“Well,” said Frere, as they went in, “you’ll be out of it soon. You can get all ready to start by the end of the month, and I’ll bring on Mrs. Vickers afterwards.”
“What is that you say about me?” asked the sprightly1 Mrs. Vickers from within. “You wicked men, leaving me alone all this time!”
“Mr. Frere has kindly2 offered to bring you and Sylvia after us in the Osprey. I shall, of course, have to take the Ladybird.”
“You are most kind, Mr. Frere, really you are,” says Mrs. Vickers, a recollection of her flirtation3 with a certain young lieutenant4, six years before, tinging5 her cheeks. “It is really most considerate of you. Won’t it be nice, Sylvia, to go with Mr. Frere and mamma to Hobart Town?”
“Mr. Frere,” says Sylvia, coming from out a corner of the room, “I am very sorry for what I said just now. Will you forgive me?”
She asked the question in such a prim6, old-fashioned way, standing7 in front of him, with her golden locks streaming over her shoulders, and her hands clasped on her black silk apron8 (Julia Vickers had her own notions about dressing9 her daughter), that Frere was again inclined to laugh.
“Of course I’ll forgive you, my dear,” he said. “You didn’t mean it, I know.”
“Oh, but I did mean it, and that’s why I’m sorry. I am a very naughty girl sometimes, though you wouldn’t think so” (this with a charming consciousness of her own beauty), “especially with Roman history. I don’t think the Romans were half as brave as the Carthaginians; do you, Mr. Frere?”
Maurice, somewhat staggered by this question, could only ask, “Why not?”
“Well, I don’t like them half so well myself,” says Sylvia, with feminine disdain10 of reasons. “They always had so many soldiers, though the others were so cruel when they conquered.”
“Were they?” says Frere.
“Were they! Goodness gracious, yes! Didn’t they cut poor Regulus’s eyelids11 off, and roll him down hill in a barrel full of nails? What do you call that, I should like to know?” and Mr. Frere, shaking his red head with vast assumption of classical learning, could not but concede that that was not kind on the part of the Carthaginians.
“You are a great scholar, Miss Sylvia,” he remarked, with a consciousness that this self-possessed girl was rapidly taking him out of his depth.
“Are you fond of reading?”
“Very.”
“And what books do you read?”
“Oh, lots! ‘Paul and Virginia”, and ‘Paradise Lost’, and ‘Shakespeare’s Plays’, and ‘Robinson Crusoe’, and ‘Blair’s Sermons’, and ‘The Tasmanian Almanack’, and ‘The Book of Beauty’, and ‘Tom Jones’.”
“A somewhat miscellaneous collection, I fear,” said Mrs. Vickers, with a sickly smile — she, like Gallio, cared for none of these things — “but our little library is necessarily limited, and I am not a great reader. John, my dear, Mr. Frere would like another glass of brandy-and-water. Oh, don’t apologize; I am a soldier’s wife, you know. Sylvia, my love, say good-night to Mr. Frere, and retire.”
“Good-night, Miss Sylvia. Will you give me a kiss?”
“No!”
“Sylvia, don’t be rude!”
“I’m not rude,” cries Sylvia, indignant at the way in which her literary confidence had been received. “He’s rude! I won’t kiss you. Kiss you indeed! My goodness gracious!”
“Won’t you, you little beauty?” cried Frere, suddenly leaning forward, and putting his arm round the child. “Then I must kiss you!”
To his astonishment12, Sylvia, finding herself thus seized and kissed despite herself, flushed scarlet13, and, lifting up her tiny fist, struck him on the cheek with all her force.
The blow was so sudden, and the momentary14 pain so sharp, that Maurice nearly slipped into his native coarseness, and rapped out an oath.
“My dear Sylvia!” cried Vickers, in tones of grave reproof15.
But Frere laughed, caught both the child’s hands in one of his own, and kissed her again and again, despite her struggles. “There!” he said, with a sort of triumph in his tone. “You got nothing by that, you see.”
Vickers rose, with annoyance16 visible on his face, to draw the child away; and as he did so, she, gasping17 for breath, and sobbing18 with rage, wrenched19 her wrist free, and in a storm of childish passion struck her tormentor20 again and again. “Man!” she cried, with flaming eyes, “Let me go! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
“I am very sorry for this, Frere,” said Vickers, when the door was closed again. “I hope she did not hurt you.”
“Not she! I like her spirit. Ha, ha! That’s the way with women all the world over. Nothing like showing them that they’ve got a master.”
Vickers hastened to turn the conversation, and, amid recollections of old days, and speculations21 as to future prospects22, the little incident was forgotten. But when, an hour later, Mr. Frere traversed the passage that led to his bedroom, he found himself confronted by a little figure wrapped in a shawl. It was his childish enemy
“I’ve waited for you, Mr. Frere,” said she, “to beg pardon. I ought not to have struck you; I am a wicked girl. Don’t say no, because I am; and if I don’t grow better I shall never go to Heaven.”
Thus addressing him, the child produced a piece of paper, folded like a letter, from beneath the shawl, and handed it to him.
“What’s this?” he asked. “Go back to bed, my dear; you’ll catch cold.”
“It’s a written apology; and I sha’n’t catch cold, because I’ve got my stockings on. If you don’t accept it,” she added, with an arching of the brows, “it is not my fault. I have struck you, but I apologize. Being a woman, I can’t offer you satisfaction in the usual way.”
Mr. Frere stifled23 the impulse to laugh, and made his courteous24 adversary25 a low bow.
“I accept your apology, Miss Sylvia,” said he.
“Then,” returned Miss Sylvia, in a lofty manner, “there is nothing more to be said, and I have the honour to bid you good-night, sir.”
The little maiden26 drew her shawl close around her with immense dignity, and marched down the passage as calmly as though she had been Amadis of Gaul himself.
Frere, gaining his room choking with laughter, opened the folded paper by the light of the tallow candle, and read, in a quaint27, childish hand —
SIR,— I have struck you. I apologize in writing. Your humble28 servant to command, SYLVIA VICKERS.
“I wonder what book she took that out of?” he said. “’Pon my word she must be a little cracked. ’Gad, it’s a queer life for a child in this place, and no mistake.”
收听单词发音 |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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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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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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tinging
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的现在分词 ) | |
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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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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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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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21
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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