CHARITY lay on the floor on a mattress1, as her deadmother's body had lain. The room in which she lay wascold and dark and low-ceilinged, and even poorer andbarer than the scene of Mary Hyatt's earthlypilgrimage. On the other side of the fireless stoveLiff Hyatt's mother slept on a blanket, with twochildren--her grandchildren, she said--rolled upagainst her like sleeping puppies. They had their thinclothes spread over them, having given the only otherblanket to their guest.
Through the small square of glass in the opposite wallCharity saw a deep funnel2 of sky, so black, so remote,so palpitating with frosty stars that her very soulseemed to be sucked into it. Up there somewhere, shesupposed, the God whom Mr. Miles had invoked3 waswaiting for Mary Hyatt to appear. What a long flightit was! And what would she have to say when she reachedHim?
Charity's bewildered brain laboured with the attempt topicture her mother's past, and to relate it in anyway to the designs of a just but merciful God; but itwas impossible to imagine any link between them. Sheherself felt as remote from the poor creature she hadseen lowered into her hastily dug grave as if theheight of the heavens divided them. She had seenpoverty and misfortune in her life; but in a communitywhere poor thrifty4 Mrs. Hawes and the industrious5 Allyrepresented the nearest approach to destitution6 therewas nothing to suggest the savage7 misery8 of theMountain farmers.
As she lay there, half-stunned by her tragicinitiation, Charity vainly tried to think herself intothe life about her. But she could not even make outwhat relationship these people bore to each other, orto her dead mother; they seemed to be herded10 togetherin a sort of passive promiscuity11 in which their commonmisery was the strongest link. She tried to picture toherself what her life would have been if she had grownup on the Mountain, running wild in rags, sleeping onthe floor curled up against her mother, like the pale-faced children huddled12 against old Mrs. Hyatt, andturning into a fierce bewildered creature like the girlwho had apostrophized her in such strange words. Shewas frightened by the secret affinity13 she had feltwith this girl, and by the light it threw on her ownbeginnings. Then she remembered what Mr. Royall hadsaid in telling her story to Lucius Harney: "Yes, therewas a mother; but she was glad to have the child go.
She'd have given her to anybody...."Well! after all, was her mother so much to blame?
Charity, since that day, had always thought of her asdestitute of all human feeling; now she seemed merelypitiful. What mother would not want to save her childfrom such a life? Charity thought of the future of herown child, and tears welled into her aching eyes, andran down over her face. If she had been lessexhausted, less burdened with his weight, she wouldhave sprung up then and there and fled away....
The grim hours of the night dragged themselves slowlyby, and at last the sky paled and dawn threw a coldblue beam into the room. She lay in her corner staringat the dirty floor, the clothes-line hung with decayingrags, the old woman huddled against the cold stove, andthe light gradually spreading across the wintry world,and bringing with it a new day in which she would haveto live, to choose, to act, to make herself aplace among these people--or to go back to the life shehad left. A mortal lassitude weighed on her. Therewere moments when she felt that all she asked was to goon lying there unnoticed; then her mind revolted at thethought of becoming one of the miserable15 herd9 fromwhich she sprang, and it seemed as though, to save herchild from such a fate, she would find strength totravel any distance, and bear any burden life might puton her.
Vague thoughts of Nettleton flitted through her mind.
She said to herself that she would find some quietplace where she could bear her child, and give it todecent people to keep; and then she would go out likeJulia Hawes and earn its living and hers. She knewthat girls of that kind sometimes made enough to havetheir children nicely cared for; and every otherconsideration disappeared in the vision of her baby,cleaned and combed and rosy16, and hidden away somewherewhere she could run in and kiss it, and bring it prettythings to wear. Anything, anything was better than toadd another life to the nest of misery on theMountain....
The old woman and the children were still sleepingwhen Charity rose from her mattress. Her body wasstiff with cold and fatigue17, and she moved slowly lesther heavy steps should rouse them. She was faint withhunger, and had nothing left in her satchel18; but on thetable she saw the half of a stale loaf. No doubt itwas to serve as the breakfast of old Mrs. Hyatt and thechildren; but Charity did not care; she had her ownbaby to think of. She broke off a piece of the breadand ate it greedily; then her glance fell on the thinfaces of the sleeping children, and filled withcompunction she rummaged19 in her satchel for somethingwith which to pay for what she had taken. She foundone of the pretty chemises that Ally had made for her,with a blue ribbon run through its edging. It was oneof the dainty things on which she had squandered20 hersavings, and as she looked at it the blood rushed toher forehead. She laid the chemise on the table, andstealing across the floor lifted the latch21 and wentout....
The morning was icy cold and a pale sun was just risingabove the eastern shoulder of the Mountain. The housesscattered on the hillside lay cold and smokeless underthe sun-flecked clouds, and not a human being was insight. Charity paused on the threshold and triedto discover the road by which she had come the nightbefore. Across the field surrounding Mrs. Hyatt'sshanty she saw the tumble-down house in which shesupposed the funeral service had taken place. Thetrail ran across the ground between the two houses anddisappeared in the pine-wood on the flank of theMountain; and a little way to the right, under a wind-beaten thorn, a mound22 of fresh earth made a dark spoton the fawn-coloured stubble. Charity walked acrossthe field to the ground. As she approached it sheheard a bird's note in the still air, and looking upshe saw a brown song-sparrow perched in an upper branchof the thorn above the grave. She stood a minutelistening to his small solitary23 song; then she rejoinedthe trail and began to mount the hill to the pine-wood.
Thus far she had been impelled24 by the blind instinct offlight; but each step seemed to bring her nearer to therealities of which her feverish25 vigil had given only ashadowy image. Now that she walked again in a daylightworld, on the way back to familiar things, herimagination moved more soberly. On one point she wasstill decided26: she could not remain at North Dormer,and the sooner she got away from it the better.
But everything beyond was darkness.
As she continued to climb the air grew keener, and whenshe passed from the shelter of the pines to the opengrassy roof of the Mountain the cold wind of the nightbefore sprang out on her. She bent27 her shoulders andstruggled on against it for a while; but presently herbreath failed, and she sat down under a ledge28 of rockoverhung by shivering birches. From where she sat shesaw the trail wandering across the bleached29 grass inthe direction of Hamblin, and the granite30 wall of theMountain falling away to infinite distances. On thatside of the ridge31 the valleys still lay in wintryshadow; but in the plain beyond the sun was touchingvillage roofs and steeples, and gilding32 the haze33 ofsmoke over far-off invisible towns.
Charity felt herself a mere14 speck34 in the lonely circleof the sky. The events of the last two days seemed tohave divided her forever from her short dream of bliss35.
Even Harney's image had been blurred36 by that crushingexperience: she thought of him as so remote from herthat he seemed hardly more than a memory. In herfagged and floating mind only one sensation had theweight of reality; it was the bodily burden of herchild. But for it she would have felt as rootless asthe whiffs of thistledown the wind blew past her. Herchild was like a load that held her down, and yet likea hand that pulled her to her feet. She said toherself that she must get up and struggle on....
Her eyes turned back to the trail across the top of theMountain, and in the distance she saw a buggy againstthe sky. She knew its antique outline, and the gauntbuild of the old horse pressing forward with loweredhead; and after a moment she recognized the heavy bulkof the man who held the reins37. The buggy was followingthe trail and making straight for the pine-wood throughwhich she had climbed; and she knew at once that thedriver was in search of her. Her first impulse was tocrouch down under the ledge till he had passed; but theinstinct of concealment38 was overruled by the relief offeeling that someone was near her in the awfulemptiness. She stood up and walked toward the buggy.
Mr. Royall saw her, and touched the horse with thewhip. A minute or two later he was abreast39 of Charity;their eyes met, and without speaking he leaned over andhelped her up into the buggy.
She tried to speak, to stammer40 out someexplanation, but no words came to her; and as he drewthe cover over her knees he simply said: "The ministertold me he'd left you up here, so I come up for you."He turned the horse's head, and they began to jog backtoward Hamblin. Charity sat speechless, staringstraight ahead of her, and Mr. Royall occasionallyuttered a word of encouragement to the horse: "Getalong there, Dan....I gave him a rest at Hamblin; but Ibrought him along pretty quick, and it's a stiff pullup here against the wind."As he spoke41 it occurred to her for the first time thatto reach the top of the Mountain so early he must haveleft North Dormer at the coldest hour of the night, andhave travelled steadily42 but for the halt at Hamblin;and she felt a softness at her heart which no act ofhis had ever produced since he had brought her theCrimson Rambler because she had given up boarding-school to stay with him.
After an interval43 he began again: "It was a day justlike this, only spitting snow, when I come up here foryou the first time." Then, as if fearing that shemight take his remark as a reminder44 of past benefits,he added quickly: "I dunno's you think it was such agood job, either.""Yes, I do," she murmured, looking straight ahead ofher.
"Well," he said, "I tried----"He did not finish the sentence, and she could think ofnothing more to say.
"Ho, there, Dan, step out," he muttered, jerking thebridle. "We ain't home yet.--You cold?" he askedabruptly.
She shook her head, but he drew the cover higher up,and stooped to tuck it in about the ankles. Shecontinued to look straight ahead. Tears of wearinessand weakness were dimming her eyes and beginning to runover, but she dared not wipe them away lest he shouldobserve the gesture.
They drove in silence, following the long loops of thedescent upon Hamblin, and Mr. Royall did not speakagain till they reached the outskirts45 of the village.
Then he let the reins droop46 on the dashboard and drewout his watch.
"Charity," he said, "you look fair done up, and NorthDormer's a goodish way off. I've figured out that we'ddo better to stop here long enough for you to geta mouthful of breakfast and then drive down to Crestonand take the train."She roused herself from her apathetic47 musing48. "Thetrain--what train?"Mr. Royall, without answering, let the horse jog ontill they reached the door of the first house in thevillage. "This is old Mrs. Hobart's place," he said.
"She'll give us something hot to drink."Charity, half unconsciously, found herself getting outof the buggy and following him in at the open door.
They entered a decent kitchen with a fire crackling inthe stove. An old woman with a kindly49 face was settingout cups and saucers on the table. She looked up andnodded as they came in, and Mr. Royall advanced to thestove, clapping his numb50 hands together.
"Well, Mrs. Hobart, you got any breakfast for thisyoung lady? You can see she's cold and hungry."Mrs. Hobart smiled on Charity and took a tin coffee-potfrom the fire. "My, you do look pretty mean," she saidcompassionately.
Charity reddened, and sat down at the table. A feelingof complete passiveness had once more come overher, and she was conscious only of the pleasant animalsensations of warmth and rest.
Mrs. Hobart put bread and milk on the table, and thenwent out of the house: Charity saw her leading thehorse away to the barn across the yard. She did notcome back, and Mr. Royall and Charity sat alone at thetable with the smoking coffee between them. He pouredout a cup for her, and put a piece of bread in thesaucer, and she began to eat.
As the warmth of the coffee flowed through her veinsher thoughts cleared and she began to feel like aliving being again; but the return to life was sopainful that the food choked in her throat and she satstaring down at the table in silent anguish51.
After a while Mr. Royall pushed back his chair. "Now,then," he said, "if you're a mind to go along----" Shedid not move, and he continued: "We can pick up thenoon train for Nettleton if you say so."The words sent the blood rushing to her face, and sheraised her startled eyes to his. He was standing52 onthe other side of the table looking at her kindly andgravely; and suddenly she understood what he wasgoing to say. She continued to sit motionless, aleaden weight upon her lips.
"You and me have spoke some hard things to each otherin our time, Charity; and there's no good that I cansee in any more talking now. But I'll never feel anyway but one about you; and if you say so we'll drivedown in time to catch that train, and go straight tothe minister's house; and when you come back homeyou'll come as Mrs. Royall."His voice had the grave persuasive53 accent that hadmoved his hearers at the Home Week festival; she had asense of depths of mournful tolerance54 under that easytone. Her whole body began to tremble with the dreadof her own weakness.
"Oh, I can't----" she burst out desperately55.
"Can't what?"She herself did not know: she was not sure if she wasrejecting what he offered, or already strugglingagainst the temptation of taking what she no longer hada right to. She stood up, shaking and bewildered, andbegan to speak:
"I know I ain't been fair to you always; but I want tobe now....I want you to know...I want..." Her voicefailed her and she stopped.
Mr. Royall leaned against the wall. He was palerthan usual, but his face was composed and kindlyand her agitation56 did not appear to perturb57 him.
"What's all this about wanting?" he said as she paused.
"Do you know what you really want? I'll tell you. Youwant to be took home and took care of. And I guessthat's all there is to say.""No...it's not all....""Ain't it?" He looked at his watch. "Well, I'll tellyou another thing. All I want is to know if you'llmarry me. If there was anything else, I'd tell you so;but there ain't. Come to my age, a man knows thethings that matter and the things that don't; that'sabout the only good turn life does us."His tone was so strong and resolute58 that it was like asupporting arm about her. She felt her resistancemelting, her strength slipping away from her as hespoke.
"Don't cry, Charity," he exclaimed in a shaken voice.
She looked up, startled at his emotion, and their eyesmet.
"See here," he said gently, "old Dan's come a longdistance, and we've got to let him take it easy therest of the way...."He picked up the cloak that had slipped to herchair and laid it about her shoulders. Shefollowed him out of the house, and then walked acrossthe yard to the shed, where the horse was tied. Mr.
Royall unblanketed him and led him out into the road.
Charity got into the buggy and he drew the cover abouther and shook out the reins with a cluck. When theyreached the end of the village he turned the horse'shead toward Creston.
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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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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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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promiscuity
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| n.混杂，混乱；（男女的）乱交 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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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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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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51
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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54
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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perturb
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| v.使不安，烦扰，扰乱，使紊乱 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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