El señor Hastings, de visita en la mansión de la
señora Inglethorp, conoce a Evie Howard y a Mary Cavendish (esposa de John). Físicamente
Evie no es muy agraciada . . . (“una profunda voz, casi masculina en sus tonos estentóreos,
con un gran cuerpo cuadrado”). En cambio, Mary impresiona gratamente al
visitante . . . (“nunca olvidaré la primera vista de Mary. Su forma alta y
delgada. La vívida sensación de un fuego dormido que parecía encontrar
expresión en sus maravillosos ojos color ámbar. Diferentes a los ojos de
cualquier otra mujer que había conocido. El intenso poder de tranquilidad que
poseía, que, sin embargo, transmitía la sensación de un espíritu salvaje en un
cuerpo exquisitamente civilizado. Todas estas cosas están grabadas a fuego en
mí y nunca las olvidaré”).
As he spoke the
last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over
a flower bed, straightened herself at our approach.
"Hullo,
Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings—Miss Howard."
Miss Howard
shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very
blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty,
with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large
sensible square body, with feet to match—these last encased in good thick
boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style.
"Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall
press you in. Better be careful."
"I'm sure I
shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded.
"Don't say
it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later."
"You're a
cynic, Evie," said John, laughing. "Where's tea to-day—inside or
out?"
"Out. Too
fine a day to be cooped up in the
house."
"Come on
then, you've done enough gardening for to-day. 'The labourer is worthy of his hire',
you know. Come and be refreshed."
"Well,"
said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree
with you."
She led the way
round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore.
A figure rose
from one of the basket chairs, and
came a few steps to meet us.
"My wife,
Hastings," said John.
I shall never
forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of
slumbering fire that seemed to find
expression only in those wonderful tawny
eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman's that I have
ever known; the intense power of stillness
she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed
spirit in an exquisitely civilised body—all these things are burnt into my
memory. I shall never forget them.
She greeted me
with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a
basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted John's invitation. Mrs.
Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first
impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener
is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents
of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my
hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a
brilliant conversationalist.
Inglés: exámenes y traducciones. Estamos en Gral
Guemes 561, local 9. Teléfonos
(0387) 4249159-155723965. Salta (4400). Argentina.
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