Mr. Hawkehurst had no excuse for going to the Lawn before his departure; but the stately avenues between Bayswater and Kensington are free to any man; and, having nothing better to do, Valentine put a shabby little volume of Balzac in his pocket, and spent his last morning in town under the shadow of the mighty1 elms, reading one of the great Honoré‘s gloomiest romances, while the autumn leaves drifted round him, dancing fairy measures on the grass, and scraping and scuffling on the gravel2, and while children with hoops3 and children with balls scampered4 and screamed in the avenue by which he sat. He was not particularly absorbed by his book. He had taken it haphazard5 from the tattered6 collection of cheap editions which he carried about with him in his wanderings, ignominiously8 stuffed into the bottom of a portmanteau, amongst boots and clothes-brushes and disabled razors.
“I’m sick of them all,” he thought; “the De Beauseants, and Rastignacs, the German Jews, and the patrician9 beauties, and the Israelitish Circes of the Rue10 Taitbout, and the sickly self-sacrificing provincial11 angels, and the ghastly vieilles filles. Had that man ever seen such a woman as Charlotte, I wonder — a bright creature, all smiles and sunshine, and sweet impulsive12 tenderness; an angel who can be angelic without being poitri-naire, and whose amiability13 never degenerates14 into scrofula? There is an odour of the dissecting-room pervading15 all my friend Balzac’s novels, and I don’t think he was capable of painting a fresh, healthy nature. What a mass of disease he would have made Lucy Ashton, and with what dismal16 relish17 he would have dilated18 upon the physical sufferings of Amy Robsart in the confinement19 of Cumnor Hall! No, my friend Honoré, you are the greatest and grandest of painters of the terrible school; but the time comes when a man sighs for something brighter and better than your highest type of womanhood.”
Mr. Hawkehurst put his book in his pocket, and abandoned himself to meditation20, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands, unconscious of the trundling hoops and screaming children.
“She is better and fairer than the fairest heroine of a novel,” he thought. “She is like Heloise. Yes, the quaint21 old French fits her to a nicety:
‘Elle ne fu oscure ne brune,
Ains fu clere comme la lune,
Envers qui les autres estoiles
Ressemblent petites chandoiles.’
Mrs. Browning must have known such a woman:
‘Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;
You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face;’
and yet
‘She was not as pretty as women I know.’
Was she not?” mused22 the lover. “Is she not? Yes,” he cried suddenly, as he saw a scarlet23 petticoat gleaming in the distance, and a bright young face under a little black turban hat — prettiest and most bewitching of all feminine headgear, let fashion change as it may. “Yes,” he cried, “she is the loveliest creature in the world, and I love her to distraction24.” He rose, and went to meet the loveliest creature in the world, whose earthly name was Charlotte Halliday. She was walking with Diana Paget, who, to more sober judges, might have seemed the handsomer woman of the two. Alas25 for Diana! the day had been when Valentine Hawkehurst considered her very handsome, and had need to fight a hard battle with himself in order not to fall in love with her. He had been conqueror26 in that struggle of prudence27 and honour against nascent28 love, only to be vanquished29 utterly30 by Charlotte’s brighter charms and Charlotte’s sunnier nature.
The two girls shook hands with Mr. Hawkehurst. An indifferent observer might have perceived that the colour faded from the face of one, while a blush mounted to the cheeks of the other. But Valentine did not see the sudden pallor of Diana’s face — he had eyes only for Charlotte’s blushes. Nor did Charlotte herself perceive the sudden change in her dearest friend’s countenance31. And that perhaps is the bitterest sting of all. It is not enough that some must weep while others play; the mourners must weep unnoticed, unconsoled; happiness is so apt to be selfish.
Of course the conversation was the general sort of thing under the given circumstances — just a little more inane32 and disjointed than the ordinary small talk of people who meet each other in their walks abroad.
“How do you do, Mr. Hawkehurst? — Very well, thank you. — Mamma is very well; at least no, not quite well; she has one of her headaches this morning. She is rather subject to headache, you know; and the canaries sing so loud. Don’t the canaries sing abominably33 loud, Diana? — loudly they would have made me say at Hyde Lodge34; but it is only awfully35 clever people who know when to use adverbs.”
And Miss Halliday having said all this in a hurried and indeed almost breathless manner, stopped suddenly, blushing more deeply than at first, and painfully aware of her blushes. She looked imploringly36 at Diana; but Diana would not come to the rescue; and this morning Mr. Hawkehurst seemed as a man struck with sudden dumbness.
There followed presently a little discussion of the weather. Miss Halliday was possessed37 by the conviction that there would be rain — possibly not immediate38 rain, but before the afternoon inevitable39 rain. Valentine thought not; was, indeed, positively40 certain there would be no rain; had a vague idea that the wind was in the north; and quoted a dreary41 Joe–Millerism to prove the impossibility of rain while the wind came from that quarter. Miss Halliday and Mr. Hawkehurst held very firmly to their several opinions, and the argument was almost a quarrel — one of those little playful quarrels which form some of the most delicious phases of a flirtation42. “I would not mind wagering43 a fortune — if I had one — on the certainty of rain,” cried Charlotte with kindling44 eyes.
“And I would not shrink from staking my existence on the conviction that there will be no rain,” exclaimed Valentine, looking with undisguised tenderness at the glowing animated45 face.
Diana Paget took no part in that foolish talk about the possibilities of the weather. She walked silently by the side of her friend Charlotte, as far away from her old comrade, it seemed to her, as if the Atlantic’s wild waste of waters had stretched between them. The barrier that divided them was only Charlotte; but then Miss Paget knew too well that Charlotte in this case meant all the world.
The ice had been broken by that discussion as to rain or no rain, and Miss Halliday and Mr. Hawkehurst talked pleasantly for some time, while Diana still walked silently by her friend’s side, only speaking when compelled to do so. The strangeness of her manner would have been observed by any one not utterly absorbed by that sublime46 egotism called love; but Valentine and Charlotte were so absorbed, and had no idea that Miss Paget was anything but the most delightful47 and amusing of companions.
They had taken more than one turn in the broad avenue, when Charlotte asked Mr. Hawkehurst some question about a piece which was speedily to be played at one of the theatres.
“I do so much want to see this new French actress,” she said. “Do you think there is any possibility of obtaining orders, Mr. Hawkehurst? You know what a dislike Mr. Sheldon has to paying for admission to a theatre, and my pocket-money was exhausted48 three weeks ago, or I wouldn’t think of giving you any trouble about it.”
Philosophers have observed that in the life of the plainest woman there is one inspired moment in which she becomes beautiful. Perhaps it is when she is asking a favour of some masculine victim — for women have a knack49 of looking their prettiest on such occasions. Charlotte Halliday’s pleading glance and insinuating50 tone were irresistible51. Valentine would have given a lien52 on every shilling of his three thousand pounds rather than disappoint her, if gold could purchase the thing she craved53. It happened fortunately that his occasional connection with the newspapers made it tolerably easy for him to obtain free admissions to theatres.
“Do not speak of the trouble; there will be no trouble. The orders shall be sent you, Miss Halliday.”
“O, thanks — a thousand thanks! Would it be possible to get a box, and for us all to go together?” asked the fair encroacher; “mamma is so fond of the theatre. She used to go often with poor papa, at York and in London. And you are such an excellent critic, Mr. Hawkehurst, and it would be so nice to have you with us — wouldn’t it, Di? You know what a good critic Mr. Hawkehurst is?”
“Yes,” answered Diana; “we used to go to theatres together very often.”
This was a cry of anguish54 wrung55 from a bleeding heart; but to the two absorbed egotists it seemed the simplest of casual observations.
“Do you think you could manage to get a box, Mr. Hawkehurst?” asked the irresistible enslaver, putting her head on one side, in a manner which, for the protection of weak mankind, should be made penal56.
“I will try my uttermost,” answered Valentine.
“O, then I’m sure you will succeed. And we shall be amused by your deliciously bitter criticisms between the acts. One would think you had studied under Douglas Jerrold.”
“You do me too much honour. But before the new piece is produced I shall have left London, and shall not have the pleasure of accompanying you to the theatre.”
“You are going to leave London?”
“Yes, to-morrow.”
“So soon!” cried Charlotte, with undisguised regret; “and for a long time, I suppose?” she added, very mournfully.
Miss Paget gave a little start, and a feverish57 flush lit up her face for one brief moment.
“I am glad he is going,” she thought; “I am very glad he is going.”
“Yes,” said Valentine, in reply to Charlotte’s inquiry58, “I am likely to be away for a considerable time; indeed my plans are at present so vague, that I cannot tell when I may come back to town.”
He could not resist the temptation to speak of his absence as if it were likely to be the affair of a lifetime. He could not refrain from the delight of sounding the pure depths of that innocent young heart. But when the tender gray eyes looked at him, so sweet in their sudden sadness, his heart melted, and he could trifle with her unconscious love no longer.
“I am going away on a matter of business,” he said, “which may or may not occupy some time; but I don’t suppose I shall be many weeks away from London.”
Charlotte gave a little sigh of relief.
“And are you going very far?” she asked.
“Some distance; yes — a — hundred and fifty miles or so,” Valentine answered very lamely59. It had been an easy thing to invent an ancient aunt Sarah for the mystification of the astute60 Horatio; but Valentine Hawkehurst could not bring himself to tell Charlotte Halliday a deliberate falsehood. The girl looked at him wonderingly, as he gave that hesitating answer to her question. She was at a loss to understand why he did not tell her the place to which he was going, and the nature of the business that took him away.
She was very sorry that he was going to disappear out of her life for a time so uncertain, that while on the one hand it might be only a few weeks, it might on the other hand be for ever. The life of a young English damsel, in a prim61 villa62 at Bayswater, with a very commonplace mother and a practical stockbroking63 stepfather, is rather a narrow kind of existence; and to such a damsel the stranger whose hand lifts the curtain that shrouds64 new and brighter worlds is apt to become a very important personage, especially when the stranger happens to be young and handsome, and invested with that dash of Bohemianism which to artless and sentimental65 girlhood has such a flavour of romance.
Charlotte was very silent as she retraced66 her steps along the broad gravel walk. As they drew near the Bayswater-gate she looked at her watch. It was nearly one o’clock, and she had promised Mrs. Sheldon to be home at one for luncheon67, and afterwards shopping.
“I’m afraid we must hurry home, Di,” she said.
“I am quite ready to go,” answered Miss Paget promptly68. “Good-bye, Valentine.”
“Good-bye, Diana; good-bye, Miss Halliday.”
Mr. Hawkehurst shook hands with both young ladies; but shaking hands with Charlotte was a very slow process compared to the same performance with Diana.
“Good-bye,” he repeated, in a lingering tone; and then, after standing69 for some moments silent and irresolute70, with his hat in his hand, he put it on suddenly and hurried away.
The two girls had walked a few steps towards the gate when Charlotte stopped before a stony-looking alcove71, which happened at this nursery-dinner-hour to be empty.
“I’m so tired, Di,” she said, and went into the alcove, where she sat down to rest. She had a little veil attached to her turban hat — a little veil which she now drew over her face. The tears gathered slowly in her eyes and fell through that flimsy morsel72 of lace with which she would fain have hidden her childish sorrow. The tears gathered and fell on her lap as she sat in silence, pretending not to cry. This much rain at least was there to justify73 her prediction, uttered in such foolish gaiety of heart half an hour before.
Miss Halliday’s eyes were undimmed by tears? when she went back to the gothic villa; but she had a feeling that some great sorrow had come upon her — a vague idea that the last lingering warmth and brightness of summer had faded all in a moment, and that chill gray winter had closed in upon Bayswater without any autumnal interval74. What was it that she had lost? Only the occasional society of a young man with a handsome pale face, a little haggard and wan7 from the effect of dissipated habits and a previous acquaintance with care and difficulty — only the society of a penniless Bohemian who had a certain disreputable cleverness and a dash of gloomy sentimentality, which the schoolgirl mistook for genius. But then he was the first man whose eyes had ever softened75 with a mysterious tenderness as they looked at her — the first whose voice had grown faintly tremulous when it syllabled76 her name.
There was some allusion77 to Mr. Hawkehurst’s departure in the course of dinner, and Philip Sheldon expressed some surprise.
“Going to leave town?” he said.
“Yes, papa,” Charlotte answered; “he is going a long way into the country — a hundred and fifty miles, he said.”
“Did he tell you where he was going?”
“No; he seemed unwilling78 to mention the place. He only said something about a hundred and fifty miles.”
收听单词发音 |
1
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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11
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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12
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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13
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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14
degenerates
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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15
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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16
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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17
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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18
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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20
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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21
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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23
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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24
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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26
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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27
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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28
nascent
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| adj.初生的，发生中的 | |
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29
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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30
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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31
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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33
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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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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35
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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36
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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37
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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40
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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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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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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wagering
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| v.在（某物）上赌钱，打赌( wager的现在分词 )；保证，担保 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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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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lien
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| n.扣押权，留置权 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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56
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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stockbroking
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| n.炒股 | |
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64
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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68
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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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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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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71
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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72
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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74
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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75
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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76
syllabled
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| 有…音节的 | |
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77
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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78
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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