章节正文
shilling. On that modestinvestment, I considered one pound three
shillings a very fair sum to be earned by an inexperienced 'licensed
victualler' like myself, particularly as I am English only by
adoption, and not by birth.
Chapter XXV. Et ego in Arcadia vixit.
I essayed another nap after this exciting episode. I heard the gate
open once or twice, but a single stray customer, after my hungry and
generous horde, did not stir my curiosity, and I sank into a
refreshing slumber, dreaming that Willie Beresford and I kept an
English inn, and that I was the barmaid. This blissful vision had
been of all too short duration when I was awakened by Mrs. Bobby's
apologetic voice.
"It is too bad to disturb you, miss, but I've got to go and patch up
the fence, and smooth over the matter of the turnips with Mrs.
Gooch, who is that snorty I don't know 'ow ever I can pacify her.
There is nothing for you to do, miss, only if you'll kindly keep an
eye on the customer at the yew-tree table. He's been here for 'alf
an hour, miss, and I think more than likely he's a foreigner, by his
actions, or may be he's not quite right in his 'ead, though
'armless. He has taken four cups of tea, miss, and Billy saw him
turn two of them into the 'olly'ocks. He has been feeding bread-
and-butter to the dog, and now the baby is on his knee, playing with
his fine gold watch. He gave me a 'alf-a-crown and refused to take
a penny change; but why does he stop so long, miss? I can't help
worriting over the silver cream-jug that was my mother's."
Mrs. Bobby disappeared. I rose lazily, and approached the window to
keep my promised eye on the mysteriouscustomer. I lifted back the
purple clematis to get a better view.
It was Willie Beresford! He looked up at my ejaculation of
surprise, and, dropping the baby as if it had been a parcel, strode
under the window.
I(gasping). "How did you come here?"
He. "By the usual methods, dear."
I. "You shouldn't have come without asking. Where are all your
fine promises? What shall I do with you? Do you know there isn't
an hotel within four miles?"
He. "That is nothing; it was four hundred miles that I couldn't
endure. But give me a less grudging welcome than this, though I am
like a starving dog that will snatch any morsel thrown to him! It
is really autumn, Penelope, or it will be in a few days. Say you
are a little glad to see me."
(The sight of him so near, after my weeks of loneliness, gave me a
feeling so sudden, so sweet, and so vivid that it seemed to smite me
first on the eyes, and then in the heart; and at the first note of
his convincing voice Doubt picked up her trailing skirts and fled
for ever.)
I. "Yes, if you must know it, I am glad to see you; so glad,
indeed, that nothing in the world seems to matter so long as you are
here."
He (striding a little nearer, and looking about involuntarily for a
ladder). "Penelope, do you know the penalty of saying such sweet
things to me?"
I. "Perhaps it is because I know the penalty that I'm committing
the offence. Besides, I feel safe in saying anything in this
second-story window."
He. "Don't pride yourself on your safety unless you wish to see me
transformed into a nineteenth-century Romeo, to the detriment of
Mrs. Bobby's creepers. I can look at you for ever, dear, in your
pink gown and your purple frame, unless I can do better. Won't you
come down?"
I. "I like it very much up here."
He. "You would like it very much down here, after a little. So you
didn't 'paint me out,' after all?"
I. "No; on the contrary, I painted you in, to every twig and
flower, every hill and meadow, every sunrise and every sunset."
He. "You MUST come down! The distance between Belvern and Aix when
I was not sure that you loved me was nothing compared to having you
in a second story when I know that you do. Come down, Pen! Pretty
Pen!"
I. "Suppose we compromise. My sitting-room is just below; will you
walk in and look at my sketches until I come? You needn't ring; the
bell is overgrown with honeysuckle and there is no one to answer it;
it might almost be an American hotel, but it is Arcadia!"
He. "It is Paradise; and alas! here comes the serpent!"
I. "It isn't a serpent; it is the kindest landlady in England.--
Mrs. Bobby, this gentleman is a dear friend of mine from America.
Mr. Beresford, this is Mrs. Bobby, the most comfortable hostess in
the world, and the owner of the cottage, the canaries, the tea-
tables, and the baby.--The reason Mr. Beresford was so thirsty, Mrs.
Bobby, was that he has walked here from Great Belvern, so we must
give him some supper before he returns."
Mrs. B. "Certainly, miss, he shall have the best in the 'ouse, you
can depend upon that."
He. "Don't let me interfere with your usual arrangements. I am not
hungry--for food; I shall do very well until I get back to the
hotel."
I. "Indeed you will not, sir! Billy shall pull some tomatoes and
lettuce, Tommy shall milk the cow, and Mrs. Bobby shall make you a
savory omelet that Delmonico might envy. Hark! Is that our fowl
cackling? It is,--at half-past six! She heard me mention omelet
and she must be calling, 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'"
. . . .
But all that is many days ago, and there are no more experiences to
relate at present. We are making history very fast, Willie
Beresford and I, but much of it is sacred history, and so I cannot
chronicle it for any one's amusement.
Mrs. Beresford is here, or at least she is in Great Belvern, a few
miles distant. I am not painting, these latter days. I have turned
the artist side of my nature to the wall just for a bit, and the
woman side is having full play. I do not know what the world will
think about it, if it stops to think at all, but I feel as if I were
'right side out' for the first time in my life; and when I take up
my brushes again, I shall have a new world within from which to
paint,--yes, and a new world without.
Good-bye, dear Belvern! Autumn and winter may come into my life,
but whenever I think of you it will be summer-time in my heart. I
shall hear the tinkle of the belled sheep on the hillsides; inhale
the fragrance of the flowering vine that climbed in at my cottage
window; relive in memory the days when Love and I first walked
together, hand in hand. Dear days of happy idleness; of dreaming
dreams and seeingvisions; of morning walks over the hills; of
'bread-and-cheese and kisses' at noon, with kind Mrs. Bobby hovering
like a plump guardian angel over the simple feast; afternoon tea
under the friendly shades of the yew-tree, and parting at the
wicket-gate. I can see him pass the clock-tower, the little
greengrocer shop, the old stocks, the green pump; then he is at the
turn of the road where the stone wall and the hawthorn hedge will
presently hide him from my view. I fly up to my window, push back
the vines, catch his last wave of the hand. I would call him back,
if I dared; but it would be no easier to let him go the second time,
and there is always to-morrow. Thank God for to-morrow! And if
there should be no to-morrow? Then thank God for to-day! And so
good-bye again, dear Belvern! It was in the lap of your lovely
hills that Penelope first knew das irdische Gluck; that she first
loved, first lived; forgot how to be artist, in remembering how to
be woman.
End
shillings a very fair sum to be earned by an inexperienced 'licensed
victualler' like myself, particularly as I am English only by
adoption, and not by birth.
Chapter XXV. Et ego in Arcadia vixit.
I essayed another nap after this exciting episode. I heard the gate
open once or twice, but a single stray customer, after my hungry and
generous horde, did not stir my curiosity, and I sank into a
refreshing slumber, dreaming that Willie Beresford and I kept an
English inn, and that I was the barmaid. This blissful vision had
been of all too short duration when I was awakened by Mrs. Bobby's
apologetic voice.
"It is too bad to disturb you, miss, but I've got to go and patch up
the fence, and smooth over the matter of the turnips with Mrs.
Gooch, who is that snorty I don't know 'ow ever I can pacify her.
There is nothing for you to do, miss, only if you'll kindly keep an
eye on the customer at the yew-tree table. He's been here for 'alf
an hour, miss, and I think more than likely he's a foreigner, by his
actions, or may be he's not quite right in his 'ead, though
'armless. He has taken four cups of tea, miss, and Billy saw him
turn two of them into the 'olly'ocks. He has been feeding bread-
and-butter to the dog, and now the baby is on his knee, playing with
his fine gold watch. He gave me a 'alf-a-crown and refused to take
a penny change; but why does he stop so long, miss? I can't help
worriting over the silver cream-jug that was my mother's."
Mrs. Bobby disappeared. I rose lazily, and approached the window to
keep my promised eye on the mysteriouscustomer. I lifted back the
purple clematis to get a better view.
It was Willie Beresford! He looked up at my ejaculation of
surprise, and, dropping the baby as if it had been a parcel, strode
under the window.
I(gasping). "How did you come here?"
He. "By the usual methods, dear."
I. "You shouldn't have come without asking. Where are all your
fine promises? What shall I do with you? Do you know there isn't
an hotel within four miles?"
He. "That is nothing; it was four hundred miles that I couldn't
endure. But give me a less grudging welcome than this, though I am
like a starving dog that will snatch any morsel thrown to him! It
is really autumn, Penelope, or it will be in a few days. Say you
are a little glad to see me."
(The sight of him so near, after my weeks of loneliness, gave me a
feeling so sudden, so sweet, and so vivid that it seemed to smite me
first on the eyes, and then in the heart; and at the first note of
his convincing voice Doubt picked up her trailing skirts and fled
for ever.)
I. "Yes, if you must know it, I am glad to see you; so glad,
indeed, that nothing in the world seems to matter so long as you are
here."
He (striding a little nearer, and looking about involuntarily for a
ladder). "Penelope, do you know the penalty of saying such sweet
things to me?"
I. "Perhaps it is because I know the penalty that I'm committing
the offence. Besides, I feel safe in saying anything in this
second-story window."
He. "Don't pride yourself on your safety unless you wish to see me
transformed into a nineteenth-century Romeo, to the detriment of
Mrs. Bobby's creepers. I can look at you for ever, dear, in your
pink gown and your purple frame, unless I can do better. Won't you
come down?"
I. "I like it very much up here."
He. "You would like it very much down here, after a little. So you
didn't 'paint me out,' after all?"
I. "No; on the contrary, I painted you in, to every twig and
flower, every hill and meadow, every sunrise and every sunset."
He. "You MUST come down! The distance between Belvern and Aix when
I was not sure that you loved me was nothing compared to having you
in a second story when I know that you do. Come down, Pen! Pretty
Pen!"
I. "Suppose we compromise. My sitting-room is just below; will you
walk in and look at my sketches until I come? You needn't ring; the
bell is overgrown with honeysuckle and there is no one to answer it;
it might almost be an American hotel, but it is Arcadia!"
He. "It is Paradise; and alas! here comes the serpent!"
I. "It isn't a serpent; it is the kindest landlady in England.--
Mrs. Bobby, this gentleman is a dear friend of mine from America.
Mr. Beresford, this is Mrs. Bobby, the most comfortable hostess in
the world, and the owner of the cottage, the canaries, the tea-
tables, and the baby.--The reason Mr. Beresford was so thirsty, Mrs.
Bobby, was that he has walked here from Great Belvern, so we must
give him some supper before he returns."
Mrs. B. "Certainly, miss, he shall have the best in the 'ouse, you
can depend upon that."
He. "Don't let me interfere with your usual arrangements. I am not
hungry--for food; I shall do very well until I get back to the
hotel."
I. "Indeed you will not, sir! Billy shall pull some tomatoes and
lettuce, Tommy shall milk the cow, and Mrs. Bobby shall make you a
savory omelet that Delmonico might envy. Hark! Is that our fowl
cackling? It is,--at half-past six! She heard me mention omelet
and she must be calling, 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'"
. . . .
But all that is many days ago, and there are no more experiences to
relate at present. We are making history very fast, Willie
Beresford and I, but much of it is sacred history, and so I cannot
chronicle it for any one's amusement.
Mrs. Beresford is here, or at least she is in Great Belvern, a few
miles distant. I am not painting, these latter days. I have turned
the artist side of my nature to the wall just for a bit, and the
woman side is having full play. I do not know what the world will
think about it, if it stops to think at all, but I feel as if I were
'right side out' for the first time in my life; and when I take up
my brushes again, I shall have a new world within from which to
paint,--yes, and a new world without.
Good-bye, dear Belvern! Autumn and winter may come into my life,
but whenever I think of you it will be summer-time in my heart. I
shall hear the tinkle of the belled sheep on the hillsides; inhale
the fragrance of the flowering vine that climbed in at my cottage
window; relive in memory the days when Love and I first walked
together, hand in hand. Dear days of happy idleness; of dreaming
dreams and seeingvisions; of morning walks over the hills; of
'bread-and-cheese and kisses' at noon, with kind Mrs. Bobby hovering
like a plump guardian angel over the simple feast; afternoon tea
under the friendly shades of the yew-tree, and parting at the
wicket-gate. I can see him pass the clock-tower, the little
greengrocer shop, the old stocks, the green pump; then he is at the
turn of the road where the stone wall and the hawthorn hedge will
presently hide him from my view. I fly up to my window, push back
the vines, catch his last wave of the hand. I would call him back,
if I dared; but it would be no easier to let him go the second time,
and there is always to-morrow. Thank God for to-morrow! And if
there should be no to-morrow? Then thank God for to-day! And so
good-bye again, dear Belvern! It was in the lap of your lovely
hills that Penelope first knew das irdische Gluck; that she first
loved, first lived; forgot how to be artist, in remembering how to
be woman.
End
- modest [´mɔdist]
a.谦虚的；朴素的 (初中英语单词) - investment [in´vestmənt] n.投资；(时间等)投入 (初中英语单词)
- customer [´kʌstəmə] n.顾客，买主，主顾 (初中英语单词)
- curiosity [,kjuəri´ɔsiti] n.好奇；奇事；珍品 (初中英语单词)
- slumber [´slʌmbə] v.&n.睡眠；沉睡状态 (初中英语单词)
- vision [´viʒən] n.视觉；想象力；幻影 (初中英语单词)
- disturb [di´stə:b] vt.扰乱；使不安；打乱 (初中英语单词)
- foreigner [´fɔrinə] n.外国人 (初中英语单词)
- mysterious [mi´stiəriəs] a.神秘的；难以理解的 (初中英语单词)
- parcel [´pɑ:sl] n.包裹；一批 vt.区分 (初中英语单词)
- welcome [´welkəm] a.受欢迎的；可喜的 (初中英语单词)
- snatch [snætʃ] v.&n.抢，夺取，抓住 (初中英语单词)
- purple [´pə:pl] n.紫色 a.紫(红)的 (初中英语单词)
- contrary [´kɔntrəri] a.相反的 n.相反 (初中英语单词)
- meadow [´medəu] n.草地；牧场 (初中英语单词)
- paradise [´pærədais] n.天堂；乐园 (初中英语单词)
- cottage [´kɔtidʒ] n.村舍；小屋；小别墅 (初中英语单词)
- interfere [,intə´fiə] vi.干涉；妨碍；打扰 (初中英语单词)
- sacred [´seikrid] a.神圣的；庄严的 (初中英语单词)
- painting [´peintiŋ] n.绘画；(油)画；着色 (初中英语单词)
- whenever [wen´evə] conj.&ad.无论何时 (初中英语单词)
- shilling [´ʃiliŋ] n.先令 (高中英语单词)
- loneliness [´ləunliniz] n.孤独，寂寞 (高中英语单词)
- penalty [´penlti] n.刑罚；惩罚；障碍 (高中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- sunrise [´sʌnraiz] n.日出，黎明 (高中英语单词)
- compromise [´kɔmprəmaiz] n.妥协，和解 (高中英语单词)
- serpent [´sə:pənt] n.大毒蛇；阴险的人 (高中英语单词)
- landlady [´lænd,leidi] n.女房东；女店主 (高中英语单词)
- hostess [´həustis] n.女主人；旅馆女老板 (高中英语单词)
- fragrance [´freigrəns] n.芬芳，芳香 (高中英语单词)
- seeing [si:iŋ] see的现在分词 n.视觉 (高中英语单词)
- guardian [´gɑ:diən] n.监护人；保护人 (高中英语单词)
- episode [´episəud] n.插曲；一段情节 (英语四级单词)
- morsel [´mɔ:səl] n.佳肴 vt.少量地分配 (英语四级单词)
- convincing [kən´vinsiŋ] a.有说服力的；有力的 (英语四级单词)
- tinkle [´tiŋkəl] v.&n.(使发)叮当声 (英语四级单词)
- idleness [´aidlnis] n.懒；闲着不干事 (英语四级单词)
- parting [´pɑ:tiŋ] a.&n.分离(的) (英语四级单词)
- inexperienced [,iniks´piəriənst] a.缺乏经验的 (英语六级单词)
- duration [djuə´reiʃən] n.持久；持续期间 (英语六级单词)
- lazily [´leizili] ad.懒惰地，慢吞吞地 (英语六级单词)
- involuntarily [in´vɔləntərili] ad.不 自觉地 (英语六级单词)
- honeysuckle [´hʌni,sʌkəl] n.忍冬，金银花 (英语六级单词)
- calling [´kɔ:liŋ] n.点名；职业；欲望 (英语六级单词)
- hawthorn [´hɔ:θɔ:n] n.山楂(属) (英语六级单词)
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章节正文
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