Arthur’s sleep was oppressed that night by horrible nightmares of fighting dogs, whereof the largest and most ferocious1 was fitted with George’s red head, the effect of which, screwed, without any eye to the fitness of things, to the body of the deceased Snarleyow, struck him as peculiarly disagreeable. He himself was armed with a gun, and whilst he was still arguing with Sir John Bellamy the nice point whether, should he execute that particular animal, as he felt a carnal longing2 to do, it would be manslaughter or dogslaughter, he found himself wide awake.
It was very early in the morning of the 1st of May, and, contrary to the usual experience of the inhabitants of these islands, the sky gave promise of a particularly fine day, just the day for fishing. He did not feel sleepy, and, had he done so, he had had enough of his doggy dreams; so he got up, dressed, and taking his fishing-rod, let himself out of the house as he had been instructed to do on the previous evening, and, releasing Aleck from his outhouse, proceeded towards Bratham Lake.
And about this time Angela woke up too, for she always rose early, and ran to the window to see what sort of a day she had got for her birthday. Seeing it to be so fine, she threw open the old lattice, at which her pet raven3 Jack4 was already tapping to be admitted, and let the sweet air play upon her face and neck, and thought what a wonderful thing it was to be twenty years old. And then, kneeling by the window, she said her prayers after her own fashion, thanking God who had spared her to see this day, and praying Him to show her what to do with her life, and, if it was His will, to make it a little less lonely. Then she rose and dressed herself, feeling that now that she had done with her teens, she was in every respect a woman grown — indeed, quite old. And, in honour of the event, she chose out of her scanty5 store of dresses, all of them made by Pigott and herself, her very prettiest, the one she had had for Sunday wear last summer, a tight-fitting robe of white stuff, with soft little frills round the neck and wrists. Next she put on a pair of stout6 boots calculated to keep out the morning dew, and started off.
Now all this had taken a good time, nearly an hour perhaps; for, being her birthday, and there having been some mention of a young gentleman who might possibly come to fish, she had plaited up her shining hair with extra care, a very laborious8 business when your hair hangs down to your knees.
Meanwhile our other early riser, Arthur, had made his way first to the foot of the lake and then along the little path that skirted its area till he came to Caresfoot Staff. Having sufficiently9 admired that majestic10 oak, for he was a great lover of timber, he proceeded to investigate the surrounding water with the eye of a true fisherman. A few yards further up there jutted11 into the water that fragment of wall on which stood the post, now quite rotten, to which Angela had bound herself on the day of the great storm. At his feet, too, the foundations of another wall ran out for some distance into the lake, being, doubtless, the underpinning12 of an ancient boathouse, but this did not rise out of the water, but stopped within six inches of the surface. Between these two walls lay a very deep pool.
“Just the place for a heavy fish,” reflected Arthur, and, even as he thought it, he saw a five-pound carp rise nearly to the surface, in order to clear the obstruction13 of the wall, and sink silently into the depths.
Retiring carefully to one of two quaintly15 carven stone blocks placed at the foot of the oak-tree, on which, doubtless, many a monk16 had sat in meditation17, he set himself to get his fishing-gear together. Presently, however, struck by the beauty of the spot and its quiet, only broken by the songs of many nesting birds, he stopped a while to look around him. Above his head the branches of a great oak, now clothing themselves with the most vivid green, formed a dome-like roof, beneath the shade of which grew the softest moss18, starred here and there with primroses19 and violets. Outside the circle of its shadow the brushwood of mingled20 hazel and ash-stubs rose thick and high, ringing-in the little spot as with a wall, except where its depths were pierced by the passage of a long green lane of limes that, unlike the shrubberies, appeared to be kept in careful order, and of which the arching boughs22 formed a perfect leafy tunnel. Before him lay the lake where the long morning lights quivered and danced, as its calm was now and again ruffled23 by a gentle breeze. The whole scene had a lovely and peaceful look, and, gazing on it, Arthur fell into a reverie.
Sitting thus dreamily, his face looked at its best, its expression of gentle thoughtfulness giving it an attraction beyond what it was entitled to, judged purely24 from a sculptor’s point of view. It was an intellectual face, a face that gave signs of great mental possibilities, but for all that a little weak about the mouth. The brow indicated some degree of power, and the mouth and eyes no small capacities for affection and all sorts of human sympathy and kindness. These last, in varying lights, could change as often as the English climate; their groundwork, however, was blue, and they were honest and bonny. In short, a man in looking at Arthur Heigham at the age of twenty-four would have reflected that, even among English gentlemen, he was remarkable25 for his gentleman-like appearance, and a “fellow one would like to know;” a girl would have dubbed26 him “nice-looking;” and a middle-aged27 woman — and most women do not really understand the immense difference between men until they are getting on that way — would have recognized in him a young man by no means uninteresting, and one who might, according to the circumstances of his life, develop into anything or — nothing in particular.
Presently, drawn28 by some unguessed attraction, Arthur took his eyes off an industrious29 water-hen, who was building a nest in a hurried way, as though she were not quite sure of his intentions, and perceived a large raven standing30 on one leg on the grass, about three yards from him, and peering at him comically out of one eye. This was odd. But his glance did not stop at the raven, for a yard or two beyond it he caught sight of a white skirt, and his eyes, travelling upwards31, saw first a rounded waist, and then a bust32 and pair of shoulders such as few women can boast, and at last, another pair of eyes; and he then and there fell utterly33 and irretrievably in love.
“Good heavens!” he said, aloud — poor fellow, he did not mean to say it, it was wrung34 from the depths of his heart —“good heavens, how lovely she is!”
Let the reader imagine the dreadful confusion produced in that other pair of eyes at the open expression of such a sentiment, and the vivid blush that stained the fair face in which they were set, if he can. But somehow they did not grow angry — perhaps it was not in the nature of the most sternly repressive young lady to grow angry at a compliment which, however marked, was so evidently genuine and unpremeditated. In another moment Arthur bethought him of what he had said, and it was his turn to blush. He recovered himself pretty well, however. Rising from his stone seat, he took off his hat, and said, humbly35,
“I beg your pardon, but you startled me so, and really for a moment I thought that you were the spirit of the place, or,” he added, gracefully36, pointing to a branch of half-opened hawthorn37 bloom she held in her hand, “the original Queen of the May.”
Angela blushed again. The compliment was only implied this time; she had therefore no possible pretext38 for getting angry.
For a moment she dropped the sweet eyes that looked as though they were fresh from reading the truths of heaven before his gaze of unmistakable admiration39, and stood confused; and, as she stood, it struck Arthur that there was something more than mere40 beauty of form and feature about her — an indescribable something, a glory of innocence41, a reflection of God’s own light that tinged42 the worship her loveliness commanded with a touch of reverential awe43.
“The angels must look like that,” he thought. But he had no time to think any more, for next moment she had gathered up her courage in both her hands, and was speaking to him in a soft voice, of which the tones went ringing on through all the changes of his life.
“My father told me that he had asked you to come and fish, but I did not expect to meet you so early. I— I fear that I am disturbing you,” and she made as though she would be going.
Arthur felt that this was a contingency44 to be prevented at all hazards.
“You are Miss Caresfoot,” he said, hurriedly, “are you not?”
“Yes — I am Angela; I need not ask your name, my father told it me. You are Mr. Arthur Heigham.”
“Yes. And do you know that we are cousins?” This was a slight exaggeration, but he was glad to advance any plea to her confidence that occurred to him.
“Yes; my father said something about our being related. I have no relations except my cousin George, and I am very glad to make the acquaintance of one,” and she held out her hand to him in a winning way.
He took it almost reverently45.
“You cannot,” he said with much sincerity46, “be more glad than I am. I, too, am without relations. Till lately I had my mother, but she died last year.”
“Were you very fond of her?” she asked, softly.
He nodded in reply, and, feeling instinctively47 that she was on delicate ground, Angela pursued the conversation no further.
Meanwhile Aleck had awoke from a comfortable sleep in which he was indulging on the other stone seat, and, coming forward, sniffed48 at Angela and wagged his tail in approval — a liberty that was instantly resented by the big raven, who had now been joined by another not quite so large. Advancing boldly, it pecked him sharply on the tail — a proceeding49 that caused Master Aleck to jump round as quickly as his maimed condition would allow him, only to receive a still harder peck from its companion bird; indeed, it was not until Angela intervened with the bough21 of hawthorn that they would cease from their attack.
“They are such jealous creatures,” she explained; “they always follow me about, and fly at every dog that comes near me. Poor dog! that is the one, I suppose, who killed Snarleyow. My father told me all about it.”
“Yes, it is easy to see that,” said Arthur, laughing, and pointing to Aleck, who, indeed, was in lamentable50 case, having one eye entirely51 closed, a large strip of plaster on his head, and all the rest of his body more or less marked with bites. “It is an uncommonly52 awkward business for me, and your cousin will not forgive it in a hurry, I fancy; but it really was not poor Aleck’s fault — he is gentle as a lamb, if only he is let alone.”
“He has a very honest face, though his nose does look as though it were broken,” she said, and, stooping down, she patted the dog.
“But I must be going in to breakfast,” she went on, presently. “It is eight o’clock; the sun always strikes that bough at eight in spring,” and she pointed53 to a dead limb, half hidden by the budding foliage54 of the oak.
“You must observe closely to have noticed that, but I do not think that the sun is quite on it yet. I do not like to lose my new-found relations in such a hurry,” he added, with a somewhat forced smile, “and I am to go away from here this evening.”
The intelligence was evidently very little satisfactory to Angela, nor did she attempt to conceal55 her concern.
“I am very sorry to hear that,” she said. “I hoped you were going to stay for some time.”
“And so I might have, had it not been for that brute56 Aleck, but he has put a long sojourn57 with your cousin and the ghost of Snarleyow out of the question; so I suppose I must go by the 6.20 train. At any rate,” he added, more brightly, as a thought struck him, “I must go from Isleworth.”
She did not appear to see the drift of the last part of his remark, but answered,
“I am going with my father to call at Isleworth at three this afternoon, so perhaps we shall meet again there; but now, before I go in, I will show you a better place than this to fish, a little higher up, where Jakes, our gardener, always sets his night-lines.”
Arthur assented58, as he would have been glad to assent59 to anything likely to prolong the interview, and they walked off slowly together, talking as cheerfully as a sense that the conversation must soon come to an end would allow. The spot was reached all too soon, and Angela with evident reluctance60, for she was not accustomed to conceal her feelings, said that she must now go.
“Why must you go so soon?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, today is my birthday — I am twenty today — and I know that Pigott, my old nurse, means to give me a little present at breakfast, and she will be dreadfully disappointed if I am late. She has been thinking a great deal about it, you see.”
“May I wish you many, very many, happy returns of the day? and”— with a little hesitation61 —“may I also offer you a present, a very worthless one I fear?”
“How can I——” stammered62 Angela, when he cut her short.
“Don’t be afraid; it is nothing tangible63, though it is something that you may not think worth accepting.”
“What do you mean?” she said bluntly, for her interest was aroused.
“Don’t be angry. My present is only the offer of myself as your sincere friend.”
She blushed vividly64 as she answered,
“You are very kind. I have never had but one friend — Mr. Fraser; but, if you think you can like me enough, it will make me very happy to be your friend too.” And in another second she was gone, with her ravens65 flying after her, to receive her present and a jobation from Pigott for being late, and to eat her breakfast with such appetite as an entirely new set of sensations can give.
In the garden she met her father, walking up and down before the house, and informed him that she had been talking to Mr. Heigham. He looked up with a curious expression of interest.
“Why did you not ask him in to breakfast?” he said.
“Because there is nothing to eat except bread and milk.”
“Ah!— well, perhaps you were right. I will go down and speak to him. No; I forgot I shall see him this afternoon.”
And Arthur, let those who disbelieve in love at first sight laugh if they will, sat down to think, trembling in every limb, utterly shaken by the inrush of a new and strong emotion. He had not come to the age of twenty-four without some experience of the other sex, but never before had he known any such sensation as that which now overpowered him, never before had he fully14 realized what solitude66 meant as he did now that she had left him. In youth, when love does come, he comes as a strong man armed.
And so, steady and overwhelming all resistance, the full tide of a pure passion poured itself into his heart. There was no pretence67 or make-believe about it; the bold that sped from Angela’s grey eyes had gone straight home, and would remain an “ever-fixed68 mark,” so long as life itself should last.
For only once in a lifetime does a man succumb69 after this fashion. To many, indeed, no such fortune — call it good or ill — will ever come, since the majority of men flirt70 or marry, indulge in “platonic friendships,” or in a consistent course of admiration of their neighbours’ wives, as fate or fancy leads them, and wear their time away without ever having known the meaning of such love as this. There is no fixed rule about it; the most unlikely, even the more sordid71 and contemptible72 of mankind, are liable to become the subjects of an enduring passion; only then it raises them; for though strong affection, especially, if unrequited, sometimes wears and enervates73 the mind, its influence is, in the main, undoubtedly74 ennobling. But, though such affection is bounded by no rule, it is curious to observe how generally true are the old sayings which declare that a man’s thoughts return to his first real love, as naturally and unconsciously as the needle, that has for a while been drawn aside by some overmastering influence, returns to its magnetic pole. The needle has wavered, but it has never shaken off its allegiance; that would be against nature, and is therefore impossible; and so it is with the heart. It is the eves that he loved as a lad which he sees through the gathering75 darkness of his death-bed; it is a chance but that he will always adore the star which first came to share his loneliness in this shadowed world above all the shining multitudes in heaven.
And, though it is not every watcher who will find it, early or late, that star may rise for him, as it did for Arthur now. A man may meet a face which it is quite beyond his power to forget, and be touched of lips that print their kiss upon his very heart. Yes, the star may rise, to pursue its course, perhaps beyond the ken7 of his horizon, or only to set again before he has learnt to understand its beauty — rarely, very rarely, to shed its perfect light upon him for all his time of watching. The star may rise and set; the sweet lips whose touch still thrills him after so many years may lie today
“Beyond the graveyard’s barren wall,”
or, worse still, have since been sold to some richer owner. But if once it has risen, if once those lips have met, the memory must remain; the Soul knows no forgetfulness, and, the little thread of life spun76 out, will it not claim its own? For the compact that it has sealed is holy among holy things; that love which it has given is of its own nature, and not of the body alone — it is inscrutable as death, and everlasting77 as the heavens.
Yes, the fiat78 has gone forth79; for good or for evil, for comfort or for scorn, for the world and for eternity80, he loves her! Henceforth that love, so lightly and yet so irredeemably given, will become the guiding spirit of his inner life, rough-hewing his destinies, directing his ends, and shooting its memories and hopes through the whole fabric81 of his being like an interwoven thread of gold. He may sin against it, but he can never forget it; other interests and ties may overlay it, but they cannot extinguish it; he may drown its fragrance82 in voluptuous83 scents84, but, when these have satiated and become hateful, it will re-arise, pure and sweet as ever. Time or separation cannot destroy it — for it is immortal85; use cannot stale it, pain can only sanctify it. It will be to him as a beacon-light to the sea-worn mariner86 that tells of home and peace upon the shore, as a rainbow-promise set upon the sky. It alone of all things pertaining87 to him will defy the attacks of the consuming years, and when, old and withered88, he lays him down to die, it will at last present itself before his glazing89 eyes, an embodied90 joy, clad in shining robes, and breathing the airs of Paradise!
For such is love to those to whom it has been given to see him face to face.
收听单词发音 |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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underpinning
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| n.基础材料；基础结构；（学说、理论等的）基础；（人的）腿v.用砖石结构等从下面支撑（墙等）( underpin的现在分词 )；加固（墙等）的基础；为（论据、主张等）打下基础；加强 | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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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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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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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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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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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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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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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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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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52
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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55
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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56
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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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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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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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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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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enervates
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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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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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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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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glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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