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Penelope's English Experiences-Part9_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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I do not know whether Terence was heir, even ever so far removed, to

any title or estates, and I am sure Patricia did not care: he may



have been vulgarly rich or aristocratically poor. I only know that

they loved each other in the old yet ever new way, without any ifs



or ands or buts; that he worshipped, she honoured; he asked humbly,

she gave gladly.



How do I know? Ah! that's a 'Penelope secret,' as Francesca says.

Perhaps you doubt my intuitions altogether. Perhaps you believe in



your heart that it was an ordinary ball, where a lot of stupid

people arrived, danced, supped, and departed. Perhaps you do not



think his name was Terence or hers Patricia, and if you go so far as

that in blindness and incredulity I should not expect you to



translate properly what I saw last night under the oak-tree, the

night of the ball on the opposite side, when Patricia made her



debut.

Chapter XIV. Love and lavender.



How well I remember our last evening in Dovermarle Street!

At one of our open windows behind the potted ferns and blossoming



hydrangeas sat Salemina, Bertie Godolphin, Mrs. Beresford, the

Honourable Arthur, and Francesca; at another, as far off as



possible, sat Willie Beresford and I. Mrs. Beresford had sanctioned

a post-prandial cigar, for we were not going out till ten, to see,



for the second time, an act of John Hare's Pair of Spectacles.

They were talking and laughing at the other end of the room; Mr.



Beresford and I were rather quiet. (Why is it that the people with

whom one loves to be silent are also the very ones with whom one



loves to talk?)

The room was dim with the light of a single lamp; the rain had



ceased; the roar of Piccadilly came to us softened by distance. A

belated vendor of lavender came along the sidewalk, and as he



stopped under the windows the pungent fragrance of the flowers was

wafted up to us with his song.



'Who'll buy my pretty lavender?

Sweet lavender,



Who'll buy my pretty lavender?

Sweet bloomin' lavender.'



The tune comes to me laden with odours. Is it not strange that the

fragrances of other days steal in upon the senses together with the



sights and sounds that gave them birth?

Presently a horse and cart drew up before an hotel, a little further



along, on the opposite side of the way. By the light of the street

lamp under which it stopped we could see that it held a piano and



two persons beside the driver. The man was masked, and wore a soft

felt hat and a velvet coat. He seated himself at the piano and



played a Chopin waltz with decidedsentiment and brilliancy; then,

touching the keys idly for a moment or two, he struck a few chords



of prelude and turned towards the woman who sat beside him. She

rose, and, laying one hand on the corner of the instrument, began to



sing one of the season's favourites, 'The Song that reached my

Heart.' She also was masked, and even her figure was hidden by a



long dark cloak the hood of which was drawn over her head to meet

the mask. She sang so beautifully, with such style and such



feeling, it seemed incredible to hear her under circumstances like

these. She followed the ballad with Handel's 'Lascia ch'io pianga,'



which rang out into the quiet street with almost hopeless pathos.

When she descended from the cart to undertake the more prosaic



occupation of passing the hat beneath the windows, I could see that

she limped slightly, and that the hand with which she pushed back



the heavy dark hair under the hood was beautifully moulded. They

were all mystery that couple; not to be confounded for an instant



with the common herd of London street musicians. With what an air

of the drawing-room did he of the velvet coat help the singer into



the cart, and with what elegantabandon and ultra-dilettantism did

he light a cigarette, reseat himself at the piano, and weave Scots



ballads into a charming impromptu! I confess I wrapped my shilling

in a bit of paper and dropped it over the balcony with the wish that



I knew the tragedy behind this little street drama.

Willie Beresford was in a royal mood that night. You know the mood,



in which the heart is so full, so full, it overruns the brim. He

bought the entire stock of the lavenderseller, and threw a shilling



to the mysterioussinger for every song she sung. He even offered

to give--himself--to me! And oh! I would have taken him as gladly



as ever the lavender boy took the half-crown, had I been quite,

quite sure of myself! A woman with a vocation ought to be still






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