It may not be a very dignified1 admission, but one of the main causes that led to my being at present on board the Alaska, bound for Queenstown, was the incompatibility2 of my temper with that of my Aunt Jane.
In self-extenuation, I may mention that I had for the last twelve months lived in her house, and had thus had ample opportunity of verifying the opinion expressed by many of her most intimate friends—“That Jane Farquharson was the salt of the earth, but{8} as such was better when taken in very small quantities.”
She was a Scotchwoman of the most inflexible4 type. Twenty-five years of sojourn5 in the United States had modified none of her insular6 prejudices, and my mother, who was her youngest sister, had never, even during her married life, lost belief in the awfulness of her authority.
The Farquharsons were a family whose pedigree was longer than their purse; and when her younger brother, my Uncle James, had been compelled to sell the paternal7 acres and emigrate to California, my aunt had uprooted8 herself from her native land and followed his fortunes, in the full conviction that he, excellent young man though he was, would become altogether a castaway if once allowed out of range of her vigilant9 eye. They were orphans10, and Aunt Jane, having imposed{9} upon herself the duties of both parents, took my mother with her to the Far West, where she maintained on my uncle’s ranch11 the straitest traditions of the elders.
Uncle James never married. Aunt Jane’s vigilance had been so conscientiously12 unremitting that no daughter of Heth had ever disputed with her the position of mistress of Farquharson’s ranch. But the precautionary measures that had preserved Uncle James from the snares13 of matrimony were a distinct failure in my mother’s case. With the unexpected revolt of a weak nature, she defied her elder sister, and committed the incredible enormity of getting married.
Men—with the exception of a legendary14 Scotch3 minister, who, if tradition spoke15 truly, had not long survived his betrothal16 to Aunt Jane—were regarded by her as the natural foes17 of cleanliness, economy, and piety18. And of all men she considered Irishmen to be the epitome19 of their sex’s atrocities20.{10}
It must, then, be admitted that Fate dealt hardly with Aunt Jane, when, one summer afternoon, her sister Helen came to her and told her that she had that morning been married to Owen Sarsfield, the good-looking Irishman who, a few months before, had entered into partnership21 with their brother. My mother has often described the scene to me—how she had found Aunt Jane grimly darning her brother’s socks; how she had received the news at first in terrible silence; and then how on my mother, white and trembling, had fallen the thunders of her wrath22.
“That ne’er-do-weel Irishman! A creature that ’tis well known had to leave his home for Heaven only knows what wickedness! Did you never hear that a bad son makes a bad husband? I was right when I warned James against having anything to do with a vagabond scamp{11} such as he is, and told him no good would come of handling money that had doubtless been won at the gaming-table!”
To all this, and much more, my mother did not attempt a reply; she thought she knew more of Owen Sarsfield than her sister did. She and her husband settled down in another house on the ranch, and, notwithstanding their proximity23 to Aunt Jane, they were very happy.
My father, in spite of Aunt Jane’s insinuations to the contrary, was an Irish gentleman of good family, and the money which he had put into the farm had been honestly come by. Perhaps my mother never knew the exact reason of his leaving Ireland. She only told me that money troubles had led to a quarrel with his father, Theodore Sarsfield, of Durrus, in the county Cork24. He had no sisters, and his younger and only brother, Dominick,{12} had sided with my grandfather against him, so that during the fifteen years he had spent in America he was as much cut off from his home as if he had been on another planet. The little that he knew of it was gathered from a few misspelt letters, written by one Patrick Roche, a special retainer of his in the old days at Durrus.
These reached him at long intervals25, and usually announced some event connected with the Sarsfield family. In this way he heard of his brother’s marriage, which took place three or four years before his own. Then shortly afterwards, towards the end of the Irish famine, came the news that “The young misthris was ded, and she just after havin’ a fine young son; ’twas what the peepel war all saying that the hard times kilt her.”
My mother used sometimes to take these letters from a little old green velvet26 bag in{13} which she hoarded27 many valueless treasures, and give them to me to read. And I well remember the yellow worn papers, with the half-foreign smell of turf-smoke lingering about them. I did not then dream of how, in after-years, when that same smell of turf-smoke became very familiar, it would recall the hours I spent when a child, sitting in the shade of the verandah beside my mother’s rocking-chair, and poring with subdued28 excitement over these messages from the other side of the world.
The last letter which my father received was as urgent as it was brief.
“The owld masther is very sick. You’d do well to cum home. Ther is them that sayes he’s askin’ for you, and{14} God knows maybe ’tis the change for deth that’s on him. The family is very poor this while back. The big house do be mostly shut up; only owld Peggy Hourihane within in the house and her daughter mindin’ the child. Me father and mother is ded. I will gos ’list for a sojer. God help us; these are bad times.
“Your faithful servant,
“Patrick Roche.”
On getting this letter, my father started at once for Ireland. I was at this time about a year old, a very ugly and stubborn little baby, so Aunt Jane has often told me; and when my mother held me high above the sunflowers at the gate, to kiss my hand to my father as he drove away, I only beat her upon the head and screamed for the pussy30.{15}
That was the last chance I ever had of seeing my father. He wrote to my mother from New York, and again from Queenstown—short dispirited letters; the latter saying that he had caught a bad cold, and felt the change from a Californian to an Irish winter very severely31. A week afterwards came another letter in a strange handwriting. It was from my Uncle Dominick, and it told my mother, not unkindly, the news that she never quite recovered from. The cold which my father had spoken of had turned to pleurisy, and he had died in a hotel in Queenstown the day after he landed. The writer said that, owing to the unfortunate relations that existed between him and his brother, he had not been aware of his marriage till letters that he had found in his possession informed him of the fact. He now forwarded them to her, with his brother’s few{16} personal effects, and remained, hers faithfully, D. Sarsfield.
The next mail brought a second letter from my Uncle Dominick. Since he last wrote, my grandfather had died; and by the terms of his will, in consequence of my father having predeceased him, the property and house of Durrus passed to the second son, the writer himself. “Had my father known that my brother had married,” wrote my uncle, he might possibly have made an alteration32 in the terms of the will; but as Owen had never seen fit to make any communication on the subject, no such provision was made. “The property has suffered much during the recent famine, but, as I feel sure that it would have been in accordance with my father’s wishes, I have ventured to place a small sum to your credit at the Bank of Ireland, with directions to forward it to your order.{17}”
My mother never allowed the correspondence thus begun with my Uncle Dominick to drop altogether, and once or twice a year she would devote a couple of mornings to the toilful compilation33 of a letter to the brother-in-law whom she had never seen. Looking back now, I think there was something very touching34 in the confident way in which she relied on his interest in those annals of my childhood which filled her letters. I came upon them long afterwards, and read them with a strange mingling35 of feeling, very different from the wonder and longing36 with which I, in those childish days, saw them despatched on the first stage of their long journey, and wished that I could accompany them into the post-bag’s grimy recesses37, and go to Durrus too.
I had a very happy childhood. Either my mother or Uncle James could single-{18}handed have spoiled the best of children, and their joint38 efforts being devoted39 to giving me everything I wished for, I should, had it not been for Aunt Jane, have lived a life of lawless enjoyment40. The result of their long years of subjugation41 was a secret exultation42 in the undaunted front which I bore towards my aunt, and at a very early age I had learnt to recognize the fact that we three were confederates against a common despot. Uncle James was my most daring ally, and at his instigation I committed some of my most signal and spirited misdemeanours. By the time I was sixteen, I had become, under his supervision43, a young lady of varied44, if unusual, attainments45. I could catch and saddle my own horse; I could guide a steam-plough; I could make some attempt at Latin verse; I knew a little about the rotation46 of crops, and a good{19} deal of Shakespeare and Walter Scott. Aunt Jane herself took charge of my music, and I spent a daily hour of suffering at a piano as upright and unsympathetic as she was, learning from the frayed47, discoloured pages of her music-books, the old-fashioned marches, and “Scotch airs with variations,” that had formed the taste of two generations of Farquharsons.
I think my mother would have been satisfied to let me grow up as I was then doing, knowing nothing of the usual more elegant accomplishments48 of young ladies; and it was owing to Aunt Jane’s abhorrence49 of my “tom-boy tricks” that the first great change in my life was made. The climax50 came one early summer morning, when, possessing myself of Uncle James’s gun, I crept out to try and slay51 one of the big “jack-rabbits” that abounded52 on the ranch.
My aunt from her bedroom window saw{20} the whole performance—the stalking; the unseemly grovellings and crawlings through the long grass; the deliberate aim; and, finally, the stealthy but triumphant53 return with the spoil.
That very day it was decided54 that my mother and I were to go forthwith to Boston, there to abide55 with a cousin of my mother’s, until such time as some of the high literary polish of that city should be imparted to me.
“Perhaps Rachel Campbell will be given patience to bear with her wild heathen-like ways,” Aunt Jane had said; and my poor mother had answered with a sigh—
“Theo is always good to me, dear Jane; but I dare say you are right, and it will be best for us to go away.”
So my mother and I set out on our long journey, little thinking that we should never see Farquharson’s Ranch again.{21}
Towards the end of our second year in Boston Uncle James died. His horse fell with him, throwing him on his head, and he only lived for a few hours afterwards, never recovering consciousness. He left all his property to my mother and my aunt; and the latter, having sold the ranch, came to live with us in Boston.
My uncle’s death was the first trouble that I had ever known; but in the near future a still greater one awaited me. I was barely twenty-two when my mother’s unexpected death seemed to bring the whole world to a standstill. I do not like to look back to the desolate56 days which followed. She was all I had in the world to love, and Aunt Jane’s stern, undemonstrative nature would admit me to no fellowship of sorrow.
I dare say it may have been my own fault, but after a time I found the change{22} from my mother’s unexacting governance to Aunt Jane’s rule becoming intolerable.
“Theodora has been quite ruined by poor Helen,” she used, I believe, to say to her friends. “She will do nothing now but what is right in her own eyes. I shudder57 to think what will become of her.”
Either my aunt’s temper or mine had disimproved with advancing years, and each day I found it harder to avoid a breach58 of the peace. At length a diatribe59 upon “the fearful irreverence60 to my elders which I had learnt in this godless town,” ending with reflections upon my mother’s indulgence, aroused me to angry rejoinder.
I was trying to simmer down in my own room after the encounter, and in my stormy trampings to and fro in that limited apartment, I had twice upset a photograph of a plump and smiling little boy that stood on my table.{23}
“That horrid61 little Willy Sarsfield!” I said, delighted to find something on which to expend62 my wrath; “he is always tumbling down!”
The picture had been my mother’s, one which, at her request, had been sent to her by my Uncle Dominick many years before; and as for the second time I picked it up and put it in its place, an idea came to me.
“Why should I not go to Durrus?” I said.
I did not wait for a calmer moment, but, seating myself at the table, I immediately began a letter to my Uncle Dominick. My hand shook from the excitement of my suddenly taken resolution and from a sense of its temerity63, but I was at least able to make my meaning clear. I had, I said, since I was a child, longed to visit Durrus, and see my father’s relations; but hitherto this had been impossible{24} to me. Now, however, I was comparatively alone in the world, and if my uncle would allow me to pay him a visit, nothing remained to prevent my doing so.
That evening I told my aunt of the step I had taken. The heat of her altercation64 with me had not yet died out in her, and, though she was, as she said, beyond measure astounded65, her pride did not permit her to remonstrate66.
“You can do as you please, Theodora. As your mother did not see fit to leave me the control of your fortune, I do not presume to give an opinion as to your movements. I trust, however, that you may not have cause to regret the headstrong self-will which has made you unable to content yourself in a quiet and God-fearing household.”
During the days of waiting for an answer from my uncle, Aunt Jane pre{25}served the same demeanour of distant disapproval67, and I began to feel that to leave her house with the weight of her displeasure still hanging over me, would be a strong measure. The morning at length came on which I tore open an envelope with the Irish post-mark, and read to her the ceremonious letter in which Uncle Dominick intimated his and his son’s great pleasure at the prospect68 of a visit from me.
“Very good; then I suppose you will start without delay.” Her cold voice quavered unexpectedly at the end of the sentence, and, looking up in astonishment69, I saw in her hard grey eyes an unmistakable moisture. “I had no wish to drive you out, Theodora.”
But she hurried away before I could get any further, saying inarticulately, as she left the room, “God bless you, child, wherever you go.”
After this Aunt Jane made no further comment on what had taken place, but we found ourselves on a more friendly footing than we had ever been before; and when I said good-bye to her, I did so with the knowledge that I could always rely on her undemonstrative, but steadfast71 affection.
This is the history of how, on the 18th of October, 188-, I came to be reclining in a deck chair on board the s.s. Alaska, two hours from Queenstown.
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1
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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incompatibility
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| n.不兼容 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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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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betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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diatribe
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| n.抨击，抨击性演说 | |
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irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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69
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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70
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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71
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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