive for once, lay motionless in her lap. When she spoke it was in a rueful whisper:
“I wonder if I HAVE driven you away?”
“You've done nothing—nothing at all,” he said.
“I wonder——” she said once more, but she stopped. In her mind she was going back over their time together since the first meeting—fragments of talk, moments of silence, little things of no importance, little things that might be important; moonshine, sunshine, starlight; and her thoughts zigzagged69 among the jumbling70 memories; but, as if she made for herself a picture of all these fragments, throwing them upon the canvas haphazard71, she saw them all just touched with the one tainting72 quality that gave them coherence73, the faint, false haze74 she had put over this friendship by her own pretendings. And, if this terrible dinner, or anything, or everything, had shown that saffron tint75 in its true colour to the man at her side, last night almost a lover, then she had indeed of herself driven him away, and might well feel that she was lost.
“Do you know?” she said, suddenly, in a clear, loud voice. “I have the strangest feeling. I feel as if I were going to be with you only about five minutes more in all the rest of my life!”
“Why, no,” he said. “Of course I'm coming to see you—often. I——”
“No,” she interrupted. “I've never had a feeling like this before. It's—it's just SO; that's all! You're GOING—why, you're never coming here again!” She stood up, abruptly76, beginning to tremble all over. “Why, it's FINISHED, isn't it?” she said, and her trembling was manifest now in her voice. “Why, it's all OVER, isn't it? Why, yes!”
He had risen as she did. “I'm afraid you're awfully77 tired and nervous,” he said. “I really ought to be going.”
“Yes, of COURSE you ought,” she cried, despairingly. “There's nothing else for you to do. When anything's spoiled, people CAN'T do anything but run away from it. So good-bye!”
“At least,” he returned, huskily, “we'll only—only say good-night.”
Then, as moving to go, he stumbled upon the veranda78 steps, “Your HAT!” she cried. “I'd like to keep it for a souvenir, but I'm afraid you need it!”
She ran into the hall and brought his straw hat from the chair where he had left it. “You poor thing!” she said, with quavering laughter. “Don't you know you can't go without your hat?”
Then, as they faced each other for the short moment which both of them knew would be the last of all their veranda moments, Alice's broken laughter grew louder. “What a thing to say!” she cried. “What a romantic parting—talking about HATS!”
Her laughter continued as he turned away, but other sounds came from within the house, clearly audible with the opening of a door upstairs—a long and wailing79 cry of lamentation80 in the voice of Mrs. Adams. Russell paused at the steps, uncertain, but Alice waved to him to go on.
“Oh, don't bother,” she said. “We have lots of that in this funny little old house! Good-bye!”
And as he went down the steps, she ran back into the house and closed the door heavily behind her.
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收听单词发音
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1
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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6
sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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flatten
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| v.把．．．弄平，使倒伏；使(漆等)失去光泽 | |
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starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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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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mutinously
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| adv.反抗地，叛变地 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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fleetingly
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| adv.飞快地，疾驰地 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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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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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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43
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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44
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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47
meeker
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的比较级 ) | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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zigzagged
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| adj.呈之字形移动的v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jumbling
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| 混杂( jumble的现在分词 )； （使）混乱； 使混乱； 使杂乱 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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tainting
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| v.使变质( taint的现在分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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