“Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn; happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn.”
THE next day was exceedingly hot, one of those moist, breathless days that make February the most unpleasant month in the year to Sydney folks.
Every one in the house felt utterly1 limp and cross and miserable2, and daily duties were performed in as slipshod and languid a manner as possible. The cook had made a great pan of quince jam, and brought it into the breakfast-room on a tray for Esther to tie down. And Esther was sitting in the rocking-chair trying to make up her mind to do it, and wondering whether it would be easier to use string or paste. Small Esther was making a terrible noise. She owned dolls and bricks, little 43tea-services, and baby furniture—all the toys that well-regulated little girls are supposed to love; she generally tired of them, however, after a few minutes’ play.
At present she had made a tram of six heavy leather chairs, with the armchair for “motor,” and her little sweet face was scarlet3 and wet with the exertion4 of dragging them into place.
In addition to this she had taken the fire-irons out of the fender, and was rowing, or in some way propelling the train forward—to her own satisfaction, at any rate—by brandishing5 the tongs6 wildly about while she stood in the motor and shouted and cried, “Gee up!”
“Essie,” big Esther said at last, “you must be quiet. Poor mamma’s head aches. Where’s your doll? That’s not a pretty game.”
“Essie, put those things away at once.” Esther noticed the poker8 for the first time. “You naughty girl, you are scratching the chairs dreadfully.”
“But I can’t make ze twain puff-puff wifout,” objected the engine-driver, “an’ we has to go to Bwisbane; det up wif you.” She leaned over the tall back of her locomotive, and made vigorous hits at the legs of it.
44So vigorous indeed that the chair went over with a crash, precipitating9 Essie and the poker and tongs and shovel10 in four different directions.
“Oh dear,” said Esther, and sighed before she attempted to go to the rescue. Essie was always tumbling from somewhere or other and never got much hurt, and really it was terribly hot.
“Oo-oo-oh!” said a very small voice. It quavered for a minute. If the anxiously examined little fat knees had been scratched, it would have broken into a despairing yell, but they were whole, and the motor had misbehaved itself.
“Beast!” she said, picking herself up in a great hurry,—“howid old pig!” Then she seized the poker and beat the prostrate11 chair with all her small, angered strength.
“Essie,” big Esther said languidly—she had found with thankfulness she need not move from the chair,—“Essie, I shall whip you, if you use naughty words like that.”
“But I was zust dettin’ to Bwisbane—so it is a pig,” Essie maintained. Then she climbed up again, and the journey proceeded.
In the nursery Meg was supposed to be giving lessons to Peter and Poppet, and superintending the more advanced studies of Nellie; for the last nursery governess had left suddenly, and the Captain had 45professed himself unable to afford another until the next quarter.
Meg used to provide herself with a book during these daily struggles, to be indulged in at times when her supervision12 was not required. It had been an “improving” book for the last month, for she had lately been finding out how wofully ignorant she was when she talked to the young man who had listened to her playing last night. To-day it was Browning, because he had looked horrified13 to find she never read any of his poems, on the plea that he was acknowledged to be difficult to understand.
It was a pity she chose “Filippo Baldinucci on the Privilege of Burial” for her first essay, especially as it was such a hot day; but she had determined14 to read, dauntlessly, the first poem the book opened at.
“Do this sum, Poppet,” she said, setting a multiplication15 with eight figures in each line—“dear, what a greasy16 slate17; and Peter, if you drop any blots18 on your copy, you will have to write it again this afternoon.”
Peter was sucking a little lump of ice he had stolen out of the ice-chest. Poppet asked him for a bit to clean her slate with, but he considered this such waste of precious material that he swallowed it in a hurry and choked. Poppet asked if she might 46go and wet her sponge; but Meg said no, it always took a quarter of an hour to do that simple act, if she escaped from the room. So Peter offered to breathe on it for her.
“Both of us will,” said Poppet,—“you on the top half, and me on the bottom.”
Meg was taking a cursory20 glance at “Filippo,” and groaning21 mentally; she did not hear the arrangement for the slate-cleaning until the heads bumped violently and the two began to quarrel.
“You licked it with your tongue,” Poppet said.
“I never—I wath only breathing with my lipth on it,” declared Peter.
“I saw the end of your tongue hanging out,” Poppet maintained.
“You’re a thtory-teller, Poppet.” Peter’s face began to get red. “I wath only breathing, tho there.”
“Peter, go and sit at the other end of the table. Poppet, if you put out your tongue at Peter again, I shall make you stand in the corner.” Meg put a pen in the Browning to keep it open, and went over to Nell at the window to see how “Le Chien du Capitaine” was progressing.
“Oh, Nell!” she said.
The French dictionary lay face downwards22 on the 47broad window-sill; “Le Chien” was face upward on Nell’s knee, but on the top of it was “Not Wisely, but too Well.”
“Oh!” said Nell, with a gasp23, her eyes misty24, her cheeks flushed,—“oh, it’s no use scolding, Meg,—I absolutely must finish this; I’m just where Kate is—Oh, Meg, you are horrid25!”
For Meg had taken forcible possession of the dark green book, and had picked up the dictionary.
“You know you are not to read in the morning,” she said; “and I don’t think you ought to read a love story like this till you’re eighteen at least. Really, Nellie, it’s no use me pretending to overlook you; you’ve done one page of ‘The Dog’ in three mornings. I’ll have to tell father I must give up the pretence26 of teaching.”
“Here, give it to me,” Nellie said, sighing wistfully; “it ought to be called ‘The Pig,’ I think, it’s so detestable. Put ‘Not Wisely’ on the table, Miggie, so I can see the title and get occasional refreshment27.”
Then Meg returned to the “Privilege of Burial.” Her first thought, when she had read the piece through, was that Browning was not a true poet, however great a man he might be; and her second that Allan Courtney must be exceedingly clever to be able to enjoy such reading; her third was sorrow at 48the poor brains she felt she must possess not to be able to enjoy it too.
She tried another at random—“Popularity.” It was rather better she decided28, though she had no very clear idea of the meaning; and oh! that terrible last verse,—was it an enigma29, or could clever people see the sense instantly?—
“Hobbs hints blue—straight he turtle eats:
Nobbs prints blue—claret crowns his cup
What porridge had John Keats?”
The deep sigh that accompanied the third vain reading of it, disturbed Peter in his occupation of putting flies in the ink, fishing them out, and letting them crawl over to Poppet.
Poppet at her side of the table was similarly occupied, only she had captured a March-fly, and it made beautifully clear tracks right across to Peter.
“Is your sum finished, Poppet?” Meg said abstractedly, pondering even as she spoke32, what Keats, who was a god to her, had to do with porridge.
Poppet put her hand over the March-fly and confessed it was not quite.
“How many rows have you done?”
The answer came in a whisper, “Not quite one.”
“I shall keep you in to do it then after four,” 49Meg said in her sternest voice; “and, Peter, look at your copy.”
In the excitement of getting the half-drowned flies safely across Peter had made a landing-place of his copy-book, and great was the inkiness of it.
“Oh, bleth it!” he said ruefully.
Poppet’s head was within an inch of her slate. She was working now at a startling pace, and counting on her fingers in a loud whisper. What would Bunty say if he came home, and she was not there to ask how he had got on, and sympathise with the red marks that were sure to be on his hands?
50Nellie had translated five lines, and was occupied in a vain search for the dictionary meaning of pourra.
“I believe it’s ‘pour,’ and ‘ra’ is a misprint that’s got tacked33 on,” she said, “or else this beautiful dictionary has left it out, there are ever so many words I can’t find, Meg.”
“Oh,” said Meg, her patience flying away on sudden wings, “what is the use of anything? I won’t teach you any more, any of you. Peter wrote far better a month ago than he does now; Poppet’s taken an hour to do a row of multiplication by six, and you are looking in the dictionary for pourra. It’s simply wasting all my time to sit here.”
The problem, “who fished the murex up?” had not improved my eldest34 heroine’s temper. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes sparkled, she threw out her hands in a little dramatic way. “You can go, Peter, you can go and make mud pies of the universe, if you like; Poppet, you can go too, tear your dress, and climb as many trees as you please; Nellie, you can sit in front of the looking-glass the rest of the day and read every novel in the house,—why should I care? I won’t teach any more.”
She flung herself down on the old horse-hair sofa, opened her Browning, and turned her face to the wall.
51And they all went, not at first, but presently and by degrees.
“The thaid we could,” whispered Peter.
“Did she mean it?” Poppet said doubtfully.
“Of courth,” said Peter; “I’m going, at any rate. The thaid I wath to; I’m not going to dithobey her,” and he slipped out on tip-toe. Poppet worked to the end of the line by seven, then she remembered she had forgotten to “carry” all the way, and she grew afraid that Peter would get to the birds’ eggs she was putting in compartments35 for Bunty.
So she also, after a glance or two at her sister’s back hair, slipped off her chair and stole softly away.
And Nellie drew “Not Wisely” to her own end of the table with the aid of a long ruler; then she followed the example of her iniquitous36 juniors and departed noiselessly.
It was nearly an hour before Meg turned round again. She had lost herself in some wonderful poems now,—“The Flight of the Duchess,” “By the Fireside,” and some of the shorter love pieces; she began to see possibilities of beauty and enjoyment37, and felt glad with a great gladness that she was able to appreciate them even in a slight degree.
Then the silence struck her. Surely if Poppet were doing her sum, her pencil would be squeaking38; 52and surely if Peter were engaged as he should be on his copy, he would be breathing laboriously39 and giving occasional little impatient grunts40 to testify to each fresh blot19.
“Took me at my word!” she said aloud. “They might have known I didn’t mean it, young scamps,—Nellie too.”
Then she smiled indulgently. The exquisite42 tenderness and the strength of the love pieces had softened43 and braced44 her at the same time.
“They’re very young,” she said, as she went out after them, “and—really it’s very hot.”
This was all in the morning. At night there was another breeze.
Bunty did not eat his pudding. That of itself was phenomenal, for it was brown with sultanas and had citron peel at wide intervals45; generally he managed three servings, and, even then, said they might have made it in a bigger basin. But to-night he said “No pudding” in a sullen46 voice, and kicked the legs of his chair monotonously47 with his boot heels.
“You might have the common politeness to say thank you, I think,” said Nellie, who was officiating at nursery tea in Meg’s absence. “What a boor48 you are getting, John.”
53“Oh, go and hang yourself,” he returned. He pushed his chair back from the table, and went out of the room with lowering brows.
Poppet slipped down from her chair.
“Sit down instantly, Poppet; do you think I’m going to allow you to behave like this?” Nellie cried. “If John has no more manners than a larrikin, you are not to follow his example. Sit down, I tell you, Poppet; do you hear me?”
“Can’t you see how white he is?” said the little girl, her lips trembling. “Nellie, I can’t stay—no, I don’t want pudding.” She darted49 across the room and down the passage after him.
The boys’ bedrooms opened on to a long landing with a high staircase window at the end that looked straight out to the river and the great stretch of gum trees on the Crown lands.
Bunty was standing50 staring out, his hands thrust in his pockets; the setting sun was on the stained window-panes, and his face looked ghastly in the red light.
“Was it very bad?” said the little, tender voice at his elbow.
He turned round, and looked at his young sister for a minute in silence.
“Look here, Poppet,” he said, and his voice sounded strange and strangled; “I know I tell lies 54and do mean things—I can’t help it sometimes, I think I was made so; but I haven’t done this new thing they say I have—Poppet, I swear I haven’t.”
“I know you haven’t,” the loving voice said; “what is it, Bunty?”
He gave her a fleeting51, grateful glance. “I can’t tell you, old girl—you’ll know soon enough,—every one thinks I have; it’s no good me saying anything—nothing’s any good in the world.” He leaned his forehead on the cold window-pane and choked something down in his throat. “To-morrow, Poppet, they’ll say all sorts of things about me; but don’t you believe them, old girl—will you?—whatever they say, Poppet—promise me.”
“I pwomise you, Bunty, faithf’lly,” the little girl said, an almost solemn light in her eyes. She could never remember Bunty quite like this before. There was a despairing note in his voice, and really the red sunset light made his face look dreadful.
“Give us a kiss, Poppet,” he whispered, and put his face down on her little, rough, curly head.
The child burst into tears of excitement and fright—everything seemed so strange and unreal. Bunty had never asked her for a kiss before in his life. She clung to him sobbing52, with her small, thin arms around his neck and her cheek against his. Both his arms were round her, he had lifted her 55up to him right off the ground, and his cheeks were almost as wet as hers.
There was a step, and he set her down again and turned away.
“Where are you going?” she asked half fearfully.
“To bed,” he said gruffly. “My head aches. Good-night.”
56
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1
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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precipitating
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| adj.急落的，猛冲的v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的现在分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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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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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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downwards
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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27
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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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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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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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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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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38
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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46
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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47
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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48
boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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49
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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50
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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51
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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52
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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