In desolation unrepining,
Without a hope on earth to find
A mirror in an answering mind,
Meek1 souls there are who little deem
Their daily strife2 an angel’s theme.”
Keble.
In the spring Dora was invited to spend a few weeks with an old family friend in London, where there were daughters who had always been her holiday friends, and with whom she exchanged letters, on big square pages of paper, filled to the very utmost with small delicate handwriting, crossed over so that they looked like chequer-work, and going into all the flaps and round the seal. They did not come above once in a month or six weeks, and contained descriptions of what the damsels had seen, thought, heard, read, or felt; so that they were often really worth the eightpence that had to be paid on their reception.
Edmund, who had business in London, took his sister-in-law there, driving old Major to the crossroads, where they met the stage-coach. He went outside, on the box-seat, and she in the dull and close-packed interior, where four persons and one small child had to make the best of their quarters for the six hours that the journey lasted. Tired, headachy, and dusty with March dust, at last Dora emerged, and was very glad to rattle3 through the London streets in a hackney coach to Mr Elwood’s tall house, where there was a warm welcome ready for her.
But we need not hear of the pictures she saw, nor the music she heard, nor the plays she enjoyed, nor the parties she went to during that thorough holiday—though perhaps some would not call it a holiday, since the morning was spent in lessons in music, drawing, and Italian, in practising these same lessons, and in reading history aloud—the reading of some lighter4 book being an evening pleasure when the family were alone. Dora would not have enjoyed it half so much if it had not been for the times of real solid thought and interest. Her friends, too, had some poems still in manuscript lent to them, which made an immense impression on the young souls, and which they all learnt and discussed on Sundays, trying to enter into their meaning, and insensibly getting moulded by them. They were the poems that Dora knew a few years later as the “Christian Year.” They made her home-work still dearer to her, and she had never let her interest fade among all her pleasures, but she was accumulating little gifts for the children, for Betty Pucklechurch, Widow Mole5, Judith Grey, and the rest.
One day, when some intimate friends of the Elwoods were spending the day with them, something was said about Dora’s home; and one of the visitors exclaimed, “Uphill—Uphill, near Poppleby,—is that the place?”
“Yes.”
“Then I wonder whether you can tell me anything about our dear old nursery maid, Judith Grey.”
“Judith Grey! Oh yes! She is the very nicest person in all Uphill,” cried Dora. “Is it your father that gives her a pension?”
“Yes. You know it was while carrying little Selina downstairs, that she put her foot into the string of James’s humming-top, and tumbled down all the stone stairs. She managed to save Selina—dear old Judy!—but she hurt her back most dreadfully, and she can’t ever be well again, so papa gives her an allowance. She writes cheerfully, but we should like to hear more about her. We all were so fond of her.”
“Indeed, I don’t wonder. She is so good and patient. Such a dear thing! Mary and I call her the bright spot in our parish.”
“She lives with a sister, I think. Is she nice?”
Dora had her opportunity, and she painted Dan Hewlett and his household in no flattering colours. Molly was a slattern, and Dan was a thief, and the children ate up Judith’s dainties, and they all preyed8 upon her. It was a perfectly9 horrid10 life for a good, well-trained, high-principled person to lead. In fact, she poured out all the indignant accusations11 that she and Mary had been wont12 to make between themselves or to Edmund; and she sent Caroline and Anne Barnard home greatly shocked at what she had told them of their dear Judy’s surroundings.
Mrs Barnard came the next day, and begged to hear Miss Carbonel’s account. Dora was a little more moderate than she had been to the young ladies; but, any way, it was sad enough, and Mrs Barnard gave hopes that something should be done. All the family sent little presents of books or articles of dress, and Dora promised to write and let her know of their reception.
It was one of the great pleasures of the return to spread them out before Judith, and to tell of her sight of the dear young ladies and their mother, and how tall, and what a fine girl little Miss Selina had become. But she did not seem quite so happy when she perceived that Dora had disclosed a good deal of her circumstances; and observed that her sister was always a good sister to her. Which Dora took leave to doubt, especially when she recognised Miss Barnard’s pretty gift of a blue turnover13, all on one side, upon young Polly’s dirty shoulders. Judith waited, and hoped, and gave up hope, and found fault with the Barnards before she heard anything; but at last she did. The Barnards’ old housekeeper14, with whom Judith had lived, had married their head gardener. He had died, and she was settled in a cottage in the park, where she would be very happy to receive Judith, and make her comfortable. The place was only thirty miles off, and if she consented, Mrs Barnard would pay a visit she had been asked to make to the Duchess, and take Judith back in the easy carriage, so as to spare her all fatigue15.
Dora and Sophy were in a state of transport, and wanted to rush off at once with the good news, but Mary withheld16 them. She thought it might be too much for so frail17 an invalid18, and insisted on going with them and telling Judith herself. Nor would she go till after Sophy’s morning studies were over, and they had had luncheons19 which, by-the-by, was not an early dinner, but a slender meal of cold meat, cake, or bread and cheese, of which Edmund never partook at all. She devised this delay on purpose to wear down the excitement, and Dora had begun to say how they should miss Judith, only it was all for her good.
Molly was out, as the sisters hoped, tossing the meadow hay, and Judith sat alone by the fire. Mary told her very gently of the scheme, and she kept on saying, “Thank you, ma’am,” while the tears came into her eyes. Mrs Carbonel gave her Mrs Barnard’s letter to read, but the tears came so thick and fast that she could not see it at first, nor indeed fully6 grasp the meaning, while two pairs of eyes were devouring20 her countenance21 as she read. Mrs Carbonel guessed how it was, and saw that the transports which Dora and Sophy expected were not by any means near, so she gently said, “We will leave you to read the letter, and come again to-morrow to hear what you think.”
“Thank you, ma’am; thank you,” said poor Judith, as well as she could among her tears.
“How stupid she is!” cried Sophy, as they emerged into the road.
“I don’t believe she could read Mrs Barnard’s letter,” said Dora.
“No, not for tears,” said Mary.
“Do you think she could have understood you?” added Sophy.
“Oh, yes; she understood well enough.”
“But how could she be so dull as not to be delighted?” said Sophy.
“So ungrateful, too!” added Dora.
“My dear Dora! It was the embarrassment22 of her gratitude23 that touched me so much,” exclaimed Mary.
“Do you really think she will not be enchanted24 to get away from that dismal25 hole, and live with honest people?” asked Sophy.
“My dears, I think you have quite forgotten that Mrs Dan Hewlett is her sister.”
“Nobody would think so,” said Dora.
“If she could only take Johnnie and Judy away with her,” said Sophy, “before their father has spoiled them.”
“You can’t think she would refuse such an offer!” added Dora. “To be with a good, nice woman, and at peace among her friends. It really would be quite wicked in her to refuse.”
Nevertheless, Mary withstood all the entreaties26 of her sisters to go with her to hear Judith’s decision. Edmund heard them persuading her, and in his peremptory27 manner desired them to desist. So they hovered28 about the garden and home-field waiting for news.
But the news was not what they expected. Mrs Carbonel found Judith very tearful, but resolute29.
“I could not do it, ma’am! I am sorry, sorry to the heart, to seem ungrateful for her kindness; but, indeed, I could not do it. I cannot leave my sister and the children.”
“You would be so much more comfortable—so much better looked after.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know that. Mrs Gregg is one of the best of women, and so kind. It is very good of her to be willing to take me in; but—”
“You need not be afraid of the journey. Mrs Barnard will come for you.”
“Oh yes, ma’am, I know; but there’s my sister, ma’am, and her children. I could not leave them.”
“I was afraid they did not know how to take care of you, and that your brother-in-law was rough with you.”
“My sister have been much better of late, since you have been here, ma’am; and the poor children, ma’am, I can do something for them.”
“I see that John and Judy seem to respond to your care; but is it right to give up all your comfort and peace, and even your health, for so little as you are enabled to do for them? It would be better if there were some appreciation31 of your care, or some attention paid—”
“Molly is generally good to me. Yes, she is, ma’am; and poor little Johnnie, there ain’t nothing he would not do for me. I’m greatly obliged to Mrs Barnard and the dear young ladies. I would dearly like to see them again; but Molly is my sister, and my sister is my sister, and I can’t feel it right to leave her.”
“I honour you, Judith. It is a right feeling. But when they neglect you, and prey7 upon you, can it be incumbent32 on you to give up all for their sakes?”
“I don’t know, ma’am; but my poor sister, she has a hard life, and I think her husband would be worse to her if I went away. I couldn’t have no comfort in thinking of them if I did.”
“Do they know of this? Have they been persuading you?”
“No, ma’am; I did not say a word. Molly was out, and I wanted to think it out without being worried and terrified.”
“Quite right, Judith. I am glad they do not know,” said Mary, who had learned that “terrified” did not mean frightened, but “tormented.” “I can well believe you have decided33 in true unselfishness, and in the fear of God. But if you see reason to change your mind, let me know in the course of the week.”
Dora and Sophy were really quite angry at Judith’s refusal, especially Dora, who had taken all the trouble of representing her condition to the Barnards.
“I should call it ungrateful,” she said, “only I believe it is pure weakness and folly34. Those people have been bullying35 her and tormenting36 her out of consenting.”
“You are wrong, Dora,” said her sister, “they know nothing about it! This is all her own doing.”
“And,” said Edmund, “if you were older, Dora, you would know how to appreciate a very noble act of self-denial.”
Dora did not at all like Edmund to talk of her being older; but what he had said gave her something to think about, and she began to reverence37 the feeling that made Judith Grey choose the rough and ungenial life with the Hewletts, to comfort and sympathy with her friends.
Mrs Carbonel and Judith were mistaken in thinking the transaction could pass unknown to the rest of the family. Polly was near at hand, but had hidden herself, on the lad’s approach, for fear of being called to account for not being at school, and she reported to her mother that “Madam Gobbleall had been ever so long with aunt, a-trying to persuade her to go away, and live with them fine folks as she was in service with.”
Molly had a certain real affection for her sister; but to both her and Dan, the removal would be like the loss of the goose that laid the golden eggs, and there is no saying what poor Judith had to go through. Molly came and cried torrents38 of tears, taking it for granted that Judith meant to go, and must be frightened out of it. It was of no use to declare that she had refused the lady. Molly was so much in the habit of semi-deception, that she could not believe the assurance; and to hear her lamentations over her dear sister, for whom no one could do like a blood-relation, and her horror at the idea of strangers being preferred to herself, one would have thought—as indeed she believed herself—that she was Judith’s most devoted39 and indefatigable40 nurse. And to think of them Gobblealls being so sly, such snakes in the grass, as to try to get her away, unknownst! She would not have them prying41 about her house again.
Dan declared it was all the cunning of them, for fear Judith should become chargeable to the parish, and there! her fine friends would die, or give her up, or she would just be thrown on the parish, and passed on to a strange workhouse, and then she would see what she got by leaving her kin30. It was just like their sly tricks!
In point of fact, if Judith had become chargeable to the parish, Dan’s remarks would have been equally true of Uphill, whence she would have been handed to the place where her father had lived, and it was the object of every place to dispose of all superfluous42 paupers43. But Dan and Molly wished her to imagine them willing to keep her freely, in case of a failure of the supplies!
Poor thing! They really thought that their opposition44 had induced her to drop the idea, and that it was for their own ease, or the good of the rates, that the Carbonel ladies had tried to persuade her to leave them. Molly did not forbid the ladies the house—there was too much to be made out of the pickings from their presents—so Judith did not lose the cheerfulness and comfort they brought her; but Dan laid up the proposal in his mind as another cause of hatred45 and ill-will to Captain Carbonel.
点击收听单词发音
1 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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2 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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3 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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4 lighter | |
n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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5 mole | |
n.胎块;痣;克分子 | |
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6 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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7 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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8 preyed | |
v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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9 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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10 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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11 accusations | |
n.指责( accusation的名词复数 );指控;控告;(被告发、控告的)罪名 | |
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12 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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13 turnover | |
n.人员流动率,人事变动率;营业额,成交量 | |
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14 housekeeper | |
n.管理家务的主妇,女管家 | |
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15 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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16 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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17 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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18 invalid | |
n.病人,伤残人;adj.有病的,伤残的;无效的 | |
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19 luncheons | |
n.午餐,午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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20 devouring | |
吞没( devour的现在分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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21 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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22 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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23 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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24 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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25 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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26 entreaties | |
n.恳求,乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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27 peremptory | |
adj.紧急的,专横的,断然的 | |
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28 hovered | |
鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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29 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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30 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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31 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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32 incumbent | |
adj.成为责任的,有义务的;现任的,在职的 | |
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33 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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34 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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35 bullying | |
v.恐吓,威逼( bully的现在分词 );豪;跋扈 | |
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36 tormenting | |
使痛苦的,使苦恼的 | |
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37 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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38 torrents | |
n.倾注;奔流( torrent的名词复数 );急流;爆发;连续不断 | |
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39 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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40 indefatigable | |
adj.不知疲倦的,不屈不挠的 | |
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41 prying | |
adj.爱打听的v.打听,刺探(他人的私事)( pry的现在分词 );撬开 | |
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42 superfluous | |
adj.过多的,过剩的,多余的 | |
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43 paupers | |
n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 );贫民;贫穷 | |
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44 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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45 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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