“Take that!” said she, almost breathless, “to teach thee how thou darest make a fool of an honest woman old enough to be thy mother. If thou com’st a step nearer the house, there’s a good horse-pool, and there’s two stout14 fellows who’ll like no better fun than ducking thee. Be off wi’ thee.”
And she strode into her own premises15, never looking round to see whether he obeyed her injunction or not.
Sometimes three or four years would pass over without her hearing Michael Hurst’s name mentioned. She used to wonder at such times whether he were dead or alive. She would sit for hours by the dying embers of her fire on a winter’s evening, trying to recall the scenes of her youth; trying to bring up living pictures of the faces she had then known—Michael’s most especially. She thought it was possible, so long had been the lapse16 of years, that she might now pass by him in the street unknowing and unknown. His outward form she might not recognise, but himself she should feel in the thrill of her whole being. He could not pass her unawares.
What little she did hear about him, all testified a downward tendency. He drank—not at stated times when there was no other work to be done, but continually, whether it was seed-time or harvest. His children were all ill at the same time; then one died, while the others recovered, but were poor sickly things. No one dared to give Susan any direct intelligence of her former lover; many avoided all mention of his name in her presence; but a few spoke17 out either in indifference18 to, or ignorance of, those bygone days. Susan heard every word, every whisper, every sound that related to him. But her eye never changed, nor did a muscle of her face move.
Late one November night she sat over her fire; not a human being besides herself in the house; none but she had ever slept there since Willie’s death. The farm-labourers had foddered the cattle and gone home hours before. There were crickets chirping19 all round the warm hearth20-stones; there was the clock ticking with the peculiar21 beat Susan had known from her childhood, and which then and ever since she had oddly associated with the idea of a mother and child talking together, one loud tick, and quick—a feeble, sharp one following.
The day had been keen, and piercingly cold. The whole lift of heaven seemed a dome22 of iron. Black and frost-bound was the earth under the cruel east wind. Now the wind had dropped, and as the darkness had gathered in, the weather-wise old labourers prophesied23 snow. The sounds in the air arose again, as Susan sat still and silent. They were of a different character to what they had been during the prevalence of the east wind. Then they had been shrill24 and piping; now they were like low distant growling25; not unmusical, but strangely threatening. Susan went to the window, and drew aside the little curtain. The whole world was white—the air was blinded with the swift and heavy fall of snow. At present it came down straight, but Susan knew those distant sounds in the hollows and gulleys of the hills portended26 a driving wind and a more cruel storm. She thought of her sheep; were they all folded? the new-born calf27, was it bedded well? Before the drifts were formed too deep for her to pass in and out—and by the morning she judged that they would be six or seven feet deep—she would go out and see after the comfort of her beasts. She took a lantern, and tied a shawl over her head, and went out into the open air. She had tenderly provided for all her animals, and was returning, when, borne on the blast as if some spirit-cry—for it seemed to come rather down from the skies than from any creature standing28 on earth’s level—she heard a voice of agony; she could not distinguish words; it seemed rather as if some bird of prey29 was being caught in the whirl of the icy wind, and torn and tortured by its violence. Again! up high above! Susan put down her lantern, and shouted loud in return; it was an instinct, for if the creature were not human, which she had doubted but a moment before, what good could her responding cry do? And her cry was seized on by the tyrannous wind, and borne farther away in the opposite direction to that from which the call of agony had proceeded. Again she listened; no sound: then again it rang through space; and this time she was sure it was human. She turned into the house, and heaped turf and wood on the fire, which, careless of her own sensations, she had allowed to fade and almost die out. She put a new candle in her lantern; she changed her shawl for a maud, and leaving the door on latch30, she sallied out. Just at the moment when her ear first encountered the weird31 noises of the storm, on issuing forth32 into the open air, she thought she heard the words, “O God! O help!” They were a guide to her, if words they were, for they came straight from a rock not a quarter of a mile from Yew Nook, but only to be reached, on account of its precipitous character, by a round-about path. Thither33 she steered34, defying wind and snow; guided by here a thorn-tree, there an old, doddered oak, which had not quite lost their identity under the whelming mask of snow. Now and then she stopped to listen; but never a word or sound heard she, till right from where the copse-wood grew thick and tangled35 at the base of the rock, round which she was winding36, she heard a moan. Into the brake—all snow in appearance—almost a plain of snow looked on from the little eminence37 where she stood—she plunged38, breaking down the bush, stumbling, bruising39 herself, fighting her way; her lantern held between her teeth, and she herself using head as well as hands to butt10 away a passage, at whatever cost of bodily injury. As she climbed or staggered, owing to the unevenness40 of the snow-covered ground, where the briars and weeds of years were tangled and matted together, her foot felt something strangely soft and yielding. She lowered her lantern; there lay a man, prone41 on his face, nearly covered by the fast-falling flakes42; he must have fallen from the rock above, as, not knowing of the circuitous43 path, he had tried to descend44 its steep, slippery face. Who could tell? it was no time for thinking. Susan lifted him up with her wiry strength; he gave no help—no sign of life; but for all that he might be alive: he was still warm; she tied her maud round him; she fastened the lantern to her apron-string; she held him tight: half-carrying, half-dragging—what did a few bruises45 signify to him, compared to dear life, to precious life! She got him through the brake, and down the path. There, for an instant, she stopped to take breath; but, as if stung by the Furies, she pushed on again with almost superhuman strength. Clasping him round the waist, and leaning his dead weight against the lintel of the door, she tried to undo47 the latch; but now, just at this moment, a trembling faintness came over her, and a fearful dread took possession of her—that here, on the very threshold of her home, she might be found dead, and buried under the snow, when the farm-servants came in the morning. This terror stirred her up to one more effort. Then she and her companion were in the warmth of the quiet haven48 of that kitchen; she laid him on the settle, and sank on the floor by his side. How long she remained in this swoon she could not tell; not very long she judged by the fire, which was still red and sullenly49 glowing when she came to herself. She lighted the candle, and bent50 over her late burden to ascertain51 if indeed he were dead. She stood long gazing. The man lay dead. There could be no doubt about it. His filmy eyes glared at her, unshut. But Susan was not one to be affrighted by the stony52 aspect of death. It was not that; it was the bitter, woeful recognition of Michael Hurst!
She was convinced he was dead; but after a while she refused to believe in her conviction. She stripped off his wet outer-garments with trembling, hurried hands. She brought a blanket down from her own bed; she made up the fire. She swathed him in fresh, warm wrappings, and laid him on the flags before the fire, sitting herself at his head, and holding it in her lap, while she tenderly wiped his loose, wet hair, curly still, although its colour had changed from nut-brown to iron-gray since she had seen it last. From time to time she bent over the face afresh, sick, and fain to believe that the flicker54 of the fire-light was some slight convulsive motion. But the dim, staring eyes struck chill to her heart. At last she ceased her delicate, busy cares; but she still held the head softly, as if caressing55 it. She thought over all the possibilities and chances in the mingled56 yarn57 of their lives that might, by so slight a turn, have ended far otherwise. If her mother’s cold had been early tended, so that the responsibility as to her brother’s weal or woe53 had not fallen upon her; if the fever had not taken such rough, cruel hold on Will; nay58, if Mrs. Gale59, that hard, worldly sister, had not accompanied him on his last visit to Yew Nook—his very last before this fatal, stormy night; if she had heard his cry,—cry uttered by those pale, dead lips with such wild, despairing agony, not yet three hours ago!—O! if she had but heard it sooner, he might have been saved before that blind, false step had precipitated60 him down the rock! In going over this weary chain of unrealised possibilities, Susan learnt the force of Peggy’s words. Life was short, looking back upon it. It seemed but yesterday since all the love of her being had been poured out, and run to waste. The intervening years—the long monotonous years that had turned her into an old woman before her time—were but a dream.
The labourers coming in the dawn of the winter’s day were surprised to see the fire-light through the low kitchen-window. They knocked, and hearing a moaning answer, they entered, fearing that something had befallen their mistress. For all explanation they got these words:
“It is Michael Hurst. He was belated, and fell down the Raven’s Crag. Where does Eleanor, his wife, live?”
How Michael Hurst got to Yew Nook no one but Susan ever knew. They thought he had dragged himself there, with some sore, internal bruise46 sapping away his minuted life. They could not have believed the superhuman exertion62 which had first sought him out, and then dragged him hither. Only Susan knew of that.
She gave him into the charge of her servants, and went out and saddled her horse. Where the wind had drifted the snow on one side, and the road was clear and bare, she rode, and rode fast; where the soft, deceitful heaps were massed up, she dismounted and led her steed, plunging63 in deep, with fierce energy, the pain at her heart urging her onwards with a sharp, digging spur.
The gray, solemn, winter’s noon was more night-like than the depth of summer’s night; dim-purple brooded the low skies over the white earth, as Susan rode up to what had been Michael Hurst’s abode64 while living. It was a small farm-house, carelessly kept outside, slatternly tended within. The pretty Nelly Hebthwaite was pretty still; her delicate face had never suffered from any long-enduring feeling. If anything, its expression was that of plaintive65 sorrow; but the soft, light hair had scarcely a tinge66 of gray; the wood-rose tint67 of complexion68 yet remained, if not so brilliant as in youth; the straight nose, the small mouth were untouched by time. Susan felt the contrast even at that moment. She knew that her own skin was weather-beaten, furrowed69, brown,—that her teeth were gone, and her hair gray and ragged61. And yet she was not two years older than Nelly,—she had not been, in youth, when she took account of these things. Nelly stood wondering at the strange-enough horsewoman, who stopped and panted at the door, holding her horse’s bridle70, and refusing to enter.
“Where is Michael Hurst?” asked Susan, at last.
“Well, I can’t rightly say. He should have been at home last night, but he was off, seeing after a public-house to be let at Ulverstone, for our farm does not answer, and we were thinking——”
“He did not come home last night?” said Susan, cutting short the story, and half-affirming, half-questioning, by way of letting in a ray of the awful light before she let it full in, in its consuming wrath71.
“No! he’ll be stopping somewhere out Ulverstone ways. I’m sure we’ve need of him at home, for I’ve no one but lile Tommy to help me tend the beasts. Things have not gone well with us, and we don’t keep a servant now. But you’re trembling all over, ma’am. You’d better come in, and take something warm, while your horse rests. That’s the stable-door, to your left.”
Susan took her horse there; loosened his girths, and rubbed him down with a wisp of straw. Then she looked about her for hay; but the place was bare of food, and smelt72 damp and unused. She went to the house, thankful for the respite73, and got some clap-bread, which she mashed74 up in a pailful of luke-warm water. Every moment was a respite, and yet every moment made her dread the more the task that lay before her. It would be longer than she thought at first. She took the saddle off, and hung about her horse, which seemed, somehow, more like a friend than anything else in the world. She laid her cheek against its neck, and rested there, before returning to the house for the last time.
Eleanor had brought down one of her own gowns, which hung on a chair against the fire, and had made her unknown visitor a cup of hot tea. Susan could hardly bear all these little attentions: they choked her, and yet she was so wet, so weak with fatigue75 and excitement, that she could neither resist by voice or by action. Two children stood awkwardly about, puzzled at the scene, and even Eleanor began to wish for some explanation of who her strange visitor was.
“You’ve, may-be, heard him speaking of me? I’m called Susan Dixon.”
Nelly coloured, and avoided meeting Susan’s eye.
“I’ve heard other folk speak of you. He never named your name.”
This respect of silence came like balm to Susan: balm not felt or heeded76 at the time it was applied77, but very grateful in its effects for all that.
“He is at my house,” continued Susan, determined78 not to stop or quaver in the operation—the pain which must be inflicted79.
“At your house? Yew Nook?” questioned Eleanor, surprised. “How came he there?”—half jealously. “Did he take shelter from the coming storm? Tell me,—there is something—tell me, woman!”
“He took no shelter. Would to God he had!”
“O! would to God! would to God!” shrieked80 out Eleanor, learning all from the woful import of those dreary81 eyes. Her cries thrilled through the house; the children’s piping wailings and passionate82 cries on “Daddy! Daddy!” pierced into Susan’s very marrow83. But she remained as still and tearless as the great round face upon the clock.
At last, in a lull84 of crying, she said,—not exactly questioning—but as if partly to herself—
“You loved him, then?”
“Loved him! he was my husband! He was the father of three bonny bairns that lie dead in Grasmere Churchyard. I wish you’d go, Susan Dixon, and let me weep without your watching me! I wish you’d never come near the place.”
“Alas85! alas! it would not have brought him to life. I would have laid down my own to save his. My life has been so very sad! No one would have cared if I had died. Alas! alas!”
The tone in which she said this was so utterly86 mournful and despairing that it awed87 Nelly into quiet for a time. But by-and-by she said, “I would not turn a dog out to do it harm; but the night is clear, and Tommy shall guide you to the Red Cow. But, O! I want to be alone. If you’ll come back to-morrow, I’ll be better, and I’ll hear all, and thank you for every kindness you have shown him,—and I do believe you’ve showed him kindness,—though I don’t know why.”
Susan moved heavily and strangely.
She said something—her words came thick and unintelligible88. She had had a paralytic89 stroke since she had last spoken. She could not go, even if she would. Nor did Eleanor, when she became aware of the state of the case, wish her to leave. She had her laid on her own bed, and weeping silently all the while for her lost husband, she nursed Susan like a sister. She did not know what her guest’s worldly position might be; and she might never be repaid. But she sold many a little trifle to purchase such small comforts as Susan needed. Susan, lying still and motionless, learnt much. It was not a severe stroke; it might be the forerunner90 of others yet to come, but at some distance of time. But for the present she recovered, and regained91 much of her former health. On her sick-bed she matured her plans. When she returned to Yew Nook, she took Michael Hurst’s widow and children with her to live there, and fill up the haunted hearth with living forms that should banish92 the ghosts.
And so it fell out that the latter days of Susan Dixon’s life were better than the former.
When this narrative93 was finished, Mrs. Dawson called on our two gentlemen, Signor Sperano and Mr. Preston, and told them that they had hitherto been amused or interested, but that it was now their turn to amuse or interest. They looked at each other as if this application of hers took them by surprise, and seemed altogether as much abashed94 as well-grown men can ever be. Signor Sperano was the first to recover himself: after thinking a little, he said:—
“Your will, dear Lady, is law. Next Monday evening, I will bring you an old, old story, which I found among the papers of the good old Priest who first welcomed me to England. It was but a poor return for his generous kindness; but I had the opportunity of nursing him through the cholera95, of which he died. He left me all that he had—no money—but his scanty96 furniture, his book of prayers, his crucifix and rosary, and his papers. How some of those papers came into his hands I know not. They had evidently been written many years before the venerable man was born; and I doubt whether he had ever examined the bundles, which had come down to him from some old ancestor, or in some strange bequest97. His life was too busy to leave any time for the gratification of mere2 curiosity; I, alas! have only had too much leisure.”
Next Monday, Signor Sperano read to us the story which I will call
“The Poor Clare.”
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1
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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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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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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hoards
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| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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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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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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portended
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| v.预示( portend的过去式和过去分词 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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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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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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unevenness
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| n. 不平坦，不平衡，不匀性 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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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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51
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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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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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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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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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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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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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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