Up in his room he sat for a few minutes at the window looking down into the familiar street below. Then with his hand trembling faintly he took off the telephone receiver and called a number.
"Is Miss Jonquil in?"
"This is she."
"Oh—" His voice after overcoming a faint tendency to waver went on with friendly formality.
"This is George Rollins. Did you get my letter?"
"Yes. I thought you'd be in to-day."
Her voice, cool and unmoved, disturbed him, but not as he had expected. This was the voice of a stranger, unexcited, pleasantly glad to see him—that was all. He wanted to put down the telephone and catch his breath.
He knew how long it had been—to the day.
"I'll be there in about an hour."
He hung up. For four long seasons every minute of his leisure had been crowded with anticipation4 of this hour, and now this hour was here. He had thought of finding her married, engaged, in love—he had not thought she would be unstirred at his return.
There would never again in his life, he felt, be another ten months like these he had just gone through. He had made an admittedly remarkable5 showing for a young engineer—stumbled into two unusual opportunities, one in Peru, whence he had just returned, and another, consequent upon it, in New York, whither he was bound. In this short time he had risen from poverty into a position of unlimited6 opportunity.
He looked at himself in the dressing-table mirror. He was almost black with tan, but it was a romantic black, and in the last week, since he had had time to think about it, it had given him considerable pleasure. The hardiness7 of his frame, too, he appraised8 with a sort of fascination9. He had lost part of an eyebrow10 somewhere, and he still wore an elastic11 bandage on his knee, but he was too young not to realize that on the steamer many women had looked at him with unusual tributary12 interest.
His clothes, of course, were frightful13. They had been made for him by a Greek tailor in Lima—in two days. He was young enough, too, to have explained this sartorial14 deficiency to Jonquil in his otherwise laconic15 note. The only further detail it contained was a request that he should not be met at the station.
George O'Kelly, of Cuzco, Peru, waited an hour and a half in the hotel, until, to be exact, the sun had reached a midway position in the sky. Then, freshly shaven and talcum-powdered toward a somewhat more Caucasian hue16, for vanity at the last minute had overcome romance, he engaged a taxicab and set out for the house he knew so well.
He was breathing hard—he noticed this but he told himself that it was excitement, not emotion. He was here; she was not married—that was enough. He was not even sure what he had to say to her. But this was the moment of his life that he felt he could least easily have dispensed17 with. There was no triumph, after all, without a girl concerned, and if he did not lay his spoils at her feet he could at least hold them for a passing moment before her eyes.
The house loomed18 up suddenly beside him, and his first thought was that it had assumed a strange unreality. There was nothing changed—only everything was changed. It was smaller and it seemed shabbier than before—there was no cloud of magic hovering19 over its roof and issuing from the windows of the upper floor. He rang the door-bell and an unfamiliar20 colored maid appeared. Miss Jonquil would be down in a moment. He wet his lips nervously21 and walked into the sitting-room—and the feeling of unreality increased. After all, he saw, this was only a room, and not the enchanted22 chamber23 where he had passed those poignant24 hours. He sat in a chair, amazed to find it a chair, realizing that his imagination had distorted and colored all these simple familiar things.
Then the door opened and Jonquil came into the room—and it was as though everything in it suddenly blurred25 before his eyes. He had not remembered how beautiful she was, and he felt his face grow pale and his voice diminish to a poor sigh in his throat.
She was dressed in pale green, and a gold ribbon bound back her dark, straight hair like a crown. The familiar velvet26 eyes caught his as she came through the door, and a spasm27 of fright went through him at her beauty's power of inflicting28 pain.
He said "Hello," and they each took a few steps forward and shook hands. Then they sat in chairs quite far apart and gazed at each other across the room.
"You've come back," she said, and he answered just as tritely29: "I wanted to stop in and see you as I came through."
He tried to neutralize30 the tremor31 in his voice by looking anywhere but at her face. The obligation to speak was on him, but, unless he immediately began to boast, it seemed that there was nothing to say. There had never been anything casual in their previous relations—it didn't seem possible that people in this position would talk about the weather.
"This is ridiculous," he broke out in sudden embarrassment32. "I don't know exactly what to do. Does my being here bother you?"
"Are you engaged?" he demanded.
"No."
"Are you in love with some one?"
She shook her head.
"Oh." He leaned back in his chair. Another subject seemed exhausted—the interview was not taking the course he had intended.
"Jonquil," he began, this time on a softer key, "after all that's happened between us, I wanted to come back and see you. Whatever I do in the future I'll never love another girl as I've loved you."
This was one of the speeches he had rehearsed. On the steamer it had seemed to have just the right note—a reference to the tenderness he would always feel for her combined with a non-committal attitude toward his present state of mind. Here with the past around him, beside him, growing minute by minute more heavy on the air, it seemed theatrical36 and stale.
She made no comment, sat without moving, her eyes fixed37 on him with an expression that might have meant everything or nothing.
"You don't love me any more, do you?" he asked her in a level voice.
"No."
When Mrs. Cary came in a minute later, and spoke38 to him about his success—there had been a half-column about him in the local paper—he was a mixture of emotions. He knew now that he still wanted this girl, and he knew that the past sometimes comes back—that was all. For the rest he must be strong and watchful39 and he would see.
"And now," Mrs. Cary was saying, "I want you two to go and see the lady who has the chrysanthemums40. She particularly told me she wanted to see you because she'd read about you in the paper."
They went to see the lady with the chrysanthemums. They walked along the street, and he recognized with a sort of excitement just how her shorter footsteps always fell in between his own. The lady turned out to be nice, and the chrysanthemums were enormous and extraordinarily41 beautiful. The lady's gardens were full of them, white and pink and yellow, so that to be among them was a trip back into the heart of summer. There were two gardens full, and a gate between them; when they strolled toward the second garden the lady went first through the gate.
And then a curious thing happened. George stepped aside to let Jonquil pass, but instead of going through she stood still and stared at him for a minute. It was not so much the look, which was not a smile, as it was the moment of silence. They saw each other's eyes, and both took a short, faintly accelerated breath, and then they went on into the second garden. That was all.
The afternoon waned42. They thanked the lady and walked home slowly, thoughtfully, side by side. Through dinner too they were silent. George told Mr. Cary something of what had happened in South America, and managed to let it be known that everything would be plain sailing for him in the future.
Then dinner was over, and he and Jonquil were alone in the room which had seen the beginning of their love affair and the end. It seemed to him long ago and inexpressibly sad. On that sofa he had felt agony and grief such as he would never feel again. He would never be so weak or so tired and miserable43 and poor. Yet he knew that that boy of fifteen months before had had something, a trust, a warmth that was gone forever. The sensible thing—they had done the sensible thing. He had traded his first youth for strength and carved success out of despair. But with his youth, life had carried away the freshness of his love.
"You won't marry me, will you?" he said quietly.
Jonquil shook her dark head.
"I'm never going to marry," she answered.
He nodded.
"I'm going on to Washington in the morning," he said.
"Oh——"
"I have to go. I've got to be in New York by the first, and meanwhile I want to stop off in Washington."
"Business!"
"No-o," he said as if reluctantly. "There's some one there I must see who was very kind to me when I was so—down and out."
This was invented. There was no one in Washington for him to see—but he was watching Jonquil narrowly, and he was sure that she winced44 a little, that her eyes closed and then opened wide again.
"But before I go I want to tell you the things that happened to me since I saw you, and, as maybe we won't meet again, I wonder if—if just this once you'd sit in my lap like you used to. I wouldn't ask except since there's no one else—yet—perhaps it doesn't matter."
She nodded, and in a moment was sitting in his lap as she had sat so often in that vanished spring. The feel of her head against his shoulder, of her familiar body, sent a shock of emotion over him. His arms holding her had a tendency to tighten45 around her, so he leaned back and began to talk thoughtfully into the air.
He told her of a despairing two weeks in New York which had terminated with an attractive if not very profitable job in a construction plant in Jersey46 City. When the Peru business had first presented itself it had not seemed an extraordinary opportunity. He was to be third assistant engineer on the expedition, but only ten of the American party, including eight rodmen and surveyors, had ever reached Cuzco. Ten days later the chief of the expedition was dead of yellow fever. That had been his chance, a chance for anybody but a fool, a marvellous chance——
"A chance for anybody but a fool?" she interrupted innocently.
"Even for a fool," he continued. "It was wonderful. Well, I wired New York——"
"And so," she interrupted again, "they wired that you ought to take a chance?"
"Ought to!" he exclaimed, still leaning back. "That I had to. There was no time to lose——"
"Not a minute?"
"Not a minute."
"Not even time for—" she paused.
"For what?"
"Look."
He bent47 his head forward suddenly, and she drew herself to him in the same moment, her lips half open like a flower.
"Yes," he whispered into her lips. "There's all the time in the world...."
All the time in the world—his life and hers. But for an instant as he kissed her he knew that though he search through eternity48 he could never recapture those lost April hours. He might press her close now till the muscles knotted on his arms—she was something desirable and rare that he had fought for and made his own—but never again an intangible whisper in the dusk, or on the breeze of night....
Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.
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收听单词发音
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1
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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7
hardiness
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| n.耐劳性，强壮；勇气，胆子 | |
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8
appraised
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| v.估价( appraise的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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9
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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14
sartorial
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| adj.裁缝的 | |
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15
laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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16
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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17
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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18
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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19
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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20
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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22
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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23
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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25
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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26
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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27
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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28
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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29
tritely
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| adv.平凡地，陈腐地 | |
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30
neutralize
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| v.使失效、抵消，使中和 | |
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31
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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32
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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33
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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impersonally
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| ad.非人称地 | |
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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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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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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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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
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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40
chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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41
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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42
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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43
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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44
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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45
tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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46
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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47
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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48
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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