“It is stupid to be mewed up in the close air,” she said. “Let’s go out.”
No sooner had she given utterance3 to the words than all four girls were helping4 the boys to let off the squibs, Catherine-wheels, rockets, and other fireworks. Pauline now became nearly mad with delight. Her shouts were the loudest of any. When the rockets went high into the air and burst into a thousand stars, she did not believe that the world itself could contain a more lovely sight. But presently her happiness came to a rude conclusion, for a bit of burning squib struck her arm, causing her fine muslin dress to catch fire, and the little girl’s arm was somewhat severely5 hurt. She put out the fire at once, and determined6 to hide the fact that she was rather badly burnt.
By-and-by they all returned to the house. Nancy sat down to the piano and began to sing some of her most rollicking songs. Then she played dance music, and the boys and girls danced with all their might. Pauline, however, had never learned to dance. She stood silent, watching the others. Her high spirits had gone down to zero. She now began to wish that she had never come. She wondered if she could possibly get home again without being discovered. At last Nancy noticed her grave looks.
“You are tired, Paulie,” she said; “and for that matter, so are we. I say, it’s full time for bed. Good-night, boys. Put out the lamps when you are tired of amusing yourselves. Dad has shut up the house already. Come, Paulie; come, Amy; come, Becky.”
The four girls ran upstairs, but as they were going down the passage which led to their pretty bedroom, Pauline’s pain was so great that she stumbled against Becky and nearly fell.
“What is it?” said Becky. “Are you faint?”
She put her arm around the little girl and helped her into the bedroom.
“Whatever can be wrong?” she said. “You seemed so lively out in the open air.”75
“Oh, you do look bad, Paulie!” said Nancy. “It is that terrible fasting you went through to-day. My dear girls, what do you think? This poor little aristocrat7, far and away too good to talk to the likes of us”—here Nancy put her arms akimbo and looked down with a mocking laugh at the prostrate8 Pauline—“far too grand, girls—fact, I assure you—was kept without her food until I gave her a bit of bread and a sup of water at supper. All these things are owing to an aunt—one of the tip-top of the nobility. This aunt, though grand externally, has a mighty9 poor internal arrangement, to my way of thinking. She put the poor child into a place she calls Punishment Land, and kept her without food.”
“That isn’t true,” said Pauline. “I could have had plenty to eat if I had liked.”
“That means that if you were destitute10 of one little spark of spirit you’d have crawled back to the house to take your broken food on a cold plate like a dog. But what is the matter now? Hungry again?”
“No; it is my arm. Please don’t touch it.”
“Do look!” cried Amy Perkins. “Oh, Nancy, she has got an awful burn! There’s quite a hole through the sleeve of her dress. Oh, do see this great blister11!”
“It was a bit of one of the squibs,” said Pauline. “It lit right on my arm and burned my muslin sleeve; but I don’t suppose it’s much hurt, only I feel a little faint.”
“Dear, dear!” said Nancy. “What is to be done now? I don’t know a thing about burns, or about any sort of illness. Shall we wake cook up? Perhaps she can tell us something.”
“Let’s put on a bandage,” said one of the other girls. “Then when you lie down in bed, Pauline, you will drop asleep and be all right in the morning.”
Pauline was so utterly12 weary that she was glad to creep into bed. Her arm was bandaged very unskilfully; nevertheless it felt slightly more comfortable. Presently she dropped into an uneasy doze13; but from that doze she awoke soon after midnight, to hear Nancy snoring loudly by her side, to hear corresponding snores in a sort of chorus coming from the other end of the long room, and to observe also that there was not a chink of light anywhere; and, finally, to be all too terribly conscious of a great burning pain in her arm. That pain seemed to awaken14 poor Pauline’s slumbering15 conscience.
“Why did I come?” she said to herself. “I am a wretched, most miserable16 girl. And how am I ever to get back? I cannot climb into the beech-tree with this bad arm. Oh, how it does hurt me! I feel so sick and faint I scarcely care what happens.”
Pauline stretched out her uninjured arm and touched Nancy.76
“What is it?” said Nancy. “Oh, dear! I’d forgotten. It’s you, Paulie. How is your arm, my little dear? Any better?”
“It hurts me very badly indeed; but never mind about that now. How am I to get home?”
“I’ll manage that. Betty, our dairymaid, is to throw gravel17 up at the window at four o’clock. You shall have a cup of tea before you start, and I will walk with you as far as the wicket-gate.”
“Oh, thank you! But how am I to get into my room when I do arrive at The Dales? I don’t believe I shall be able to use this arm at all.”
“Of course you will,” said Nancy. “You will be miles better when cook has looked to it. I know she’s grand about burns, and has a famous ointment18 she uses for the purpose. Only, for goodness’ sake, Paulie, don’t let that burn in the sleeve of your dress be seen; that would lead to consequences, and I don’t want my midnight picnic to be spoilt.”
“I don’t seem to care about that or anything else any more.”
“What nonsense! You don’t suppose I should like this little escapade of yours and mine to be known. You must take care. Why, you know, there’s father. He’s very crotchety over some things. He likes all of you, but over and over again he has said:
“‘I’m as proud of being an honest farmer as I should be to be a lord. My grandfather paid his way, and my father paid his way, and I am paying my way. There’s no nonsense about me, and I shall leave you, Nancy, a tidy fortune. You like those young ladies at The Dales, and you shall have them come here if they wish to come, but not otherwise. I won’t have them here thinking themselves too grand to talk to us. Let them keep to their own station, say I. I don’t want them.’
“Now you see, Paulie, what that means. If father found out that your aunt had written to me and desired me to have nothing further to do with you, I believe he’d pack me out of the country to-morrow. I don’t want to leave my home; why should I? So, you see, for my sake you must keep it the closest of close secrets.”
“That is just like you. You come here and enjoy yourself, and have a great hearty20 meal, and when you are likely to get into a scrape you throw the blame on me.”
“You can understand that I am very miserable, Nancy.”
“Yes; and I’m as sorry as I can be about that burn; but if you’ll be brave and plucky21 now, I’ll help you all I can. We’ll get up as soon as ever the day dawns, and cook shall put your arm straight.”
As Nancy uttered the last words her voice dwindled22 to 77a whisper, and a minute later she was again sound asleep. But Pauline could not sleep. Her pain was too great. The summer light stole in by degrees, and by-and-by the sharp noise made by a shower of gravel was heard on the window.
“I’m dead with sleep,” she said. “I could almost wish I hadn’t brought you. Not but that I’m fond of you, as I think I’ve proved. We haven’t yet made all our arrangements about the midnight picnic, but I have the most daring scheme in my head. You are every single one of you—bar Penelope, whom I can’t bear—to come to that picnic. I’ll make my final plans to-day, and I’ll walk in the Forest to-morrow at six o’clock, just outside your wicket-gate. You will meet me, won’t you?”
“But—— Oh! by the way, Nancy, please give me back that beautiful thimble. I’m so glad I remembered it! It belongs to Aunt Sophia.”
“I can’t,” said Nancy, coloring, “I lent it to Becky, and I don’t know where she has put it. I’ll bring it with me to-morrow, so don’t fuss. Now jump up, Paulie; we have no time to lose.”
Accordingly Pauline got up, dressed herself—very awkwardly, it is true—and went downstairs, leaning on Nancy’s sympathetic arm. Nancy consulted the cook, who was good-natured and red-faced.
“You have got a bad burn, miss,” she said when she had examined Pauline’s arm; “but I have got a famous plaster that heals up burns like anything. I’ll make your arm quite comfortable in a twinkling, miss.”
This she proceeded to do, and before the treatment had been applied24 for half an hour a good deal of Pauline’s acute pain had vanished.
“I feel better,” she said, turning to Nancy. “I feel stronger and braver.”
“You will feel still braver when you have had your cup of tea. And here’s a nice hunch25 of cake. Put it into your pocket if you can’t eat it now. We had best be going; the farm people may be about, and there’s no saying—it’s wonderful how secrets get into the air.”
Pauline looked startled. She again took Nancy’s hand, and they left the house together.
Now, it so happened that the the morning was by no means as fine as those lovely mornings that had preceded it. There was quite a cold wind blowing, and the sky was laden26 with clouds.
“We’ll have rain to-day,” said Nancy; “rain, and perhaps thunder. I feel thunder in the air, and I never was mistaken yet. We must be quick, or we’ll both be drenched27 to the skin.”
Accordingly the two walked quickly through the Forest 78path. But before they reached the wicket-gate the first mutterings of thunder were audible, and heavy drops of rain were falling.
“I must leave you now, Paulie,” said Nancy, “for if I go any farther I’ll be drenched to the skin. Climb up your tree, get into your bedroom, and go to bed. If you can manage to send that white dress over to me, I will put on a patch that even your aunt will not see. Put on another dress, of course, this morning, and say nothing about the burn. Good-bye, and good luck! I’ll be over about six o’clock to-morrow evening to talk over our midnight picnic.”
“And the thimble,” said Pauline. “You won’t forget the thimble.”
“Not I. Good gracious, what a flash! You had best get home at once; and I must run for my life or I may be struck down under all these trees.”
Pauline stood still for a minute, watching Nancy as she disappeared from view; then slowly and sadly she went up to the house.
She was too tired and depressed28 to mind very much that the rain was falling in showers, soaking her thin white muslin dress, and chilling her already tired and exhausted29 little frame. The rattle30 of the thunder, the bright flash of the lightning, and the heavy fall of the tempest could not reach the graver trouble which filled her heart. The way of transgressors had proved itself very hard for poor Pauline. She disliked the discomfort31 and misery32 she was enduring; but even now she was scarcely sorry that she had defied and disobeyed Aunt Sophia.
After a great deal of difficulty, and with some injury to her already injured arm, she managed to climb the beech-tree and so reach the gabled roof just under her attic33 window. She pushed the window wide open and got inside. How dear and sweet and fresh the little chamber34 appeared! How innocent and good was that little white bed, with its sheets still smoothly folded down! It took Pauline scarcely a minute to get into her night-dress, sweep her offending white dress into a neighboring cupboard, unlock the door, and put her head on her pillow. Oh, there was no place like home! It was better to be hungry at home, it was better to be in punishment at home, than to go away to however grand a place and however luxuriant a feast.
“And Nancy’s home isn’t grand,” thought Pauline. “And the food was rough. Aunt Sophia would even call it coarse. But, oh, I was hungry! And if I hadn’t been so naughty I’d have been very happy. All the same,” she continued, thinking aloud, as was her fashion. “I won’t go to that midnight picnic; and Renny must not go either. Of course, I can’t tell Aunt Sophia what I did last night. I promised Nancy I wouldn’t tell, and it wouldn’t be fair; but see if I do anything 79wrong again! I’ll work like a Briton at my lessons to-day. Oh, how badly my arm hurts! And what an awful noise the storm is making! The thunder rattles35 as though it would come through the roof. My arm does ache! Oh, what lightning! I think I’ll put my head under the sheet.”
Pauline did so, and notwithstanding the tempest, she had scarcely got down into the real warmth of her bed before sleep visited her.
When she awoke the storm was over, the sun was shining, and Verena was standing36 at the foot of her bed.
“Do get up, Paulie,” she said. “How soundly you have slept! And your face is so flushed! And, oh, aren’t you just starving? We only discovered last night that you hadn’t touched any of your food.”
“I’m all right,” said Pauline.
“You will try to be good to-day, won’t you, Paulie? You don’t know how miserable I was without you, for you are my own special most darling chum. You will try, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will try, of course,” said Pauline. “Truly—truly, I will try.”
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收听单词发音
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1
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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2
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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3
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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4
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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5
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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6
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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7
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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8
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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9
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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10
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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11
blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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12
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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13
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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14
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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15
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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17
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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18
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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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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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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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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32
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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33
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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34
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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35
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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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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