Each dark-green leaf in the long shrubberies bears its own sparkling burden. The birds hide shivering in the lourestine—that in spite of frost and cold is breaking into blossom,—and all around looks frozen.
"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing;"
yet there is grandeur2, too, in the scene around, and a beauty scarcely to be rivalled by June's sweetest efforts.
Geoffrey, springing down from the dog-cart that has been sent to the station to meet him, brushes the frost from his hair, and stamps his feet upon the stone steps.
Sir Nicholas, who has come out to meet him, gives him a hearty3 hand-shake, and a smile that would have been charming if it had not been funereal4. Altogether, his expression in such as might suit the death-bed of a beloved friend, His countenance5 is of an unseemly length, and he plainly looks on Geoffrey as one who has fallen upon evil days.
Nothing daunted6, however, by this reception, Geoffrey returns his grasp with interest, and, looking fresh and young and happy, runs past him, up the stairs, to his mother's room, to beard—as he unfilially expresses it—the lioness in her den1. It is a very cosey den, and, though claws maybe discovered in it, nobody at the first glance would ever suspect it of such dangerous toys. Experience, however, teaches most things, and Geoffrey has donned armor for the coming encounter.
He had left Mona in the morning at the Grosvenor, and had run down to have it out with his mother and get her permission to bring Mona to the Towers to be introduced to her and his brothers. This he preferred to any formal calling on their parts.
"You see, our own house is rather out of repair from being untenanted for so long, and will hardly be ready for us for a month or two," he said to Mona: "I think I will run down to the Towers and tell my mother we will go to her for a little while."
Of course this was on the day after their return to England, before his own people knew of their arrival.
"I shall like that very much," Mona had returned, innocently, not dreaming of the ordeal7 that awaited her,—because in such cases even the very best men will be deceitful, and Geoffrey had rather led her to believe that his mother would be charmed with her, and that she was most pleased than otherwise at their marriage.
When she made him this little trustful speech, however, he had felt some embarrassment8, and had turned his attention upon a little muddy boy who was playing pitch-and-toss, irrespective of consequences, on the other side of the way.
And Mona had marked his embarrassment, and had quickly, with all the vivacity9 that belongs to her race, drawn10 her own conclusions therefrom, which were for the most part correct.
But to Geoffrey—lest the telling should cause him unhappiness—she had said nothing of her discovery; only when the morning came that saw him depart upon his mission (now so well understood by her), she had kissed him, and told him to "hurry, hurry, hurry back to her," with a little sob11 between each word. And when he was gone she had breathed an earnest prayer, poor child, that all might yet be well, and then told herself that, no matter what came, she would at least be a faithful, loving wife to him.
To her it is always as though he is devoid12 of name. It is always "he" and "his" and "him," all through, as though no other man existed upon earth.
"Well, mother?" says Geoffrey, when he has gained her room and received her kiss, which is not exactly all it ought to be after a five months' separation. He is her son, and of course she loves him, but—as she tells herself—there are some things hard to forgive.
"Of course it was a surprise to you," he says.
"It was more than a 'surprise.' That is a mild word," says Lady Rodney. She is looking at him, is telling herself what a goodly son he is, so tall and strong and bright and handsome. He might have married almost any one! And now—now——? No, she cannot forgive. "It was, and must always be, a lasting13 grief," she goes on, in a low tone.
This is a bad beginning. Mr. Rodney, before replying, judiciously14 gains time, and makes a diversion by poking15 the fire.
"I should have written to you about it sooner," he says at last, apologetically, hoping half his mother's resentment16 arises from a sense of his own negligence17, "but I felt you would object, and so put it off from day to day."
"I heard of it soon enough," returns his mother, gloomily, without lifting her eyes from the tiny feathered fire-screen she is holding. "Too soon! That sort of thing seldom tarries. 'For evil news rides post, while good news baits.'"
"Wait till you see her," says Geoffrey, after a little pause, with full faith in his own recipe.
"I don't want to see her," is the unflinching and most ungracious reply.
"My dear mother, don't say that," entreats18 the young man, earnestly, going over to her and placing his arm round her neck. He is her favorite son, of which he is quite aware, and so hopes on. "What is it you object to?"
"To everything! How could you think of bringing a daughter-in-law of—of—her description to your mother?"
"How can you describe her, when you have not seen her?"
"She is not a lady," says Lady Rodney, as though that should terminate the argument.
"It entirely19 depends on what you consider a lady," says Geoffrey, calmly, keeping his temper wonderfully, more indeed for Mona's sake than his own. "You think a few grandfathers and an old name make one: I dare say it does. It ought, you know; though I could tell you of several striking exceptions to that rule. But I also believe in a nobility that belongs alone to nature. And Mona is as surely a gentlewoman in thought and deed as though all the blood of all the Howards was in her veins20."
"I did not expect you would say anything else," returns she, coldly. "Is she quite without blood?"
"Her mother was of good family, I believe."
"You believe!" with ineffable21 disgust. "And have you not even taken the trouble to make sure? How late in life you have developed a trusting disposition22!"
"One might do worse than put faith in Mona," says, Geoffrey, quickly. "She is worthy23 of all trust. And she is quite charming,—quite. And the very prettiest girl I ever saw. You know you adore beauty, mother,"—insinuatingly,—"and she is sure to create a furor24 when presented."
"Presented!" repeats Lady Rodney, in a dreadful tone. "And would you present a low Irish girl to your sovereign? And just now, too, when the whole horrid25 nation is in such disrepute."
"You mustn't call her names, you know; she is my wife," says Rodney, gently, but with dignity,—"the woman I love and honor most on earth. When you see her you will understand how the word 'low' could never apply to her. She looks quite correct, and is perfectly26 lovely."
"You are in love," returns his mother, contemptuously. "At present you can see no fault in her; but later on when you come to compare her with the other women in your own set, when you see them together, I only hope you will see no difference between them, and feel no regret."
She says this, however, as though it is her one desire he may know regret, and feel a difference that be overwhelming.
"Thank you," says Geoffrey, a little dryly, accepting her words as they are said, not as he feels they are meant.
Then there is another pause, rather longer than the last, Lady Rodney trifles with the fan in a somewhat excited fashion, and Geoffrey gazes, man-like, at his boots. At last his mother breaks the silence.
"Well, she can laugh, if you mean that," says Geoffrey somewhat superciliously28. And then, as though overcome with some recollection in which the poor little criminal who is before the bar bore a humorous part, he lays his head down upon the mantelpiece and gives way to hearty laughter himself.
"I understand," says Lady Rodney, faintly, feeling her burden is "greater than she can bear." "She is, without telling, a young woman who laughs uproariously, at everything,—no matter what,—and takes good care her vulgarity shall be read by all who run."
Now, I can't explain why but I never knew a young man who was not annoyed when the girl he loved was spoken of as a "young woman." Geoffrey takes it as a deliberate insult.
"There is a limit to everything,—even my patience," he says, not looking at his mother. "Mona is myself, and even from you, my mother, whom I love and reverence29, I will not take a disparaging30 word of her."
There is a look upon his face that recalls to her his dead father, and Lady Rodney grows silent. The husband of her youth had been dear to her, in a way, until age had soured him, and this one of all his three children most closely resembled him, both in form and in feature; hence, perhaps, her love for him. She lowers her eyes, and a slow blush—for the blood rises with difficulty in the old—suffuses her face.
And then Geoffrey, marking all this, is vexed31 within himself, and, going over to her, lays his arm once more around her neck, and presses his cheek to hers.
"Don't let us quarrel," he says, lovingly. And this time she returns his caress32 very fondly, though she cannot lose sight of the fact that he has committed a social error not to be lightly overlooked.
"Oh, Geoffrey, how could you do it?" she says, reproachfully, alluding33 to his marriage,—"you whom I have so loved. What would your poor father have thought had he lived to see this unhappy day? You must have been mad."
"Well, perhaps I was," says Geoffrey, easily: "we are all mad on one subject or another, you know; mine may be Mona. She is an excuse for madness, certainly. At all events, I know I am happy, which quite carries out your theory, because, as Dryden says,—
'There is a pleasure sure
In being mad, which none but madmen know.'
I wish you would not take it so absurdly to heart. I haven't married an heiress, I know; but the whole world does not hinge on money."
"There was Violet," says Lady Rodney.
"I wouldn't have suited her at all," says Geoffrey. "I should have bored her to extinction34, even if she had condescended35 to look at me, which I am sure she never would."
He is not sure of anything of the kind, but he says it nevertheless, feeling he owes so much to Violet, as the conversation has drifted towards her, and he feels she is placed—though unknown to herself—in a false position.
"I wish you had never gone to Ireland!" says Lady Rodney, deeply depressed36. "My heart misgave37 me when you went, though I never anticipated such a climax38 to my fears. What possessed39 you to fall in love with her?"
"'She is pretty to walk with,
And pleasant, too, to think on.'"
quotes Geoffrey, lightly, "Are not these three reasons sufficient? If not, I could tell you a score of others. I may bring her down to see you?"
"It will be very bitter to me," says Lady Rodney.
"It will not: I promise you that; only do not be too prejudiced in her disfavor. I want you to know her,—it is my greatest desire,—or I should not say another word after your last speech, which is not what I hoped to hear from you. Leighton, as you know, is out of repair, but if you will not receive us we can spend the rest of the winter at Rome or anywhere else that may occur to us."
"Of course you must come here," says Lady Rodney, who is afraid of the county and what it will say if it discovers she is at loggerheads with her son and his bride. But there is no welcome in her tone. And Geoffrey, greatly discouraged, yet determined41 to part friends with her for Mona's sake,—and trusting to the latter's sweetness to make all things straight in the future,—after a few more desultory42 remarks takes his departure, with the understanding on both sides that he and his wife are to come to the Towers on the Friday following to take up their quarters there until Leighton Hall is ready to receive them.
With mingled43 feelings he quits his home, and all the way up to London in the afternoon train weighs with himself the momentous44 question whether he shall or shall not accept the unwilling45 invitation to the Towers, wrung46 from his mother.
To travel here and there, from city to city and village to village, with Mona, would be a far happier arrangement. But underlying47 all else is a longing48 that the wife whom he adores and the mother whom he loves should be good friends.
Finally, he throws up the mental argument, and decides on letting things take their course, telling himself it will be a simple matter to leave the Towers at any moment, should their visit there prove unsatisfactory. At the farthest, Leighton must be ready for them in a month or so.
Getting back to the Grosvenor, he runs lightly up the stairs to the sitting-room49, and, opening the door very gently,—bent in a boyish fashion on giving her a "rise,"—enters softly, and looks around for his darling.
At the farthest end of the room, near a window, lying back in an arm-chair, lies Mona, sound asleep.
One hand is beneath her cheek,—that is soft and moist as a child's might be in innocent slumber,—the other is thrown above her head. She is exquisite50 in her abandon, but very pale, and her breath comes unevenly51.
Geoffrey, stooping over to wake her with a kiss, marks all this, and also that her eyelids52 are tinged53 with pink, as though from excessive weeping.
Half alarmed, he lays his hand gently on her shoulder, and, as she struggles quickly into life again, he draws her into his arms.
"Ah, it is you!" cries she, her face growing glad again.
"Yes; but you have been crying, darling! What has happened?"
"Oh, nothing," says Mona, flushing. "I suppose I was lonely. Don't mind me. Tell me all about yourself and your visit."
"Not until you tell me what made you cry."
"Sure you know I'd tell you if there was anything to tell," replies she, evasively.
"Then do so," returns he, quite gravely, not to be deceived by her very open attempts at dissimulation54. "What made you unhappy in my absence?"
"If you must know, it is this," says Mona, laying her hand in his and speaking very earnestly. "I am afraid I have done you an injury in marrying you!"
"Now, that is the first unkind thing you have ever said to me," retorts he.
"I would rather die than be unkind to you," says Mona, running her fingers with a glad sense of appropriation55 through his hair. "But this is what I mean; your mother will never forgive your marriage; she will not love me, and I shall be the cause of creating dissension between her and you." Again tears fill her eyes.
"But there you are wrong. There need be no dissensions; my mother and I are very good friends, and she expects us both to go to the Towers on Friday next."
Then he tells her all the truth about his interview with his mother, only suppressing such words as would be detrimental56 to the cause he has in hand, and might give her pain.
"And when she sees you all will be well," he says, still clinging bravely to his faith in this panacea57 for all evils. "Everything rests with you.'
"I will do my best," says Mona, earnestly; "but if I fail,—if after all my efforts your mother still refuses to love me, how will it be then?"
"As it is now; it need make no difference to us; and indeed I will not make the trial at all if you shrink from it, or if it makes you in the faintest degree unhappy."
"I do not shrink from it," replies she, bravely: "I would brave anything to be friends with your mother."
"Very well, then: we will make the attempt," says he, gayly. "'Nothing venture, nothing have.'"
"And 'A dumb priest loses his benefice,'" quotes Mona, in her turn, almost gayly too.
"Yet remember, darling, whatever comes of it," says Rodney, earnestly, "that you are more to me than all the world,—my mother included. So do not let defeat—if we should be defeated—cast you down. Never forget how I love you." In his heart he dreads58 for her the trial that awaits her.
"I do not," she says, sweetly. "I could not: it is my dearest remembrance; and somehow it has made me strong to conquer, Geoffrey,"—flushing, and raising herself to her full height, as though already arming for action,—"I feel, I know, I shall in the end succeed with your mother."
She lifts her luminous59 eyes to his, and regards him fixedly60 as she speaks, full of hopeful excitement. Her eyes have always a peculiar61 fascination62 of their own, apart from the rest of her face. Once looking at her, as though for the first time impressed with this idea, Geoffrey had said to her, "I never look at your eyes that I don't feel a wild desire to close them with a kiss." To which she had made answer in her little, lovable way, and with a bewitching glance from the lovely orbs63 in question, "If that is how you mean to do it, you may close them just as often as ever you like."
Now he takes advantage of this general permission, and closes them with a soft caress.
"She must be harder-hearted than I think her, if she can resist you," he says, fondly.
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收听单词发音
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1
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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2
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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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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4
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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5
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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6
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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8
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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10
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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11
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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12
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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13
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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14
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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15
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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16
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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17
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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18
entreats
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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19
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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20
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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21
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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22
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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23
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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24
furor
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| n.狂热；大骚动 | |
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25
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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26
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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28
superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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29
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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30
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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31
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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32
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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33
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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34
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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35
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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36
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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37
misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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38
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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39
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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40
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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41
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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42
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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43
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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44
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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45
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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46
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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47
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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48
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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49
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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50
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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51
unevenly
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| adv.不均匀的 | |
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52
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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53
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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54
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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55
appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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56
detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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57
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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58
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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60
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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62
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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63
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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