The happy summer glided1 by — the season of roses and butterflies, strawberries and cream, haymaking, lawn tennis, picnics, gipsy teas — an idle, joyous2 life under blue skies. The Knoll3 family gave themselves up heart and soul to summer pleasures — simple joys which were at once innocent and inexpensive — and Ida Palliser found herself a sharer in all these holiday rambles4. Conscience told her that she had no right to be there, that she was an impostor sailing under false colours. Conscience, speaking more loudly, told her that she had no right to accept Brian Wendover’s quiet homage5, no right to be so happy in his company day after day; for there were few of their summer joys in which he was not among them. Bessie was warm in her praises of him, full of wonder at his having developed into such a companionable being.
‘Norway has done him good,’ she said. ‘He used to be such a reserved creature, dawdling6 away day after day in his library, poring over Greek and Latin, and now he is almost as companionable as Brian Walford.’
‘He’ll have to live a good many years before he’s up to B. W.,’ said Horace, who had walked across the hills for an afternoon at home and the chance of a tip, ‘B. W. knows every music-hall in London, and can sing a topical song as well as men who get their sixty pounds a week.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t put on that knowing air. What do you know of men who get sixty pounds a week?’ exclaimed Bessie, contemptuously.
‘As much as you do, anyhow,’ answered her brother.
Ida made many faint efforts to keep aloof7 from the summer revelries, but Miss Wendover insisted upon her enjoying herself with the others. She had been such a conscientious8 and devoted9 coadjutor in all Aunt Betsy’s good works, she had been so thoroughly10 energetic and industrious11, never relaxing her efforts or growing weary of labour, that it seemed only right and fair that she should enjoy the summer holiday-time, the blessed season when every day was full of temptations.
‘Enjoy yourself to your heart’s content, my dear,’ said Aunt Betsy. ‘Our English summers are so short that if we do not make the most of the bright warm days while they are with us, we have to endure all the pangs12 of remorse13 through a rainy autumn and a cold winter.’
Not only did Miss Wendover give this generous advice, but she herself joined in many of their expeditions, and her presence was always a source of pleasure. She was so genial14, so hearty15, so thoroughly well-informed, and yet so modest in the use of her knowledge, that the young people loved to have her with them. Her enjoyment16 of the free, roving life was almost as keen as theirs, while her capacity for planning an agreeable day, and her foresight17 in the commissariat department, far exceeded that of youth. And so, and so, June and July drifted by, and it was the beginning of August, and Ida felt as if she had known Mr. Wendover of the Abbey all her life.
What did she know of him after two months of almost daily association? She knew that no unworthy thought ever found utterance18 upon his lips; that no vulgar instinct ever showed itself in his conduct; that he was essentially19 to the very core of his heart a gentleman; that without any high-flown affectation of chivalry20 he was as chivalrous21 as Bayard; that without any languid airs and graces of the modern aesthetic22 school he was a man of the highest and broadest culture; and that — oh, rara avis among modern scholars and young laymen23 — he was honestly and unaffectedly religious, a staunch Anglican of the school of Pusey, and not ashamed to confess his faith at all times and seasons. In this day, when the majority of young men affect to regard the services of their church as an intolerable bore, only endured as a concession24 to the weaklings of the inferior sex, it was pleasant to see the master of the Abbey a regular attendant at his parish church, an earnest and frequent worshipper at the altar at which his parents and progenitors25 had knelt before him.
This much and a great deal more had Ida Palliser discovered of the man whom nearly a year ago her fancy had exalted26 into an ideal character. It was strange to find her most romantic visions realised; strange, but a strangeness not without pain. He was full of kindness and friendliness27 for her whenever they met; but she told herself that his manner to her involved no more than kindly28 feeling and friendliness. To imagine anything beyond this was foolhardiness and vanity. And yet there were times when she felt she had no right to be in his society — that every day she spent at Kingthorpe was an offence against honour and right feeling.
One August afternoon Ida had, for once in a way, succeeded in making her domestic occupations an excuse for absenting herself from what Bessie called a ‘barrow-hunt’ on the downs. Brian Wendover being a great authority upon this ancient form of sepulture, and discoursing29 eloquently30 on those widely different races whose funeral chambers31 are hidden under the long and the round barrow.
The day, closely as Ida had been occupied, had seemed just a little dreary32, certainly much duller than such days had been wont33 to seem before Brian’s return to the Abbey: yet she was glad to be alone; it was a relief even to be a trifle melancholy34, rather than to enjoy that happiness which was always blended with a faint consciousness of wrong-doing. And now the slow day was nearly over: she had worked at the village girls’-school in the morning; she had lectured upon domestic economy to a class of incipient35 house-maids and scullery maids after luncheon36; and now at five o’clock she was sitting in a basket chair in the rose-wreathed verandah working at the swallows and bulrushes upon that elaborate design which she had begun before Christmas for the adornment37 of Miss Wendover’s piano.
It was a deliciously drowsy38 afternoon, but Ida’s active brain was not prone39 to slumber40. She sat working diligently41 and thinking deeply, when a shadow came between her and the sunshine and on looking up she saw Mr. Wendover standing42 before her.
‘How do you do? Have they all come home?’ she asked, laying aside her work on the convenient basket table and preparing to welcome Aunt Betsy.
‘I have not been with them — at least not since the morning, answered Brian. ‘I left Bessie to hunt out her own barrows; she is so lazy-minded that as long as I do all the pointing she will never know the true barrow from the natural lumpiness of the soil. Besides, she has Aunt Betsy, a tower of strength in all things.’
‘And Miss Rylance, I suppose?’
‘No, Miss Rylance thought there would be too much walking for her or for Pinet. I have been at the Abbey all day, getting up my arrears43 of correspondence. This fine weather has made me incorrigibly44 idle. After I had written about a score of letters I thought myself entitled to a little rest and refreshment45, so I strolled over here to tell you some news and to ask you for a cup of tea.’
‘You shall have some tea directly,’ said Ida, going indoors to ring the bell, an act in which she was naturally anticipated by her guest. ‘What news can you possibly have that concerns me?’ she asked, when they had come back to the verandah. ‘I know by your face that it is not bad news.’
‘God forbid I should ever have to tell you that. I think it would hurt me more than you,’ said Brian, with an earnestness which brought the crimson46 glow into Ida’s cheeks, and made her bend a little lower over the swallows in her crewel-work. ‘No, this is pleasant news I hope. I wrote to Vernon Palliser more than a month ago to propose that I should drive you and a lot of people over to luncheon. He was in Switzerland, as usual, and I had no answer to my letter till the second post to-day, when I received a most hearty invitation to bring my party immediately. But you shall hear your cousin’s own words.’
Mr. Wendover produced the letter and read as follows:—
‘I shall be delighted to make my cousin’s acquaintance. She was in England when I last saw her father at his retreat near Dieppe. Bring her as soon as you can, and with as large a party as you like — the larger the better, and the sooner the better — as Peter and I will most likely be on the wing again for Scotland soon after the twelfth. We shall come back for the partridges, which I hear are abundant. The road is rather intricate, so you had better bring your ordnance48 map, but pretty fair in dry weather like this; and you’ll come through some lovely scenery. Telegraph your time, and Peter and I will be in the way to welcome you!’
‘What do you say to our going to-morrow? I waited to know what you would like before I telegraphed.’
‘You are very good: but there are others to be consulted,’ replied Ida, with her head still bent49 over her work.
Good manners demanded that she should look at him, but at this particular moment she felt it quite impossible to be mannerly. He had said nothing of a thrilling nature, yet his whole tone and expression, his air of deferential50 regard, stirred a new feeling in her mind — the conviction that he cared for her more than it was well for either of them that he should care.
‘You are the first person to be consulted,’ he said; ‘would you like to go to-morrow?’
‘I will go whenever the others like,’ answered Ida, still intent upon the shading of her swallow’s wing; ‘but I really think you had better leave me out of your party — I have wasted so much time roaming about — and there are so many things I want to finish before the summer is over.’
‘That elaborate arrangement in swallows and rushes, for instance,’ said Brian, laughingly: ‘you are working at it as if for a wager51. Perhaps it is a wager — so many stitches in so many consecutive52 days — is that it? No, Miss Palliser, your swallows must wait. The party has been planned on your account, and to leave you at home would be like leaving Hamlet out of the play. Besides, I thought you would like to see your cousins and your ancestral halls.’
‘I shall be very glad to see my cousins, for my father likes them very much; but I do not feel any thrilling interest in the ancestral halls.’
‘And yet your father was born there.’
‘Yes, that is a reason for being interested in Wimperfield. But my father has so seldom talked about his birthplace. He speaks a great deal more of India. That life in a strange far-away land seems to have blotted53 out the memory of his childhood. He talks of Addiscomb sometimes but hardly ever of Wimperfield.’
She laid aside her work as the youthful butler brought out the tea-table. It was no new thing for her to pour out Mr. Wendover’s tea, since it was his custom to drop in at his aunt’s very often at this hour, when the day had not been given up to excursionising; but it was new for her to be alone with him at this social meal, and she found herself longing54 ardently55 for Aunt Betsy’s return.
She who could have found so much to talk about had her mind been at ease, was curiously56 silent as she handed Mr. Wendover his tea, and offered the cake and fruit, which always accompanied the meal at the Homestead. Her heart was beating much faster than it should have done, and she was considering whether it was worth while to place herself in the way of feeling the pain, the hidden shame, the sense of falsehood which oppressed her at this moment; whether it would not be better to run any risk, even the hazard of offending Betsy Wendover, the kindest friend she had in the world, rather than remain in her present position.
One thing she could have done which would have given her immediate47 extrication57, and that which seemed the most natural thing to do. She could have told the truth — told Betsy Wendover all about her unlucky marriage. But she would rather have killed herself than do this one righteous thing; for she thought that if her marriage were once known to Brian’s relations she would be compelled to assume her natural position as his wife. So long as the marriage remained a secret to all the world except those two whom it most concerned they were free to ignore the tie. They could live their lives apart; and to the end of time it might be as if such a marriage had never been. Her husband being consentient to this life-long separation, her lot might be fairly happy. She had never tried to penetrate58 the future. Perhaps to-day for the first time there had flashed into her mind the thought of what a bright and glorious future might have been hers had she not so forfeited59 her freedom.
Voices, at least half a dozen, all talking at once, told her that the barrow-hunt was winding60 homewards; gleams of colour athwart the hedges told her that the hunters were in the lane; and in a minute or two Miss Wendover and her young kins-folk appeared, all more or less sunburnt and towzled by their tramp across the downs.
‘Found a splendid long barrow,’ said Bessie, ‘on a lovely point, one of the finest views in the county. What clever corpses61 they must have been to pick such glorious spots! Long barrow, long-headed race, dolichocephalic skulls62, men of the stone age, eh?’ she said, looking at Brian. ‘You see I know my lesson; but it was very mean of you not to come with us, all the same.’
‘I wanted you to exercise your own acumen63, to cultivate the antiquarian flair64. Besides, I had a heap of letters to write.’
‘You only found that out after we had started. You never have letters to write when Ida is with us,’ said Bessie; a remark which made two people blush. ‘To think that I had known that spot all my life and never suspected a barrow,’ she continued. ‘I thought it was only a convenient bank which Providence65 had thrown up ready for picnics.’
Ida had enough to do now in providing for the wants of half a dozen hungry people. Blanche of the short petticoats was at an age when girls are ogres, distinguished66 for nothing but the rapidity of their digestion67 and the length of their legs. There was a demand for jam, and the unsophisticated half-gallon loaf instead of the conventional thin bread and butter.
‘Eat as much as you like, dears,’ said Aunt Betsy, ‘but remember that your father will expect you to have some appetite at seven.’
‘We won’t disappoint him,’ said Bessie; ‘seven is an hour and half from now. Blanche can do wonders in an hour and a half.’
Blanche’s appetite was one of the stock family jokes, like Urania’s tight boots; so there was a laugh, and the others went on eating.
Brian Wendover told them about to-morrow’s excursion. ‘I shall put four horses into the wagonette,’ he said. ‘I almost wish I had a drag to do honour to the occasion; but we must resign ourselves to a wagonette. You will go, of course, Aunt Betsy? and Bessie must come; and I suppose we ought to invite Miss Rylance. She has joined in most of our excursions, and it would be invidious to leave her out of this. And I dare-say Bessie would think the whole thing flat without Mr. Jardine?’
‘It’s very kind of you to think of him; but I don’t believe he’ll be able to spare the day,’ said Bessie.
‘We’ll ask him, at any rate, and then you can’t say we’ve used you badly. That makes a party of six. I’ll go and telegraph to Sir Vernon.’
‘Will there be lawn-tennis after lunch?’ asked Blanche, with a very long face.
‘I shouldn’t wonder if there were,’ answered Brian: ‘does that mean that you want to go?’
‘I shall not have a creature to speak to at home, and I never go anywhere,’ said Blanche, despairingly.
Both statements were obvious untruths, but no doubt the damsel herself believed them.
‘Have you a gown that covers your knees?’ asked Aunt Betsy, severely68.
‘My new frock is awfully69 long. It only came from the dress-maker’s last week.’
‘Then you have hardly had time to grow out of it,’ said Brian.
‘Suppose we strain a point, Aunt Betsy, and take her. It will enable us to say, “we are seven.”’
‘We shall be a tremendous party,’ said Miss Wendover. ‘I hope Sir Vernon is a hospitable70, easy-going man, and that your intimacy71 with him warrants such an intrusion.’
‘I am taking him a cousin,’ answered Brian, stealing an admiring glance at Ida; ‘surely that ought to secure our welcome.’
‘I hope his housekeeper72 has large ideas about luncheon,’ said Bessie, ‘or Blanche’s appetite will throw her out in her calculations. If she is the sort of person who thinks a pair of ducklings and a dish of rissoles substantial fare for a large party, I pity her.’
‘You’re vastly witty,’ said Blanche, preparing her final slice of bread and jam; ‘one would think you lived upon roses and lilies, like the ascetics73.’
‘The poor child means aesthetes,’ explained Bessie.
‘Bother the pronunciation! But if people had seen you eating rabbit-pie on the barrow — why a wolf wouldn’t have been in it,’ concluded Blanche, who acquired her flowers of speech from the Wintonians.
‘I’ll go and despatch74 my telegram,’ said Brian, taking up his hat.
收听单词发音 |
1
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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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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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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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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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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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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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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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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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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incorrigibly
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| adv.无法矫正地；屡教不改地；无可救药地；不能矫正地 | |
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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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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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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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ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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50
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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51
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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52
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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53
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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54
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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56
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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57
extrication
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| n.解脱；救出，解脱 | |
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58
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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59
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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62
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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flair
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| n.天赋，本领，才华；洞察力 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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66
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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67
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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68
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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69
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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70
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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71
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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72
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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73
ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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74
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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