After six or seven years of this Alice went back to marry an old sweetheart in Canada, where the Weetmans had originally come from, but Phemy’s burden was in no way lessened16 thereby17. There were as many things to wash and sew and darn; there was always a cart of churns about to dash for a train it could not possibly catch, or a horse to shoe that could not possibly be spared. Weetman hated to see his people merely walking: “Run over to the barn for that hay-fork,” or “Slip across to the ricks, quick now,” he would cry, and if ever an unwary hen hampered19 his own path it did so only once—and no more. His labourers were mere18 things of flesh and blood, but they occasionally resented his ceaseless flagellations. Glas Weetman did not like to be impeded20 or controverted21; one day in a rage he had smashed that lumbering22 loon23 of a carter called Gathercole. For this he was sent to jail for a month.
The day after he had been sentenced Phemy Madigan, alone in the house with Mrs. Weetman, had waked at the usual early hour. It was a foggy September[321] morning; Sampson and his boy Daniel were clattering24 pails in the dairy shed. The girl felt sick and gloomy as she dressed; it was a wretched house to work in, crickets in the kitchen, cockroaches25 in the garret, spiders and mice everywhere. It was an old long low house; she knew that when she descended26 the stairs the walls would be stained with autumnal dampness, the banisters and rails oozing27 with moisture. She wished she was a lady and married and living in a palace fifteen stories high.
It was fortunate that she was big and strong, though she had been only a charity girl taken from the workhouse by the Weetmans when she was fourteen years old. That was seven years ago. It was fortunate that she was fed well at the farm, very well indeed; it was the one virtue28 of the place. But her meals did not counterbalance things; that farm ate up the body and blood of people. And at times the pressure was charged with a special excitation, as if a taut29 elastic30 thong31 had been plucked and released with a reverberating32 ping.
It was so on this morning. Mrs. Weetman was dead in her bed.
At that crisis a new sense descended upon the girl, a sense of responsibility. She was not in fear, she felt no grief or surprise. It concerned her in some way, but she herself was unconcerned, and she slid without effort into the position of mistress of the farm. She opened a window and looked out of doors. A little way off a boy with a red scarf stood by an open gate.
“Oi ... oi, kup, kup, kup!” he cried to the cows in[322] that field. Some of the cows having got up stared amiably33 at him, others sat on ignoring his hail, while one or two plodded34 deliberately35 towards him. “Oi ... oi, kup, kup, kup!”
“Lazy rascal36, that boy,” remarked Phemy, “we shall have to get rid of him. Dan’l! Come here, Dan’l!” she screamed, waving her arm wildly. “Quick!”
She sent him away for police and doctor. At the inquest there were no relatives in England who could be called upon, no witnesses other than Phemy. After the funeral she wrote a letter to Glastonbury Weetman in jail informing him of his bereavement37, but to this he made no reply. Meanwhile the work of the farm was pressed forward under her control, for though she was revelling38 in her personal release from the torment39 she would not permit others to share her intermission. She had got Mrs. Weetman’s keys and her box of money. She paid the two men and the boy their wages week by week. The last of the barley40 was reaped, the oats stacked, the roots hoed, the churns sent daily under her supervision41. And always she was bustling42 the men.
“O dear me, these lazy rogues43!” she would complain to the empty rooms, “they waste time, so it’s robbery, it is robbery. You may wear yourself to the bone and what does it signify to such as them? All the responsibility, too!—They would take your skin if they could get it off you—and they can’t!”
She kept such a sharp eye on the corn and meal and eggs that Sampson got surly. She placated44 him by handing him Mr. Weetman’s gun and a few cartridges45,[323] saying: “Just shoot me a couple of rabbits over in the warren when you got time.” At the end of the day Mr. Sampson had not succeeded in killing46 a rabbit so he kept the gun and the cartridges many more days. Phemy was really happy. The gloom of the farm had disappeared. The farmhouse47 and everything about it looked beautiful, beautiful indeed with its yard full of ricks, the pond full of ducks, the fields full of sheep and cattle, and the trees still full of leaves and birds. She flung maize about the yard; the hens scampered48 towards it and the young pigs galloped49, quarrelling over the grains which they groped and snuffed for, grinding each one separately in their iron jaws50, while the white pullets stalked delicately among them, picked up the maize seeds, One, Two, Three, and swallowed them like ladies. Sometimes on cold mornings she would go outside and give an apple to the fat bay pony51 when he galloped back from the station. He would stand puffing52 with a kind of rapture53, the wind from his nostrils54 discharging in the frosty air vague shapes like smoky trumpets55. Presently upon his hide a little ball of liquid mysteriously suspired, grew, slid, dropped from his flanks into the road. And then drops would begin to come from all parts of him until the road beneath was dabbled56 by a shower from his dew-distilling outline. Phemy would say:
“The wretches57! They were so late they drove him near distracted, poor thing. Lazy rogues, but wait till master comes back, they’d better be careful!”
And if any friendly person in the village asked her: “How are you getting on up there, Phemy?” she[324] would reply, “Oh, as well as you can expect with so much to be done—and such men.” The interlocutor might hint that there was no occasion in the circumstances to distress58 oneself, but then Phemy would be vexed59. To her, honesty was as holy as the sabbath to a little child. Behind her back they jested about her foolishness; but, after all, wisdom isn’t a process, it’s a result, it’s the fruit of the tree. One can’t be wise, one can only be fortunate.
On the last day of her Elysium the workhouse master and the chaplain had stalked over the farm shooting partridges. In the afternoon she met them and asked for a couple of birds for Weetman’s return on the morrow. The workhouse was not far away, it was on a hill facing west, and at sunset time its windows would often catch the glare so powerfully that the whole building seemed to burn like a box of contained and smokeless fire. Very beautiful it looked to Phemy.
II
The men had come to work punctually and Phemy herself found so much to do that she had no time to give the pony an apple. She cleared the kitchen once and for all of the pails, guns, harness, and implements60 that so hampered its domestic intention, and there were abundant signs elsewhere of a new impulse at work in the establishment. She did not know at what hour to expect the prisoner so she often went to the garden gate and glanced up the road. The night had been wild with windy rain, but the morn was sparklingly clear though breezy still. Crisp leaves rustled61 about the road where[325] the polished chestnuts62 beside the parted husks lay in numbers, mixed with coral buds of the yews63. The sycamore leaves were black rags, but the delicate elm foliage64 fluttered down like yellow stars. There was a brown field neatly65 adorned66 with white coned67 heaps of turnips68, behind it a small upland of deeply green lucerne, behind that nothing but blue sky and rolling cloud. The turnips, washed by the rain, were creamy polished globes.
When at last he appeared she scarcely knew him. Glas Weetman was a big, though not fleshy, man of thirty with a large boyish face and a flat bald head. Now he had a thick dark beard. He was hungry, but his first desire was to be shaved. He stood before the kitchen mirror, first clipping the beard away with scissors, and as he lathered69 the remainder he said:
“Well, it’s a bad state of things this, my sister dead and my mother gone to America. What shall us do?”
He perceived in the glass that she was smiling.
“I wer’n’t laughing. It’s your mother that’s dead.”
“My mother that’s dead. I know.”
“And Miss Alice that’s gone to America.”
“To America, I know, I know, so you can stop making your bullock’s eyes and get me something to eat. What’s been going on here?”
She gave him an outline of affairs. He looked at her sternly when he asked her about his sweetheart.
“Has Rosa Beauchamp been along here?”
“No,” said Phemy, and he was silent. She was[326] surprised at the question. The Beauchamps were such respectable high-up people that to Phemy’s simple mind they could not possibly favour an alliance, now, with a man that had been in prison: it was absurd, but she did not say so to him. And she was bewildered to find that her conviction was wrong, for Rosa came along later in the day and everything between her master and his sweetheart was just as before; Phemy had not divined so much love and forgiveness in high-up people.
It was the same with everything else. The old harsh rushing life was resumed, Weetman turned to his farm with an accelerated vigour72 to make up for the lost time and the girl’s golden week or two of ease became an unforgotten dream. The pails, the guns, the harness, crept back into the kitchen. Spiders, cockroaches, and mice were more noticeable than ever before, and Weetman himself seemed embittered73, harsher. Time alone could never still him, there was a force in his frame, a buzzing in his blood. But there was a difference between them now; Phemy no longer feared him. She obeyed him, it is true, with eagerness, she worked in the house like a woman and in the fields like a man. They ate their meals together, and from this dissonant74 comradeship the girl in a dumb kind of way began to love him.
One April evening on coming in from the fields he found her lying on the couch beneath the window, dead plumb75 fast asleep, with no meal ready at all. He flung his bundle of harness to the flags and bawled angrily to her. To his surprise she did not stir. He was[327] somewhat abashed76, he stepped over to look at her. She was lying on her side. There was a large rent in her bodice between sleeve and shoulder; her flesh looked soft and agreeable to him. Her shoes had slipped off to the floor; her lips were folded in a sleepy pout77.
“Why, she’s quite a pretty cob,” he murmured. “She’s all right, she’s just tired, the Lord above knows what for.”
But he could not rouse the sluggard78. Then a fancy moved him to lift her in his arms; he carried her from the kitchen and staggering up the stairs laid the sleeping girl on her own bed. He then went downstairs and ate pie and drank beer in the candle-light, guffawing79 once or twice, “A pretty cob, rather.” As he stretched himself after the meal a new notion amused him: he put a plateful of food upon a tray together with a mug of beer and the candle. Doffing80 his heavy boots and leggings he carried the tray into Phemy’s room. And he stopped there.
III
The new circumstance that thus slipped into her life did not effect any noticeable alteration81 of its general contour and progress, Weetman did not change towards her. Phemy accepted his mastership not alone because she loved him but because her powerful sense of loyalty82 covered all the possible opprobrium83. She did not seem to mind his continued relations with Rosa.
Towards midsummer one evening Glastonbury came in in the late dusk. Phemy was there in the darkened[328] kitchen. “Master,” she said immediately he entered. He stopped before her. She continued: “Something’s happened.”
“Huh, while the world goes popping round something shall always happen.”
“It’s me—I’m took—a baby, master,” she said. He stood stock-still. His face was to the light, she could not see the expression on his face, perhaps he wanted to embrace her.
“Let’s have a light, sharp,” he said in his brusque way. “The supper smells good but I can’t see what I’m smelling, and I can only fancy what I be looking at.”
She lit the candles and they ate supper in silence. Afterwards he sat away from the table with his legs outstretched and crossed, hands sunk into pockets, pondering while the girl cleared the table. Soon he put his powerful arm around her waist and drew her to sit on his knees.
“Are ye sure o’ that?” he demanded.
She was sure.
“Quite?”
She was quite sure.
“Ah, well then,” he sighed conclusively84, “we’ll be married.”
The girl sprang to her feet. “No, no, no—how can you be married—you don’t mean that—not married—there’s Miss Beauchamp!” She paused and added, a little unsteadily: “She’s your true love, master.”
“Ay, but I’ll not wed11 her,” he cried sternly. “If there’s no gainsaying85 this that’s come on you, I’ll[329] stand to my guns. It’s right and proper for we to have a marriage.”
His great thick-fingered hands rested upon his knees; the candles threw a wash of light upon his polished leggings; he stared into the fireless grate.
“But we do not want to do that,” said the girl, dully and doubtfully. “You have given your ring to her, you’ve given her your word. I don’t want you to do this for me. It’s all right, master, it’s all right.”
“Are ye daft?” he cried. “I tell you we’ll wed. Don’t keep clacking about Rosa.... I’ll stand to my guns.” He paused before adding: “She’d gimme the rightabout, fine now—don’t you see, stupid—but I’ll not give her the chance.”
Her eyes were lowered. “She’s your true love, master.”
“No,” said the trembling girl.
“I’m telling you what we must do, modest and proper; there’s naught else to be done, and I’m middling glad of it, I am. Life’s a see-saw affair. I’m middling glad of this.”
So, soon, without a warning to any one, least of all to Rosa Beauchamp, they were married by the registrar87. The change in her domestic status produced no other change; in marrying Weetman she had married all his ardour, she was swept into its current. She helped to milk cows, she boiled nauseating88 messes for pigs, chopped mangolds, mixed meal, and sometimes drove a harrow in his windy fields. Though they slept together[330] she was still his servant. Sometimes he called her his “pretty little cob” and then she knew he was fond of her. But in general his custom was disillusioning89. His way with her was his way with his beasts; he knew what he wanted, it was easy to get. If for a brief space a little romantic flower began to bud in her breast it was frozen as a bud, and the vague longing90 disappeared at length from her eyes. And she became aware that Rosa Beauchamp was not yet done with; somewhere in the darkness of the fields Glastonbury still met her. Phemy did not mind.
In the new year she bore him a son that died as it came to life. Glas was angry at that, as angry as if he had lost a horse. He felt that he had been duped, that the marriage had been a stupid sacrifice, and in this he was savagely91 supported by Rosa. And yet Phemy did not mind; the farm had got its grip upon her, it was consuming her body and blood.
“Bring me that whip from the passage,” he shouted; “there’s never a damn thing handy!”
Phemy appeared with the whip. “Take me with you,” she said.
“God-a-mighty! What for? I be comin’ back in an hour. They ducks want looking over and you’ve all the taties to grade.”
She stared at him irresolutely93.
“And who’s to look after the house? You know it won’t lock up—the key’s lost. Get up there!”
[331]
He cracked his whip in the air as the pony dashed away.
In the summer Phemy fell sick, her arm swelled94 enormously. The doctor came again and again. It was blood-poisoning, caught from a diseased cow that she had milked with a cut finger. A nurse arrived but Phemy knew she was doomed95, and though tortured with pain she was for once vexed and protestant. For it was a June night, soft and nubile96, with a marvellous moon; a nightingale threw its impetuous garland into the air. She lay listening to it, and thinking with sad pleasure of the time when Glastonbury was in prison, how grand she was in her solitude97, ordering everything for the best and working superbly. She wanted to go on and on for evermore, though she knew she had never known peace in maidenhood98 or marriage. The troubled waters of the world never ceased to flow; in the night there was no rest—only darkness. Nothing could emerge now. She was leaving it all to Rosa Beauchamp. Glastonbury was gone out somewhere—perhaps to meet Rosa in the fields. There was the nightingale, and it was very bright outside.
“Nurse,” moaned the dying girl, “what was I born into the world at all for?”
The End
The End
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1
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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controverted
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| v.争论，反驳，否定( controvert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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loon
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| n.狂人 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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cockroaches
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| n.蟑螂( cockroach的名词复数 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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thong
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| n.皮带；皮鞭；v.装皮带 | |
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32
reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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placated
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| v.安抚，抚慰，使平静( placate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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50
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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52
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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53
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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54
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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55
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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56
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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57
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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coned
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| 被探照灯光来照中的 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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lathered
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| v.（指肥皂）形成泡沫( lather的过去式和过去分词 )；用皂沫覆盖；狠狠地打 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dissonant
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| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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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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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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guffawing
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| v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的现在分词 ) | |
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doffing
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| n.下筒，落纱v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的现在分词 ) | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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opprobrium
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| n.耻辱，责难 | |
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conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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gainsaying
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的现在分词 ) | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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disillusioning
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| 使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭( disillusion的现在分词 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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nubile
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| adj.结婚期的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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