Annie had been home from her day’s task some minutes, and sat by her grandmother’s bedside. The patient was in a semi-comatose state, breathing with unnatural1 heaviness, and Samantha had been dispatched with all haste to bring a doctor from Thessaly. It seemed terribly probable that Mrs. Warren’s last day had come.
Yet as she sat by the curtained recess2, holding in her’s the withered3 hand which lay inanimate on the high edge of the bed, Annie still thought very little of the great change impending4 over her home; she had faced this death in life so long that its climax5 did not startle her, or wear the garb6 of strangeness. Instead, she was pondering the unaccountable, unwelcome fact with which Samantha had greeted her on her return—that Isabel was in the adjoining room, and had asked to see her.
What could it mean? What could Isabel’s purpose be in coming? And ought she to sacrifice her own feelings to the dictates7 of politeness, and go in to see this wicked, cruel woman? Perhaps she had come to retract8 and apologize for the fearful words of Tuesday. Perhaps her intention was to reiterate9 them, or worse, to recount that now the whole world would know of them—and gloat over her pain. No, that could scarcely be, for since her interview with Milton Annie felt satisfied at least of Seth’s innocence10. But still something new might have been disclosed—Isabel might have evil tidings of some sort with which to overwhelm her afresh. What should she do?
The parlor11 door was ajar, and though she could not see her visitor, she could plainly hear the snapping of the wood fire within, which Samantha had kindled13. Isabel must be perfectly14 aware of her return, and of her presence in this sick chamber15. Every minute that she hesitated would only augment16 the widow’s anger at being thus inhospitably neglected. Even if she had relented, and had come with kindly17 intent, this reception might alter her impulses.
She rose to enter the parlor, but still stood irresolute18, holding her grandmother’s hand, when there came the sound of footsteps in the front hall—then of a hasty knock on the door opening from the hall into this room in which she was. She opened the door, and before her, excited and jubilant, stood her cousin Seth.
“I’ve come to tell you!” he burst out, “It’s all cleared up. There was a murder. Milton did it! He’s just been arrested! I tried to ring your bell, but it didn’t seem to work. So I had to come in! And now——”
He opened his arms with an unmistakable gesture, and they closed fondly upon an overjoyed maiden19, who sobbed20 upon his breast for very relief.
When she found breath and words, it was to say:
“Oh, you can’t guess what I have suffered these last two days; I thought I should never live through them! And now it seems as if I should go wild with joy—as if I couldn’t keep my feet down on the floor!”
“Yes, yes, I know, my darling. But we shall be all the happier for this spell of wretchedness. Dry your eyes, pet. There shall be no more thought or talk of tears—much less of dying.”
“O Seth!—I forgot!—my grandmother!”
She lowered her voice, and told him her fears.
Hand in hand, and with his arm about her shoulder, they moved softly to the bedside of the dying woman. The noise of the talking, or some less apparent influence, had aroused her from her lethargy. Her pale eyes were brilliant still, with an unearthly light, it seemed to the awed21 young man, and she rested their gaze fixedly22 upon the couple.
“Who is that?” she asked in a querulous whisper.
“It is Seth, Granny,” the girl answered, relapsing unconsciously into the familiar form she had not used since childhood.
The aged23 woman restlessly moved her head, and her eyes snapped with impatience24 at her inability to raise herself from the pillow.
“I won’t have him here! Tell him to take his arm away. What’s he doin’ here, anyway? He desarted yeh! His own father told me so! Tell him to go away! I hate the sight of the hull25 breed!”
“But he’s come back to me, Granny,” the girl pleaded, while Seth shrank backward in the shadow of the curtain. “Truly he has, and he’s not to blame. And I love him very dearly”—a pressure from the young man’s hand answered the sweetness of this avowal—“and he will be all I shall have left when—when—” she stopped, unwilling26 to conclude her thought in words.
“An’ will he take yeh away, an’ do by yeh ez a husban’ ought to do, or will he take yeh onto that Fairchild farm, an’ break yer heart out ez his father did his mother’s, an’ ez his uncle did yer mother’s, an’ ez his brother, so they tell me, is doin’ with his wife?”
“Oh, mercy!” the girl exclaimed, involuntarily; then she whispered to Seth, back of the curtains: “What shall I do! I forgot all about it—Isabel is there in the parlor and she has heard every word we’ve said.”
The quick ears of the invalid27 caught the whispered explanation. .
“Isabel!” she said, sharply. “That’s Albert Fairchild’s wife ain’t it?”
“Yes!” the girl answered. She tried in dumb show to convey to Seth that her grandmother was ignorant of his brother’s death.
“Go an’ fetch her in here,” said Mrs. Warren, with more animation28 in her voice than it had shown before. “I want to see her—to talk with her.”
“But, Granny, you ought’nt to see strangers; you know, the doctor——”
“I guess she ain’t much more of a stranger than this young man you’ve got here. Go an’ fetch her, I say! I won’t hurt her, an’ she won’t hurt me.”
There was nothing for Annie to do, but go into the parlor, and bow shamefacedly to Isabel, and say, with embarrassment29 in every syllable30: “Excuse me for not coming before, but I think my grandmother is dying. She wants very much to see you. Won’t you come, please?”
Isabel had risen to her feet upon Annie’s entrance. To the latter’s surprise and increased confusion she held forth31 her hand with a friendly gesture. “Yes, I will come with you,” she said, as Annie doubtingly took the proffered32 hand, and the two women entered the sick-room.
Isabel did not seem to see Seth, who stood at the head of the bed, among the drawn33 curtains, but walked to the bedside and said softly: “I am Isabel, Mrs. Warren; I am sorry that our first meeting should find you so low.”
“So you’re Albert’s wife, eh?” The old woman eyed her keenly, for what seemed a long time. “I’ve heered tell o’ you. Would you mind gettin’ that candle there, on the mantle-piece, an’ holdin’ it, so’t I kin12 see yer face?”
Isabel gravely complied with the request, and stood before the invalid again, with the yellow light glowing upon her throat and lower chin and nostrils34 and full, Madonna-like brows. Her face was at its best with this illumination from below. She would have been a rare beauty close before the footlights.
“Well,” said Mrs. Warren, after a long inspection35, “P’raps it’ll sound ridiculous to yeh, but yeh don’t look unlike what I did when I was your age. The farm ain’t had time to tell on yeh yit. But it will! It made me the skeercrow that you see; it’ll do the same for you. When I was a girl, I was a Thayer, the best fam’ly in Norton, Massachusetts. We held our heads high, I kin tell yeh. Why, when I brought my side-saddle here, stitched with silk, ’twas the fust one they’d ever seen in these parts. But I married beneath me, an’ I come up here into York State to live, on this very farm. With us, farmin’ don’t mean a livin’ death. P’raps we don’t hev sech fine big barns ez yeh build here, but our houses are better. We don’t git such good crops, but we pay more heed36 to education and godly livin’. It’s th’ diff’rence ’twixt folks who b’lieve there’s somethin’ else in life b’sides eatin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ makin’ money, an’ folks that don’t. Well, I left a good home, an’ I come here, an’ here I am. Look at me! Look at Lemuel Fairchild’s wife, Cicely—she was a relation of yours, wasn’t she?—see how the farm made an ole woman o’ her, an’ broke her down, an’ killed her! You’re young, an’ you’re good lookin’ yit, but it’ll break yeh, sure’s yer born. Husban’s on these farms ain’t what they air in the cities, nor even in the country in New England. I’m told your husban’ don’t treat you right.”
“Don’t let us talk about that—please!” said Isabel: she stole a swift, momentary37 glance toward Seth as she spoke38.
The keen eyes in the recess followed this look. “Well, no,” the husky, whispering voice went on, “p’raps it ain’t none o’ my business. But tell me about this young man here—yer husband’s brother. I want to know about him.”
“What about him?” asked Isabel slowly, after a pause.
“Why, is he a likely man? Air his habits good? Could he take this girl o’ mine—an’ she’s a good girl, Annie is—could he take her to Tecumsy, an’ make a fit home fer her? An’ would he do it? Would he make her a good husban’—ez good ez she desarves? I ask you, ’cause you know him. I leave it to you—would you yerself marry him ef yeh was free, an’ feel safe about him? Come, now, tell me that!”
Isabel hesitated so long that the old woman, seemingly wandering a little after her long, laborious39 concentration of thought, broke in again:
“Oh, I know ’em! I know ’em! Of all the Fair-childses, there never was one decent one. They stole my daughter, an’ let her die ’mongst strangers, an’ they made a broken ole woman o’ me, an’ they slaved Cicely’s life out o’ her, an’ now they want my Annie——”
“No,” said Isabel here, speaking softly, and putting her hand on the wasted arm which lay above the coverlet. “I think you wrong Seth. Whatever the rest may have done, I think he will be a good husband to Annie. I am sure he will.”
No answer, save a low, incoherent murmuring, came from the recess. The invalid had lapsed40 into the lethargy of exhausted41 nature. As the trio stood by the bedside even this sound ceased. Nothing was to be heard but the labored42, unnatural breathing.
Isabel placed the candle again upon the shelf. She had not removed her bonnet43 and wrap, and she turned now irresolutely44 toward the door.
Annie went to her, and silently took her hand. “I forgive you,” she whispered. “Was there anything else? Did you want to speak to me?”
“I don’t know what I wanted when I came. Let me go now. Perhaps if I said any more, I should hate myself afterward45.”
And thus, without a glance at Seth, she went.
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1
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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2
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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3
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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4
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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6
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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7
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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8
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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9
reiterate
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| v.重申，反复地说 | |
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10
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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11
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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12
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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13
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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14
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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15
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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16
augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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17
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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18
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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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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20
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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21
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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23
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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25
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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26
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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27
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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28
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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29
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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30
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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31
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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32
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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34
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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35
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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36
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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37
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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38
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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39
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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40
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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41
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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42
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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43
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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44
irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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45
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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