"Here's such a coil! Come, what says Romeo?"
—Shakespeare.
As eleven o'clock strikes, any one going up the stairs at Herst would have stopped with a mingled1 feeling of terror and admiration2 at one particular spot, where, in a niche3, upon a pedestal, a very goddess stands.
It is Molly, clad in white, from head to heel, with a lace scarf twisted round her head and shoulders, and with one bare arm uplifted, while with the other she holds an urn-shaped vase beneath her face, from which a pale-blue flame arises.
Her eyes, larger, deeper, bluer than usual, are fixed4 with sad and solemn meaning upon space. She scarcely seems to breathe; no quiver disturbs her frame, so intensely does she listen for a coming footstep. In her heart she hopes it may be Luttrell's.
The minutes pass. Her arm is growing tired, her eyes begin to blink against her will; she is on the point of throwing up the game, descending5 from her pedestal, and regaining6 her own room, when a footfall recalls her to herself and puts her on her mettle7.
Nearer it comes,—still nearer, until it stops altogether. Molly does not dare turn to see who it is. A moment later, a wild cry, a smothered8 groan9, falls upon her ear, and, turning her head, terrified, she sees her grandfather rush past her, tottering10, trembling, until he reaches his own room, where he disappears.
Almost at the same instant the others who have been in the drawing-room, drawn11 to the spot by the delicate machinations of Mr. Potts, come on the scene; while Marcia, who has heard that scared cry, emerges quickly from among them and passes up the stairs into her grandfather's room.
There follows an awkward silence. Cecil, who has been adorning12 a corner farther on, comes creeping toward them, pale and nervous, having also been a witness to Mr. Amherst's hurried flight; and she and Molly, in their masquerading costumes, feel, to say the least of it, rather small.
They cast a withering13 glance at Potts, who has grown a lively purple; but he only shakes his head, having no explanation to offer, and knowing himself for once in his life to be unequal to the occasion.
Mrs. Darley is the first to break silence.
"What is it? What has happened? Why are you both here in your night-dresses?" she asks, unguardedly, losing her head in the excitement of the moment.
"What do you mean?" says Cecil, angrily. "'Nightdresses'! If you don't know dressing-gowns when you see them, I am sorry for you. Plantagenet, what has happened?"
"It was grandpapa," says Molly, in a frightened tone. "He came by, and I think was upset by my—appearance. Oh, I hope I have not done him any harm! Mr. Potts, why did you make me do it?"
"How could I tell?" replies Potts, who is as white as their costumes. "What an awful shriek14 he gave! I thought such a stern old card as he is would have had more pluck!"
"I was positive he was in bed," says Cecil, "or I should never have ventured."
"He is never where he ought to be," mutters Potts gloomily.
Here conversation fails them. For once they are honestly dismayed, and keep their eyes fixed in anxious expectation on the bedchamber of their host. Will Marcia never come?
At length the door opens and she appears, looking pale and distraite. Her eyes light angrily as they fall on Molly.
"Grandpapa is very much upset. He is ill. It was heartless,—a cruel trick," she says, rather incoherently. "He wishes to see you, Eleanor, instantly. You had better go to him."
"Must I?" asks Molly, who is quite colorless, and much inclined to cry.
"Unless you wish to add disobedience to your other unfeeling conduct," replies Marcia, coldly.
With faltering18 footsteps she approaches the fatal door, whilst the others disperse19 and return once more to the drawing-room,—all, that is, except Lady Stafford, who seeks her own chamber15, and Mr. Potts, who, in an agony of doubt and fear, lingers about the corridor, awaiting Molly's return.
As she enters her grandfather's room she finds him lying on a couch, half upright, an angry, disappointed expression on his face, distrust in his searching eyes.
"Come here," he says, harshly, motioning her with one finger to his side, "and tell me why you, of all others, should have chosen to play this trick upon me. Was it revenge?"
"Upon you, grandpapa! Oh, not upon you," says Molly, shocked. "It was all a mistake,—a mere20 foolish piece of fun; but I never thought you would have been the one to see me."
"Are you lying? Let me look at you. If so, you do it cleverly. Your face is honest. Yet I hear it was for me alone this travesty21 was enacted22."
"Whoever told you so spoke23 falsely," Molly says, pale but firm, a great indignation toward Marcia rising in her breast. She has her hands on the back of a chair, and is gazing anxiously but openly at the old man. "Why should I seek to offend you, who have been so kind to me,—whose bread I have eaten? You do not understand: you wrong me."
"I thought it was your mother," whispers he, with a quick shiver, "from her grave, returned to reproach me,—to remind me of all the miserable24 past. It was a senseless thought. But the likeness25 was awful,—appalling. She was my favorite daughter, yet she of all creatures was the one to thwart26 me most; and I did not forgive. I left her to pine for the luxuries to which she was accustomed from her birth, and could not then procure27. She was delicate. I let her wear her heart out waiting for a worthless pardon. And what a heart it was! Then I would not forgive; now—now I crave28 forgiveness. Oh, that the dead could speak!"
He covers his face with his withered29 hands, that shake and tremble like October leaves, and a troubled sigh escapes him. For the moment the stern old man has disappeared; only the penitent30 remains31.
"Dear grandpapa, be comforted," says Molly, much affected32, sinking on her knees beside him. Never before, by either brother or grandfather, has her dead mother been so openly alluded33 to. "She did forgive. So sweet as she was, how could she retain a bitter feeling? Listen to me. Am I not her only child? Who so meet to offer you her pardon? Let me comfort you."
Mr. Amherst makes no reply, but he gently presses the fingers that have found their way around his neck.
"I, too, would ask pardon," Molly goes on, in her sweet, low, trainante voice, that has a sob16 in it here and there. "How shall I gain it after all that I have done—to distress34 you so, although unintentionally?—And you think hardly of me, grandpapa? You think I did it to annoy you?"
"No, no; not now."
"I have made you ill," continues Molly, still crying; "I have caused you pain. Oh, grandpapa! do say you are not angry with me."
"I am not. You are a good child, and Marcia wronged you. Go now, and forget all I may have said. I am weak at times, and—and—— Go, child; I am better alone."
In the corridor outside stands Mr. Potts, with pale cheeks and very pale eyes. Even his hair seems to have lost a shade, and looks subdued35.
"Well, what did he say to you?" he asks, in what he fondly imagines to be a whisper, but which would be distinctly audible in the hall beneath. "Was he awfully36 mad? Did he cut up very rough? I wouldn't have been in your shoes for a million. Did he—did he—say anything about—me?"
"I don't believe he remembered your existence," says Molly, with a laugh, although her eyelids37 are still of a shade too decided38 to be becoming. "He knew nothing of your share in the transaction."
Whereupon Mr. Potts declares himself thankful for so much mercy in a devout39 manner, and betakes himself to the smoking-room.
Here he is received with much applause and more congratulations.
"Another of Mr. Potts's charming entertainments," says Sir Penthony, with a wave of the hand. "Extraordinary and enthusiastic reception! Such success has seldom before been witnessed! Last time he blew up two young women; to-night he has slain40 an offensive old gentleman! Really, Potts, you must allow me to shake hands with you."
"Was there ever anything more unfortunate?" says Potts, in a lachrymose41 tone. He has not been inattentive to the requirements of the inner man since his entrance, and already, slowly but surely, the brandy is doing its work. "It was all so well arranged, and I made sure the old boy was gone to bed."
"He is upset," murmurs42 Sir Penthony, with touching43 concern, "and no wonder. Such tremendous exertion44 requires the aid of stimulants45 to keep it up. My dear Potts, do have a little more brandy-and-soda. You don't take half care of yourself."
"Not a drop,—not a drop," says Mr. Potts, drawing the decanter toward him. "It don't agree with me. Oh, Stafford! you should have seen Miss Massereene in her Greek costume. I think she is the loveliest creature I ever saw. She is," goes on Mr. Potts, with unwise zeal46, "by far the loveliest, 'and the same I would rise to maintain.'"
"I wouldn't, if I were you," says Philip, who is indignant. "There is no knowing what tricks your legs may play with you."
"I can well believe it," returns Stafford; "but don't let emotion master you. 'There's naught48, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.' Try a little of the former."
"There's nothing in life I wouldn't do for that girl,—nothing, I declare to you, Stafford," goes on Potts, who is quite in tears by this time; "but she wouldn't look at me."
"Wouldn't she, Potts?" says Stafford, with a fine show of sympathy. "Who knows? Cheer up, old boy, and remember women never know their own minds at first. She may yet become alive to your many perfections, and know her heart to be all yours. Think of that. And why should she not?" says Sir Penthony, with free encouragement. "Where could she get a better fellow? 'Faint heart,' you know, Potts. Take my advice and pluck up spirit, and go in for her boldly. Throw yourself at her feet."
"To-morrow," advises Sir Penthony, with growing excitement.
"Now," declares Potts, with wild enthusiasm, making a rush for the door.
"Not to-night; wait until to-morrow," Sir Penthony says, who has not anticipated so ready an acceptance of his advice, getting between him and the door. "In my opinion she has retired51 to her room by this; and it really would be rather sketchy52, you know,—eh?"
"What do you say, Luttrell?" asks Potts, uncertainly. "What would you advise?"
And finally the gallant54 Potts is conveyed to his room, without being allowed to lay his hand and fortune at Miss Massereene's feet.
About four o'clock the next day,—being that of the ball,—Sir Penthony, strolling along the west corridor, comes to a standstill before Cecil's door, which happens to lie wide open.
Cecil herself is inside, and is standing55 so as to be seen, clad in the memorable56 white dressing-gown of the evening before, making a careful choice between two bracelets57 she holds in her hands.
"Is that the garment in which you so much distinguished58 yourself last night?" Sir Penthony cannot help asking; and, with a little start and blush, she raises her eyes.
"Is it you?" she says, smiling. "Yes, this is the identical robe. Won't you come in, Sir Penthony? You are quite welcome. If you have nothing better to do you can stay with and talk to me for a little."
"I have plenty to do,"—coming in and closing the door,—"but nothing I would not gladly throw over to accept an invitation from you."
"Dear me! What a charming speech! What a courtier you would have made! Consider yourself doubly welcome. I adore pretty speeches, when addressed to myself. Now, sit there, while I decide on what jewelry59 I shall wear to-night."
"So this is her sanctum," thinks her husband, glancing around. What a dainty nest it is, with its innumerable feminine fineries, its piano, its easel, its pretty pink-and-blue crêtonnne, its wealth of flowers, although the season is of the coldest and bleakest60.
A cozy61 fire burns brightly. In the wall opposite is an open door, through which one catches a glimpse of the bedroom beyond, decked out in all its pink-and-white glory. There is a very sociable62 little clock, a table strewn with wools and colored silks, and mirrors everywhere.
As for Cecil herself, with honest admiration her husband carefully regards her. What a pretty woman she is! full of all the tender graces, the lovable caprices, that wake the heart to fondness.
How charming a person to come to in grief or trouble, or even in one's gladness! How full of gayety, yet immeasurable tenderness, is her speaking face! Verily, there is a depth of sympathy to be found in a pretty woman that a plain one surely lacks.
Her white gown becomes her à merveille, and fits her to perfection. She cannot be called fat, but as certainly she cannot be called thin. When people speak of her with praise, they never fail to mention the "pretty roundness" of her figure.
Her hair has partly come undone63, and hangs in a fair, loose coil, rather lower than usual, upon her neck. This suits her, making still softer her soft though piquante face.
Her white and jeweled fingers are busy in the case before her as, with puckered64 brows, she sighs over the difficulty of making a wise and becoming choice in precious stones for the evening's triumphs.
At last—a set of sapphires65 having gained the day—she lays the casket aside and turns to her husband, while wondering with demure66 amusement on the subject of his thoughts during these past few minutes.
He has been thinking of her, no doubt. Her snowy wrapper, with all its dainty frills and bows, is eminently67 becoming. Yes, beyond all question he has been indulging in sentimental68 regrets.
"The old boy puts you up very comfortably down here, don't he?" he says, in a terribly prosaic70 tone.
Is this all? Has he been admiring the furniture during all these eloquent71 moments of silence, instead of her and her innumerable charms? Insufferable!
"He do," responds she, dryly, with a careful adaptation of his English.
"I do hope you are not going to say rude things to me about last night," she says, still smiling.
"No. You may remember once before on a very similar occasion I told you I should never again scold you, for the simple reason that I considered it language thrown away. I was right, as the sequel proved. Besides, the extreme becomingness of your toilet altogether disarmed74 me. By the bye, when do you return to town?"
"Next week. And you?"
"I shall go—when you go. May I call on you there?"
"Indeed you may. I like you quite well enough," says her ladyship, with unsentimental and therefore most objectionable frankness, "to wish you for my friend."
"Why should we not be more than friends, Cecil?" says Stafford, going up to her and taking both her hands in a warm, affectionate clasp. "Just consider how we two are situated75: you are bound to me forever, until death shall kindly76 step in to relieve you of me, and I am bound to you as closely. Why, then, should we not accept our position, and make our lives one?"
"You should have thought of all this before."
"How could I? Think what a deception77 you practiced on me when sending that miserable picture. I confess I abhor78 ugliness. And then, your own conditions,—what could I do but abide79 by them?"
"There are certain times when a woman does not altogether care about being taken so completely at her word."
"But that was not one of them." Hastily. "I do not believe you would have wished to live with a man you neither knew nor cared for."
"Perhaps not." Laughing. "Sometimes I hardly know myself what it is I do want. But are we not very well as we are? I dare say, had we been living together for the past three years, we should now dislike each other as cordially as—as do Maud Darley and her husband."
"Impossible! Maud Darley is one person, you are quite another; while I—well"—with a smile—"I honestly confess I fancy myself rather more than poor Henry Darley."
"He certainly is plain," says Cecil, pensively80, "and—he snores,—two great points against him, Yes, on consideration, you are an improvement on Henry Darley." Then, with a sudden change of tone, she says, "Does all this mean that you love me?"
"Yes I confess it, Cecil," answers he, gravely, earnestly. "I love you as I never believed it possible I should love a woman. I am twenty-nine, and—think me cold if you will—but up to this I never yet saw the woman I wanted for my wife except you."
"Then you ought to consider yourself the happiest man alive, because you have the thing you crave. As you reminded me just now, I am yours until death us do part."
"Not all I crave, not the best part of you, your heart," replies he, tenderly. "No man loving as I do, could be contented81 with a part."
"Oh, it is too absurd," says Cecil, with a little aggravating82 shake of the head. "In love with your own wife in this prosaic nineteenth century! It savors83 of the ridiculous. Such mistaken feeling has been tabooed long ago. Conquer it; conquer it."
"Too late. Besides, I have no desire to conquer it. On the contrary, I encourage it, in hope of some return. No, do not dishearten me. I know what you are going to say; but at least you like me, Cecil?"
"Well, yes; but what of that? I like so many people."
"Then go a little further, and say you—love me."
"That would be going a great deal further, because I love so few."
"Never mind. Say 'Penthony, I love you.'"
He has placed his hands upon her shoulders, and is regarding her with anxious fondness.
"Would you have me tell you an untruth?"
"I would have you say you love me."
"But supposing I cannot in honesty?"
"Try."
"Of course I can try. Words without meaning are easy things to say. But then—a lie; that is a serious matter.
"It may cease to be a lie, once uttered."
"Well,—just to please you, then, and as an experiment—and—— You are sure you will not despise me for saying it?"
"No."
"Of course not."
"Nor think me weak-minded?"
"No, no. How could I?"
"Well, then—Penthony—I—don't love you the least bit in the world!" declares Cecil, with a provoking, irresistible85 laugh, stepping backward out of his reach.
Sir Penthony does not speak for a moment or two; then "'Sweet is revenge, especially to women,'" he says, quietly, although at heart he is bitterly chagrined86. To be unloved is one thing—to be laughed at is another. "After all, you are right. There is nothing in this world so rare or so admirable as honesty. I am glad you told me no untruth, even in jest."
Just at this instant the door opens, and Molly enters. She looks surprised at such an unexpected spectacle as Cecil's husband sitting in his wife's boudoir, tête-à-tête with her.
"Don't be shy, dear," says Cecil, mischievously87, with a little wicked laugh; "you may come in; it is only my husband."
The easy nonchalance88 of this speech, the only half-suppressed amusement in her tone, angers Sir Penthony more than all that has gone before. With a hasty word or two to Molly, he suddenly remembers a pressing engagement, and, with a slight bow to his wife, takes his departure.
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收听单词发音
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1
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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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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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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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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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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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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adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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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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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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40
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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42
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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43
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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45
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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46
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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47
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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48
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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49
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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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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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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bleakest
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| 阴冷的( bleak的最高级 )； （状况）无望的； 没有希望的； 光秃的 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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dispels
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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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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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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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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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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savors
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的第三人称单数 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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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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chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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