Certainly, as the grim old maid in the rusty5 bombazine gown and cap, which gave a funereal6 air even to the red plaid shawl over her shoulders, sat at her upper window, and tried through a pained and resentful chaos7 of secular8 thoughts to follow the Scriptural lines, there was an extremely vivid conviction uppermost in her mind that justice had been meted9 out neither to her nor to the Fairchilds. She would have repelled10 indignantly, and honestly enough too, the charge that there was any bitterness in her heart toward the sister-in-law whose burial was appointed for the morrow. She had liked poor Cicely, in her iron-clad way, and had wept genuine tears more than once since her death. Indeed, her thoughts—and they were persistent11, self-asserting thoughts which not even her favorite recital12 of Gideon’s sanguinary triumph could keep back—ran more upon the living than upon the dead.
And what gloomy, melancholy13 thoughts they were! They swept over two score of years, the whole gamut14 of emotion, from the pride and hope of youth to the anguish15 of disappointed, wrathful, hopeless old age, as her hand might cover all there was of sound in music by a run down her mother’s ancient spinet16 which stood, mute and forgotten, in the corner of the room. Her brother, this brother whom satirical fate had made a Lemuel instead of a Lucy or a Lucretia, a man instead of a woman as befitted his weakness of mind and spirit—had begun life with a noble heritage. Where was it now? He had been the heir to a leading position among the men of his county. What was he now? The Fairchilds had been as rich, as respected, as influential17 as any Dearborn family. Who did them honor now?
The mental answers to these questions blurred18 Miss Sabrina’s spectacles with tears, and Gideon’s performance with the lamps seemed a tiresome19 thing. She laid the Book aside, and went softly down stairs to her brother, who sat, still rocking in his late wife’s high, cushioned arm-chair, disconsolate21 by the stove.
There were also in the room his oldest son and this son’s wife, sitting dumbly, each at a window, making a seemly pretence22 of not being bored by the meagre prospect23 without. They looked at their aunt in that far-off impassive manner with which participants in a high pageant24 or solemn observance always regard one another. There was no call for a greeting, since they had already exchanged whispered salutations, earlier in the day. Miss Sabrina glanced at the young wife for an instant—it was not a kindly25 glance. Then her eyes turned to the husband, and while surveying him seemed suddenly to light up with some new thought. She almost smiled, and her tight pressed lips parted. Had they followed the prompting of the brain and spoken, the words would have been:
“Thank God, there is still Albert!”
Albert Fairchild would have been known in any company, and in any guise27, I think, for a lawyer. The profession had its badge in every line and aspect of his face, in every movement of his head, and, so it seemed, in the way he held his hands, in the very tone of his voice. His face was round, and would have been pleasant, so far as conformation and expression went, had it not been for the eyes, which were unsympathetic, almost cold. Often the rest of his countenance28 was wreathed in amiable29 smiles; but the eyes smiled never. He had looked a middle-aged30 man for a decade back, and casual acquaintances who met him from year to year complimented him on not growing old, because they saw no change. In fact he had been old from the beginning, and even now looked more than his age, which lacked some few months of forty. He was growing bald above the temples, and, like all the Fairchilds, was taking on flesh with increasing years. Nothing could have better shown the extremity31 of poor Sabrina’s woe32 than this clutching at the relief afforded by the sight of Albert, for she was not on good terms with him. Albert had been born and reared through boyhood at a time when the farm was still prosperous and money plenty. He had been educated far beyond the traditions of his sires, and was the first University man of his family, so far as was known. He had been given his own bent33 in all things, before he settled down to a choice of profession, and then, at considerable expense, had been secured a place with one of the greatest legal firms in New York City. For years the first fruits of the soil, the cream off all the milk—so the Aunt’s mingled34 scriptural and dairy metaphors35 ran—had been his. And what return had they had for it? He had become a sound, successful lawyer, with a handsome income, and he had married wealth as well. Yet year after year, as the fortunes of the Fairchild homestead declined, he had never interfered36 to prevent the fresh mortgage being placed—nay, had more than once explicitly37 declined to help save it.
“Agriculture is out of date in this State,” she had heard him say once, with her own ears, “Better let the old people live on their capital, as they go along. It’s no use throwing good money after bad. Farm land here in the East is bound to decrease in value, steadily38.”
This about the homestead—about the cradle of his ancestors! Poor old lady, had the Fairchilds been sending baronial roots down through all this soil for a thousand years, she couldn’t have been more pained or mortified39 over Albert’s callous40 view of the farm which her grandfather, a revolted cobbler from Rhode Island, had cleared and paid for at ten cents an acre.
Then there was his marriage, too. In all the years of armed neutrality or tacit warfare41 which she and Cicely had passed together under one roof, they had never before or since come so near an open and palpable rupture42 as they did over a city-bred cousin of Cicely’s—a forward, impertinent, ill-behaved girl from New York, who had come to the farm on a visit some ten years before, and whose father was summoned at last to take her away because otherwise she, Sabrina, threatened to herself leave the house. There had been a desperate scene before this conclusion was reached. Sabrina had stormed and threatened to shake the dust of the homestead from off her outraged43 sandals. Cicely for the once had stood her ground, and said she fancied even worse things than that might happen without producing a universal cataclysm44. Lemuel had almost wept with despair over the tumult45. The two older boys, particularly John, had not concealed46 their exuberant47 hope that their maiden48 Aunt might be taken at her word, and allowed to leave. And the girl herself, this impudent49 huzzy of a Richardson, actually put her spoke26 in too, and said things about old cats and false teeth, which it made Sabrina’s blood still boil to recall.
And it was this girl, of all others in the world, whom Albert must go and marry!
Yet Sabrina, in her present despondent50 mood, felt herself able to rise above mere51 personal piques52 and dislikes, if there really was a hope for the family’s revival53. She was not very sanguine54 about even Albert, but beyond him there was no chance at all.
John, the second brother, had talent enough, she supposed. People said he was smart, and he must be, else he could scarcely have come in his twenty-eighth year to be owner and editor of the Thessaly Banner of Liberty, and put in all those political pieces written in the first person plural55, as if he had the power of attorney for all Dearborn county. But then he was mortally shiftless about money matters, and they did say that since his wife’s death—a mere school-teacher she had been—he had become quite dissipated and played billiards56. Besides she was at open feud57 with him, and never, never would speak to him again, the longest day he lived! So that settled John.
As for Seth, the youngest of the brothers, it is to be doubted if she would have thought of him at all, had he not come in at the moment. He had been down to the village to get some black clothes which the tailor had constructed on short notice for him, and he, too, passed through the sitting room to the stairs with the serious look and the dead silence which the awful presence imposes.
Then she did think of him for a moment, as she stood warming her fingers over the bald, flat top of the stove—for though bright and warm enough outside, the air was still chilly58 in these great barns of rooms.
Seth was indisputably the handsomest of all the Fairchilds, even handsomer than she remembered his father to have been—a tall, straight, broadshouldered youth, who held his head well up and looked everybody in the face with honest hazel eyes. He had the Richardson complexion59, a dusky tint60 gained doubtless from all those Dutch intermarriages of which poor Cicely used to make so much, but his brown hair curled much as Lemuel’s used to curl, only not so effeminately, and his temper was as even as his father’s had been, though not so submissive or weak. His hands were rough and coarse from the farm work, and his walk showed familiarity with ploughed ground, but still he had, in his way, a more distinguished61 air than either Albert or John had ever had.
Looking him over, a stranger would have been surprised that his aunt should have left him out of her thoughts of the family’s future—or that, once pausing to consider him, she should have dropped the idea so swiftly. But so it was. Miss Sabrina felt cold and aggrieved62 toward Albert, and she came as near hating John as a deeply devout63 woman safely could. She simply took no account of Seth at all, as she would have expressed it. To her he was a quiet, harmless sort of youngster, who worked prettily64 steadily on the farm, and got on civilly with people. She understood that he was very fond of reading, but that made no special impression on her.
If she had been asked, she would undoubtedly65 have said that Seth was her favorite nephew—but she had never dreamed of regarding him as a possible restorer of the family glories.
“Is yer oven hot enough?” she asked Alvira in the kitchen, a minute later. “If they’s anything I dew hate, it’s a soggy undercrust.”
“I guess I kin20 manage a batch66 o’ pies by this time,” returned the hired-girl with a sniff67. Through some unexplained process of reasoning, Alvira was with the Fairchilds as against the Richardsons, but she was first of all for herself, against the whole human race.
“Milton gone aout with the caows?” asked the old lady, ignoring for the once the domestic’s challenge. “When he comes back, he ’n’ Leander better go over to Wilkinses, and get what chairs they kin spare. I s’pose there’ll be a big craowd, ef only to git in and see if there’s any holes in our body-Brussels yit, ’n’ haow that sofy-backed set in the parlor’s holdin’ out. Poor Cicely! I think they better bring over the chairs tonight, after dusk. What people don’t see they can’t talk abaout.”
“Heard Milton say he was goin’ to borrer some over at Warren’s,” remarked Alvira, in a casual way, but looking around to see how the idea affected68 Miss Sabrina.
“Well he jis’ won’t!” came the answer, very promptly69 and spiritedly. “If every mortal soul of ’em hes to stan’ up, he won’t! I guess Lemuel Fairchild’s wife can be buried ’thaout asking any help from Matildy Warren. I wouldn’t ask her if ’twas th’ las’ thing I ever did.”
“But Annie sent word she was comin’ over fus’ thing in th’ mornin’, so’s to help clear up th’ breakfast things. If she’s good enough fer that, I don’t see why you need be afeered o’ borryin’ her chairs.”
“They ain’t her chairs, and you knaow it, Alviry. I ain’t got a word to say agin’ Annie Fairchild, but when it comes to her gran’ mother, I kin ride a high horse as well’s she kin. After all the trouble she made my family, the sight of a single stick of her furnitur’ here’d be enough to bring the rafters of this haouse daown over my head, I do believe!”
“Well, of course, ‘tain’t none o’ my business, but seems to me there’ll be a plaguey slim fun’r’l when your turn comes if you’re goin’ to keep up all these old-woman’s fights with everybody ’raound abaout.”
“Naow Alviry!” began Miss Sabrina, in her shrillest and angriest tone; then with a visible effort, as if remembering something, she paused and then went on in a subdued70, almost submissive voice, “You knaow jis’ haow Matildy Warren’s used us. From the very day my poor brother William ran off with her Jenny—and goodness knaows whatever possessed71 him to dew it—thet old woman’s never missed a chance to run us all daown—ez ef she oughtn’t to been praoud o’ th’ day a Fairchild took up with a Warren.”
“Guess you ain’t had none the wu’st of it,” put in Alvira, with sarcasm72. “Guess your tongue’s ’baout as sharp as her’n ever was. B’sides she’s bed-ridden naow, ’n’ everybody thought she wouldn’t get threw th’ spring. ’N’ ef Seth’s goin’ to make up to Annie, you ought to begin to smooth things over ’fore she dies. There’s no tellin’ but what she mightn’t leave the farm away f’m th’ girl at th’ last minute, jis’ to spite you.”
“Yeh needn’t talk as if I wanted her pesky farm!”
“Oh, well now, you knaow what I mean’s well’s I dew. What’s th’ use o’ harpin’ on what yer brother William did, or what ole Matildy said, ’fore I was born, when you knaow th’ tew farms jine, and yer heart’s sot on havin’ ’em in one—Yes, ’fore I was born,” repeated the domestic, as if pleased with the implication of juvenility73.
Miss Sabrina hesitated, and looked at Alvira meditatively74 through her spectacles, in momentary75 doubt about the propriety76 of saying a sharp thing under all the circumstances; but the temptation was not to be resisted. “’N’ you ain’t percisely a chicken yourself, Alviry,” she said and left the kitchen.
Later, when Milton had returned from the pasture, and hung about the kitchen, mending the harness that went with the democrat-wagon while waiting for Leander to return from the cheese factory, Alvira remarked:
“Seems ’if Sabriny’d lost all her sper’t this last day or tew. Never see sech a change. She don’t answer up wuth a cent. I shouldn’t be s’prised if she didn’t tackle Albert’s wife after all. Oh yes, ’n’ you ain’t to go to Warren’s for them chairs. Sa-briny’s dead-set agin that.”
“What’s up?” asked Milton, “Hez Seth broke off with Annie?”
“Don’t knaow’s they ever was anything particular to break off. No, ’t ’aint that; it’s the same raow ‘tween the two ole women. Goodness knaows, I’m sick ’n’ tired of hearin’ ’baout it.”
“No, but ain’t Seth ’n’ Annie fixed77 it up?” persisted Milton; “Daown’t th’ corners they say it’s all settled.” Then he mutteringly added, as he slouched out to meet Leander, who drove up now with a great rattle78 of empty milk-cans. “I wish’t I was in Seth’s shoes.”
“Oh, you dew, dew yeh!” said Alvira, thus left to herself.
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收听单词发音
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1
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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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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gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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spinet
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| n.小型立式钢琴 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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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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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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cataclysm
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| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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piques
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的第三人称单数 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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64
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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69
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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70
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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71
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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72
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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73
juvenility
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| n.年轻，不成熟 | |
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74
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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75
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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76
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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77
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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78
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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