“Very!” replied Warner’s wife. “Our daughter has behaved infamously1 to us. She has quitted us without saying by your leave or with your leave. And her wages were almost the only thing left to us; for Philip is not like Walter Gerard you see: he cannot earn two pounds a-week, though why he cannot I never could understand.”
“Just so.”
“Ah! this is good and kind; this is like old times, for Walter Gerard was my friend, when I was not exactly as I am now.”
“He tells me so: he sent a messenger to me last night to visit you this morning. Your letter reached him only yesterday.”
“Harriet was to give it to Caroline,” said the wife. “That’s the girl who has done all the mischief5 and inveigled6 her away. And she has left Trafford’s works, has she? Then I will be bound she and Harriet are keeping house together.”
“You suffer?” said Sybil, moving to the bed-side of the woman; “give me your hand,” she added in a soft sweet tone. “‘Tis hot.”
“I feel very cold,” said the woman. “Warner would have the window open, till the rain came in.”
“And you, I fear, are wet,” said Warner, addressing Sybil, and interrupting his wife.
“Very slightly. And you have no fire. Ah! I have brought some things for you, but not fuel.”
“If he would only ask the person down stairs,” said his wife, “for a block of coal; I tell him, neighbours could hardly refuse; but he never will do anything; he says he has asked too often.”
“I will ask,” said Sybil. “But first, I have a companion without,” she added, “who bears a basket for you. Come in, Harold.”
The baby began to cry the moment a large dog entered the room; a young bloodhound of the ancient breed, such as are now found but in a few old halls and granges in the north of England. Sybil untied7 the basket, and gave a piece of sugar to the screaming infant. Her glance was sweeter even than her remedy; the infant stared at her with his large blue eyes; for an instant astonished, and then he smiled.
“Oh! beautiful child!” exclaimed Sybil; and she took the babe up from the mattress8 and embraced it.
“You are an angel from heaven,” exclaimed the mother, “and you may well say beautiful. And only to think of that infamous2 girl, Harriet, to desert us all in this way.”
Sybil drew forth9 the contents of the convent basket, and called Warner’s attention to them. “Now,” she said, “arrange all this as I tell you, and I will go down stairs and speak to them below as you wish, Harold rest there;” and the dog laid himself down in the remotest corner.
“And is that Gerard’s daughter?” said the weaver10’s wife. “Only think what it is to gain two pounds a-week, and bring up your daughters in that way—instead of such shameless husseys as our Harriet! But with such wages one can do anything. What have you there, Warner? Is that tea? Oh! I should like some tea. I do think tea would do me some good. I have quite a longing11 for it. Run down, Warner, and ask them to let us have a kettle of hot water. It is better than all the fire in the world. Amelia, my dear, do you see what they have sent us. Plenty to eat. Tell Maria all about it. You are good girls; you will never be like that infamous Harriet. When you earn wages you will give them to your poor mother and baby, won’t you?”
“Yes, mother,” said Amelia.
“And father, too,” said Maria.
“And father, too,” said the wife. “He has been a very good father to you all; and I never can understand why one who works so hard should earn so little; but I believe it is the fault of those machines. The police ought to put them down, and then every body would be comfortable.”
Sybil and Warner re-entered; the fire was lit, the tea made, the meal partaken. An air of comfort, even of enjoyment12, was diffused13 over this chamber14, but a few minutes back so desolate15 and unhappy.
“Well,” said the wife, raising herself a little up in her bed, “I feel as if that dish of tea had saved my life. Amelia, have you had any tea? And Maria? You see what it is to be good girls; the Lord will never desert you. The day is fast coming when that Harriet will know what the want of a dish of tea is, with all her fine wages. And I am sure,” she added, addressing Sybil, “what we all owe to you is not to be told. Your father well deserves his good fortune, with such a daughter.”
“My father’s fortunes are not much better than his neighbours,” said Sybil, “but his wants are few; and who should sympathise with the poor, but the poor? Alas16! none else can. Besides, it is the Superior of our convent that has sent you this meal. What my father can do for you, I have told your husband. ‘Tis little; but with the favour of heaven, it may avail. When the people support the people, the divine blessing17 will not be wanting.”
“I am sure the divine blessing will never be wanting to you,” said Warner in a voice of great emotion.
There was silence; the querulous spirit of the wife was subdued18 by the tone of Sybil; she revolved19 in her mind the present and the past; the children pursued their ungrudged and unusual meal; the daughter of Gerard, that she might not interfere20 with their occupation, walked to the window and surveyed the chink of troubled sky, which was visible in the court. The wind blew in gusts21; the rain beat against the glass. Soon after this, there was another knock at the door. Harold started from his repose22, and growled23. Warner rose, and saying, “they have come for the rent. Thank God, I am ready,” advanced and opened the door. Two men offered with courtesy to enter.
“We are strangers,” said he who took the lead, “but would not be such. I speak to Warner?”
“My name.”
“Mr St Lys.”
“The same. One of the most valued of my flock, and the most influential25 person in this district, has been speaking much of you to me this morning. You are working for him. He did not hear of you on Saturday night; he feared you were ill. Mr Barber spoke26 to me of your distress27, as well as of your good character. I came to express to you my respect and my sympathy, and to offer you my assistance.”
“You are most good, sir, and Mr Barber too, and indeed, an hour ago, we were in as great straits—.”
“And are now, sir,” exclaimed his wife interrupting him. “I have been in this bed a-week, and may never rise from it again; the children have no clothes; they are pawned28; everything is pawned; this morning we had neither fuel, nor food. And we thought you had come for the rent which we cannot pay. If it had not been for a dish of tea which was charitably given me this morning by a person almost as poor as ourselves that is to say, they live by labour, though their wages are much higher, as high as two pounds a-week, though how that can be I never shall understand, when my husband is working twelve hours a day, and gaining only a penny an hour—if it had not been for this I should have been a corpse29; and yet he says we were in straits, merely because Walter Gerard’s daughter, who I willingly grant is an angel from heaven for all the good she has done us, has stepped into our aid. But the poor supporting the poor, as she well says, what good can come from that!”
During this ebullition, Mr St Lys had surveyed the apartment and recognised Sybil.
“Sister,” he said when the wife of Warner had ceased, “this is not the first time we have met under the roof of sorrow.”
Sybil bent30 in silence, and moved as if she were about to retire: the wind and rain came dashing against the window. The companion of Mr St Lys, who was clad in a rough great coat, and was shaking the wet off an oilskin hat known by the name of a ‘south-wester,’ advanced and said to her, “It is but a squall, but a very severe one; I would recommend you to stay for a few minutes.”
She received this remark with courtesy but did not reply.
“I think,” continued the companion of Mr St Lys, “that this is not the first time also that we have met?”
“I cannot recall our meeting before,” said Sybil.
“And yet it was not many days past; though the sky was so very different, that it would almost make one believe it was in another land and another clime.”
Sybil looked at him as if for explanation.
“It was at Marney Abbey,” said the companion of Mr St Lys.
“I was there; and I remember, when about to rejoin my companions, they were not alone.”
“And you disappeared; very suddenly I thought: for I left the ruins almost at the same moment as your friends, yet I never saw any of you again.”
“Was it your first visit to Marney?”
“My first and my last. There was no place I more desired to see; no place of which the vision made me so sad.”
“The glory has departed,” said Egremont mournfully.
“It is not that,” said Sybil: “I was prepared for decay, but not for such absolute desecration32. The Abbey seems a quarry33 for materials to repair farm-houses; and the nave34 a cattle gate. What people they must be—that family of sacrilege who hold these lands!”
“Hem!” said Egremont. “They certainly do not appear to have much feeling for ecclesiastical art.”
“And for little else, as we were told,” said Sybil. “There was a fire at the Abbey farm the day we were there, and from all that reached us, it would appear the people were as little tendered as the Abbey walls.”
“They have some difficulty perhaps in employing their population in those parts.”
“You know the country?”
“Not at all: I was travelling in the neighbourhood, and made a diversion for the sake of seeing an abbey of which I had heard so much.”
“Yes; it was the greatest of the Northern Houses. But they told me the people were most wretched round the Abbey; nor do I think there is any other cause for their misery35, than the hard hearts of the family that have got the lands.”
“You feel deeply for the people!” said Egremont looking at her earnestly.
Sybil returned him a glance expressive36 of some astonishment37, and then said, “And do not you? Your presence here assures me of it.”
“The charity of Mr St Lys is known to all.”
“And you—you too are a ministering angel.”
“There is no merit in my conduct, for there is no sacrifice. When I remember what this English people once was; the truest, the freest, and the bravest, the best-natured and the best-looking, the happiest and most religious race upon the surface of this globe; and think of them now, with all their crimes and all their slavish sufferings, their soured spirits and their stunted39 forms; their lives without enjoyment and their deaths without hope; I may well feel for them, even if I were not the daughter of their blood.”
And that blood mantled40 to her cheek as she ceased to speak, and her dark eye gleamed with emotion, and an expression of pride and courage hovered41 on her brow. Egremont caught her glance and withdrew his own; his heart was troubled.
St Lys. who had been in conference with the weaver, left him and went to the bedside of his wife. Warner advanced to Sybil, and expressed his feelings for her father, his sense of her goodness. She, observing that the squall seemed to have ceased, bade him farewell, and calling Harold, quitted the chamber.
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1
infamously
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| 不名誉地 | |
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2
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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3
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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4
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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5
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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6
inveigled
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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8
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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9
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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10
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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11
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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12
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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13
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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14
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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15
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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16
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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17
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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18
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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19
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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20
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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21
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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22
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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23
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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24
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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25
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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26
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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27
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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28
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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29
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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30
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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31
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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32
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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33
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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34
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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35
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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36
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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37
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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38
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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39
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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40
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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41
hovered
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| 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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