"Gather the roses while ye may;
Old time is still a-flying;
And the same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying."
—Herrick.
It is four o'clock, and a hush1, a great stillness, born of oppressive heat, is over all the land. Again the sun is smiting2 with hot wrath3 the unoffending earth; the flowers nod drowsily4 or lie half dead of languor5, their gay leaves touching6 the ground.
"The sky was blue as the summer sea,
The depths were cloudless overhead;
The air was calm as it could be;
quotes Luttrell, dreamily, as he strays idly along the garden path, through scented8 shrubs9 and all the many-hued children of light and dew. His reverie is lengthened10 yet not diffuse11. One little word explains it all. It seems to him that word is everywhere: the birds sing it, the wind whistles it as it rushes faintly past, the innumerable voices of the summer cry ceaselessly for "Molly."
"Mr. Luttrell, Mr. Luttrell," cries some one, "look up." And he does look up.
Above him, on the balcony, stands Molly, "a thing of beauty," fairer than any flower that grows beneath. Her eyes like twin stars are gleaming, deepening; her happy lips are parted; her hair drawn12 loosely back, shines like threads of living gold. Every feature is awake and full of life; every movement of her sweet body, clad in its white gown, proclaims a very joyousness13 of living.
With hands held high above her head, filled with parti-colored roses, she stands laughing down upon him; while he stares back at her, with a heart filled too full of love for happiness. With a slight momentary14 closing of her lids she opens both her hands and flings the scented shower into his uplifted face.
"Take your punishment," she whispers, saucily15, bending over him, "and learn your lesson. Don't look at me another time."
"It was by your own desire I did so," exclaims he, bewildered, shaking the crimson16 and yellow and white leaves from off his head and shoulders. "How am I to understand you?"
"How do I know, when I don't even understand myself? But when I called out to you 'Look up,' of course I meant 'look down.' Don't you remember the old game with the handkerchief?—when I say 'Let go,' 'hold fast;' and when I say 'Hold fast,' 'let go?' You must recollect17 it."
"It is not idiotic, but it suits only some people; it suits me. There is a certain perverseness19 about it, a determination to do just what one is told not to do, that affects me most agreeably. Did I"—glancing at the rosy20 shower at his feet—"did I hurt you much?" With a smile.
There is a little plank21 projecting from the wood-work of the pillars that supports the balcony: resting his foot on this, and holding on by the railings above, Luttrell draws himself up until his face is almost on a level with hers,—almost, but not quite: she can still overshadow him.
"If that was all the injury I had received at your hands, how easy it would be to forgive!" says he, in a low tone.
"Poor hands," says Molly, gazing at her shapely fingers, "how have they sinned? Am I to understand, then, that I am not forgiven?"
"Yes."
"You are unkind to me."
"Oh, Molly!"
"Dreadfully unkind to me. Can you deny it? Now, tell me what this crime is that I have committed and you cannot pardon."
"I will not," says the young man, turning a little pale, while the smile dies out of his eyes and from round his lips. "I dread to put my injuries into words. Should they anger you, you might with one look seal my death-warrant."
"Am I so blood-thirsty? How badly you think of me!"
"Do I?" Reading with the wistful sadness of uncertainty22 her lovely face. "You know better than that. You know too—do you not?—what it is I would say,—if I dared. Oh, Molly, what have you done to me, what witchery have you used, that, after escaping for twenty-seven long years, I should now fall so hopelessly in——"
"Hush!" says Molly, quickly, and, letting her hand fall lightly on his forehead, brings it slowly, slowly, over his eyes and down his face, until at length it rests upon his lips rebukingly23. "Not another word. You have known me but a few days,—but a little short three weeks,—and you would——"
"Yes, I would," eagerly, devouring24 with fond kisses the snow-flake that would stay his words. "Three weeks,—a year,—ten years,—what does it matter? I think the very first night I saw you here in this garden the mischief25 was done. My heart left me. You stole the very best of me; and will you give nothing in exchange?"
"I will not listen," says Molly, covering her ears with her hands, but not so closely that she must be deaf. "Do you hear? You are to be silent."
"Do you forbid me to speak?"
"Yes; I am in a hurry; I cannot listen,—now," says this born coquette, unable to release her slave so soon.
"Some other time,—when you know me better,—you will listen then: is that what you mean?" Still detaining her with passionate26 entreaty27 both in tone and manner. "Molly, give me one word of hope."
"I don't know what I mean," she says, effecting her escape, and moving back to the security of the drawing-room window, which stands open. "I never do know. And I have not got the least bit of memory in the world. Do you know I came out here to tell you tea was to be brought out for us under the trees on the lawn; and when I saw you I forgot everything. Is that a hopeful sign?" With a playful smile.
"I will try to think so; and—don't go yet, Molly." Seeing her about to enter the drawing-room. "Surely, if tea is to be on the lawn, it is there we ought to go."
"I am half afraid of you. If I consent to bestow28 upon you a little more of my society, will you promise not to talk in—in—that way again to me?"
"But——"
"I will have no 'buts.' Promise what I ask, or I will hide myself from you for the rest of the day."
"I swear, then," says he; and, so protected, Miss Massereene ventures down the balcony steps and accompanies him to the shaded end of the lawn.
By this time it is nearly five o'clock, and as yet oppressively warm. The evening is coming with a determination to rival in dull heat the early part of the day. The sheep in great white snowy patches lie panting in the distant corners of the adjoining fields; the cows, tired of whisking their foolish tails in an unsuccessful war with the insatiable flies, are all huddled29 together, and give way to mournful lows that reproach the tarrying milkmaid.
Above in the branches a tiny bird essays to sing, but stops half stifled30, and, forgetting the tuneful note, contents itself with a lazy "cluck-cluck" that presently degenerates31 still further into a dying "coo" that is hardly musical, because so full of sleep.
Molly has seated herself upon the soft young grass, beneath the shade of a mighty32 beech33, against the friendly trunk of which she leans her back. Even this short walk from the house to the six stately beeches34 that are the pride and glory of Brooklyn has told upon her. Her usually merry eyes have subsided35 into a gentle languor; over them the white lids droop36 heavily. No little faintest tinge37 of color adorns38 her pale cheeks; upon her lap her hands lie idle, their very listlessness betokening39 the want of energy they feel.
At about two yards' distance from her reclines her guest, full length, his fingers interlaced behind his head, looking longer, slighter than usual, as with eyes upturned he gazes in silence upon the far-off, never-changing blue showing through the net-work of the leaves above him.
"Are you quite used up?" asks Molly, in the slow, indifferent tone that belongs to heat, as the crisp, gay voice belongs to cold. "I never heard you silent for so long before. Do you think you are likely to die? Because—don't do it here, please: it would give me such a shock."
"You are not so far gone as I feared: you can still use bad language. Now, tell me what sweet thought has held you in thrall41 so long."
"If I must confess it, I have been thinking of how untold42 a luxury at this moment would be an iced bath."
"'An iced bath'!" With as much contempt as she can summon. "How prosaic43! And I quite flattered myself you were thinking of me." She says this as calmly as though she had supposed him thinking of his dinner.
Tedcastle's lips part in a faint smile, a mere44 glimmer,—a laugh is beyond him,—and he turns his head just so far round as will permit his eyes to fall full upon her face.
"I fancied such thoughts on my part tabooed," he says. "And besides, would they be of any advantage to you?"
"No material advantage, but they would have been only fair. I was thinking of you."
"Were you? Really!" With such overpowering interest as induces him to raise himself on his elbow, the better to see her. "You were thinking—that——"
"Don't excite yourself. I was wondering whether, when you were a baby, your nose—in proportion, of course—was as lengthy45 and solemn as it is now."
"Pshaw!" mutters Mr. Luttrell, angrily, and goes back to his original position.
"If it was," pursues Molly, with a ruthless and amused laugh, "you must have been an awfully46 funny baby to look at." She appears to find infinite amusement in this idea for a full minute, after which follows a disgusted silence that might have lasted until dinner-hour but for the sound of approaching footsteps.
Looking up simultaneously47, they perceive Letitia coming toward them, with Sarah behind, carrying a tray, on which are cups, and small round cakes, and plates of strawberries.
"I have brought you your tea at last," cries Letitia, looking like some great fair goddess, with her large figure and stately walk and benign48 expression, as she bears down upon them. She is still a long way off, yet her voice comes to them clear and distinct, without any suspicion of shouting. She is smiling benevolently49, and has a delicious pink color in her cheeks.
"We thought you had forgotten us," says Molly, springing to her feet with a sudden return of animation50. "But you have come in excellent time, as we were on the very brink51 of a quarrel that would have disgraced the Kilkenny cats. And what have you brought us? Tea, and strawberries, and dear little hot cakes! Oh, Letty, how I love you!"
"So do I," says Luttrell. "Mrs. Massereene, may I sit beside you?"
"For protection?" asks she, with a laugh.
In the meantime Molly has arranged the tray before herself, and is busily engaged placing all the worst strawberries and the smallest cake on one plate.
"Before you go any further," says Luttrell, "I won't have that plate. Nothing shall induce me. So you may spare your trouble."
"Then you may go without any, as I myself intend eating all the others."
"Mrs. Massereene, you are my only friend. I appeal to you; is it fair? Just look at all she is keeping for herself. If I die for it, I will get my rights," exclaims Tedcastle, goaded52 into activity, and springing from his recumbent position, makes straight for the tray. There is a short but decisive battle; and then, victory being decided53 in favor of Luttrell, he makes a successful raid upon the fruit, and retires covered with glory and a good deal of juice.
"Coward, thief! won't I pay you for this?" cries Molly, viciously.
"I wouldn't use school-boy slang if I were you," returns Luttrell, with provoking coolness, and an evident irritating appreciation54 of the fruit.
Fortunately for all parties, at this moment John appears upon the scene.
"It is warm," says he, sinking on the grass, under the weak impression that he is imparting information.
"I think there is thunder in the air," says Letitia, with a mischievous55 glance at the late combatants, at which they laugh in spite of themselves.
"Not at all, my dear; you are romancing," says ignorant John. "Well, Molly Bawn, where is my tea? Have you kept me any?"
"As if I would forget you! Is it not an extraordinary thing, Letty, that Sarah cannot be induced to bring us a tea-pot? Now, I want more, and must only wait her pleasure."
"Remonstrate56 with her," says John.
"I am tired of doing so. Only yesterday I had a very lengthy argument with her on the subject, to the effect that as it was I who was having the tea, and not she, surely I might be allowed to have it the way I wished. When I had exhausted57 my eloquence58, and was nearly on the verge59 of tears, I discovered that she was still at the very point from which we started. 'But the tea is far more genteeler, Miss Molly, when brought up without the tea-pot. It spoils the look of the tray.' I said 'Yes, the want of it does,' with much indignation; but I might as well have kept my temper."
"I do hate having my tea poured out for me," goes on Molly, not deigning61 to notice him. "I am convinced Sarah lived with a retired62 tallow-chandler, or something equally horrible, before she came to us. She has one idol63 to which she sacrifices morning, noon, and night, and I think she calls it 'style.'"
"And what is that?" interposes Luttrell, anxiously.
"I don't know, but I think it has something to do with not putting the tea-pot on the tray, for instance, and taking the pretty fresh covers off the drawing-room chairs when any one is coming, to convince them of the green damask beneath. And once when, during a passing fit of insanity64, I dressed my hair into a pyramid, she told me I looked 'stylish65.' It took me some time to recover that shock to my vanity."
"I like 'stylish' people myself," says John. "Lady Barton, I am positive, is just what Sarah means by that, and I admire her immensely,—within bounds, of course, my dear Letitia."
"Dreadful, vulgar woman!" says Molly, with a frown. "I'm sure I wouldn't name Letty in the same day with her."
"We all know you are notoriously jealous of her," says John. "Her meridian66 charms eclipse yours of the dawn."
"How poetical67!" laughs Molly. "But the thing to see is Letitia producing the children when her ladyship comes to pay a visit. She always reminds me of the Mother of the Gracchi. Now, confess it, Letty, don't you think Lady Barton's diamonds and rubies68 and emeralds grow pale and lustreless69 beside your living jewels?"
"Indeed I do," returns Letitia, with the readiest, most unexpected simplicity70.
"Letitia," cries Molly, touched, giving her a little hug, "I do think you are the dearest, sweetest, truest old goose in the world."
"Nonsense, my dear!" says Letitia, with a slow pleased blush that is at once so youthful and so lovely.
"Oh! why won't Sarah come?" says Molly, recurring71 suddenly to her woes72. "I know, even if I went on my knees to Mr. Luttrell, he would not so far trouble himself as to go in and find her; but I think she might remember my weakness for tea."
"There she is!" exclaims John.
To their right rises a hedge, on which it has been customary for ages to dry the household linen73, and moving toward it appears Sarah, armed with a basket piled high to the very top.
"Sarah," calls Molly, "Sarah—Sarah!"
Now, Sarah, though an undeniably good servant, and a cleanly one, striking the beholder74 as a creature born to unlimited75 caps and spotless aprons76, is undoubtedly77 obtuse78. She presents her back hair and heels—that would not have disgraced an elephant—to Miss Massereene's call, and goes on calmly with her occupation of shaking out and hanging up to dry the garments she has just brought.
"Shall I go and call her?" asks Luttrell, with some remains79 of grace and an air of intense fatigue80.
"Not worth your while," says John, with all a man's delicious consideration for a man; "she must turn in a moment, and then she will see us."
For two whole minutes, therefore, they gaze in rapt silence upon the unconscious Sarah. Presently Mr. Massereene breaks the eloquent81 stillness.
"There is nothing," says he, mildly, "that so clearly declares the sociability—the bon camaraderie82, so to speak—that ought to exist in every well-brought-up family as the sight of washing done at home. There is such a happy mingling83 and yet such a thorough disregard of sex about it. It is 'Hail, fellow! well met!' all through. If you will follow Sarah's movements for a minute longer you will better understand what I mean. There! now she is spreading out Molly's pale-green muslin, in which she looked so irresistible84 last week. And there goes Daisy's pinafore, and Bobby's pantaloons; and now she is pausing to remove a defunct85 grasshopper86 from Renee's bonnet87! What a charming picture it all makes, so full of life! There go Molly's stock——"
"John," interrupts Molly, indignantly, who has been frowning heavily at him for some time without the smallest result.
"If you say another word," puts in Luttrell, burying his face in the grass, with a deep groan88, "if you go one degree further, I shall faint."
"And now comes my shirt," goes on John, in the same even tone, totally unabashed.
"My dear John!" exclaims Letitia, much scandalized, speaking in a very superior tone, which she fondly but erroneously believes to be stern and commanding, "I beg you will pursue the subject no further. We have no desire whatever to learn any particulars about your shirts."
"And why not, my dear?" demands Mr. Massereene, his manner full of mild but firm expostulation. "What theme so worthy89 of prolonged discussion as a clean shirt? Think of the horrors that encompass90 all the 'great unwashed,' and then perhaps you will feel as I do. In my opinion it is a topic on which volumes might be written: if I had time I would write them myself. And if you will give yourself the trouble to think, my dear Letitia, you will doubtless be able to bring to mind the fact that once a very distinguished91 and reasonable person called Hood92 wrote a song about it. Besides which——"
"She is looking now!" cries Molly, triumphantly93. "Sarah—Sa—rah!"
"The 'bells they go ringing for Sarah,'" quotes Mr. Luttrell, irrelevantly94. But Sarah has heard, and is hastening toward them, and wrath is for the present averted95 from his unlucky head.
"Some more tea, Sarah," says Molly, with a smile that would corrupt97 an archbishop. Molly is a person adored by servants. "That's my cup."
"And that's mine," says Tedcastle, turning his upside down on his saucer. "I am particular about getting my own cup, Sarah, and hope you will not mistake mine for Miss Massereene's. Fill it, and bring it back to me just like this."
"Yes, sir," says Sarah, in perfect good faith.
"And, Sarah—next time we would like the tea-pot," puts in Mr. Massereene, mildly.
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收听单词发音
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1
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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8
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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perverseness
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| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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rebukingly
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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degenerates
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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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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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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betokening
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的现在分词 ) | |
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40
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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41
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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42
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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45
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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46
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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47
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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48
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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49
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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50
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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51
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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52
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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53
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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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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aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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camaraderie
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| n.同志之爱，友情 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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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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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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encompass
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| vt.围绕，包围；包含，包括；完成 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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