I hardly ventured to hope that the messenger who brings us our letters from the village — the postman, as we call him — would make his appearance this morning; but he came bravely through rain, hail and wind. The old pony2 which he usually rides had refused to face the storm, and, sooner than disappoint us, our faithful postman had boldly started for The Glen Tower on foot. All his early life had been passed on board ship, and, at sixty years of age, he had battled his way that morning through the storm on shore as steadily3 and as resolutely4 as ever he had battled it in his youth through the storm at sea.
I opened the post-bag eagerly. There were two letters for Jessie from young lady friends; a letter for Owen from a charitable society; a letter to me upon business; and — on this last day, of all others — no newspaper!
I sent directly to the kitchen (where the drenched5 and weary postman was receiving the hospitable6 attentions of the servants) to make inquiries7. The disheartening answer returned was that the newspaper could not have arrived as usual by the morning’s post, or it must have been put into the bag along with the letters. No such accident as this had occurred, except on one former occasion, since the beginning of the year. And now, on the very day when I might have looked confidently for news of George’s ship, when the state of the weather made the finding of that news of the last importance to my peace of mind, the paper, by some inconceivable fatality8, had failed to reach me! If there had been the slightest chance of borrowing a copy in the village, I should have gone there myself through the tempest to get it. If there had been the faintest possibility of communicating, in that frightful9 weather, with the distant county town, I should have sent there or gone there myself. I even went the length of speaking to the groom10, an old servant whom I knew I could trust. The man stared at me in astonishment11, and then pointed12 through the window to the blinding hail and the writhing13 trees.
“No horse that ever was foaled, sir,” he said, “would face that for long. It’s almost a miracle that the postman got here alive. He says himself that he dursn’t go back again. I’ll try it, sir, if you order me; but if an accident happens, please to remember, whatever becomes of me, that I warned you beforehand.”
It was only too plain that the servant was right, and I dismissed him. What I suffered from that one accident of the missing newspaper I am ashamed to tell. No educated man can conceive how little his acquired mental advantages will avail him against his natural human inheritance of superstition14, under certain circumstances of fear and suspense15, until he has passed the ordeal16 in his own proper person. We most of us soon arrive at a knowledge of the extent of our strength, but we may pass a lifetime and be still ignorant of the extent of our weakness.
Up to this time I had preserved self-control enough to hide the real state of my feelings from our guest; but the arrival of the tenth day, and the unexpected trial it had brought with it, found me at the end of my resources. Jessie’s acute observation soon showed her that something had gone wrong, and she questioned me on the subject directly. My mind was in such a state of confusion that no excuse occurred to me. I left her precipitately17, and entreated18 Owen and Morgan to keep her in their company, and out of mine, for the rest of the day. My strength to preserve my son’s secret had failed me, and my only chance of resisting the betrayal of it lay in the childish resource of keeping out of the way. I shut myself into my room till I could bear it no longer. I watched my opportunity, and paid stolen visits over and over again to the barometer19 in the hall. I mounted to Morgan’s rooms at the top of the tower, and looked out hopelessly through rain-mist and scud20 for signs of a carriage on the flooded valley-road below us. I stole down again to the servants’ hall, and questioned the old postman (half-tipsy by this time with restorative mulled ale) about his past experience of storms at sea; drew him into telling long, rambling21, wearisome stories, not one-tenth part of which I heard; and left him with my nervous irritability22 increased tenfold by his useless attempts to interest and inform me. Hour by hour, all through that miserable23 day, I opened doors and windows to feel for myself the capricious changes of the storm from worse to better, and from better to worse again. Now I sent once more for the groom, when it looked lighter24; and now I followed him hurriedly to the stables, to countermand25 my own rash orders. My thoughts seemed to drive over my mind as the rain drove over the earth; the confusion within me was the image in little of the mightier26 turmoil27 that raged outside.
Before we assembled at the dinner-table, Owen whispered to me that he had made my excuses to our guest, and that I need dread28 nothing more than a few friendly inquiries about my health when I saw her again. The meal was dispatched hastily and quietly. Toward dusk the storm began to lessen29, and for a moment the idea of sending to the town occurred to me once more. But, now that the obstacle of weather had been removed, the obstacle of darkness was set up in its place. I felt this; I felt that a few more hours would decide the doubt about George, so far as this last day was concerned, and I determined30 to wait a little longer, having already waited so long. My resolution was the more speedily taken in this matter, as I had now made up my mind, in sheer despair, to tell my son’s secret to Jessie if he failed to return before she left us. My reason warned me that I should put myself and my guest in a false position by taking this step, but something stronger than my reason forbade me to let her go back to the gay world and its temptations without first speaking to her of George in the lamentable31 event of George not being present to speak for himself.
We were a sad and silent little company when the clock struck eight that night, and when we met for the last time to hear the last story. The shadow of the approaching farewell — itself the shade of the long farewell — rested heavily on our guest’s spirits. The gay dresses which she had hitherto put on to honor our little ceremony were all packed up, and the plain gown she wore kept the journey of the morrow cruelly before her eyes and ours. A quiet melancholy32 shed its tenderness over her bright young face as she drew the last number, for form’s sake, out of the bowl, and handed it to Owen with a faint smile. Even our positions at the table were altered now. Under the pretense33 that the light hurt my eyes, I moved back into a dim corner, to keep my anxious face out of view. Morgan, looking at me hard, and muttering under his breath, “Thank Heaven, I never married!” stole his chair by degrees, with rough, silent kindness, nearer and nearer to mine. Jessie, after a moment’s hesitation34, vacated her place next, and, saying that she wanted to sit close to one of us on the farewell night, took a chair at Owen’s side. Sad! sad! we had instinctively35 broken up already, so far as our places at the table were concerned, before the reading of the last story had so much as begun.
It was a relief when Owen’s quiet voice stole over the weary silence, and pleaded for our attention to the occupation of the night.
“Number Six,” he said, “is the number that chance has left to remain till the last. The manuscript to which it refers is not, as you may see, in my handwriting. It consists entirely36 of passages from the Diary of a poor hard-working girl — passages which tell an artless story of love and friendship in humble37 life. When that story has come to an end, I may inform you how I became possessed38 of it. If I did so now, I should only forestall39 one important part of the interest of the narrative40. I have made no attempt to find a striking title for it. It is called, simply and plainly, after the name of the writer of the Diary — the Story of Anne Rodway.”
In the short pause that Owen made before he began to read, I listened anxiously for the sound of a traveler’s approach outside. At short intervals41, all through the story, I listened and listened again. Still, nothing caught my ear but the trickle42 of the rain and the rush of the sweeping43 wind through the valley, sinking gradually lower and lower as the night advanced.
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2
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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3
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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6
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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7
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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8
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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9
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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10
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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11
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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12
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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13
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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14
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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15
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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16
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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20
scud
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| n.疾行；v.疾行 | |
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21
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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23
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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24
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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countermand
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| v.撤回(命令)，取消(订货) | |
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mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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31
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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34
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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35
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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36
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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39
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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40
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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41
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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42
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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43
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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