“There is no need for secrecy6, Gilbert Burns,” said he grimly, and he followed him into the house and to the room where Robert sat with pencil in hand vainly courting his Muse7. Jean, who was busily engaged in sewing, jumped to her feet with a little cry of amazement8 upon seeing her father before her. Robert held out his hand to his brother in delighted surprise, mixed with anxiety.
“Brother!” he cried, “what brings ye to Ellisland in such haste? Is it bad news? Mother, our sisters, are they ill?”
“Nay,” replied Gilbert constrainedly10. “They are all well, Rob, and have sent their love to yourself and family.”
“Thank God for that,” responded Robert thankfully.[327] There was a little embarrassed silence, then Gilbert spoke11 again.
“Robert, we—we are in sore trouble,” he confessed, his face anxious and troubled.
“Trouble!” echoed Rob blankly. “What is wrong, brother?”
“I cannot hold Mossgiel any longer,” he replied, dejectedly. “The farm is but a wretched lease, as ye know, an’ I canna’ weather out the remaining year. Without assistance, Robert, I canna’ hope to hold our little family together any longer.”
Robert’s heart sank within him as he heard the direful news. He glanced at Squire13 Armour14 apprehensively15. “And Squire Armour?” he interrogated16 with an angry glance at that gentleman, who stood with a sneering17 smile on his harsh face, taking in the evidences of poverty that surrounded them. And with never a word of love or pity, nor of greeting to his daughter who sat there with white face and longing18 eyes, waiting to hear some news from her stern, implacable father, of her loving mother at home.
“I have bought the lease of Mossgiel,” he growled19, “an’ if your brother canna’ pay up the back rent, which is long past due, I shall seize everything and turn the whole lot of them out, every one.”
Robert looked at him a moment in scornful silence. Presently he spoke, and the cutting sarcasm20 of his voice caused the old Squire to wince21 and drop his eyes.
[328]
“Ye are a most just, square, God-fearin’ man, Squire Armour,” he said. “The Kirk should be proud of ye.” Turning to Gilbert, he asked him the amount of his debt.
“Only a matter of ￡4, brother,” he replied, “but ’tis a fortune to me at present.”
“An’ I must have the money to-day or the farm, I care not which.”
“Oh, father!” cried Jean, going to him, “do not be hard on him; he will pay you; only give him time.”
“Jean!” flashed Robert angrily, “dinna’ stoop to ask mercy of that mon, even though he be your own father.” Jean turned away with a sigh.
Squire Armour laughed derisively22. “Ye’ll both be on your knees before long, I’ll warrant,” he cried harshly, “asking favors of me, especially when ye have naught23 to feed a starving family. Ye have made yoursel’ a fine, comfortable bed, my lassie, havena’ ye?” He sneered24 sarcastically25, turning to his shrinking daughter. “But ’tis made, and ye can lie on it, ye ungrateful minx.”
Robert rose quickly to his feet, his eyes flashing dangerously.
“Stop! Squire Armour!” he commanded. “Dinna’ dare to use such language to my wife in my own house, or weak, sick, and crippled as I am, I will throw ye into the road like the cur that ye are.” He stopped, breathless with indignation. Presently[329] he resumed with immeasurable scorn in his vibrating voice, “An’ they call such men as ye Christians26! A sneaking27, crawling, psalm-singing, canting hypocrite! Faugh! Were I the Lord, I would sicken at sight of ye.” He turned away and sat down beside his now weeping wife, and there was pity and compassion29 in the look he bestowed30 upon her.
“I’ve had enough of your blasphemy31, Robert Burns. If ye canna’ pay the rent for your brother, my business is elsewhere.”
“I had no one else to turn to in this, my hour of trouble,” murmured Gilbert brokenly. “If ye can help me without impoverishing32 yoursel’, for God’s sake do it, or I shudder33 to think what will become of the dear ones at home.”
Robert was silent. He thought with anxious loving concern of his own little flock, of the slender resources at his command, of the gravity of his own situation, sick as he was and with such gloomy prospects34 staring him in the face—and yet was he not better off after all than they at Mossgiel? Had he not his salary, small as it was, and the promise of the supervisorship, besides the money that Thompson would pay him for his poem? He had much to thank God for, he thought gratefully.
“I see ’tis no use delaying longer,” said Armour, looking at the serious, downcast faces before him. “I have given ye fair warning, Gilbert Burns, an’ noo I’ll go.”
[330]
He had reached the door, when Robert spoke quietly but firmly. “Wait!” he called. “Ye shall have the money, ye Shylock.”
“Thank God!” cried Gilbert with a loving glance at his brother’s calm face.
Jean looked at him in speechless amazement. What did he mean? How could he help others when they were in such dire12 need themselves? she asked herself apprehensively.
“My brother will meet ye at sundown, at the Inn,” continued Robert without heeding35 her warning, although his face took on a whiter hue36. “He will bring ye every farthing of what is due ye. Noo go; there is the door; your business here is ended. Ye have brought naught but misery37 and trouble into my life by your unreasonable38 hatred39 o’ me, but the time will come, Squire Armour, when all the unhappiness and suffering ye have caused me and mine will rise up before ye like a hideous40 phantom41, robbin’ ye of all peace o’ mind on earth, and your hopes of salvation42 hereafter.” He drew nearer the gaping43 man, who was regarding him with angry, sullen44 eyes, and continued with a bitter, unforgiving intensity45 that filled his listeners with awe46 and horror, “An’ when ye feel the chill icy hand of grim death clutching at your heart, ye’ll cry out for the sympathy and love of those whom ye cast out of your life, but[331] ye’ll cry in vain, an’ ye’ll die as ye have lived, a miserable47 wretched ending to a miserable selfish life.”
As he finished his grim prophecy, Squire Armour gave a cry of nervous fear, and with blanched48 face and wild eyes he strove to speak, but the words would not pass his white, trembling lips. Finally he gasped49 in a frightened whisper which gradually rose to angry defiance50:
“How dare ye! How dare ye say such things to me, Robert Burns? I willna’ die like that and ye canna’ frighten me with your grim forebodings.” He paused and glanced at them all in turn, then hastily opened the door. Just as he was stepping out, he turned slowly and looked at the white, patient face of his daughter. For a moment he regarded her in silence, then with a visible effort he addressed her.
“Jean,” he said, and his voice was noticeably softer, “ye are welcome to come back to your home.” He cast a quick look at the lowering face of his son-in-law and added vindictively—“alone.”
“Nay, never alone, father,” replied Jean sadly, looking at her husband’s frowning face.
The old man turned with sudden fury upon them. “I’ll wait till sundown for my money,” he shouted, “but not a minute longer!” and he closed the door behind him with a vicious slam.
Gilbert was first to break the depressing silence[332] that ensued. He felt vaguely51 that all was not so well with his brother as he had been led to believe.
“Forgive me, brother,” he murmured contritely52, “for bringing this trouble on ye.”
“Never mind, Gilbert; it was to be, I ken,” answered Rob absently.
Gilbert was silent a moment. “But the money, Robert, is it—are ye——” he stammered53, then stopped in embarrassed confusion.
“’Tis the sum I expect from the sale of a poem. Jean, see if there is aught of the Posty.” She rose and went to the window and peered anxiously down the dusty road.
“I didna’ have the ready money with me,” went on Robert lightly, as if it were a matter of small importance, “or I would have fixed54 it up at once. But ye shall hae the money, laddie, when my letter comes,” and he smiled reassuringly55 into Gilbert’s anxious face.
“God bless ye, Robert; ye have taken a great load off my heart.”
Jean returned to her seat by the hearth56, and listlessly took up her needlework. “I fear Posty has forgotten us to-day,” she said in answer to Robert’s questioning look.
“‘I’ll wait till sundown for my money,’ he shouted.”
A great fear seized his heart. For nearly a week he had hopefully awaited some word from Thompson. What could be the matter? “O God!” he prayed[333] silently, “let him not fail me noo.” With a bright smile that sadly belied57 his anxious heart, he rose and, taking Gilbert’s arm, said gayly, “Come, brother, and see the new bairn that has been added to the flock this last year.”
As they left the room Jean dropped her work in her lap and gazed after them with eyes filled with helpless tears of anxiety, at the thought of the hardships and suffering that lay in wait for them all.
After admiring the baby in the trundle bed the two brothers talked of the dear ones in Mossgiel, and the many changes time had wrought58 in the lives of them all; spoke with tenderness of the sister who had recently been married—and dwelt with anxious concern on the struggles of their younger brother, who had left home to branch out for himself. For a time they forgot their own troubles, and Robert plied9 his brother with many questions concerning the welfare of all his old friends and neighbors, while Gilbert told him all the gossip of the village, of the prosperity of some of the lads, and the unfortunate situations of many of the others, thus leading up to the recital59 of their own troubles since Robert had left his home. He listened sorrowfully to the tale of hardship and unceasing toil60 which brought such little recompense, but not by word or look did he betray his own blighted61 hopes and gloomy prospects. Finally they had exhausted62 every subject save one, and that one had been uppermost in the minds of[334] both, but each had avoided the subject with a shrinking dread63.
No news of the little dairymaid had come to Robert for almost a year, and the thought that possibly she was ill or dead—or—and a hundred conjectures64 racked his brain and froze the eager questions that trembled on his lips. Gilbert must have read the longing in his brother’s heart, for, after a troubled glance at the dark yearning65 face gazing at him so beseechingly66, he looked down at his toil-worn hands and awkwardly shifted one knee over the other. Presently he spoke.
“Mary is still at Colonel Montgomery’s,” he observed, making an effort to speak lightly.
“I heard she had left Mrs. Dunlop’s,” replied Robert feverishly67, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“Aye,” sighed Gilbert. “She grew tired o’ the city and longed for the stillness, the restfulness of country life once more, so she came back to us and took her old place in the dairy. Poor lass,” and he looked thoughtfully out of the window and sadly watched the glorious sunset tinting68 the distant hills in a blaze of golden light.
“An’—an’ is she well—is she happy?” murmured Robert in a soft, hushed voice. Gilbert did not answer for a moment. Presently he roused himself and slowly let his gaze wander back till it rested on his brother’s wistful face.
[335]
“Can ye bear a shock, brother?” he asked quietly.
Robert suddenly stiffened69 and his eyes grew wide and staring. He gripped the sides of the chair as a wave of sudden dizziness dulled his understanding. Presently it passed away, and like one in a dream he whispered hoarsely70, “Tell me the worst, Gilbert; is—is she dead?”
He closed his eyes and waited with breathless stillness for the answer.
“Thank God, not that!” replied Gilbert feelingly. Robert breathed a sigh of relief. “But she is very ill, an’ I ken she hasna’ long on earth noo. The doctors say there is no hope for her,” and he bit his lips to keep back the rising tears.
Slowly, sorrowfully, Robert’s head drooped71 till it rested on his bosom72. For a moment he sat like one on the verge73 of dissolution.
“Oh, God!” he moaned bitterly, “that sweet young life crushed out in all its innocent purity, like a delicate flower, and through my sin, my reckless folly74. Oh, how can I live and bear my punishment!” A convulsive sob75 racked his weakened frame. Gilbert bent over him with tears in his eyes, forgetting his own crushing sorrow in witnessing that of his brother.
“Dinna’ greet so, Robert,” he cried. “’Twas not your fault, ye ken. It was to be.” His philosophical76 belief in fate helped him over many a hard[336] and stony77 path, and enabled him to meet with calmness and fortitude78 the many heartaches and disappointments which befell him.
Soon the convulsive shudders79 ceased, and leaning wearily back in his chair, Robert fixed his great mournful eyes upon his brother in sorrowful resignation.
“How did she look when ye last saw her, Gilbert?” he asked faintly, pressing his hand tightly to his heart, for the old pain had come back with exhausting results.
“Like an angel, lad,” replied Gilbert tenderly. “So sweet and pure, so patient and forgiving.”
“Does she suffer much?”
“Nay,” he answered reassuringly. Then he continued, his voice soft and low, his strong features quivering from the restraint he put upon his feelings, “Her life is just slowly slipping away from her; day by day she grows weaker and weaker, but ne’er a complaint is on her lips. She is always so cheerful an’ smilin’ that it fair makes ye weep to see her fadin’ awa’ so fast,” and his voice broke into a hard sob.
“Her last wish is to see the Highlands, to—to die there,” continued Gilbert, his lips contracting with a sudden, sharp pain at the thought. “So before she grows any weaker, Mrs. Dunlop, who has come[337] from town to see her, and who is wi’ her noo, is goin’ to take her back to her old home in Argyleshire.”
“Going home to die!” repeated Robert dreamily. “Oh, if I might be taken awa’ too, if my end would only hasten,” he muttered despairingly, with the weak selfishness of the sick and sorrowing. “Then might our departing souls be united as one, to be together for all eternity81.”
“Hush, Robert!” cautioned Gilbert, looking fearfully at the closed door. “Remember Jean and the bairns.”
“Gilbert, I must see her before she goes!” he cried utterly82 distracted. “’Tis for the last time on earth, ye ken, lad,” and he jumped up, trembling with eager excitement.
“Brother, would ye kill yoursel’?” cried Gilbert, seeking to restrain him. “’Tis madness for ye to go out in your weak condition.”
“Dinna’ stop me, Gilbert!” he panted, and he flung open the door and rushed excitedly into the room where Jean sat in patient meditation83. “Jean, get my bonnet84 and coat, quick, quick!” he commanded with his old-time vehemence85. She jumped up pale and frightened and looked questioningly at Gilbert. Quickly he told her of Mary’s illness and Robert’s determination to go to her at once. When he had finished she went to her husband, the tears of ready sympathy in her eyes, for she was not jealous of his love for Mary. She had gotten over that long[338] ago, and laying her hand gently on his arm, she tried to coax86 him to sit down and listen to them.
“They’ll have to pass by here on their way to Greenock,” she told him tenderly. “And ye may be sure, Robert, that Mary will not leave Ayrshire without saying good-by to you.” And so she reasoned with him, while Gilbert joined her in assurances of Mrs. Dunlop’s intention of stopping to see him as she passed the farm. Gradually the wild light in his eyes died down, the tense figure relaxed, and with a sigh of exhaustion87 he allowed himself to be taken back to his room.
“Ye’re sure she’ll not forget to stop here?” he asked with pathetic eagerness. Then he continued with wistful retrospection, “Two years have come and gone and not a word have we spoken to each other since that day we parted in Edinburgh! Oh, cruel, cruel fate!” He spoke so low that none heard him.
“Noo, Robert,” said Jean brightly, “you must take your gruel88, ’twill give ye strength.” But he made a gesture of repulsion.
“Nay, Jean, I canna’ eat noo; ’twould choke me. I think I’ll lay me down to rest.” They soon prepared him for bed. Without a word, he turned his face to the wall and for the rest of the night he lay there with wide, staring, sleepless89 eyes, thinking, thinking, thinking.
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收听单词发音
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1
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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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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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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constrainedly
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| 不自然地，勉强地，强制地 | |
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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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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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impoverishing
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| v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的现在分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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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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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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43
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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46
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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48
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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49
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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50
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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51
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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52
contritely
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53
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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55
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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56
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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57
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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58
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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59
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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60
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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61
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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62
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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68
tinting
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| 着色，染色（的阶段或过程） | |
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69
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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73
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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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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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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79
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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83
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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