It was early morning in the reception hall of the convent. The old nuns4 sat on their bench in a row, blinking in the bright light which poured through the casement5 as they gazed at their visitor, and tortured their unworldly wits over the news she brought. The young chaplain, Father Jago, had come in from the mass, still wearing soutane and beretta. He leaned his burly weight against the mantel, smiling inwardly at thoughts of breakfast, but keeping his heavy face drawn6 in solemn lines to fit these grievous tidings.
The mother superior sighed despairingly, and spoke7 in low, quavering tones. “Here, too, no one sleeps a wink,” she said. “Ah, thin, ’t is too much sorrow for us! By rayson of our years we’ve no stringth to bear it.”
“Ah—sure—’t is different wid you,” remarked Mrs. Fergus. “You’ve no proper notion of the m’aning of sleep. Faith, all your life you’ve been wakened bechune naps by your prayer-bell. ’T is no throuble to you. You’re accustomed to ’t. But wid me—if I’ve me rest broken, I’m killed entirely8. ’T is me nerves!”
“Ay, them nerves of yours—did I ever hear of ’em before?” put in Mother Agnes, with a momentary9 gleam of carnal delight in combat on her waxen face. Then sadness resumed its sway. “Aye, aye, Katie! Katie!” she moaned, slowly shaking her vailed head. “Child of our prayers, daughter of the White Foam11, pride of the O’Mahonys, darlin’ of our hearts—what ailed10 ye to l’ave us?”
The mother superior’s words quavered upward into a wail12 as they ended. The sound awakened13 the ancestral “keening” instinct in the other aged14 nuns, and stirred the thin blood in their veins15. They broke forth16 in weird17 lamentations.
“Her hair was the glory of Desmond, that weighty and that fine!” chanted Sister Ellen. “Ah, wirra, wirra!”
“She had it from me,” said Mrs. Fergus, her hand straying instinctively19 to her crimps. Her voice had caught the mourning infection: “Ah-hoo! Katie Avourneen,” she wailed20 in vocal21 sympathy. “Come back to us, darlint!”
“She’d the neck of the Swan of the Lake of Three Castles!” mumbled22 Sister Blanaid. “’T was that same was said of Grace O’Sullivan—the bride of The O’Mahony of Ballydivlin—an’ he was kilt on the strand23 benayth the walls—an’ she lookin’ on wid her grand black eyes—”
“Is it floatin’ in the waves ye are, ma creevin cno—wid the fishes surroundin’ ye?” sobbed24 Mrs. Fergus.
Sister Blanaid’s thick tongue took up the keening again. “’T was I druv her out! ‘Go ’long wid ye,’ says I, ‘an’ t’row that haythen box o’ yours into the bay’—an’ she went and t’rew her purty self in instead; woe25 an’ prosthration to this house!—an’ may the Lord—”
Father Jago at this took his elbow from the mantel and straightened himself. “Whisht, now, aisy!” he said, in a tone of parental26 authority. “There’s modheration in all things. Sure ye haven’t a scintilla27 of evidence that there’s annyone dead at all. Where’s the sinse of laminting a loss ye’re not sure of—and that, too, on an impty stomach?”
“Nevir bite or sup more will I take till I’ve tidings of her!’ said the mother superior.
“The more rayson why I’ll not be waiting longer for ye now,” commented the priest; and with this he left the room. As he closed the door behind him, a grateful odor of frying bacon momentarily spread upon the air. Mrs. Fergus sniffed29 it, and half rose from her seat; but the nuns clung resolutely30 to their theme, and she sank back again.
“’T is my belafe,” Sister Ellen began, “that voice we heard, ’t is from no Hostage at all—’t is the banshee of the O’Mahonys.”
The mother superior shook her head.
“Is it likely, thin, Ellen O’Mahony,” she queried31, “that our banshee would be distressed32 for an O’Daly? Sure the grand noise was made whin Cormac himself disappeared.”
“His marryin’ me—’t is clear enough that putt him in the family,” said Mrs. Fergus. “’T would be flat injustice33 to me to ’ve my man go an’ never a keen raised for him. I’ll stand on me rights for that much Agnes O’Mahony.”
“A fine confusion ye’d have of it, thin,” retorted the mother superior. “The O’Dalys have their own banshee—she sat up her keen in Kilcrohane these hundreds of years—and for ours to be meddlin’ because she’s merely related by marriage—sure, ’t would not be endured.”
The dubious34 problem of a family banshee’s duties has never been elucidated35 beyond this point, for on the instant there came a violent ringing of the big bell outside, the hoarse36 clangor of which startled the women into excited silence. A minute later, the white-capped lame18 old woman-servant threw open the door.
A young man, with a ruddy, smiling face and a carriage of boyish confidence, entered the room. He cast an inquiring glance over the group. Then recognizing Mrs. Fergus, he gave a little exclamation37 of pleasure, and advanced toward her with outstretched hand.
“Why, how do you do, Mrs. O’Daly?” he exclaimed, cordially shaking her hand. “Pray keep your seat. I’m just playing in luck to find you here. Won’t you—eh—-be kind enough to—eh—introduce me?”
“’T is a young gintleman from Ameriky, Mr. O’Mahony by name,” Mrs. Fergus stammered38, flushed with satisfaction in his remembrance, but doubtful as to the attitude of the nuns.
The ladies of the Hostage’s Tears had drawn themselves into as much dignified39 erectness40 as their age and infirmities permitted. They eyed this amazing new-comer in mute surprise. Mother Agnes, after the first shock at the invasion, nodded frostily in acknowledgment of his respectful bow.
“Get around an’ spake to her in her north ear,” whispered Mrs. Fergus; “she can’t hear ye in the other.”
Bernard had been long enough in West Carbery to comprehend her meaning. In that strange old district there is no right or left, no front or back—only points of the compass. A gesture from Mrs. Fergus helped him now to guess where the north might lie in matters auricular.
“I didn’t stand on ceremony,” he said, laying his hat on the table and drawing off his gloves. “I’ve driven over post-haste from Skibbereen this morning—the car’s outside—and I rushed in here the first thing. I—I hope sincerely that I’m in time.”
“‘In toime?’” the superior repeated, in a tone of annoyed mystification. “That depinds entoirely, sir, on your own intintions. I’ve no information, sir, as to either who you are or what you’re afther doing.”
“No, of course not,” said Bernard, in affable apology. “I ought to have thought of that. I’ll explain things, ma’am, if you’ll permit me. As I said, I’ve just raced over this morning from Skibbereen.”
Mother Agnes made a stately inclination41 of her vailed head.
“You had a grand morning for your drive,” she said.
“I didn’t notice,” the young man replied, with a frank smile. “I was too busy thinking of something else. The truth is, I spent last evening with the bishop42.”
Again the mother superior bowed slightly.
“An estimable man,” she remarked, coldly.
“Oh, yes; nothing could have been friendlier,” pursued Bernard, “than the way he treated me. And the day before that I was at Cashel, and had a long talk with the archbishop. He’s a splendid old gentleman, too. Not the least sign of airs or nonsense about him.”
Mother Agnes rose.
“I’m deloighted to learn that our higher clergy43 prodhuce so favorable an impression upon you,” she said, gravely; “but, if you’ll excuse us, sir, this is a house of mourning, and our hearts are heavy wid grief, and we’re not in precisely44 the mood—”
Bernard spoke in an altered tone:
“Oh! I beg a thousand pardons! Mourning, did you say? May I ask—”
Mrs. Fergus answered his unspoken question.
“Don’t you know it, thin? ’T is me husband, Cormac O’Daly. Sure he’s murdhered an’ his body’s nowhere to be found, an’ the poliss are scourin’ all the counthry roundabout, an’ there’s a long account of ’t in the Freeman sint from Bantry, an’ more poliss have been dhrafted into Muirisc, an’ they’ve arrested Jerry Higgins and that long-shanked, shiverin’ omadhaun of a cousin of his. ’T is known they had a tellgram warnin’ thim not to be afraid—”
“Oh, by George! Well, this is rich!”
The young man’s spontaneous exclamations45 brought the breathless narrative46 of Mrs. Fergus to an abrupt47 stop. The women gazed at him in stupefaction. His rosy48 and juvenile49 face had, at her first words, worn a wondering and puzzled expression. Gradually, as she went on, a light of comprehension had dawned in his eyes. Then he had broken in upon her catalogue of woes50 with a broad grin on his face.
“Igad, this is rich!” he repeated. He put his hands in his pockets, withdrew them, and then took a few steps up and down the room, chuckling51 deeply to himself.
The power of speech came first to Mother Agnes. “If ’t is to insult our griefs you’ve come, young sir,” she began; “if that’s your m’aning—”
“Bless your heart, madam!” Bernard protested. “I’d be the last man in the world to dream of such a thing. I’ve too much respect. I’ve an aunt who is a religious, myself. No, what I mean is it’s all a joke—that is, a mistake. O’Daly isn’t dead at all.”
“What’s that you’re sayin’?” put in Mrs. Fergus, sharply. “Me man is aloive, ye say?”
“Why, of course”—the youngster went off into a fresh fit of chuckling—“of course, he is—alive and kicking. Yes, especially kicking!”
“The Lord’s mercy on us!” said the mother superior. “And where would Cormac be, thin!”
“Well, that’s another matter. I don’t know that I can tell you just now; but, take my word for it, he’s as alive as I am, and he’s perfectly53 safe, too.”
The astonished pause which followed was broken by the mumbling54 monologue55 of poor half-palsied Sister Blanaid:
“I putt the box in her hands, an’ I says, says I: ‘Away wid ye, now, an’ t’row it into the say!’ An’ thin she wint.”
The other women exchanged startled glances. In their excitement they had forgotten about Kate.
Before they could speak, Bernard, with a mystified glance at the spluttering old lady, had taken up the subject of their frightened thoughts.
“But what I came for,” he said, looking from one to the other, “what I was specially52 in a stew56 about, was to get here before—before Miss Kate had taken her vows57. The ceremony was set down for to-day, as I understand. Perhaps I’m wrong; but that’s why I asked if I was in time.”
“You are in time,” answered Mother Agnes, solemnly.
Her sepulchral58 tone jarred upon the young man’s ear. Looking into the speaker’s pallid59, vail-framed face, he was troubled vaguely60 by a strange, almost sinister61 significance in her glance.
“You’re in fine time,” the mother superior repeated, and bowed her head.
“Man alive!” Mrs. Fergus exclaimed, rising and leaning toward him. “You’ve no sinse of what you’re saying. Me daughter’s gone, too!”
“‘Gone!’ How gone? What do you mean?” Bernard gazed in blank astonishment62 into the vacuous63 face of Mrs. Fergus. Mechanically he strode toward her and took her hand firmly in his.
“Where has she gone to?” he demanded, as his scattered64 wits came under control again. “Do you mean that she’s run away? Can’t you speak?”
Mrs. Fergus, thus stoutly65 adjured66, began to whimper:
“They sint her from here—’t was always harsh they were wid her—ye heard Sister Blanaid yerself say they sint her—an’ out she wint to walk under the cliffs—some byes of Peggy Clancy saw her go—an’ she never came back through the long night—an’ me wid no wink o’ sleep—an’ me nerves that bad!”
Overcome by her emotions, Mrs. Fergus, her hand still in Bernard’s grasp, bent67 forward till her crimps rested on the young man’s shoulder. She moved her forehead gingerly about till it seemed certain that the ornaments68 were sustaining no injury. Then she gave her maternal69 feelings full sway and sobbed with fervor70 against the coat of the young man from Houghton County.
“Don’t cry, Mrs. O’Daly,” was all Bernard could think of to say.
The demonstration71 might perhaps have impressed him had he not perforce looked over the weeping lady’s head straight into the face of the mother superior. There he saw written such contemptuous incredulity that he himself became conscious of skepticism.
“Don’t take on so!” he urged, this time less gently, and strove to disengage himself.
But Mrs. Fergus clung to his hand and resolutely buried her face against his collar. Sister Ellen had risen to her feet beside Mother Agnes, and he heard the two nuns sniff28 indignantly. Then he realized that the situation was ridiculous.
“What is it you suspect?” he asked of the mother superior, eager to make a diversion of some kind.
“You can’t be imagining that harm’s come to Miss Kate—that she ’s drowned?”
“That same was our belafe,” said Mother Agnes, glaring icily upon him and his sobbing72 burden.
The inference clearly was that the spectacle before her affronted73 eyes had been enough to overturn all previous convictions, of whatever character.
Bernard hesitated no longer. He almost wrenched74 his hand free and then firmly pushed Mrs. Fergus away.
“It’s all nonsense,” he said, assuming a confidence he did not wholly feel. “She’s no more drowned than I am.”
“Faith, I had me fears for you, wid such a dale of tears let loose upon ye,” remarked Mother Agnes, dryly.
The young man looked straight into the reverend countenance75 of the superior and confided76 to it an audacious wink.
“I’ll be back in no time,” he said, taking up his hat. “Now don’t you fret77 another bit. She’s all right. I know it. And I’ll go and find her.” And with that he was gone.
An ominous78 silence pervaded79 the reception hall. The two nuns, still standing80, stared with wrathful severity at Mrs. Fergus. She bore their gaze with but an indifferent show of composure, patting her disordered crimps with an awkward hand, and then moving aimlessly across the room.
“I’ll be going now, I’m thinking,” she said, at last, yet lingered in spite of her words.
The nuns looked slowly at one another, and uttered not a word.
“Well, thin, ’t is small comfort I have, annyway, or consolation81 either, from the lot of ye,” Mrs. Fergus felt impelled82 to remark, drawing her shawl up on her head and walking toward the door. “An’ me wid me throubles, an’ me nerves.”
“Is it consolation you’re afther?” retorted Mother Agnes, bitterly. “I haven’t the proper kind of shoulder on me for your variety of consolation.”
“Thrue ye have it, Agnes O’Mahony,” Mrs. Fergus came back, with her hand on the latch83. “An’ by the same token, thim shoulders were small consolation to you yourself, till you got your nun’s vail to hide ’em!”
When she had flounced her way out, the mother superior remained standing, her gaze bent upon the floor.
“Sister Ellen,” she said at last, “me powers are failing me. ’T is time I laid down me burden. For the first time in me life I was unayqual to her impiddence.”
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收听单词发音
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1
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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2
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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3
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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4
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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5
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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7
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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8
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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10
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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11
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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12
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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13
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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14
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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15
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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16
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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18
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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20
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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22
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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24
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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25
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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26
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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scintilla
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| n.极少，微粒 | |
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28
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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29
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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30
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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31
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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32
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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35
elucidated
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| v.阐明，解释( elucidate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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37
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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38
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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40
erectness
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| n.直立 | |
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41
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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42
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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43
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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44
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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45
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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46
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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47
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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48
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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49
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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50
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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51
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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52
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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53
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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54
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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55
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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56
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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57
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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58
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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59
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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60
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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61
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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62
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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