The holidays at Hyde Lodge1 brought at least repose2 for Diana Paget. The little ones had gone home, with the exception of two or three young colonists3, and even they had perpetual liberty from lessons; so Diana had nothing to do but sit in the shady garden, reading or thinking, in the drowsy4 summer afternoons. Priscilla Paget had departed with the chief of the teachers for a seaside holiday; other governesses had gone to their homes; and but for the presence of an elderly Frenchwoman, who slept through one half of the day, and wrote letters to her kindred during the other half, Diana would have been the only responsible person in the deserted5 habitation.
She did not complain of her loneliness, or envy the delights of those who had departed. She was very glad to be quite alone, free to think her own thoughts, free to brood over those unforgotten years in which she had wandered over the face of the earth with her father and Valentine Hawkehurst. The few elder girls remaining at the Lodge thought Miss Paget unsociable because she preferred a lonely corner in the gardens and some battered6 old book of namby-pamby stories to the delights of their society, and criticised her very severely7 as they walked listlessly to and fro upon the lawn with big garden-hats, and arms entwined about each other’s waists.
Alas8 for Diana, the battered book was only an excuse for solitude9, and for a morbid10 indulgence in her own sad thoughts! She had lived the life of unblemished respectability for a year, and looking back now at the Bohemian wanderings, she regretted those days of humiliation11 and misery12, and sighed for the rare delights of that disreputable past! Yes, she had revolted against the degraded existence; and now she was sorry for having lost its uncertain pleasures, its fitful glimpses of sunshine. Was that true which Valentine had said, that no man can eat beef and mutton every day of his life; that it is better to be unutterly miserable14 one day and uproariously happy the next, than to tread one level path of dull content? Miss Paget began to think that there had been some reason in her old comrade’s philosophy; for she found the level path very dreary15. She let her thoughts wander whither they would in this quiet holiday idleness, and they went back to the years which she had spent with her father. She thought of winter evenings in London when Valentine had taken her the round of the theatres, and they had sat together in stifling16 upper boxes — she pleased, he critical, and with so much to say to each other in the pauses of the performance. How kind he had been to her; how good, how brotherly! And then the pleasant walk home, through crowded noisy thoroughfares, and anon by long lines of quiet streets, in which they used to look up at the lighted windows of houses where parties were being given, and sometimes stop to listen to the music and watch the figures of the dancers flitting across the blinds. She thought of the journeys she had travelled with her father and Valentine by land and sea; the lonely moonlight watches on the decks of steamers; the long chill nights in railway-carriages under the feeble glimmer17 of an oil-lamp, and how she and Valentine had beguiled18 the tedious hours with wild purposeless talk while Captain Paget slept. She remembered the strange cities which she and her father’s protégé had looked at side by side; he with a calm listlessness of manner, which might either be real or assumed, but which never varied19; she with an inward tremor20 of excitement and surprise. They had been very happy together, this lonely unprotected girl and the reckless adventurer. If his manner to her had been fitful, it had been sometimes dangerously, fatally kind. She looked back now, and remembered the days which she had spent with him, and knew that all the pleasures possible in a prosperous and successful life could never bring for her such delight as she had known in the midst of her wanderings; though shame and danger lurked21 at every corner, and poverty, disguised in that tawdry masquerade habit in which the swindler dresses it, accompanied her wherever she went.
She had been happy with him because she had loved him. That close companionship, sisterly and brotherly though it had seemed, had been fatal for the lonely and friendless daughter of Horatio Paget. In her desolation she had clung to the one creature who was kind to her, who did not advertise his disdain22 for herself and her sex, or openly avow23 that she was a nuisance and an encumbrance24. Every slight put upon her by her father had strengthened the chain that bound her to Valentine Hawkehurst; and as the friendship between them grew closer day by day, until all her thoughts and fancies took their colour from his, it seemed a matter of course that he should love her, and she never doubted his feelings or questioned her own. There had been much in his conduct to justify25 her belief that she was beloved; so this inexperienced, untutored girl may surely be forgiven if she rested her faith in that fancied affection, and looked forward to some shadowy future in which she and Valentine would be man and wife, all in all to each other, free from the trammels of Captain Paget’s elaborate schemes, and living honestly, somehow or other, by means of literature, or music, or pen-and-ink caricatures, or some of those liberal arts which have always been dear to the children of Bohemia. They would have lodgings26 in some street near the Thames, and go to a theatre or a concert every evening, and spend long summer days in suburban28 parks or on suburban commons, he lying on the grass smoking, she talking to him or reading to him, as his fancy might dictate29. Before her twentieth birthday, the proudest woman is apt to regard the man she loves as a grand and superior creature; and there had been a certain amount of reverential awe30 mingled31 with Diana’s regard for Mr. Hawkehurst, scapegrace and adventurer though he was.
Little by little that bright girlish dream had faded away. Fancy’s enchanted32 palace had been shattered into a heap of shapeless ruin by those accidental scraps33 of hard worldly wisdom with which Valentine had pelted34 the fairy fabric35. He a man to love, or to marry for love! Why, he talked like some hardened world-weary sinner who had done with every human emotion. The girl shuddered36 as she heard him. She had loved him, and believed in his love. She had fancied a tender meaning in the voice which softened37 when it spoke38 to her, a pensive39 earnestness in the dark eyes which looked at her; but just when the voice had seemed softest and sweetest, the pensive eyes most eloquently40 earnest, the adventurer’s manner had changed all at once, and for ever. He had grown hard, and cold, and indifferent. He had scarcely tried to conceal41 the fact that the girl’s companionship bored and wearied him. He had yawned in her face, and had abandoned himself to moody42 abstraction when accident obliged him to be alone with her. Miss Paget’s pride had been equal to the occasion. Mary Anne Kepp would have dissolved into tears at the first unkind word from the lips of her beloved; but Mary Anne Kepp’s daughter, with the blood of the Cromie Pagets in her veins43, was quite a different person. She returned Mr. Hawkehurst’s indifference44 with corresponding disregard. If his manner was cold as a bleak45 autumn, hers was icy as a severe winter; only now and then, when she was very tired of her joyless existence, her untutored womanhood asserted itself, and she betrayed the real state of her feelings — betrayed herself as she had done on her last night at Forêtdechêne, when she and Valentine had looked down at the lighted windows shining dimly through the purple of the summer night. She looked back at the past now in the quiet of the school-garden, and tried to remember how miserable she had been, what agonies of despair she had suffered, how brief had been her delights, how bitter her disappointments. She tried to remember what tortures she had suffered from that wasted passion, that useless devotion. She tried to rejoice in the consciousness of the peace and respectability of her present life; but she could not. That passionate46 yearning47 for the past possessed48 her so strongly. She could remember nothing except that she had been with him. She had seen his face, she had heard his voice; and now how long and weary the time might be before she could again see that one beloved face or hear the dear familiar voice! The brightest hope she had in these midsummer holidays was the hope of a letter from him; and even that might be the prelude49 of disappointment. She wrestled50 with herself, and tried to exorcise those ghosts of memory which haunted her by day and wove themselves into her dreams by night; but they were not to be laid at rest. She hated her folly51; but her folly was stronger than herself.
For three weeks Diana Paget had no companions but her sorrowful memories — her haunting shadows; but at the end of that time the stagnant52 mill-pond of her life was suddenly ruffled53 — the dull course of existence was disturbed by the arrival of two letters. She found them lying by her plate upon the breakfast-table one bright July morning; and while she was yet far away from the table she could see that one of the envelopes bore a foreign stamp, and was directed by the hand of Valentine Hawkehurst. She seated herself at the table in a delicious flutter of emotion, and tore open that foreign envelope, while the French governess poured out the tea, and while the little group of schoolgirls nudged one another and watched her eager face with insolent54 curiosity.
The first letter contained only a few lines.
“MY DEAR DIANA,” wrote the young man, “your father has decided55 on returning to London, where I believe he really intends to make a respectable start, if he can only get the opening and the help he wants. I know you will be glad to hear this. I don’t exactly say where we shall take up our quarters; but the Captain will of course come to see you; and if I can chasten my outward semblance56 sufficiently57 to venture within the sacred precincts of a lady’s school, I shall come with him. Direct to the old address, if you write before the end of the month, and believe me, as always, your friend.” “VALENTINE.”
The second letter was in Charlotte Halliday’s big bold hand, and was frank, impetuous, and loving as the girl herself.
“MY OWN DEAREST DI — It is all arranged,” wrote Miss Halliday, dashing at once into the heart of the subject. “I talked mamma over the very first day after my return, and then there was nothing more to be done than to talk over Mr. Sheldon. Of course there was just a little difficulty in that, for he is so awfully58 practical; and he wanted to know why I wanted a companion, and what use you would be in the house; as if the very last thing one required in a companion was companionship. I’m almost afraid to tell you the iniquitous59 fables60 I invented about your extreme usefulness; your genius for millinery, and the mints of money you would save by making up mamma’s flimsy little caps; your taste for dress-making, &c. &c. &c. You are the cleverest creature in the world, you know, Di; for you must remember how you altered, that green silk dress for me when Miss Person had made me a square-shouldered fright. So, after a great deal of humming, and haing, and argufication —is there such a word as ‘argufication,’ I wonder? — my stepfather said that if my heart was set upon having you, and if I thought you would be useful, you might come to us; but that he could not afford to give you any salary, and that if you wanted a new dress now and then, I must buy it for you out of my own allowance; and I will, darling, if you will only come and be my friend and sister. My life is dreadfully dull without you. I walk up and down the stiff little gravel61 paths, and stare at the geraniums and calceolarias. Mariana might have been dreary in her moated grange; but I daresay the Lincolnshire flowers grew wild and free, and she was spared the abomination of gaudy62 little patches of red and yellow, and waving ribbons of blue and white, which constitute the glory of modern gardening. Do come to me, dear. I have no one to talk to, and nothing to do. Mamma is a dear good affectionate soul; but she and I don’t understand each other. I don’t care for her twittering little birds, and she doesn’t care for my whims63 and fancies. I have read novels until I am tired. I am not allowed to go out by myself, and mamma can scarcely walk to Kensington-gardens without sinking under the exertion64. We drive out sometimes; but I am sick to death of crawling slowly up and down by the Serpentine65 staring at people’s bonnets66. I might enjoy it, perhaps, if I had you with me to make fun out of some of the bonnets. The house is very comfortable; but it always seems to me unpleasantly like some philanthropic institution in miniature. I long to scratch the walls, or break the windows; and I begin to understand the feelings of those unhappy paupers67 who tear up their clothes: they get utterly13 tired of their stagnation68, you see, and must do something wicked and rebellious69 rather than do nothing at all. You will take pity upon my forlorn state, won’t you, Di? I shall come to Hyde Lodge to-morrow afternoon with mamma, to hear your ulti — what’s its name? — and in the meanwhile, and for ever afterwards, believe me to be your devoted70 and unchanging LOTTA.”
Diana Paget’s eyes grew dim as she read this letter.
“I love her very dearly,” she thought, “but not one hundred-fold as much as I ought to love her.”
And then she went back to Mr. Hawkehurst’s epistle, and read and re-read its half-dozen lines, wondering when he would come to London, and whether she would see him when he came. To see him again! The thought of that possibility seemed like a spot of vivid light, which dazzled her eyes and made them blind to anything around or beyond it. As for this offer of a strange home in the household of Mr. Sheldon, it seemed to her a matter of so very little importance where she went or what became of her, that she was quite willing to let other people decide her existence. Anything would be better than the monotony of Hyde Lodge. If Valentine Hawkehurst came to see her at Mr. Sheldon’s house, he would be permitted to see her alone, most likely, and it would be something like the old times; whereas at the Lodge Priscilla Paget or one of the governesses would undoubtedly71 be present at any interview between Diana and her old friend, and the real Valentine would be hidden under the semblance of a respectable young man, with very little to say for himself. Perhaps this one thought exercised considerable influence over Miss Paget’s decision. She wanted so much to see Valentine alone, to know whether he had changed, to see his face at the first moment of meeting, and to discover, if possible, the solution of that enigma72 which was the grand mystery of her life — that one perpetual question which was always repeating itself in her brain — whether he was altogether cold and indifferent, or if there was not some hidden warmth, some secret tenderness beneath that repelling73 outward seeming.
In the afternoon Miss Halliday called with Mrs. Sheldon, and there was a long discussion about Diana Paget’s future life. Georgy abandoned herself as unhesitatingly to the influence of her daughter as she did to that of her husband, and had been brought to think that it would be the most delightful74 thing in the world to have Miss Paget for a useful companion.
“And will you really make my caps, dear?” she said, when she had grown at her ease with Diana. “Miss Terly in the Bayswater-road charges me so much for the simplest little lace head-dress; and though Mr. Sheldon is very good about those sort of things, I know he sometimes thinks my bills rather high.”
Diana was very indifferent about her future, and the heart must have been very hard which could have resisted Charlotte’s tender pleading; so it was ultimately decided that Miss Paget should write to her kinswoman to describe the offer that had been made to her of a new home, and to inquire if her services could be conveniently dispensed75 with at Hyde Lodge. After which decision Charlotte embraced her friend with enthusiasm, and departed, bearing off Mrs. Sheldon to the carriage which awaited them at the gates of Priscilla Paget’s umbrageous76 domain77.
Diana sighed as she went back to the empty schoolroom. Even Charlotte’s affection could not altogether take the sting out of dependence78. To go into a strange house amongst strange people, and to hold a place in it only on the condition of being perpetually useful and unfailingly good-tempered and agreeable, is scarcely the pleasantest prospect79 which this world can offer to a proud and beautiful woman. Diana remembered her bright vision of Bohemianism in a lodging27 near the Strand80. It would be very delightful to ride on sufferance in Mrs. Sheldon’s carriage, no doubt; but O, how much pleasanter it would have been to sit by Valentine Hawkehurst in a hansom cab spinning along the road to Greenwich or Richmond!
She had promised to despatch81 her letter to Priscilla by that afternoon’s post, and she kept her promise. The reply came by return of post, and was very kind. Priscilla advised her by all means to accept Miss Halliday’s offer, which would give her a much better position than that which she occupied at Hyde Lodge. She would have time to improve herself, no doubt, Priscilla said, and might be able to hope for something still better in the course of two or three years; “for you must look the world straight in the face, Diana,” wrote the schoolmistress, “as I did before I was your age; and make up your mind to rely upon your own exertions82, since you know what your father is, and how little you have to hope for from him. As you are to have no salary with the Sheldons, and will no doubt be expected to make a good appearance, I shall do what I can to help you with your wardrobe.”
This letter decided the fate of Captain Paget’s daughter. A week after Miss Halliday’s visit to Hyde Lodge a hack83 cab carried Diana and all her earthly possessions to the Lawn, where Charlotte received her with open arms, and where she was inducted into a neatly84 furnished bedchamber adjoining that of her friend. Mr. Sheldon scrutinised her keenly from under the shadow of his thick black brows when he came home to dinner. He treated her with a stiff kind of politeness during the orderly progress of the meal; and once, when he looked at her, he was surprised to find that she was contemplating85 him with an expression of mingled wonder and reverence86.
He was the first eminently87 respectable man whom Miss Paget had ever encountered in familiar intercourse88, and she was regarding him attentively89, as an individual with scientific tastes might regard some natural curiosity.
收听单词发音 |
1
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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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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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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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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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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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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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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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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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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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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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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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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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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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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60
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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63
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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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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umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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