章节正文
part of her! How could she leave them?
And how this little house, consecrated aforetime by
love and joy, had been re-consecrated for her by her
happiness and sorrow! Here she had spent her bridal
moon; here wee Joyce had lived her one brief day; here
the sweetness of motherhood had come again with Little
Jem; here she had heard the exquisite music of her
baby's cooing laughter; here beloved friends had sat by
her fireside. Joy and grief, birth and death, had made
sacred forever this little house of dreams.
And now she must leave it. She knew that, even while
she had contended against the idea to Gilbert. The
little house was outgrown. Gilbert's interests made
the change necessary; his work, successful though it
had been, was hampered by his location. Anne realised
that the end of their life in this dear place drew
nigh, and that she must face the fact bravely. But how
her heart ached!
"It will be just like tearing something out of my
life," she sobbed. "And oh, if I could hope that some
nice folk would come here in our place--or even that it
would be left vacant. That itself would be better than
having it overrun with some horde who know nothing of
the geography of dreamland, and nothing of the history
that has given this house its soul and its identity.
And if such a tribe come here the place will go to rack
and ruin in no time--an old place goes down so quickly
if it is not carefully attended to. They'll tear up my
garden--and let the Lombardies get ragged--and the
paling will come to look like a mouth with half the
teeth missing--and the roof will leak--and the plaster
fall--and they'll stuff pillows and rags in broken
window panes--and everything will be out-at-elbows."
Anne's imagination pictured forth so vividly the coming
degeneration of her dear little house that it hurt her
as severely as if it had already been an accomplished
fact. She sat down on the stairs and had a long,
bitter cry. Susan found her there and enquired with
much concern what the trouble was.
"You have not quarrelled with the doctor, have you now,
Mrs. Doctor, dear? But if you have, do not worry. It
is a thing quite likely to happen to married couples, I
am told, although I have had no experience that way
myself. He will be sorry, and you can soon make it
up."
"No, no, Susan, we haven't quarrelled. It's
only--Gilbert is going to buy the Morgan place, and
we'll have to go and live at the Glen. And it will
break my heart."
Susan did not enter into Anne's feelings at all. She
was, indeed, quite rejoiced over the prospect of living
at the Glen. Her one grievance against her place in
the little house was its lonesomelocation.
"Why, Mrs. Doctor, dear, it will be splendid. The
Morgan house is such a fine, big one."
"I hate big houses," sobbed Anne.
"Oh, well, you will not hate them by the time you have
half a dozen children," remarked Susan calmly. "And
this house is too small already for us. We have no
spare room, since Mrs. Moore is here, and that pantry
is the most aggravating place I ever tried to work in.
There is a corner every way you turn. Besides, it is
out-of-the-world down here. There is really nothing at
all but scenery."
"Out of your world perhaps, Susan--but not out of
mine," said Anne with a faint smile.
"I do not quite understand you, Mrs. Doctor, dear, but
of course I am not well educated. But if Dr. Blythe
buys the Morgan place he will make no mistake, and that
you may tie to. They have water in it, and the
pantries and closets are beautiful, and there is not
another such cellar in P. E. Island, so I have been
told. Why, the cellar here, Mrs. Doctor, dear, has
been a heart-break to me, as well you know."
"Oh, go away, Susan, go away," said Anne forlornly.
"Cellars and pantries and closets don't make a HOME.
Why don't you weep with those who weep?"
"Well, I never was much hand for weeping, Mrs. Doctor,
dear. I would rather fall to and cheer people up than
weep with them. Now, do not you cry and spoil your
pretty eyes. This house is very well and has served
your turn, but it is high time you had a better."
Susan's point of view seemed to be that of most people.
Leslie was the only one who sympathised
understandingly with Anne. She had a good cry, too,
when she heard the news. Then they both dried their
tears and went to work at the preparations for moving.
"Since we must go let us go as soon as we can and have
it over," said poor Anne with bitter resignation.
"You know you will like that lovely old place at the
Glen after you have lived in it long enough to have
dear memories woven about it," said Leslie. "Friends
will come there, as they have come here-- happiness
will glorify it for you. Now, it's just a house to
you--but the years will make it a home."
Anne and Leslie had another cry the next week when they
shortened Little Jem. Anne felt the tragedy of it
until evening when in his long nightie she found her
own dear baby again.
"But it will be rompers next--and then trousers--and in
no time he will be grown-up," she sighed.
"Well, you would not want him to stay a baby always,
Mrs. Doctor, dear, would you?" said Susan. "Bless his
innocent heart, he looks too sweet for anything in his
little short dresses, with his dear feet sticking out.
And think of the save in the ironing, Mrs. Doctor, dear."
"Anne, I have just had a letter from Owen," said
Leslie, entering with a bright face. "And, oh! I have
such good news. He writes me that he is going to buy
this place from the church trustees and keep it to
spend our summer vacations in. Anne, are you not glad?"
"Oh, Leslie, `glad' isn't the word for it! It seems
almost too good to be true. I sha'n't feel half so
badly now that I know this dear spot will never be
desecrated by a vandal tribe, or left to tumble down in
decay. Why, it's lovely! It's lovely!"
One October morning Anne wakened to the realisation
that she had slept for the last time under the roof of
her little house. The day was too busy to indulge
regret and when evening came the house was stripped and
bare. Anne and Gilbert were alone in it to say
farewell. Leslie and Susan and Little Jem had gone to
the Glen with the last load of furniture. The sunset
light streamed in through the curtainless windows.
"It has all such a heart-broken, reproachful look,
hasn't it?" said Anne. "Oh, I shall be so homesick at
the Glen tonight!"
"We have been very happy here, haven't we, Anne-girl?"
said Gilbert, his voice full of feeling.
Anne choked, unable to answer. Gilbert waited for her
at the fir-tree gate, while she went over the house and
said farewell to every room. She was going away; but
the old house would still be there, looking seaward
through its quaint windows. The autumn winds would
blow around it mournfully, and the gray rain would beat
upon it and the white mists would come in from the sea
to enfold it; and the moonlight would fall over it and
light up the old paths where the schoolmaster and his
bride had walked. There on that old harbor shore the
charm of story would linger; the wind would still
whistle alluringly over the silver sand-dunes; the
waves would still call from the red rock-coves.
"But we will be gone," said Anne through her tears.
She went out, closing and locking the door behind her.
Gilbert was waiting for her with a smile. The
lighthouse star was gleaming northward. The little
garden, where only marigolds still bloomed, was already
hooding itself in shadows.
Anne knelt down and kissed the worn old step which she
had crossed as a bride.
"Good-bye, dear little house of dreams," she said.
End
And how this little house, consecrated aforetime by
love and joy, had been re-consecrated for her by her
happiness and sorrow! Here she had spent her bridal
moon; here wee Joyce had lived her one brief day; here
the sweetness of motherhood had come again with Little
Jem; here she had heard the exquisite music of her
baby's cooing laughter; here beloved friends had sat by
her fireside. Joy and grief, birth and death, had made
sacred forever this little house of dreams.
And now she must leave it. She knew that, even while
she had contended against the idea to Gilbert. The
little house was outgrown. Gilbert's interests made
the change necessary; his work, successful though it
had been, was hampered by his location. Anne realised
that the end of their life in this dear place drew
nigh, and that she must face the fact bravely. But how
her heart ached!
"It will be just like tearing something out of my
life," she sobbed. "And oh, if I could hope that some
nice folk would come here in our place--or even that it
would be left vacant. That itself would be better than
having it overrun with some horde who know nothing of
the geography of dreamland, and nothing of the history
that has given this house its soul and its identity.
And if such a tribe come here the place will go to rack
and ruin in no time--an old place goes down so quickly
if it is not carefully attended to. They'll tear up my
garden--and let the Lombardies get ragged--and the
paling will come to look like a mouth with half the
teeth missing--and the roof will leak--and the plaster
fall--and they'll stuff pillows and rags in broken
window panes--and everything will be out-at-elbows."
Anne's imagination pictured forth so vividly the coming
degeneration of her dear little house that it hurt her
as severely as if it had already been an accomplished
fact. She sat down on the stairs and had a long,
bitter cry. Susan found her there and enquired with
much concern what the trouble was.
"You have not quarrelled with the doctor, have you now,
Mrs. Doctor, dear? But if you have, do not worry. It
is a thing quite likely to happen to married couples, I
am told, although I have had no experience that way
myself. He will be sorry, and you can soon make it
up."
"No, no, Susan, we haven't quarrelled. It's
only--Gilbert is going to buy the Morgan place, and
we'll have to go and live at the Glen. And it will
break my heart."
Susan did not enter into Anne's feelings at all. She
was, indeed, quite rejoiced over the prospect of living
at the Glen. Her one grievance against her place in
the little house was its lonesomelocation.
"Why, Mrs. Doctor, dear, it will be splendid. The
Morgan house is such a fine, big one."
"I hate big houses," sobbed Anne.
"Oh, well, you will not hate them by the time you have
half a dozen children," remarked Susan calmly. "And
this house is too small already for us. We have no
spare room, since Mrs. Moore is here, and that pantry
is the most aggravating place I ever tried to work in.
There is a corner every way you turn. Besides, it is
out-of-the-world down here. There is really nothing at
all but scenery."
"Out of your world perhaps, Susan--but not out of
mine," said Anne with a faint smile.
"I do not quite understand you, Mrs. Doctor, dear, but
of course I am not well educated. But if Dr. Blythe
buys the Morgan place he will make no mistake, and that
you may tie to. They have water in it, and the
pantries and closets are beautiful, and there is not
another such cellar in P. E. Island, so I have been
told. Why, the cellar here, Mrs. Doctor, dear, has
been a heart-break to me, as well you know."
"Oh, go away, Susan, go away," said Anne forlornly.
"Cellars and pantries and closets don't make a HOME.
Why don't you weep with those who weep?"
"Well, I never was much hand for weeping, Mrs. Doctor,
dear. I would rather fall to and cheer people up than
weep with them. Now, do not you cry and spoil your
pretty eyes. This house is very well and has served
your turn, but it is high time you had a better."
Susan's point of view seemed to be that of most people.
Leslie was the only one who sympathised
understandingly with Anne. She had a good cry, too,
when she heard the news. Then they both dried their
tears and went to work at the preparations for moving.
"Since we must go let us go as soon as we can and have
it over," said poor Anne with bitter resignation.
"You know you will like that lovely old place at the
Glen after you have lived in it long enough to have
dear memories woven about it," said Leslie. "Friends
will come there, as they have come here-- happiness
will glorify it for you. Now, it's just a house to
you--but the years will make it a home."
Anne and Leslie had another cry the next week when they
shortened Little Jem. Anne felt the tragedy of it
until evening when in his long nightie she found her
own dear baby again.
"But it will be rompers next--and then trousers--and in
no time he will be grown-up," she sighed.
"Well, you would not want him to stay a baby always,
Mrs. Doctor, dear, would you?" said Susan. "Bless his
innocent heart, he looks too sweet for anything in his
little short dresses, with his dear feet sticking out.
And think of the save in the ironing, Mrs. Doctor, dear."
"Anne, I have just had a letter from Owen," said
Leslie, entering with a bright face. "And, oh! I have
such good news. He writes me that he is going to buy
this place from the church trustees and keep it to
spend our summer vacations in. Anne, are you not glad?"
"Oh, Leslie, `glad' isn't the word for it! It seems
almost too good to be true. I sha'n't feel half so
badly now that I know this dear spot will never be
desecrated by a vandal tribe, or left to tumble down in
decay. Why, it's lovely! It's lovely!"
One October morning Anne wakened to the realisation
that she had slept for the last time under the roof of
her little house. The day was too busy to indulge
regret and when evening came the house was stripped and
bare. Anne and Gilbert were alone in it to say
farewell. Leslie and Susan and Little Jem had gone to
the Glen with the last load of furniture. The sunset
light streamed in through the curtainless windows.
"It has all such a heart-broken, reproachful look,
hasn't it?" said Anne. "Oh, I shall be so homesick at
the Glen tonight!"
"We have been very happy here, haven't we, Anne-girl?"
said Gilbert, his voice full of feeling.
Anne choked, unable to answer. Gilbert waited for her
at the fir-tree gate, while she went over the house and
said farewell to every room. She was going away; but
the old house would still be there, looking seaward
through its quaint windows. The autumn winds would
blow around it mournfully, and the gray rain would beat
upon it and the white mists would come in from the sea
to enfold it; and the moonlight would fall over it and
light up the old paths where the schoolmaster and his
bride had walked. There on that old harbor shore the
charm of story would linger; the wind would still
whistle alluringly over the silver sand-dunes; the
waves would still call from the red rock-coves.
"But we will be gone," said Anne through her tears.
She went out, closing and locking the door behind her.
Gilbert was waiting for her with a smile. The
lighthouse star was gleaming northward. The little
garden, where only marigolds still bloomed, was already
hooding itself in shadows.
Anne knelt down and kissed the worn old step which she
had crossed as a bride.
"Good-bye, dear little house of dreams," she said.
End
- laughter [´lɑ:ftə]
n.笑，笑声 (初中英语单词) - beloved [bi´lʌvd] a.为....所爱的 n.爱人 (初中英语单词)
- vacant [´veikənt] a.空虚的，无表情的 (初中英语单词)
- imagination [i,mædʒi´neiʃən] n.想象(力) (初中英语单词)
- prospect [´prɔspekt, prəs´pekt] n.景色；境界 v.勘察 (初中英语单词)
- calmly [´kɑ:mli] ad.平静地；无风浪地 (初中英语单词)
- cellar [´selə] n.地窑，地下室 (初中英语单词)
- tragedy [´trædʒidi] n.悲剧；惨案；灾难 (初中英语单词)
- unable [ʌn´eibəl] a.不能的；无能为力的 (初中英语单词)
- farewell [feə´wel] int.再见 n.&a.告别 (初中英语单词)
- moonlight [´mu:nlait] n.&a.月光(的) (初中英语单词)
- linger [´liŋgə] v.逗留；留恋；拖延 (初中英语单词)
- waiting [´weitiŋ] n.等候；伺候 (初中英语单词)
- sweetness [´swi:tnis] n.甜蜜；芳香；亲切 (高中英语单词)
- exquisite [ik´skwizit] a.精巧的；敏锐的 (高中英语单词)
- location [ləu´keiʃən] n.定位；位置；地方 (高中英语单词)
- bravely [´breivli] ad.勇敢地；毅然 (高中英语单词)
- geography [dʒi´ɔgrəfi] n.地理(学) (高中英语单词)
- severely [si´viəli] ad.剧烈地；严格地 (高中英语单词)
- lonesome [´ləunsəm] a.孤独的；冷清清的 (高中英语单词)
- quaint [kweint] a.离奇的；奇妙的 (高中英语单词)
- northward [´nɔ:θwəd] ad.&a.向北(的) n.北 (高中英语单词)
- grievance [´gri:vəns] n.不平；冤情；抱怨 (英语四级单词)
- glorify [´glɔ:rifai] vt.赞美，颂扬，美化 (英语四级单词)
- schoolmaster [´sku:l,mɑ:stə] n.教练；(男)教师 (英语四级单词)
- fireside [´faiəsaid] n.炉边；家；家庭生活 (英语六级单词)
- vividly [´vividli] ad.活泼地；生动地 (英语六级单词)
- weeping [´wi:piŋ] a.&n.哭泣(的) (英语六级单词)
- homesick [´həum,sik] n.思乡的 (英语六级单词)
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章节正文
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